The Guilty Mother Read online

  WOULD YOU BELIEVE HER?

  2013

  Melissa Slade had it all: beauty, money, a successful husband and beautiful twin babies. But, in the blink of an eye, her perfect life became a nightmare – when she found herself on trial for the murder of her little girls.

  PRESENT DAY

  Jonathan Hunt covered the original Slade Babies case for the local newspaper. Now that new evidence has come to light, Jon’s boss wants him back on the story to uncover the truth.

  With Melissa’s appeal date looming, time is running out. And, as Jon gets drawn deeper into a case he’d wanted to forget, he starts to question Melissa’s guilt.

  Is Melissa manipulating Jon or telling him the truth? Is she a murderer, or the victim of a miscarriage of justice?

  And if Melissa Slade is innocent, what really happened to Ellie and Amber Slade?

  About the Author

  DIANE JEFFREY grew up in North Devon, in the United Kingdom. She now lives in Lyon, France, with her husband and their three children, Labrador and cat.

  Diane’s debut psychological thriller, Those Who Lie, was a Kindle bestseller in the USA, Canada and Australia and spent several weeks in the top 100 Kindle books in the UK.

  He Will Find You, set in the Lake District and Somerset and published in August 2018, is her second novel. The Guilty Mother is Diane’s third book.

  Diane is an English teacher. When she’s not working or writing, she likes swimming, running and reading. She loves chocolate, beer and holidays. Above all, she enjoys spending time with her family and friends.

  Readers can follow Diane on Twitter @dianefjeffrey or on Facebook.com/dianejeffreyauthor

  Praise for Diane Jeffrey

  ‘Tense and compelling, a genuinely thrilling read’

  Elizabeth Haynes

  ‘Brimming with tension, riddled with doubt and suspicion, insidious and compelling with a terrifying ending that had me catching my breath’

  Sue Fortin

  ‘A tense, gripping domestic noir that shows just how fast the dream of a new life can turn into your worst nightmare’

  T.M. Logan

  ‘A scorchingly good thriller’

  Lisa Hall

  ‘This is a must read for anyone who lives to delve into psychological thrillers!’

  Linda Strong

  ‘With brilliant main characters and a wonderful plot, this book is a real page-turner. I would highly recommend this book.’

  Stephanie Collins

  ‘I absolutely adored this book.’

  Lu Dex

  ‘Great book … keeps you guessing!! If you love twists and turns then this book is for you!’

  Diane Merrit

  ‘With twists and turns that will wrong-foot you all the way, a dash of dark humour and a strong emotional punch, this is an excellent debut that more than earns its place within the genre.’

  S.J.I. Holliday

  Also by Diane Jeffrey

  Those Who Lie

  He Will Find You

  The Guilty Mother

  DIANE JEFFREY

  HQ

  An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

  Copyright © Diane Jeffrey 2019

  Diane Jeffrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  E-book Edition © August 2019 ISBN: 9780008297619

  Version: 2019-07-05

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  About the Author

  Praise for Diane Jeffrey

  Also by Diane Jeffrey

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: Melissa

  Part One

  Chapter 1: Jonathan

  Chapter 2: Melissa

  Chapter 3: Jonathan

  Chapter 4: Melissa

  Chapter 5: Jonathan

  Chapter 6: Melissa

  Chapter 7: Jonathan

  Chapter 8: Melissa

  Chapter 9: Jonathan

  Chapter 10: Melissa

  Chapter 11: Jonathan

  Chapter 12: Melissa

  Chapter 13: Jonathan

  Chapter 14: Melissa

  Chapter 15: Jonathan

  Chapter 16: Melissa

  Chapter 17: The Redcliffe Gazette

  Chapter 18: Melissa

  Chapter 19: Jonathan

  Part Two

  Chapter 20: Kelly

  Chapter 21: Jonathan

  Chapter 22: Kelly

  Chapter 23: Jonathan

  Chapter 24: Kelly

  Chapter 25: Jonathan

  Chapter 26: Kelly

  Chapter 27: Jonathan

  Chapter 28: Kelly

  Chapter 29: Jonathan

  Chapter 30: Kelly

  Chapter 31: Jonathan

  Chapter 32: Kelly

  Chapter 33: Jon

  Chapter 34: Kelly

  Epilogue: Melissa

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Dear Reader …

  Keep Reading …

  About the Publisher

  For my mum and dad,

  with much love and many thanks.

  Prologue

  Melissa

  October 2018

  The screaming inside had stopped. But the thoughts in my head still clamoured for attention. I studied my hands, turning them over to examine my palms. Perhaps my future was written on them, along my lifeline. I started to twist an imaginary gold band around the third finger on my left hand. One, two, three times. The smooth skin here, where previously there had been a wedding ring, proved that I was once married. No, not once. Twice.

