April Read online

  April

 

  First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © 2015 by Paul and Coral Jones

  This book is copyright under the Berne convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Paul and Coral Jones to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

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

  Hardback: 978-1-47113-976-5

  Trade paperback: 978-1-47114-921-4

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-47113-978-9

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  For April

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1 A Fighter From the Start

  2 An Idyllic Childhood

  3 1 October 2012

  4 The Search

  5 The Evidence

  6 Limbo

  7 Facing the Monster

  8 Preparing for the Trial

  9 The Trial

  10 The Verdict

  11 The Aftermath

  12 Downing Street

  13 The House of Horrors

  14 April’s Final Journey

  15 One Year On

  16 Neverending Battles

  Acknowledgements

  Missing People

  April Jones Trust

  List of Illustrations

  PROLOGUE

  In the middle of a leafy, quiet hamlet in mid-Wales, known as Ceinws, the small whitewashed cottage stood apart from the rest of the houses. It sat on a slight hill and smoke had often billowed from the two chimneys on its black, slated roof – a sign that an inviting fire was burning inside. Behind it lay acres of lush green forest and dozens of trees dominated the horizon, their leaves changing colour as the seasons passed.

  Once it had been a perfect snapshot of the idyllic life enjoyed by many in the beautiful Welsh countryside. Its name, Mount Pleasant, had always seemed apt.

  As the house was five miles from the nearest town, it was remote but peaceful. Its last inhabitant had been a Londoner, an enigmatic man who’d fled the city presumably to escape the ghosts of a past none of his neighbours knew much about.

  But on this grey November day, as a sharp chill hung in the air, there was nothing inviting or peaceful about the little white cottage.

  For a week it had been barely visible, obscured by the scaffolding that had been built around it, and the trees behind it were bare. The fire had not been lit since images of the cottage had been thrust onto the front of newspapers on that awful day two years previously. Now the chimneys were gone. The black, slated roof had been removed, and only the white walls remained.

  The television crews and newspaper photographers had already gathered on the concrete road leading to the cottage when I arrived with my family. We clasped each other’s hands as we took our place behind the red barriers. There was a small crowd, some of whom were our friends, others strangers. No one said much, as a handful of workers in high-viz vests buzzed around, making final preparations.

  In the front garden there was a yellow crane. As it eventually sprang into life, I could sense my wife’s silent tears. Slowly but surely it chipped away at each of the four white walls. One by one they were reduced to rubble.

  Less than two hours later it was no more. The house of hell was gone and another chapter in our agonising story was over.

  It was comforting to know that no one would ever again have to cast their eyes over that terrible spot, where our lives as we knew them had come to the most horrific end. We still didn’t know exactly what had happened on that fateful autumn night in 2012. We suspected that perhaps we never would. All we knew was that it would haunt us until our dying day.

  We’d come to watch the demolition because we had to see the cottage razed to the ground, brick by brick, with our own eyes. It was only when we surveyed the debris on the ground that we allowed ourselves to hope that the spirit of our beautiful daughter, April, had at long last been set free.

  1

  A Fighter From the Start

  From the moment she was conceived, our daughter April was desperate to live. My wife Coral and I had been trying for a new baby for some time, so when she fell pregnant at the end of the long, hot summer of 2006, we were over the moon.

  Our other children, Jazmin, then eleven, and Harley, then five, were just as thrilled as we were and talked excitedly about the arrival of their younger brother or sister. Coral and I knew instinctively that the little life growing inside of her would make our family complete.

  ‘I can’t wait to be a big brother!’ Harley said almost every day, as he planned the games he’d play with his new brother or sister. ‘When will the baby be here?’

  Coral and I could only laugh and tell him he had to be patient. Jazmin was more reserved, but we knew she too couldn’t wait for the new arrival.

  Looking back on our lives as they were then, it’s hard to believe how carefree and uncomplicated our existence was.

  Coral and I had first met in 2000, when I was working in my family’s hardware shop in the quiet, unassuming town of Machynlleth, where we’d both settled. A sleepy former market dwelling in the shadow of the rolling hills of mid-Wales, it is home to little more than two thousand people. Yet it’s a fiercely close community, protective of its own and filled with people willing to go above and beyond for their neighbours. Save the odd Saturday night scrap outside the pub at closing time, crime is virtually unheard of. As we looked forward to April’s arrival, it was inconceivable that she could ever come to any harm here.

  Coral had grown up in the North Wales port of Holyhead, two hours’ drive away on the Isle of Anglesey. Born Coral Smith, she was the second of two children and enjoyed a strong bond with her brother, Ian, who was three years older than her. However, as her sixteenth birthday approached, she was desperate for a taste of independence and began applying for jobs in other parts of Wales. She was intrigued when she noticed a vacancy for a cook in a restaurant in a place called Machynlleth. Reasoning she had nothing to lose, she applied. She was delighted when her application was accepted and, in March 1988, she packed her bags and left her family home behind.

