Up ahead I can see cars blocking the exit to Tilby Manor Caravan Park as well as a local TV news station’s van. I slow down. There is just enough room for me to pass but I can’t get into the driveway. Has Margot decided to speak to the press after all? I can just imagine Ted’s wrath if that’s the case. He hired me despite my previous history because he thought, no doubt, there would be something to gain from my tenacity. I can’t let him down.
I park in a lay-by further along the lane and walk up, trying to look confident. I pull my bag further onto my shoulder as I approach the small gathering of journalists. ‘There’s no point,’ I say, in a loud, clear voice. ‘She won’t talk to you. She’s signed an exclusive with me.’
A woman a little younger than me, with a pointed face and hair in a swishy blonde ponytail, steps forward. I recognize her from the Bristol Daily News. Harriet Hill. She folds her arms across her bust. She looks smart in a long camel coat and black trousers. She assesses me through narrowed eyes, a hint of disgust on her face, no doubt taking in my retro patterned tights and shaggy coat. ‘She’s signed an exclusive?’ she asks, in a haughty voice. ‘With which paper?’ She gives a fake laugh. ‘Don’t tell me – the Herald.’ She spits out the name of our paper as though it tastes horrible. She swivels on her heels to one of the journalists standing beside her – a man I recognize from the Daily Mail – shaking her ponytail in disbelief. ‘The Herald is a bi-weekly.’ She smirks and he looks at the ground.
I ignore her, and push past them. ‘She won’t answer,’ calls Harriet, but I continue striding down the long driveway with a confidence I don’t feel. I can see a Range Rover parked in front of the barn as I walk around the side to the front door. I know Margot won’t answer so I call through the letterbox, hoping I’m too far away for the other journalists to hear me. ‘Margot, it’s me, Jess. If you open the door I guarantee the rest of them will go away.’
I stand back and wait, my heart thudding. I count. One, two, three. Come on. Come on.
Then, eventually, I hear movement behind the door. I call again through the letterbox just to be sure. ‘Please, Margot. If you let me in the others will go. I promise.’
I stand tall, waiting with bated breath as the front door slowly swings open.
7
Margot
It’s been relentless. For days on end Margot’s had to put up with the swarm of insects – because that’s what they are, pests, feeding off her misery – outside her house. She’s had to drive past them every time she visited Heather. She rang Adam and told him to stay at his mother’s with Ethan for a few days. She can’t let them be subjected to this.
And now here’s another. Knocking on her door. She’d thrown a glass of water into the face of the last; a cocky young man who tried to charm her with his fake compliments. Oh, no. She’s no fool. She won’t be hoodwinked into talking to anyone.
It’s beginning to wear thin. There’s only so much front she can put up. They’re getting in the way of her business, spooking the horses when she takes them for a ride or preventing would-be campers from enquiring about a caravan or a pitch. She knows it’s a quiet time of year but they still get business some weekends leading up to the Easter holidays.
She’s necking a Valium that her doctor kindly prescribed when she hears someone calling through the letterbox. Of all the nerve! She strides to the front door, ready to give them a ticking-off, when she recognizes Jessica’s voice.
‘… if you let me in the others will go. I promise.’
Her hand falters on the doorknob. Surely she’s just saying that. Another ploy to get her to speak. Oh, she’s heard them all: ‘A chance to tell your side of the story, Mrs Powell’ ‘You can defend your daughter by putting your side across’ ‘Don’t you want the public to see that your daughter is a person? Not just a killer?’
Despite her reservations she pulls back the door to see Jessica standing there with an apprehensive look on her face. If she didn’t know better she’d think the girl was nervous. But that lasts only a millisecond as Jessica’s expression changes to its usual assertive response. Margot notices the girl is still wearing the hideous llama coat.
‘Margot,’ she says, in an urgent tone. ‘I’ve told the other reporters you’ve agreed to talk exclusively to me.’ She holds up a hand when Margot opens her mouth to object. ‘I know it’s a lie but if they think it’s true they won’t bother to stay. There’ll be no point. So please. Just let me in.’
