After I’d finished interviewing them, Jack took Peter outside so he could photograph him standing in the front garden, with the Wilsons’ cottage in full view behind him. I stood watching, hoping the rain would hold off long enough for Jack to get a decent shot. The house was no longer cordoned, but seven or eight bunches of flowers had been left to wilt in the Wilsons’ neat front garden. While Jack was busy repositioning Peter and snapping away, I wandered over to take a closer look at the Wilsons’ house. The curtains were closed but the place was tidy, with garden gnomes and stone animals dotted around the front garden and between the well-tended plants. There was a Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the living-room window and a wrought-iron umbrella stand in the corner of the front porch. I wondered if anybody had been in there to clean away the blood in the hallway.
Then I drifted over to the flowers. Most of the messages attached had faded in the rain but there was one from Deirdre’s granddaughter, Lisa, with To a wonderful Gran scrawled on a card attached to a drooping bouquet of lilies and another from ‘the ladies at the WI’ on some wilting peach roses.
I was about to walk away when I saw a bunch of carnations that looked fresher than the rest. The card wasn’t signed, but I could tell there was writing on it. I crouched to get a closer look. Written in large block capitals were the words ‘THIS WAS ONE BULLET YOU COULDN’T DODGE.’
Intrigued I ripped it from the cellophane wrapping and, before anyone noticed, I pocketed it.
12
Jess
‘Have you shown that card to Ted yet?’ asks Jack, wheeling his chair over to me with a glint in his eye. ‘This could be a story in itself.’
‘Not yet,’ I reply, tapping at my keyboard, my eyes glued to the screen. I’ve filed the eye-witness story, so I’m working on a Clive and Deirdre background piece. But now I’m worried I’ve done the wrong thing. I shouldn’t have pocketed the card. It would be interfering with a crime scene. If Clive or Deirdre had enemies, the police will want to know. I can’t afford to take one step out of line. Ted had told me that when he offered me the job.
Jack had been so excited when I showed him the card in the car. He’d turned it over in his fingers and kept asking me what I thought it meant.
‘It means that one or both of them had enemies,’ I’d said. Other than that I didn’t fully understand why I’d decided to take it. Maybe to prove Clive Wilson wasn’t the squeaky-clean uncle, brother and son that his family had tried to portray. Unless the message had been meant for Deirdre. I doubted that. She looked like a lovely, doting grandmother. Maybe the killer had shot her because she’d got in the way or had come home unexpectedly. But, then again, perhaps Deirdre wasn’t who she’d appeared to be.
I still can’t bring myself to think of Heather as the killer.
There has to have been some mistake.
I recall my conversation with Margot yesterday. She’d insinuated there might be some doubt, although I found it interesting that Adam had quickly shut her down. Something doesn’t seem right there.
‘You don’t think Heather was in it with someone, do you?’ asks Jack now. ‘Or someone paid her to do it?’
I can’t help but laugh at Jack’s wild imagination. ‘She’s not a professional assassin. And this is Tilby we’re talking about, not some big city. It’s the biggest crime that’s been committed there for as long as I can remember.’
Since Flora, I think, although I don’t say that to Jack.
‘But how do you know?’
I swivel in my chair so that I’m facing him. ‘I’m sure the police would have noticed if she’d received a large payment recently.’
‘Could have been made in cash.’
‘I’m sure the police are in the process of going through everything.’
Jack shrugs. ‘They have a caravan park. Money must go in and out all the time. It might not be noticeable. Maybe they were in debt. Maybe her husband was in on it, too.’
I think of Adam. What is his background? His story? I know nothing about him, other than that he’s a brooding, abrupt man to whom I’ve taken an immediate dislike, even though I can’t put my finger on why. I’m sure he’s hiding something. How could Heather have ended up with someone like him?
But still. Jack’s theory does sound a bit far-fetched. I can’t imagine Margot would let her caravan park be used as a front for criminal activity. But I don’t want to burst Jack’s bubble.
