answer my question by email.
The rest of the afternoon goes by quickly as I have a mountain of work to get through. It’s ironic that our print edition has never had a lower readership and yet I’ve never had so much to do. The Internet and new technologies have revolutionised journalism and I need to constantly add different perspectives to stories I’ve posted online as the situations evolve. Readers expect to be able to follow what’s happening in real time. With members of the general public tweeting about events they’ve witnessed and uploading their own videos to websites, journalists have to analyse and portray the bigger picture. It’s also a job you take home with you. In a connected world, you can’t ever really disconnect. I can’t wait to go out this evening and get away from it all for a few hours.
Despite getting caught in traffic on the way to and from dropping Kelly off at my house, I arrive at the restaurant a little early, before Holly. When she breezes in, her dark hair is sitting beautifully on her slender shoulders even though there’s a gale blowing outside, and the knee-length colourful dress she’s wearing shows off her figure to perfection.
She kisses me on the cheek and I pull out her chair for her.
‘Here you go,’ she says, handing me the brown A4 envelope she was carrying under her arm. ‘I’ve photocopied the reports for both the Slade twins. I’m not supposed to … you know …’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’ll be careful how I use it.’
I sit down again, putting the envelope on the table. Trying not to eye it longingly, I ask Holly how she has been and how her day was.
‘It’s OK, ‘Holly says, when I get on to the weather. ‘You can open it. That way, if you want anything clarified, I’m here.’
So, once we’ve ordered food and we’re sipping wine, I slide out the printed pages and start by speed-reading Amber’s report. Sudden infant death. Natural causes.
‘Upper respiratory tract infection and inflammation of the mucous membranes of the nose,’ I read aloud. ‘What’s that in layman’s terms?’
Holly looks up from her phone, which she has been playing with while she waits for me to finish reading. ‘Basically, Amber had a cold,’ she says. She slept on her stomach to relieve colic and there are signs of asphyxia, which would suggest she suffocated in her sleep. Her blocked nose would have hindered her breathing and I expect she ended up with her face turned down into the mattress.’
I nod. This confirms what I thought. Cot death. It’s also the reason I hadn’t thought to ask Holly for Amber’s post-mortem report.
‘I found nothing suspicious. There was nothing at all to suggest violence or abuse,’ Holly continues. ‘There was no bruising other than slight haematomas around the nose and mouth and a broken rib, both of which were certainly caused by attempts made to resuscitate the baby. I didn’t see the need for an inquest.’
Something in Holly’s words and tone of voice niggles me. She almost sounds defensive. And that’s when it comes back to me – I feel like slapping my forehead with the palm of my hand. I skimmed an online article about this only the other day, but if Holly was named in it, I missed it. In court, the pathologist who had examined Amber’s body stuck to her interpretation of her findings. I hadn’t been in court that day, but by all accounts, she was resolute in her argument that Amber’s death had been an unpreventable tragedy. She would not change her verdict despite pressure to reconsider during cross-examination by the prosecution.
Holly puts her mobile away in her handbag. I say, ‘I remember now. In court they tried to make out Melissa Slade had murdered both twins.’
‘Yes. She was charged with two counts of murder. They said it was very fortunate for her that Amber had been cremated and that her little body couldn’t be exhumed for another examination.’ I think I see tears in Holly’s eyes, although I’m not sure why. I give her hand a quick squeeze under the table.
Letting Holly recover her composure, I turn to the second report. This one is very different. Minor retinal haemorrhages. Bruises. Blood in the lungs. Fibres in the lungs. Fractured second right rib. Fractured first left rib. The cause of death is given as asphyxia consistent with deliberate smothering and/or shaking.
‘Why didn’t you do Ellie’s post-mortem?’ I ask Holly.
‘Quite simply because I was away on holiday,’ she replies.
‘Do you agree with its conclusions?’
‘The post-mortem was carried out by my colleague Roger Sparks. He’s the best pathologist I’ve ever worked with. He’s one of the most meticulous people I know. His conclusions were confirmed in court by other experts, including an eminent ophthalmologist and one of the best paediatric neurosurgeons in the country.’
She hasn’t answered my question, so I ask her again.
‘I think it’s more a case of Roger disagreeing with my findings,’ she says. ‘He thought both deaths had been deliberate. But I was the one who examined Amber and I’m as certain as I can be that she died of natural causes.’
‘And Sparks performed the post-mortem on Ellie,’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘Could Ellie’s bruising and broken ribs have been caused by efforts to resuscitate her?’
‘That was the big question in court,’ Holly says, shrugging. ‘Probably not.’ She doesn’t elaborate.
‘So, one unfortunate natural death and one deliberate murder.’ The details of the court case come flooding back to me now.
‘That’s how it seemed.’
‘That’s also the verdict the jury delivered. She was accused of two murders, but found guilty of one.’
‘It doesn’t make much sense though, does it?’
‘No,’ I agree. ‘No, it doesn’t.’
I look down again, turning to the last page. Two words seem to jump out at me, as if they have been highlighted. Antimony and liver.
‘This is the toxicology report? The part that went missing and has now resurfaced. The evidence that might free Melissa Slade …’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Holly says. ‘All hell broke loose in our office when that turned up. Roger Sparks is denying any involvement in a cover-up – actually he’s denying he wrote the document at all – but it was found among his papers and on his computer when he retired. It all reflects very badly on us.’
‘I can imagine. Do you believe him?’
‘I don’t know what to believe anymore,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I hope this helps.’
After that, Holly is uncharacteristically quiet. The food is delicious and I top up Holly’s wine glass several times, but that doesn’t help. She evidently has something on her mind. I assume it’s me dragging up the memories of the dead Slade babies, so I stay clear of that subject for the rest of the evening.
When I pull up in front of Holly’s place, near Saint Michael’s Hill in Cotham, she turns to me and I think she’s going to invite me in, as she always does. I haven’t told her yet that I don’t have my usual childminder and I didn’t ask Kelly to sleep over at mine, which is what Nina does. Nina sleeps on the sofa bed in the sitting room, even though there is a bedroom in my house that no one ever sleeps in. I couldn’t bring myself to explain that to Kelly, so I won’t be able to stay the night with Holly, but I can come in for a while. I look out of the car window at the beautiful old building, once a large house now converted into modern flats, and tip my head towards it, raising my eyebrows suggestively.
But Holly isn’t on the same wavelength. ‘Thank you for a lovely dinner, Jonathan,’ she says, and it sounds rather definitive. She normally calls me Jon and I’m not sure I want to hear what’s coming. ‘I think it might be a good idea if we took a break for a while,’ she continues. ‘I can’t keep hanging on forever.’ She looks