She jutted out her chin defiantly. ‘I’m not too young.’
His eyes lit up. ‘So you’ll smoke it with me.’
She nodded. Of course she would.
Heather waited by the candyfloss stall, as they’d agreed. Jess said she’d stay with her until Flora arrived. Jess didn’t have a curfew and thought nothing of walking back through the fields to her cottage alone in the dark. Heather admired her friend’s guts, but couldn’t understand why she was allowed so much freedom – she herself would hate it. Sometimes she wondered if, deep down, Jess hated it, too. She seemed lonely at home, and was spending more and more time with them.
They’d had a fun evening and, before long, Jess had made Heather forget about Flora and Dylan. She brought Heather out of herself, made her remember she was just a fourteen-year-old girl and that she wasn’t responsible for everyone and everything.
That’s what Heather had first liked about Jess when they’d met in the art class. She’d been honoured that this popular, funny girl had wanted to be friends with her. She knew everyone else in their year thought her weird, with her Goth tendencies, but Jess didn’t. Jess made her feel normal. Jess made the darkness in her mind disappear, at least for a while. And they’d had fun tonight, gossiping and singing along to ‘Baby, I Love Your Way’ by Big Mountain while attempting to win a teddy at the shooting stall. Heather had won a prize, of course. She was an expert with a gun. It was a big fluffy chick and she’d given it to a delighted Jess. Her friend held it under her arm now and Heather felt a stab of fondness for her and her love of anything cuddly.
But then she started to feel anxious. Where was Flora? It was gone nine fifteen and if they weren’t home by half past Mum would go nuts.
And then she saw her and Dylan striding towards them. Well, Dylan was. Flora was stumbling more than striding, and she looked ill, as though she couldn’t put one foot in front of the other, but she was giggling, her head lolling on Dylan’s shoulder.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Heather hissed, turning to Jess with concern.
Jess frowned. ‘I dunno.’
‘Take a chill pill. She’s fine,’ said Dylan, stopping in front of them. Heather wanted to wipe the stupid smirk off his face. ‘Your sister’s just a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘Has she been drinking? Is she drunk?’ demanded Heather.
‘She’s definitely not drunk.’
Flora’s eyes looked huge and dark, the green irises almost obscured by her enlarged pupils. ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, as she attempted to stand up straight. ‘We’d better get home.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ said Dylan. ‘Make sure she gets home okay.’
His suggestion instantly grated on Heather. She was more than capable of looking after her sister. She grabbed Flora’s arm and pulled her away from Dylan. ‘She’ll be fine,’ she said firmly. ‘Come on, Jess.’
Heather was almost the same height as Flora, despite being two years younger, and Flora kept trying to rest her head on Heather’s shoulder. Jess took the other arm and they whisked Flora away, leaving Dylan standing in the middle of the busy fair with a vacant expression on his face.
‘What has he done to you?’ demanded Heather, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. ‘Has he spiked your drink?’ She’d heard something about this in a newspaper report recently.
Flora giggled in response.
Heather and Jess half dragged, half carried Flora away from the fair and across the field. It was almost dark now, with only a sliver of a bright orange sun left on the horizon. When they got to the turnstile where they usually parted ways with Jess, they stopped. From here they could see the edge of the Powells’ caravan park and the main house beyond that. Heather noticed her mother’s bedroom light was on. Would she be worried yet? They were ten minutes late.
Jess hesitated. ‘Are you going to be all right?’
Heather nodded. ‘It’s not far now. Thanks for helping, Jess.’ She flashed her friend a watery smile but inside she felt like crying.
Jess returned the smile, then untangled Flora’s arm from around her neck. ‘Good luck with your mum.’
‘Thanks.’
Heather watched as Jess almost vaulted onto the stile, scuffing the toes of her blood-red DM boots, jumping down the other side and running over the neighbouring field towards her cottage.
Flora groaned. ‘Just leave me here. I’m too tired to go any further.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re already late.’
‘You’re such a goody-goody.’
Heather sighed. ‘Yep. So you keep saying.’ The things she did for her sister, she thought, as she helped her across the field. Flora kept stumbling. It hadn’t rained for weeks and the grass was hard, with patches of dusty, dried mud. Didn’t Flora care about being grounded? Heather certainly didn’t give a toss. It would be Flora who suffered, not her, Flora who wouldn’t be able to meet up with her precious Dylan any more.
They entered through the side gate, bypassing the caravan park, but it led to the path that ran parallel with the paddock. Uncle Leo was bringing in Margot’s horse, Saba, for the night. He turned when he heard them, a frown on his face. ‘What are you doing?’ he whispered. ‘Your mum’s going insane in there.’ He waved towards the house.
