but forgotten about Melissa Slade. I can feel her crouching at the back of my mind, ready to jump out at me, but I’m doing a good job of shutting her out for the moment.
But once I’ve turned off the TV and put the boys to bed, there’s no distraction and no buffer against my thoughts, and I can’t seem to get Melissa Slade out of my head.
I can’t be bothered to boot up my laptop this evening, but on my phone I skim through some more of the online articles from the trial and her first appeal.
Mel was obsessed with the case. She dreamt of having a baby girl – we were trying for another baby at the time – and she didn’t believe that this woman could have killed hers. But that was Mel. She was a good person and she only ever saw the good in other people. ‘Innocent until proven guilty, Jon,’ I remember her saying when we discussed Melissa Slade’s trial in the evenings when I got home from the courtroom.
We didn’t discuss the appeal that followed in November 2014. Mel had died two months earlier.
I feel a tear snake its way down my cheek. I wish Mel were here now. I’d like to ask her for advice. I don’t know what to do. What would you do, Mel? But as soon as the question enters my head, the answer comes to me.
You can do this, Jon. The voice in my head is Mel’s. The voice of reason. It has nothing to do with us. Nothing to do with what happened to our family.
‘Innocent until proven guilty, huh?’ I say aloud. ‘But she was found guilty as charged.’
Leaning back on the sofa, I doze off for a while, but it’s a fitful sleep. I wake up with a start and a crick in my neck. I get up and check on Noah and Alfie before making my way to bed.
The following day, after covering Sports Day at the local school, I write a review from Kelly’s enthusiastic comments about the play and the programme, which she has brought with her to show me. She has also taken a few photos with her smartphone and I choose one of the better ones. I add Kelly’s name to mine at the top of the article.
At lunchtime, I honour my promise to Kelly. At first she’s confused when I buy three sandwiches, but she gives her trademark grin when she gets it. There seem to be roadworks all over the city at the moment, so instead of taking my car, we walk to Temple Way and then get on the bus for Cabot Circus. With my mouth full of BLT sub, I brief Kelly before we get off at the shopping centre.
‘You need originality. You wrote that the number of Bristol’s homeless is twice the national average, which is shocking, and you mention that a local charity has made shipping containers into homes to get people off the streets, which is fantastic, but this is old news. We need the faces behind the facts and figures. You have to add something new.’
Kelly bobs her head vigorously then bites into her sandwich. When she’s not grinning, she’s nodding, I think unfairly.
As we wander up and down the pedestrianised streets around the shopping centre, I start to think we should have come after work, in the evening. But then we see a woman sitting in the doorway of a shop, hugging her knees to her chest, her sleeping bag rolled up beside her. The shop has “clearance sale” stickers across its windows and has evidently now closed down.
‘There’s your angle,’ I say to Kelly, pointing.
‘What? Oh, I see. The irony. Someone sleeping rough in front of an empty building when the council promised to open up empty buildings to house them.’
‘No. That’s not what I meant. Although, that could work, too. I was thinking more—’
‘Bristol’s Homeless Women,’ Kelly finishes my sentence.
‘Exactly,’ I say. Handing Kelly a bacon sub and a ten-pound note, I tell her I’ll be waiting for her in Costa Coffee a few doors up the road. ‘Don’t forget to take her photo,’ I remind her.
While I’m waiting for Kelly, I open the Notes app on my phone and type in the names of Melissa Slade’s family members.
Michael Slade, her husband, father of the twin girls.
Simon Goodman, her ex-husband, father of her son.
What was the kid called again? I look up my article online. I haven’t mentioned his name, only his age. At the time of the court case, he was thirteen. I check out other online articles, but the boy’s name doesn’t appear to have been mentioned in the press. Melissa’s mother was mentioned in The Post, though. I add her name to my list.
Ivy Moore.
Next, I go onto a People Finder site. This one should help me locate some of Melissa’s family members as long as they’re on the electoral roll and haven’t opted out of this online directory. I don’t bother with Michael Slade for now – I already have an address for him from five years ago, but I can’t imagine that he would have stayed in that house after what happened in it. There must be thousands of Slades in and around Bristol, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he has moved away. Either way, he’ll be hard to track down.
Simon Goodman throws up about twenty results. I frown. I’ll filter them a bit later when I can use a bigger screen. Ivy Moore is a hit, though. Only one result with that name in the area. On the electoral roll. Full address. Under “other occupants” there is a George Moore, presumably Melissa’s father. The age guide seems to fit. They’re in their sixties.
I’ve just finished copying and pasting their address into the notes app of my phone when Kelly materialises in front of me. Getting up, I drain my coffee, grimacing because it has gone cold, and grab my jacket.
‘Any good?’
Nodding, Kelly flashes me a wide smile. Her two body language tics are now in sync, I think.
‘Back to the office, then.’
The address I’ve noted down for Melissa Slade’s parents is in Hanham, which isn’t far from Kingswood, where I live, so I decide to make a short detour on the way home. Hoping to avoid the traffic, I leave the office earlier than usual, punching the name of their road into my satnav at the first red light.
As I pull up in front of Ivy and George Moore’s house, I notice there’s a car in the driveway. Looks like I’m in luck. Well, looks like they’re home at least. I know from my many years as a journalist that they may not be willing to talk to me. I take in the terrace house, wondering if Melissa grew up in it. Did she have any siblings? Did they go to school nearby? I make a mental note to ask her parents these questions. If they let me in.
George Moore opens the door when I ring the bell. He has an instantly likeable face, bushy grey eyebrows cascading out above kind blue eyes. I know him to be in his sixties from the age guide on the online directory, but his hunched shoulders and sluggish movements make him appear a lot older. His hair – what’s left of it – is a slightly lighter shade of grey than his eyebrows.
‘Mr Moore? I’m Jonathan Hunt. I’m a journalist from The Redcliffe Gazette,’ I say, holding out my hand. He hesitates, but then he shakes it, which I take as an encouraging sign. ‘I wonder if we could have a chat about your daughter Melissa. I’ve been asked to write a piece about her appeal application and I’d like to give an accurate account.’
‘Usually my wife doesn’t …’
‘Is your wife here, Mr Moore?’ I ask