Margot glares at Jessica, then over her shoulder at the other journalists all waiting at the end of the driveway. There’s something about the way they’re standing – the six or seven of them who have congregated – that puts her in mind of a pack of beagles about to go on a hunt.
Silently Margot steps aside to allow Jessica over the threshold. ‘It had better work,’ she mutters, as Jessica walks past.
‘It will,’ says Jessica, confidently.
‘Go through.’
Jessica does as she’s told, then stands awkwardly in the farmhouse kitchen, which hasn’t changed since she was last there eighteen years ago. She notices Jessica’s eyes sweeping the room and landing on a photograph of Flora and Heather as teenagers. ‘Sit down,’ instructs Margot, turning away to fill the kettle. She hears the scraping of chair legs on tiles.
Margot replaces the kettle on the Aga. It hasn’t long since boiled. She has no clue as to whether Jessica’s plan has worked because the kitchen is at the back of the house, overlooking the garden and the fields beyond. In the distance she can see the tree they planted in Flora’s memory – a stunning beech that has now grown tall in the intervening years – and beyond that her own black stallion, Orion, with Heather’s pony, Lucky, grazing. Oh, how Heather loves that little grey, even though she outgrew him years ago. She swallows a lump in her throat when she thinks of her daughter lying so still in that hospital bed.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Jessica, in a small voice from the table behind her. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Heather.’
Margot’s shoulders tighten. How can she tell if Jessica is genuine? She wants to reply with a caustic retort but she doesn’t have the energy. Instead her shoulders sag under the weight of her worry. ‘Tea?’ she says instead, as the kettle starts to whistle.
Jessica nods. ‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ She looks wistful as she stares out of the window. ‘I regret how our friendship ended,’ she says. ‘Me and Heather, I mean.’
‘You dumped her when she needed you most.’ Margot’s jaw hurts with all the vitriol she’s tried hard to suppress. She places a cup in front of Jessica too roughly, so that the tea spills over the top and gathers in the saucer. She doesn’t apologize.
Jessica fiddles with her saucer, her eyes downcast. ‘I know. And I regret it. It was a tough lesson. I don’t have many …’ she sighs, still not looking at Margot ‘… female friends.’
This doesn’t surprise Margot in the least.
Margot takes her teacup and sits opposite Jessica. The girl looks worn out. There are dark circles under her eyes and her face is drawn. Margot takes a sip of her tea, then asks after Jessica’s mother. She’s surprised to see Jessica’s face fall at the mention of Simone. Has she put her foot in it? Did Simone die?
But then Jessica says quietly, ‘Mum remarried and moved to Spain about ten years ago. I see her once or twice a year.’
Only once or twice a year. Margot can’t imagine that. Since losing Flora she’s made sure to see Heather as often as she can, which is easy as they all live in such close proximity, although she tries to give them their space. When Heather and Adam married they moved into the stone cottage on the edge of the caravan site and did it up, decorating the walls with pale pastel colours, Heather sanding down furniture in the shabby-chic style she loves so much. She can still remember Heather’s excitement when she painted the nursery while heavily pregnant with Ethan. She’d been too scared to do it before she got to thirty-five weeks, worried about jinxing it.
‘I can’t imagine that
,’ Margot mumbles. To her shame she feels her eyes well with tears, thinking of life without Heather. If she gains consciousness she’ll be incarcerated for murder. She’ll lose her either way. No. That’s not true. Because at least in prison they’d see each other weekly, sitting across a table from each other in a sterile visitors’ room. They’d still be able to talk and confide, maybe even laugh. She’d still have her funny, sensitive, beautiful daughter.
Jessica must sense her weakness because she reaches out a hand across the pine kitchen table and touches Margot’s fingers gently. ‘I know Heather wouldn’t have shot those people unless there was a reason,’ she begins. ‘She’s not a cold-blooded killer.’
Margot stiffens. Keith’s angry red face pops into her head, and a ten-year-old Heather, cradling the lamb in her lap knowing she wasn’t allowed to.