‘We’re only ten minutes late,’ said Heather, thinking on her feet. ‘Flora fell over and twisted her ankle so it took longer getting back.’
He took in Flora’s unsteadiness and her glassy-eyed look. ‘Has she been on the wacky-baccy?’ he hissed.
Heather was certain that Flora had taken something. She wasn’t that naïve. She’d read about drugs and they’d had to watch a video at school last term. But she wasn’t about to tell Uncle Leo that.
Leo sighed, pushing his dark curls away from his face. Margot was now striding out of the front door and marching towards them.
‘Say nothing,’ he said. ‘I’ll cover for you. But get Flora into the house.’
‘Sorry, sis,’ called Leo, as Margot approached. ‘The girls were just helping me with the horses.’
‘They’re late,’ she snapped, glaring at her daughters and folding her arms over her chest. ‘I told you to be back at nine thirty.’
Before Heather could open her mouth to defend herself, Leo interjected, ‘They were here. Flora had sprained her ankle so was just sitting on the grass. That’s why I didn’t see them.’
Flora groaned, and Heather wasn’t sure if she was playing along or it was the effect of whatever she’d taken.
Margot uncrossed her arms, instantly thawing. ‘Oh, right. Was it the left one?’ When Heather nodded, Margot turned to Flora. ‘Are you okay, honey? You have to be careful with that ankle.’ Flora had broken it when she was six in a skipping accident, which had weakened the bone. Heather felt a sudden stab of guilt that they were playing on Margot’s worries.
‘And while Flora was recovering,’ Leo continued, winking at the girls when Margot wasn’t looking, ‘Heather helped me with Saba.’
Heather was terrified their mother would be able to see the real reason for her elder daughter’s state, even if it was now dark.
‘She’s fine,’ Heather said hurriedly, moving her sister away and heading towards the house. ‘I’ll help her to bed,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Make sure to put on that supportive sock,’ Margot called after them.
Heather was gratified to see that her sister was limping. So she was playing along. She couldn’t be that drunk or drugged. It was okay, she thought, breathing a sigh of relief. It was all going to be okay. She just needed to keep her sister away from Dylan. Just for a few weeks, until the fair moved on. That was all. And to do that she’d need Jess’s help.
15
Guns. They were such a big part of our lives, weren’t they? First at the farm in Kent, and then later, when we moved to Tilby. We were never scared of them, even as kids. We’d learned to handle them when we were young. Our father had made sure of tha
t.
Guns. We’ve caused so much destruction with them. And as I lie here, questioning whether I’ll die, I wonder if Mum and Dad ever regretted showing us how to use them.
16
Margot
It’s been nearly eighteen years since Margot saw DCI Gary Ruthgow but as soon as she spots him from across the field she recognizes him straight away. Her stomach drops. Why would someone as important as him come all this way? She doesn’t think she could bear more bad news.
As he strides towards her she can tell he’s put on weight, and now walks with a slight limp, but he still has a good head of hair, although it’s peppered with white now. He’s always held himself well, upright and commanding, as though about to address the room. He’s wearing a thick wool coat that reaches his knees, with a navy suit underneath. He’ll get his shoes mucky walking across the grass, she thinks, as she steps down from the caravan. Her green Hunter wellies are thick with mud. She brushes imaginary horse hair from her gilet as she swallows her panic. She knows everything’s okay with Heather. She was only with her a few hours ago and there was no change: she’s still in a coma but stable. So what horrible life-changing news is he here to impart this time? She thinks of everyone she loves, mentally ticking them off on her fingers: Ethan is at nursery, Adam is catching up with some book-keeping, and her brother, Leo, is at his partner’s house in Bristol, although she hasn’t seen him for a while. She thinks it’s yet another girlfriend. One she hasn’t met. She’ll probably be the same as the others, though: tall, pretty and young. Too young for him, most likely. Yet she doubts Gary Ruthgow has come all this way to talk about her brother.
Margot will never forget the dreadful day when she first met Ruthgow. Before that, before he came on the scene, there were other officers. The first was a woman who took notes while Margot cried on Leo’s shoulder, pleading with them to do something, anything to find Flora and that, no, she wasn’t the sort of girl to run away from home and, no, she’d never done anything like this before. And then a detective – a man this time – had questioned everybody, those staying on the campsite as well as Leo, Heather, Jessica, Flora’s friends – not that there were many – and the boy she’d been ‘seeing’, Dylan Bird. This had shocked Margot. She’d told the male officer, DC Lovelace (she’d never forgotten the name, mainly because it didn’t fit with the square-jawed, gruff young officer), that she hadn’t known Flora had a boyfriend. That was a mistake, of course, because then it was assumed that Flora was the type of girl to keep secrets from her mother, her family, that she was precocious, up to no good and had probably run away. But her savings account hadn’t been touched, her passport hadn’t been taken from where Margot kept it, along with hers and Heather’s, in an old suitcase on top of the wardrobe in the spare room. Her clothes and possessions were untouched. There were no signs that Flora had run away. And Margot knew, in the sixth-sense way only a parent can, that something bad had happened to her daughter.