  The nausea came in waves every time we went over a bump in the road. I wanted to tell the driver I thought I might throw up. The taste of fear was foul in my mouth and I needed some fresh air. But the driver couldn’t have heard me even if I’d shouted. You’re supposed to look out of the window when you’re carsick, but the one in here was small and too high. When I craned my neck, I could just make out flashes of grey sky between bare branches, or occasionally the upper floors of tall buildings we passed. Looking up made me dizzy. Lowering my head, I stared again, in shame, at my hands. Gnarled and dry-skinned, they might have been a sweet old lady’s hands rather than those of a cold-blooded killer.

  I felt as though I was retracing my steps, travelling back in time. Five years ago, I’d been taken away in a white van just like this one, and now I was being taken back again. It wasn’t the same place, it wasn’t even the same city – this was London, not Bristol, but people here would scrutinise me and judge me and determine my fate, just as they had done before. At least this time there would be two or three friendly faces among the sea of hostile ones. Two or three people who believed in me.

  I hoped it would b
e three. It was my lucky number.

  When I’d been taken away last time, my only thought was that I’d never see Amber and Ellie again, never again hold them in my arms. This memory forced itself on me now. It still seemed so fresh and was so physically painful that I gasped.

  Just as I was wondering how far we had left to go, we stopped. I was helped out of the van. We’d reached our destination, but my journey was far from over. I took in my surroundings. It was early and there were only a few people milling around in this side street. Maybe they weren’t even there for me.

  I inhaled deep breaths of air as if I’d been starved of oxygen and gradually the queasiness abated. It occurred to me that I was more appropriately dressed for a funeral service in a church than an appeal in a court of law. I smoothed down my black skirt as best as I could with my right wrist now handcuffed to the female officer’s left one. Then, my legs feeling weaker with each step downwards, I was ushered to the holding area beneath the majestic court buildings.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Jonathan

  April 2018

  I watch helplessly as Noah hits Alfie for the second time.

  ‘Give it back!’ Alfie wails.

  ‘Stop it, you two,’ I snap, giving them a stern stare in the rear-view mirror. They haven’t seen me, and they might as well not have heard me either. I shift my gaze to the dashboard clock. They’re going to be late for school. Again. That’s the third time this week. And it’s only Wednesday.

  Switching off the radio with a sigh, I glance at them in the mirror again. Alfie tries to hit Noah back, but Noah dodges his younger brother’s fist and then laughs at him, which upsets Alfie even more. He starts to cry.

  ‘Noah, you’re three years older than him,’ I scold. ‘Try and act your age.’ I wince. Sometimes my mouth opens and my parents’ words tumble out. ‘Please give Alfie back his spinner.’ Now I’m pleading. That sounds more like me. Life would be easier if I gave in to Noah’s demands and allowed him to sit in the front.

  As I pull up at the bus stop a few feet away from the entrance to Kingswood Secondary School, Noah hands over the toy. Then he leaps out of the car and strolls away without so much as a goodbye.

  I drive around the corner to the junior school. Stopping on the yellow zigzag lines, I flick my hazards on. Alfie and I get out of the car.

  ‘I’ll come in and apologise to your teacher,’ I say, grabbing Alfie’s bag from the passenger seat.

  ‘I can go in by myself,’ he says, slamming his door shut and peering up at me through his mother’s chocolate eyes. Invisible fingers pinch my heart.

  ‘I know you can, but we’re late and—’

  ‘Dads never come in.’ The way he says it implies it’s only mums who do, and now the hand gives my heart a hard squeeze. ‘Anyway, she knows you have a problem with punctuality. She’s used to it,’ he adds. ‘Plus if you park there …’ he points an accusatory finger at my Ford Focus ‘… you’ll get another fine.’

  I can’t believe I’m hearing my nine-year-old son correctly. I ruffle his hair and hand over his bag before getting back in behind the wheel. A wave of sadness breaks over me as he turns away. He reminds me so much of his mother. Too much. Putting the key into the ignition, I watch him sprint through the school gates.

  Fifteen minutes later and fifteen minutes late, I slide into the chair at my workstation next to Kelly, our junior reporter, who grins at me. I smile back, pretending not to notice as she hastily closes the Facebook window on her laptop.

  A drill starts somewhere in the office so I take my earplugs out of their box and push them into my ears. Now I’ve been officially made chief reporter, I’m to have my own private office. As far as I can see, this is about the only perk to a promotion that amounts to a token increase in salary and a large increase in my workload. At the moment, however, everything is being refurbished to our new editor’s requirements. The need to get rid of the open-plan office space for our reporters is about the only thing we’ve agreed on since she took over six months ago.

  The idea now is to put up a combination of Perspex and plywood walls to create cubicles with the aim of reducing not only noise levels in the workplace but also the stress levels of the journalists working there. In addition, it’s supposed to boost productivity at The Redcliffe Gazette – or The Redcliffe Rag as we call it, although I imagine in Kelly’s case she’ll be able to spend more time on social media without feeling like she’s under surveillance.

  I’ve booted up my laptop, replied to a few emails and fetched myself some coffee before Kelly speaks to me.