  Coral warmed to Machynlleth almost immediately. She made lots of friends and soon she couldn’t imagine leaving. Despite the distance, she remained close to her family, particularly her mum, Sue, who visited whenever she could, especially when Jazmin came along a few years later. Likewise, Coral loved her trips back to the picturesque coastal town where she’d grown up. But no matter how fond she was of Holyhead, Machynlleth was now her home.

  My journey to the town was somewhat shorter than Coral’s, although I arrived there ten years later. I’d spent my childhood in the coastal town of Tywyn, which was just fourteen miles away. I had one younger brother, Philip, known as Fil, and my childhood had been happy. I developed a love of the outdoors as a young child and I was perfectly at home in the beautiful Welsh countryside. Save a brief spell in London as a young man, I could never bring myself to leave.

  Like Coral, I’d come to Machynlleth for work when my mum, Lyn, and my stepdad, Dai, had opened a hardware shop and, in 1998, I began to work for them. It was then that my path and Coral’s crossed for the first time. She would regularly pop into the shop with Jazmin, then a
bright-eyed, sweet toddler, and I fell in love with both of them almost instantly. A feisty, vibrant woman unafraid of speaking her mind, Coral hid a warm, kind heart beneath her tough exterior. She had me captivated and, after a few months of stolen chats, I plucked up the courage to ask her out for a drink.

  We had our first date at a local pub and, by the end of the evening, we both knew we’d be together forever. We were soon inseparable and, within six weeks, I’d moved into Coral’s home near Machynlleth’s iconic town clock. From that moment on I regarded Jazmin as my own.

  Two years later Harley came along. But Coral’s pregnancy had been fraught with difficulties, culminating in her going into premature labour six weeks before her due date. Harley was in the breech position and eventually had to be delivered by emergency Caesarean. He was also suffering from jaundice. Thankfully they both pulled through and five days later we were allowed to come home.

  Jazmin adored her baby brother and we loved family life, but we knew there was room in our home for another child. Coral had some health problems and underwent surgery on her knee when Harley was two, so this prevented us from trying for a baby for a few years, but as we prepared to send Harley to school we both longed to cradle a new-born in our arms again.

  Coral realised only a few weeks into her pregnancy that she was expecting. Having already had two children, she recognised the signs immediately and we were both ecstatic when our happy news was confirmed by doctors. But it was soon evident that this pregnancy too was going to be far from plain sailing. Just twenty-four weeks in, Coral began suffering agonising stomach pains. Neither of us wanted to acknowledge the awful reality of the situation, but deep down we both knew she was showing signs of labour.

  She was taken to Bronglais General Hospital, seventeen miles away in Aberystwyth, where she was given steroids to stop the labour from progressing.

  The next weeks were incredibly stressful, as Coral’s labour started again three times. Each time we returned to the hospital, where doctors did all they could to delay our baby’s arrival. Overcome by fear for the wellbeing of our unborn child, all we could do was hold each other and will her to fight on.

  But the medication given to Coral had terrible side-effects. Soon she was suffering from crippling migraines and was forced to spend entire days in bed with the curtains drawn.

  Eventually, in the twenty-seventh week of the pregnancy, we were told we had no choice but to let things progress naturally and hope for the best. The doctors feared it was too dangerous to keep giving Coral steroids, given her reaction to them. We’d already discovered we were having a girl, but our joy was tempered with worry as we willed her to survive.

  ‘Stay strong, little one,’ I whispered to Coral’s baby bump. The emotion in my voice betrayed the fear I felt for the tiny life inside. I tried to put my faith in the doctors and remind myself that many babies born this early went on to thrive, but it was hard to remain calm when we hadn’t been expecting our daughter to arrive for many weeks yet.

  A few days later, on 4 April 2007, Coral was in the local bank with Jazmin when a stabbing pain in her stomach told her the time had come for our baby to make her entrance into this world. Ever resourceful and calm under pressure, she finished her business and drove herself to hospital, despite Jazmin’s panicked protestations. I hastily arranged childcare for Harley and set out to join them.

  By that point we’d become known to the staff at Bronglais and, aware of Coral’s medical history, they were keen to transfer her to a specialist hospital across the English border in Liverpool. But, deeply proud of her Welsh heritage, Coral refused.

  ‘I’m having a Welsh baby,’ she told them, in no uncertain terms. ‘And if you try to take me to Liverpool, I’ll handcuff myself to the bed.’

  A few hours later it became apparent that April, just like her brother, was in the breech position and doctors told us they would have to perform an emergency Caesarean.

  Just a few minutes later, we held our breath as our little girl was taken from Coral’s womb. Weighing a tiny 4lb 2oz, she was unable to breathe on her own. I waited for her to let out a cry, but she didn’t make a sound as she was placed straight into an incubator.

  She was barely the size of a bag of sugar and her skin was almost see-through, with little blue veins visible all over her body. She had a tiny covering of dark hair on her head and, despite everything, I thought she looked beautiful.

