I’d experienced no difficulty giving birth three weeks before the due date. Amber was twelve weeks and two days old when she died. She’d had numerous colds during her short life and she’d suffered from colic. I’d taken to laying her on her stomach as this seemed to ease her tummy pain. I’d given her Calpol occasionally, but nothing else. Callum and I had always been close. I got on well with both Bella and Michael.
I asked myself questions, too. Over and over again. Should I have attempted to resuscitate Amber as soon as I realised she was dead? What went wrong? And above all, why me? But I could come up with no answers.
A week later, the coroner’s officer called. Dr Holly Lovell, the pathologist who had performed the post-mortem on Amber, had recorded a verdict of sudden infant death from natural causes. There would be no inquest. The woman on the phone was compassionate, reassuring me that there was nothing Michael or I could have done to prevent Amber’s death.
In the days that followed, I tried to keep busy, organising Amber’s funeral. Michael and I had decided on a small ceremony and a cremation. I also took over with Ellie and spent as much time with her as possible. She became my therapy. I started to drink to ease my pain, but although initially this took my mind off the situation, it quickly became another problem to deal with.
Clémentine cried so much that anyone would have thought Amber was her baby. She was no use to us in that state and as I was tending to Ellie now, we didn’t need her anymore, but Michael didn’t think it fair on the girl to send her home just yet. He said she’d pull herself together before long and be good company for me. But she hovered around me most of the time, looking sullen, and I wondered if Michael was expecting her to keep an eye on me.
My mother, who had made amends for her part in the argument we’d had back in January, rang every day, which I appreciated. Callum threw himself into his studies without me having to ask him if he was up to date with his schoolwork, and he cooked dinner every evening, although no one had any appetite. Bella wanted to go to her mother’s but Michael said she should stick with us at a time like this. I think he needed her around in much the same way as I needed Callum.
To begin with, I checked up on Ellie about every ten minutes when she was sleeping during the day and I got up several times during the night. Or I would stay in her room, sitting in the rocking chair, watching her little chest rise and fall.
‘There was nothing genetically wrong with Amber,’ Michael said after about a week, ‘and Ellie was always a much healthier baby. You don’t need to worry.’
Jenny, who was very supportive after I lost Amber, agreed with Michael. ‘You’re paranoid,’ she said, ‘which is perfectly understandable. But you know, it’s true what they say. Lightning doesn’t strike twice. You need to remember that.’
Jenny always said the right thing. But this time she was wrong.
At first, I didn’t panic. I thought I was dreaming. One evening, a month or so after Amber’s funeral, I walked into the nursery and found my baby lying lifeless in her cot. Certain objects seemed out of place, as though the room was untidy, but I didn’t immediately grasp why. In a trance, I straightened the rug on the floor by the cot. I folded up the soft woollen blanket and picked up the cushion, placing them on the rocking chair where they belonged. Then I looked around the room, trying to work out what felt wrong. My heart didn’t even skip a beat until I clocked the blond hair. That was when I understood this wasn’t a nightmare. This was Ellie, not Amber.
The realisation was like a light bulb exploding painfully in my head and it galvanised me into action. She was still warm; there was still a chance. Lifting Ellie out of the cot, I screamed for Michael, but he didn’t come.
Laying Ellie on the floor and kneeling beside her, I attempted resuscitation. Images of Clémentine trying in vain to revive Amber forced their way into my head, but I ignored them, somehow recalling my first aid training in the police force and going through the manoeuvres automatically. I had my mobile on me and while I was doing this, I called the emergency services, putting the speaker on and setting down the phone on the floor next to my daughter while I tried to get her heart to beat again. The ambulance crew took over when they arrived. But they couldn’t bring my baby girl back to life either.
With Ellie, it was nothing like the first time. No reassurance or kindness over the phone from the woman at the coroner’s office; no sympathy or support from our best friends, who seemed to suspect before we did that something was going on. I rang Simon, my ex-husband, to ask if he’d heard anything at work, but he was evasive in his replies. Whatever he knew, he wouldn’t tell me.
An inquest followed. And an inquiry. Michael and I were interrogated separately. At the station this time, by my own colleagues. As I was being led down the corridor to the interview room, I passed Patrick Carter. He’d come out to the house after Amber died, asking his questions gently and using such sympathetic words. This time, he didn’t even greet me. His face and neck flushed blood red as he looked the other way. I didn’t see Simon.
I knew all the tricks, so I was aware the interrogation room was designed to make me feel ill-at-ease. I recognised the deceptive tactics, the good cop/bad cop act, the playing me off against Michael. I also knew that if they could read my body language and see I was telling the truth that I would be fine, so I was careful not to appear as guilty as I felt. I followed the advice of my solicitor to the letter. Fortunately, my colleagues looked as uncomfortable as I felt and it was over quickly. After that, the police questioned Bella and Callum even though I’d told them they weren’t even home the night it happened. No one was home except me.
Then, early one morning, about three weeks after I’d found Ellie dead in her cot, they came for me. I was still in my pyjamas when they arrived and Michael was in the shower. Six of them arrived in two police cars. I knew four of them personally. Perhaps out of courtesy, this time there was an officer with the same rank as me. DCI Nicholas Baker. All this could only mean one thing.
I let them in and offered to make tea, but they refused. Out of nerves, I tried to strike up a mundane conversation – about the weather, probably, but they remained unresponsive, perching awkwardly on the edge of the armchairs and sofa and avoiding eye contact, while we all waited for Michael to get dressed.
When he came into the living room, Michael sat down beside me and took my hand. My head started to spin and I only caught snippets of what DCI Baker said. Inconsistencies … not natural causes … suspicious death … unlawful killing …
At one point, Michael let go of my hand and turned to me with loathing in his eyes. He hadn’t once questioned my innocence. Not once. It was only much later – in court – that I realised he was probably too busy feeling guilty himself. The expression on my husband’s face shocked me far more than the chief inspector’s words. Michael was sitting right next to me, but he was already distancing himself from me. I was alone in this. I’d been alone for a long time.
Then Baker cautioned me. You do not have to say anything … anything you do say … Words I’d uttered countless times, never imagining that one day they would be spoken to me.
I remember, as I was being led away, glancing over my shoulder at my home – the house in which I’d lived with my husband and my son; the house in which my daughters had died. My world had already been turned inside out and it seemed to tip over then. I wasn’t sure if it would ever be upright again.