‘This could be a good story, Jess. It’s only Thursday,’ continues Jack, eagerly. ‘We’ve got until Monday lunchtime to find out more before the deadline for Tuesday’s paper.’
I suppress a sigh. Jack looks like an eager puppy, but then I remind myself this is probably the biggest story he’s ever worked on. He’s hungry for it. I can’t blame him for that. ‘Like what?’
He flops back in his chair. ‘I don’t know. You’re the reporter. I’m just saying it looks dodgy. Clive had enemies. This card implies that someone isn’t surprised he’s dead.’
I hold up my hands in mock-surrender. ‘Okay, okay, I get your point. I’ll talk to Ted and see what he suggests.’ I glance across the desk at my mobile. It’s disappointingly quiet. I’d been hoping Margot would call. I’d thought I was getting somewhere yesterday. I bet Adam talked her out of speaking to me.
I get up from my seat while Jack scoots his chair back to his own desk, a self-satisfied smile on his face at the thought we might get to play detective. I sometimes wonder why he didn’t go into the police force, like his boyfriend.
I stand at the threshold to Ted’s ‘office’ and, when he doesn’t look up from his computer, I clear my throat.
‘Yep,’ he says, still not looking at me.
I push the card across his desk, explaining where I found it. He glances at it, then at me, interest registering on his usually cynical features. ‘You know you’ll have to give this to the police.’
I nod.
‘We can’t withhold any evidence, Jess. You know that, right?’
I blink, my cheeks hot. Does he think I’ve learned nothing from what happened at the Tribune? ‘Of course,’ I mutter. ‘I don’t know why I took it, really.’
‘You could have just snapped it with your phone,’ he says, watching me carefully.
‘Yes.’
‘Can you drop it over to Bridewell? But take a photo of it first. All right?’ He pushes the card towards me, then turns his attention back to his computer screen. I slink out of the room as though I’m a naughty schoolgirl who’s been sent to the headmaster’s office.
I glare at Jack as I return to my desk. I set the card near my keyboard and quickly snap it with my phone.
‘What?’ he says, coming over as I shrug on my coat and grab my bag, opening it for my purse.
‘I shouldn’t have nicked the bloody card.’ I slip it into my purse. ‘Now I have to take it to the police station.’
Jack bites his lip, his eyes worried. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I never thought.’
I lower my voice. ‘I need Ted to trust me.’
‘He does trust you.’
‘You don’t understand …’
Jack sighs. ‘Of course I bloody do. I’m not an idiot, Jess. I know what went on in London. I remember the scandal. It was all over the news. I wondered if you might have been caught up in it.’
How long has he known this about me? I’ve not told anyone about it since leaving London. The thought that Jack, the only friend I’ve felt a connection with since Heather, has insight into this dark, ugly part of me makes me feel sick with shame. No wonder he jokes that I’m as hard as nails. He couldn’t be more wrong.
I stare at him for a few seconds, thrown, my cheeks burning. How could he know this about me and still want to be my friend? He opens his mouth to say something but I hold up a hand, signalling for him to stop. There’s nobody else in the newsroom apart from Sue but I don’t want her to hear. I pull the strap firmly over my shoulder and gesture for him to follow. Sue’s on the phone as we stride past, but I sense
her looking up at us. ‘I’ve told you,’ I can hear her saying, ‘to give him the bloody elbow. He doesn’t deserve you, Sal.’
It’s raining when we get outside so we huddle in the doorway. There’s no sign of Stan. ‘I can’t be long,’ says Jack, wrapping his arms about his thin frame. He’s wearing a trendy suit and his legs are like pipe cleaners. ‘Ted wants me to finish uploading some photos before I leave tonight.’ He clears his throat and shuffles, seeming embarrassed. ‘Look, we’ve been friends for nearly a year. You can tell me anything – you do know that, don’t you? I’m never going to think any less of you.’
To my shame, my eyes fill with tears. I touch his arm. ‘Thank you. Do you want to meet for a quick drink after work?’