Margot blinks and tries to focus on Jessica. She has to clear her mind. ‘Of course she’s not a cold-blooded killer,’ she says instead. ‘I don’t understand what drove her to commit this … this mad act. It’s so out of character. You knew Heather. She’s a gentle soul, kind, loving …’
Jessica bites her lip and nods. But something passes across her face that makes Margot wonder whether she suspects the truth.
8
Jess
I can sense Margot wavering. She’s contemplating confiding in me, I can tell. I don’t want to do or say anything to distract her. I need to lead her carefully now, no wrong moves. I take my hand away and sip my tea. Waiting.
Behind Margot there is a photo on the wall of Heather and Flora, taken around the time I knew them. Their heads are pressed together, their silky dark hair falling over their shoulders and merging so you can’t tell where Heather’s begins and Flora’s ends. They are giving wide, toothy grins. Eyes shining. Young. They are in sharp focus, the background muted greens and browns, but from their short sleeves and tanned arms I can tell it was taken in the summer. My heart contracts and I swallow a lump in my throat as I realize it was taken that last summer. There are others on the mantelpiece behind me that I spotted when I walked in. I long to go over to them, pick them up and examine them. But I can’t.
When I think of Flora, the familiar guilt tugs away at my insides.
I place my cup back on the kitchen table, yellowing and over-varnished but it’s the same table I sat at with Heather. I can tell by the knots and the whorls. There’s one near the edge that looks like a witch’s face. Once, Heather painted eyes on it as a joke. Nothing has changed. Even the roman blinds at the kitchen window are the same, with their green and white tree-print design, faded now in parts. The only difference is there is no longer any dog at our feet. Goldie used to follow us everywhere until she got too old to do much more than sleep. When I first stayed the night I wore a pair of oversized slippers shaped like pigs and Goldie chased me around the kitchen, trying to nip them. She thought they were toys, I suppose. I smile at the memory.
Margot notices. ‘What?’
‘I’m just remembering being here. Before. With Heather. Remember how Goldie used to be obsessed with my slippers. Those pig ones?’
Margot chuckles. The sound lifts me. ‘I’d forgotten that. I miss the dog.’
‘Did you ever get another after she passed away?’
Margot shakes her head. ‘No. Too much had happened by then.’
‘Margot, I –’
I’m interrupted by a tall man striding into the kitchen from the back door, bringing with him fresh air and the faint smell of rain. He’s tall and outdoorsy, with a padded gilet and heavy boots, handsome in a rugged Bear Grylls type of way. In his arms, he has a small boy, who can’t be more than eighteen months old. He has on soft biscuit-coloured corduroy dungarees and is chewing a plastic toy giraffe. By his red cheeks and gnawing I can tell he’s teething. I’ve learned a lot about babies from Rory’s brothers’ kids. He has a mass of dark curls and eyes like Heather’s. I smile at him and he ducks his head behind the man’s shoulder.
Heather’s husband and son.
My heart contracts. They must be going through hell.
Margot stands up. ‘Adam. What are you doing here? I thought you were staying at Gloria’s.’
He scowls. ‘I refuse to let those parasites drive me out of my own home.’ He turns to me, his brow furrowed. ‘Are you one of them?’
I avert my eyes. ‘I … Well, I’m –’
‘She’s a friend of the family,’ interjects Margot, much to my surprise. ‘She was Heather’s best friend at school. This is Jessica Fox. And this is Heather’s husband, Adam.’
‘Heather’s never mentioned you,’ he says, fixing me with his cold, hard stare. It’s like he’s punched me in the stomach. Heather and I were friends for such a short time in the grand scheme of things but our friendship meant something. It was important. Did she not feel the same? Did I hurt her so badly she refused ever to think of me again? She never knew what I did back then. It’s a secret I’ve carried with me all these years. I shake my head to stop my thoughts. What’s happening to me? Being here again, in Margot’s home, in her kitchen with all the memories, is harder than I thought it would be.
Adam turns back to Margot. ‘Ethan wanted his own bed. He’s been crying for his mother.’