  ‘What was that?’ I pull out one of my earplugs and try not to stare at the diamond stud in Kelly’s otherwise perfect button nose.

  ‘Just remembered. Saunders wanted to see you in the Aquarium as soon as you got in.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Not picking up on my sarcastic tone, or maybe choosing to ignore it, she turns back to her computer screen.

  ‘Did she say what she wanted?’

  Kelly shakes her blond bobbed head. Claire doesn’t usually call me into her office first thing in the morning. This can’t be good.

  I raise my hand to knock on the door of our news editor’s glass-walled office, but she has already noticed me, and waves her hand for me to come in. She’s standing at the open window, blithely flouting the law by lighting up a Marlboro. My favourite brand. I gave up years ago, just before Noah was born, in fact, but every time I come in here, the old habit beckons to me and I feel like a cigarette.

  Between puffs, she purses her thin lips and flutters her long eyelashes at me. It’s a look I know well. It means this isn’t open to discussion. Nope, I’m not going to like this.

  Suppressing a sigh and adopting a military at-ease stance, I give a fairly good impression of a patient man while I wait for Claire to finish her cigarette. Eventually she stubs it out in an ashtray on the windowsill, and closes the window.

  A petite, slim woman, Claire has a long, straight nose and an angular jawline, high cheekbones and hollow cheeks. Her cropped hair is dyed jet black. A pencil lives almost permanently behind her right ear, but I’ve never seen her use it. She has striking green eyes, which bore into me now.

  She gets straight to the point. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the Slade woman’s appeal application,’ she says.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ It doesn’t sound very convincing, even to me. I worked late last night, updating an online story, so I didn’t watch the news, and this morning I turned off the radio in the car because the boys were fighting. I have no idea what Claire is talking about, but I’m not about to admit that.

  ‘I’d like you to look into it,’ she continues, arching an eyebrow at me. She’s not fooled. ‘All we know is that new evidence has come to light. Find out what’s going on. Interview family members. There’s a front-page news story here, I’m sure of it. I don’t need to tell you that a good article could attract digital display ads for our online paper, too. I want to run this scoop for The Gazette before The Post even gets wind of it.’

  The Rag is only a small-market weekly newspaper. We’re understaffed, underpaid and overworked and we’re all multi-tasking. But Claire is very ambitious and has set her sights on having a bigger circulation than The Bristol Post one day and a larger online readership than their website, Bristol Live. Personally, I doubt that will happen any time soon, if ever.

  ‘I’m thinking a big front-page splash,’ Claire continues, spreading her arms in an expansive gesture. ‘I’m thinking exclusive interviews with her son and her husband. I’m thinking never-before-seen baby photos …’

  Claire continues in this vein and I tune out. I’m thinking pizza and Paddington 2 with Noah and Archie after this evening’s homework. Then I groan inwardly, remembering I’ve got to go to a Chekhov play tonight to write a review for our monthly print magazine. I can hear the rise and fall of Claire’s voice, but it sounds muffled, as if I’ve put my ea
rplugs back in. Lost in my thoughts, I nod and shake my head in what sounds like the right places and grunt periodically.

  I snap out of my reverie when Claire barks, ‘Understood?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good.’

  I still haven’t a clue what she’s on about. Slade. It’s a very common surname in the Bristol area, but it does ring a bell. An alarm bell. A distant, dormant memory stirs lazily in a corner of my mind. I can’t quite bring it to the surface. Something unsavoury, though, I’m certain of that. A knot forms in my stomach. Although I can’t recall who this woman is, a voice in my head is warning me not to rouse this memory. Some strange sixth sense is telling me to stay away.

  ‘We’re done.’ I’m being dismissed. ‘Oh, and Jonathan? Send Kelly in here, will you? How that girl got an English degree with grammar as terrifying as hers is beyond me.’ Claire pauses and tucks a non-existent strand of hair behind her ear, knocking the pencil to the floor. I find myself wondering if she used to have long hair as I pick it up for her.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I leave the office. Poor kid. If there’s anything sharper than Claire’s features, it’s her tongue, and I think Kelly is about to be on the receiving end.

  ‘It’s your turn,’ I say to Kelly, slipping back into my swivel chair. I follow Kelly into the Aquarium with my eyes and then I watch Claire through the glass of her office as she paces the floor, shakes her head in an exaggerated manner, wags her finger, and finally stands still with her hands on her hips. I can’t hear what she’s saying from here, but everything in her body language indicates she’s giving our trainee reporter a severe tongue-lashing. Kelly has her back to me, but I can tell from the way she’s hanging her head and hunching her shoulders that she’s not taking this well. Claire looks up and catches me staring, so I swivel my chair round to face my laptop.

  I allow myself to gaze at the wallpaper image on my screen for several seconds. It’s a holiday snap, taken nearly four years ago. Alfie and Noah, all smiles, are sitting on Gaudí’s mosaic bench in Park Güell in Barcelona. Mel, sandwiched between the boys, is looking directly at me as I take the photo with my phone.