He peers at his feet. His trousers are a tad too short, but they look cool on him, like a fashion statement. He’s wearing funky socks, yellow with little blue birds all over them. ‘I promised Finn we’d go out tonight. He wants to take me for a meal. He’s been working so hard lately. He’s meeting me at the Watershed at seven.’
I’ve met Finn a few times, and once the four of us went on a double date. Although he seems a lovely guy, he’s much quieter and more introverted than Jack. When we were out, Jack did the talking for both of them. He never left Jack’s side, and if Rory or I tried to engage him in conversation his eyes would search out Jack, as though willing him to intervene.
Since then Rory and I have tried to arrange another foursome but Finn always seems to have an excuse: he’s on shifts, he’s too tired, he’s ill. I worry that he doesn’t really like or approve of us. Or, rather, of me.
I pull my coat around myself. The rain is getting harder, running along the pavements and dribbling into the drains. ‘Please, Jack, just a quick one. I need someone to talk to. What about I meet you there first, straight after work? Don’t worry, I’ll make myself scarce as soon as Finn arrives.’
Jack looks up, his face softening. ‘Oh, go on, then, just a quick one.’ He winks at me. ‘You always get me into trouble.’
13
Jess
My heart falls when I walk into the police station and see DCI Ruthgow standing behind the counter. He’s talking in a low voice to the duty officer: a middle-aged woman with a severe dark brown fringe.
I’ve only met Ruthgow once, at a police conference at the end of last year, although I’ve spoken to him numerous times on the phone, but he’s as I remember him – he always looks like he’s spent the night sleeping on his face. His craggy brows are threaded with grey, and he’s smartly dressed in a crisp dark suit. I imagine he’s the type of guy who wears aftershave and changes his shirt every day – unlike Ted, who can wear the same clothes for three days on the trot. When I reach the desk, recognition flickers across his face. ‘Jessica Fox?’ he says, in his deep, croaky voice.
I smile confidently while my mind races for excuses as to why I’ve taken a potential piece of evidence from a crime scene. I reach into my pocket and hand him the card. ‘I was at the Wilsons’ house earlier.’ I notice the duty officer moves away to talk to someone who has come in behind me. ‘And I saw this attached to a bunch of flowers. It sounded threatening. Thought it might be important.’ Let him believe I’ve done him a favour.
He pushes his black-framed glasses further onto his nose and frowns down at the card. ‘Right,’ he says, glancing up at me, his eyebrow raised questioningly. ‘And you took it because …?’
‘Like I said, I thought it might be important. And I didn’t want it to blow away or get lost.’
He doesn’t say anything else but rests his finger lightly on the card, as though worried I might snatch it back. ‘Right. Anything else I can help you with?’
I stand up straighter. This could work to my advantage. ‘While I’m here, I was wondering … Do you have any more information on the victims? Like, what kind of people were they?’ I nod towards the card. ‘It sounds like they could have had enemies. Were they – Clive particularly – into anything … I don’t know …’ I lift my shoulders ‘… dodgy?’
‘Dodgy?’ Ruthgow rubs the skin between his eyebrows as if he’s never heard the word before. ‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal anything at this point in the investigation.’
‘But you think it’s an open and closed case? That Heather Underwood committed the murders?’
He sighs. ‘We’re not taking anything for granted.’
‘So someone else could be involved?’
‘I’m not necessarily saying that.’
‘Does Clive have a criminal record?’ I persist. It comes out of nowhere but is a last-ditch attempt at finding out something.
Ruthgow falters. ‘I … Not exactly. No. There was a complaint made about him.’
I mentally rub my hands together. ‘What sort of complaint?’
Ruthgow shoots me a warning look. ‘This is off the record. But someone complained about him and the police were called. He was issued with a warning but no further action was taken.’ He holds up his hands as though to ward off any further words. ‘That’s all I can say at this point.’ He turns his attention back to the card. ‘You know, you shouldn’t tamper with a crime scene.’