Margot looks stricken. She holds out her arms and Ethan wriggles into them. She hugs the little boy to her and he snuggles against her knitted jumper. The change in Margot is immediate. The hard exterior she’s worn with me dissolves into something soft and maternal as she kisses the top of Ethan’s dark head. It reminds me again of when we were kids. Margot always made time for us, sitting with us around this very table, helping us with our homework, or letting us bake a cake – which usually ended up tasting rank. Once, during a heatwave, she showed us how to make lemonade.
‘The kettle’s just boiled,’ says Margot to Adam, her cheek resting on Ethan’s hair.
Adam goes to the kettle to make himself a coffee. I don’t know what to say so I pick up my cup again, sip my tea and wait. The tension feels too thick and I know it’s down to my presence. What I can’t understand is why. He doesn’t know I’m a journalist yet. Is this what he’s always like? Or is grief making him act this way?
‘Have they all gone?’ Margot asks Adam, as he pulls out a chair next to me. His hands are red and raw as he cups the mug. It’s unusually cold for March, even with all the rain we’ve been having.
‘The vultures?’
Margot nods, not looking at me.
‘Yep. Thank God. I don’t know what you said to make them bugger off. Maybe they’ve gone home for their tea.’
‘Jessica got rid of them for us.’
Adam turns to me, expression quizzical. ‘And how did you manage that?’
I push down my unease. ‘I’m a journalist too,’ I say, in a voice that belies my apprehension.
‘Of course you fucking are!’ he says quietly, menacingly, into his mug.
‘Adam,’ Margot warns, ‘little ears.’ She covers Ethan’s with her hands to make her point. I can’t believe Heather has chosen to spend her life with this bullish man. She’d had a huge crush on River Phoenix when we were teenagers: she’d imagined him to be sensitive and artistic. The fact he died young only romanticized him in her eyes. Adam couldn’t be more different.
His eyes flash at Margot. ‘Why have you let her in, Marg, when she’s one of them?’
‘I’m not here to do any harm,’ I insist. ‘Heather was my friend.’
He glares at me. ‘You lot never print the truth. You twist everything and you’ll twist this.’ He turns back to Margot. ‘Don’t trust her. You can’t trust any of them.’
‘Listen,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady and firm. ‘If you don’t tell your side of the story then someone somewhere will print what they want. They’ll dig and they’ll find stuff. They always do. But if you talk to me …’ I ignore the grunts ‘… if you talk to me then it will be your side of the story. I’ll print exactly what you want me to print. An exclusive.’
He laughs cruelly. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me. Are you listening to this, Marg? Don’t tell me you’re taken in by her.’
‘I won’t print anything about Heather or the family without you reading it first,’ I promise, desperate to say, to do anything to make him trust me, even though it goes against my normal practice.
‘You don’t understand,’ he says carefully. ‘I don’t want anything in the papers about us. Full stop.’
I slap my hand against the wooden surface of the table. ‘And you don’t understand. It will get in the papers whether you want it to or not. For crying out loud, it’s already in them!’
We stare at each other. My heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest. He breaks eye contact first, slumping back in his chair. Margot assesses us silently, rocking Ethan backwards and forwards in her arms. I wonder what she’s thinking. But I’ve already noticed a thaw in her since I sent the rest of the reporters packing.
Adam places his head in his hands and groans. ‘I just can’t believe we’re in this situation,’ he says, his deep voice muffled between his fingers.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say gently, relieved that he’s calmer. ‘I haven’t seen Heather for years, but this seems unbelievable to me. Completely out of character. Have you …’ I dart a look at Margot ‘… have you wondered if there could be some mistake? Was it definitely Heather who did this?’
Margot’s face hardens again. ‘That’s what the police believe. There were eye witnesses … and they’re more or less sure that her own gunshot wound was self-inflicted.’
‘More or less sure?’ I ask. ‘Is there any doubt?’
Adam interrupts. ‘There is no doubt,’ he snaps. Why do I get the impression he’s hiding something?
Then She Vanishes Page 5