Diane Jeffrey - The Guilty Mother

I start to quote aloud, mainly to prevent Kelly from commenting while I’m trying to read. ‘“I was abused at home by my father. When I flunked my exams, I started taking drugs. I even stole money from my mother to pay for them. Long story short, my mother eventually threw me out. Can’t blame her, really. I was a mess. I thought I’d get away from it all by leaving home, but I’ve been sexually assaulted several times since I’ve been on the streets, too.”’

‘That’s terribly sad,’ I say, looking at the photo Kelly has taken of a woman in her early twenties. She’s wearing clothes that have seen better days, and her black hair is either tangled or in dreadlocks – I can’t tell which.

‘She’s around the same age as me,’ Kelly says.

Kelly has also interviewed a busker called Rose. ‘She was playing the violin in an underpass in The Bearpit,’ Kelly informs me, although, again, I’ve just read that bit for myself. ‘She’s very good. I recorded her. Do you want to hear it?’

‘Er, maybe later. I’ll just finish—’

‘She’s got a bed in a hostel at the moment rather than sleeping rough.’ In the photo, Kelly has captured Rose, bow poised above her instrument, concentration displayed on her face alongside numerous nose and ear piercings. Her drab clothes – khaki trousers, black vest, black fingerless gloves and grey beanie – contrast sharply with the colourful graffiti on the walls behind her.

‘So, what do you think?’ Kelly asks, when I look up from the screen.

‘It’s excellent,’ I say, sitting down in my chair and rolling it towards Kelly’s workstation so that I can still see her computer screen. ‘I like the fact you’ve done a piece on three women – the one we saw at Cabot Circus and these two. Their different stories and circumstances make it an interesting read.’ Kelly seems encouraged by these remarks. ‘It needs a few nips and tucks, though. But I can help if you like. First up, that headline has to go.’

Kelly looks crestfallen. ‘It took me ages to come up with that,’ she says.

‘Well, it’s just my point of view, but you have a fascinating feature here, and “Gimme Shelter” is a clever … um, pun, but well …’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘How about: WOMEN SLEEPING ON THE STREETS, colon, Bristol’s Female Beggars and Buskers?’ I move my hand from left to right to indicate the headline, my fingers and thumb showing capitals; then I repeat the gesture, conveying a smaller font for the subheading. Noticing Kelly suppress a smile, I slide my hands under my thighs.

‘Alliteration.’

‘It sounds more upmarket, more newsworthy. Secondly, it’s great that you have these women’s accounts, but perhaps you could use your voice as a journalist a little more instead of reporting all of it verbatim.’

As I continue to make suggestions, Kelly makes changes to her article.

‘You should ask Claire to run the story online as well as in print,’ I say when we’ve finished. ‘That way, you can add the video of Rose playing the violin.’ Kelly’s face lights up at that idea.

An hour or so after the news meeting that afternoon, Claire summons me into her office.

‘How are you getting on with the Melissa Slade case?’ she begins.

‘Um … I’ve interviewed the parents,’ I say. I feel myself reddening as an image of an irate Ivy Moore flashes before my eyes. Her words echo in my head. We don’t talk to reporters . ‘I need to work my way through the other family members to get a clearer picture.’

‘You should get in touch with her first husband, Simon Goodman,’ Claire says tucking a non-existent strand of hair behind the ear that doesn’t have the pencil. ‘I’m sure he’ll be able to throw some light on the details of the appeal.’

‘Yep. I’ll do that.’

‘That article Kelly wrote is brilliant, by the way. She won’t take the credit. She wants to have your byline on it as well as hers.’

‘No, don’t do that. It’s her own work. I didn’t do much. Just helped her tweak it a bit.’

‘It was good of you.’

‘Is that all?’ I know full well it’s not. Claire’s got that eyelash-fluttering thing going on, which means she’s about to ask me to do something I won’t want to do.

‘No. I wanted you to take Kelly under your wing, mentor her for a while.’

‘Well, I’ve been overseeing her copy. I can certainly continue to do that.’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of taking her with you—’

‘But she has her own patch. And she doesn’t need me to hold her hand. She’s quite cultured, you know. Very bright.’

‘—when you’re working on the Slade case,’ Claire continues as if I haven’t interrupted, ‘so she can see how good investigative reporting is done.’

‘Do I have a choice?’ I don’t want to work on the Slade case anyway, but if I must do it, I’d rather do it alone.

‘Not really, no.’

There’s a pause during which my mouth opens and closes like a goldfish’s as I grapple for a valid argument. Before I can come up with anything, Claire says, ‘We’re done.’ I resist the urge to swear until I’ve left the Aquarium and closed the door behind me.

‘Grab your coat, Kelly,’ I say curtly, striding past all the workstations towards the door leading to the stairs. She catches me up before I make it down the two flights of steps to the exit.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To meet a man called Simon Goodman.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the expression on Kelly’s face and realising I’ve snapped at her, I add, more gently, ‘I’ll bring you up to speed on the way there.’

Simon Goodman hadn’t been hard to find. He’d launched a campaign for his ex-wife’s release back in 2013 when she was found guilty of murder. He seems to have been inexorably proclaiming her innocence ever since. His email address was on the melissaslade.org.uk website and so I wrote to him, asking if we could talk.

Kelly and I walk the short distance to the Watershed Café and we’re sitting at a table when Goodman arrives.

‘Jonathan Hunt?’

I’ve been looking out of the window, enjoying the view of the Floating Harbour and I was expecting Goodman to be wearing a uniform rather than in plain clothes, so he’s the one who spots me. He shakes my hand, considering me through narrow blue eyes as I introduce my new mentee.

‘I don’t have much time,’ he says.

Kelly takes this as her cue to get up and fetch the coffees, leaving me to make a start.

‘Do you mind if I take notes?’ I ask.

‘Not at all. In fact, I’d prefer you to.’ He takes a seat opposite me. He’s at least ten years older than me, pushing fifty at a guess, but he’s wearing it well. He has thick dark hair, which shows no sign of receding or greying, designer stubble and a long straight nose.

Goodman is based at Bristol’s Central Police Station in Broadmead, which is why he chose to meet at the Watershed Café – it’s about halfway between his place of work and mine.

‘Superintendent Goodman—’

‘Simon.’

‘Simon …’ I pause. If he’s uncomfortable at what must be a role reversal for him – after all, he’s the one who generally gets to ask the questions – he doesn’t show it. He unbuttons his shirt at the neck and then steeples his hands, waiting. I’ll bet he’s good at interrogations whereas I’ve come unprepared, as usual. I decide to begin by checking a few facts. ‘You and Melissa were colleagues. Is that how you met?’

‘Yes. We met in 1995. We were both at the Bridewell Police Station. A whirlwind romance, really, but in the end, working together and living together, it became too much. I was obsessed with my job and when I was married to Melissa, I made the mistake of never switching off from it. We often worked on the same cases. We carried on working on them at home. I didn’t give her enough attention.’