‘I thought I was doing the right thing.’ I smile sweetly.
‘You shouldn’t have taken this card.’ His voice is stern but fatherly.
I glance at my watch and roll my eyes theatrically. ‘Jeez!’ Jeez? I’ve never said that in my life before. ‘Better be off. On another job. Busy day.’
He opens his mouth, the puzzled expression not leaving his face.
But I hurry away before he can reprimand me further.
By the time I’ve walked to the police station and back, I’m a bit late to meet Jack. But he’s waiting at the table nearest the door, his expression serious as he taps out a text on his phone, a pint of beer untouched in front of him. His dark blond hair flops in his face and he keeps pushing it back with one hand, distracted, his brows knotted together. I’m struck again by how handsome he is. Not as striking as Rory, I think loyally, but still a very attractive man. Once, during a drunken chat when we were first getting to know each other, Jack let slip that he’d broken a few hearts before falling in love with Finn three years ago. As a result Finn could be a little possessive at times.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ I say, as I slide into the seat opposite him.
He looks up, his face brightening when he sees it’s me. ‘About time. Thought you’d been arrested for taking that card from the Wilsons’ garden.’
‘Ruthgow wasn’t happy. You know what he’s like.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘He’s so intense. Isn’t he up for retirement yet? He looks like he’s going to croak any minute.’ He clutches his throat and puts on a raspy thirty-fags-a-day voice: ‘You know this is the only information I can give you on the record.’
‘He’s not yet sixty. You make him sound like he’s about to get a telegram from the Queen any minute.’ I get up. ‘I’m just going to the bar. Do you want anything?’
He jumps up. ‘I’ll get it. You sit down. You could do with a rest.’ He grins. ‘After all, you’re getting on a bit yourself now.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’ I laugh, but I sit down anyway. My feet are hurting in my new boots. I’d bought them for a steal at a vintage shop after falling in love with them, but they’re half a size too small.
‘What do you want?’
I contemplate asking for a glass of wine but settle on a Coke. When I left London I promised myself I wouldn’t drink during the week. My glass of wine a night was turning into two, and then three. It’s hard to keep to my no-drinking rule sometimes, though.
Jack strides to the bar, attracting stares from a blonde woman at a nearby table in his well-cut suit. He gets paid a pittance at the paper, but he always seems able to afford nice clothes. I don’t know where he gets the money from.
He returns with my drink and two packets of spicy crisps that he knows are my favourite.
‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, taking a long glug
of Coke. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the blonde woman looking towards Jack and giggling to her friend.
Jack’s oblivious and regards me seriously. When I return my glass to the table he asks, ‘Are you okay? You know you can tell me anything.’
He’s right. I can tell him things I’ve not even told Rory. That’s the problem.
Rory is so good, with a very strong moral code. That’s what I’d fallen in love with. Somehow being with him just made me better. Nicer. His softness sanded down my edges. We complement each other – I help him when he needs to be tougher, and he makes me see reason when I’m being too hard. And I’ve never doubted his love for me. But sometimes I worry that he sees me as he wants me to be rather than as I really am. And I’ve let him because I prefer myself through his eyes. When I’m with him I can believe I really am a good person.
My moralistic radar is so off kilter sometimes that I don’t always know if I’m doing a good or a bad thing. But since the mess I left behind in London, I’ve really been trying. Yet today, with that card, I feel as if I’ve failed some test.
I try to explain this to Jack, but he stares at me with confusion. ‘I don’t think what you did with the card was wrong, though. You’ve got a good nose for a story. That’s what being a journalist is all about. There’s a story behind that card. Clive – or Deirdre – had enemies. That’s worth exploring.’
I fidget in my seat, feeling uncomfortable. ‘It’s not just that.’ I fiddle with my beer mat. Behind me a few lads whoop and cheer at something and Jack flinches. I turn around but they’re busy thumping one of their group on the back and congratulating him about something. ‘I need to tell you what happened in London.’
Then She Vanishes Page 7