  ‘There’s our little girl,’ I said to Coral, my voice breaking with emotion. ‘Our little fighter.’

  We both ached to hold our tiny baby in our arms, but knew we had to leave her in the care of the doctors if we wanted her to survive. It was only as Coral was wheeled into recovery that we realised, amidst the chaos of the last few weeks, we hadn’t even chosen a name for our daughter. Early on in Coral’s pregnancy, we decided on the middle name Sue-Lyn, after both our mothers, but we hadn’t had time to think of a first name.

  ‘What about something Welsh?’ I suggested. ‘Like Seren, for star?’

  ‘There are too many Serens,’ Coral replied. ‘How about Daisy?’

  But no matter what either of us suggested, nothing seemed to stick. After a few minutes of heated discussion, Jazmin had an idea.

  ‘Why don’t we call her April?’ she said. ‘It is the month of April after all.’

  Coral and I exchanged a look and, without saying a word, we both knew it was a perfect choice.

  ‘Well, if she doesn’t like her name when she’s older, she can blame you, Jazz,’ Coral replied, woozily, with a smile.

  The nurses settled Coral down for the evening and Jazmin and I returned home to Harley. But around 2 a.m., I was woken by a call from Coral.

  ‘They’re taking us to Swansea,’ she sobbed, panicked. ‘They don’t think they have the right equipment for April here.’

  I quickly found a friend to watch the children and jumped in Coral’s car, where I sped back down the windy road to Aberystwyth. I arrived just in time to see Coral and April being taken into separate ambulances.

  A doctor explained that April’s problems were so complex she had to be treated at a specialist neonatal unit in Singleton Hospital in Swansea, 90 miles away.

  ‘When will I see them again?’ I asked, dismayed.

  ‘We don’t know,’ the doctor replied. ‘We want to give April the best care we can.’

  All I could do was kiss Coral on the forehead and tell her that I loved her, before I watched the ambulance speed away.

  That was the last I saw of Coral and April for the next two weeks. In my early thirties I’d been diagnosed with a rare, degenerative eye condition called Stargardt’s Disease. My sight had deteriorated steadily since then. I was perilously close to losing my driving licence and even the short journey from Machynlleth to Aberystwyth was beginning to test me.

  Being parted from my new-born baby as she fought for her life was awful, but I knew I could never manage the 180-mile round trip to Swansea, so I focused my attention on supporting Harley and Jazmin instead. They have always been desperately close to their mum and I knew it was tough for them, being separated from her. Despite my worry, I tried my best to put on a brave face for them.

  ‘Your mum and sister will be home soon,’ I told them, forcing a smile.

  We’d also just moved to a new, bigger home on Machynlleth’s close-knit Bryn-y-Gog estate and I wanted to make it as comfortable as possible for Coral and April when they eventually arrived home. I had to convince myself that April would soon be well enough to get out of hospital, so unpacking boxes and doing odd jobs gave me a focus in those first terrifying days.

  We’d already decided that April and Harley would share a room for the first few years of April’s life, so I set about making it as homely as I could, painting the walls a neutral yellow to stop any arguments when they got older. But the agony of watching your child struggle to live while you can only look on, helpless, is something no parent should have to endure and I wished more than anything I could have be
en by Coral’s side.

  Coral recalls:

  I didn’t really know what was happening when I was woken by the doctors in the early hours of that Thursday morning. I was incredibly weak from surgery. In fact, the pain was so great I couldn’t stand by myself. I was bundled into a separate ambulance from my baby and we travelled the 90 miles to Swansea with the sirens blazing. I begged for information about April, but no one could tell me if she was likely to survive.

  I hadn’t even had the chance to hold April in my arms, but from the moment she’d been taken from my womb I felt an unbelievable rush of love for her, as only a mother can. For almost a month, as the doctors desperately tried to delay her birth, I had spent every day not knowing if she would live or die – and it seemed my nightmare was far from over.

  April was taken straight to intensive care, while nurses tried to calm me down and settle me in bed. My body had been through so much, but I couldn’t focus on how exhausted I was. Every ounce of energy I had, I spent willing April to pull through.

  Over the next few days, I was reassured that the doctors were doing all they could for her. She looked so tiny, so fragile, in her little incubator, but I got through those dark days by reminding myself she was in the best hands. A few days later, I was woken up in the morning to the news she’d suffered a fit overnight, and I was overwhelmed by panic. But doctors had prescribed antibiotics and she’d picked up.

  Over the next few days, April continued to fight. Although she’d lost a little weight, her condition had stabilised. I was soon allowed to touch her and feed her and our already unbreakable bond strengthened with every day that passed.

  After two weeks, I was told we could take April back to Aberystwyth as she was now breathing comfortably on her own. We were taken to Bronglais by ambulance and shortly afterwards, Paul and the children arrived. I’d never been happier or more relieved to see him.

  I was overjoyed when Coral called to tell me she and April were returning to Aberystwyth after two long weeks in Swansea. Although we’d had several long phone calls a day, nothing could compare to having our family together again.