And then, after Flora had been missing for three agonizing days, when Margot had thought she’d go out of her mind with worry, Gary Ruthgow had turned up.
He was a detective sergeant then and had sat in her living room, next to a female detective, who looked like Anita Dobson, on her shabby old sofa with the dog hairs and the threadbare arms and told her they’d made ‘a significant discovery’. Flora’s bloodstained blouse had been found in the undergrowth at the end of the lane, which turns onto the high street, sniffed out by a dog. It was the blouse she had been wearing the day she disappeared.
Margot had had to stuff her whole fist into her mouth to stop herself screaming and the woman officer had placed a hand on her arm, her blue eyes full of warmth and sympathy. Leo had come in then, and he’d held her as she sobbed, telling her it didn’t mean anything. That Flora could still be alive. It was only a blouse, he’d said. Only a blouse.
But she knew. She just knew. Flora was dead.
Flora, her firstborn, her beautiful, dutiful, intelligent daughter, who’d never put a foot wrong in her life, wasn’t the sort of girl to go off without telling her family. The three of them were tight-knit, even more so after Keith died. And, okay, maybe Flora hadn’t mentioned this boy, this Dylan Bird, but that was probably because it hadn’t been serious. It had only been a few weeks or so, according to Heather, who’d eventually had to spill the beans, even though Margot could tell she felt disloyal by doing so.
And that had been that. No more discovered clothing, no body, no leads. The last known sighting of her had been on Thursday, 25 August 1994. A witness came forward to say he’d been driving along Tilby’s high street and had seen Flora walking alone in the rain at around 9 p.m. Her curfew had been nine thirty. Margot had made only two stipulations that summer: that Flora and Heather stick together, and that they were home before it got dark.
Yet Flora had broken both those rules. She hadn’t stayed with her sister. And she’d never come home.
‘Margot Powell.’ Ruthgow extends a gloved hand rather formally and Margot takes it.
‘How are you, Gary? Long time.’
He smiles tightly. ‘Indeed.’
Was she being too familiar with him? They’d begun to grow closer at one point, all those years ago, the grieving mother and the grieving widower. They’d even gone for a drink at the local pub, the Horseshoe, where she’d cried into her glass of wine and he’d promised he’d do everything he could to find Flora. But he’d not kept his promise. After the TV stations and the newspapers, and even the town, began to view Flora’s disappearance as old news, Gary Ruthgow had put in for a transfer, left their little local police station (since closed down) and fled to Bristol. A new start. A new life. Hers had crumbled around her ears so that even getting up each day and putting one foot in front of the other was a mammoth challenge. She kept going only for Heather. And then, later, for Ethan.
If Heather died too, her life was all but over.
‘What brings you all this way?’ she asks, when it’s obvious he’s not about to make clear the reason for his visit. He shuffles his feet and blows on his hands as though biding his time.
‘It’s rather delicate, I’m afraid. It concerns Heather. And Flora to an extent.’
Margot’s heart drops. What does he mean? Does he have new information about Flora?
She can see Colin moving about in the caravan next door so she suggests to Ruthgow they go into the house. She doesn’t want Colin to hear anything that the detective might have to say. She’s not fussy to whom she lets her caravans, or who pitches a tent in her field, as long as they look after the place, are clean and tidy and pay their way. But there’s something about Colin that she can’t put her finger on. Something that makes her feel uneasy. She often wonders if he’s running away, hiding out in the back of beyond. Either that or he’s just a loner. He’s got to be in his late fifties at least, with a paunch and a haggard face, wearing the same cable-knit sweater and brown cords day after day. Yet he’s been renting the caravan for nearly six months now and seems to have no intention of moving on any time soon. She can’t complain, though. It’s an income. She’s never had much time for small-talk with the customers, but she’s seen Heather talking to him. Heather seemed quite fond of him, bringing him cups of tea and cooking extra casserole for him. Her daughter always was soft-hearted. The irony isn’t lost on her that that same woman is now the only suspect in a double shooting.
Margot locks the caravan behind her and picks up the basket of cleaning paraphernalia at her feet. ‘Come on, then. I’ll put the kettle on. It’s cold out here.’ As they trudge across the field she gabbles at him, asking how he’s been and if he enjoys living in Bristol. What she’d really like to ask is whether he ever thinks about her. Or Flora, the girl he couldn’t save.
Ruthgow follows her through to the kitchen and she tells him to take a seat. Does it feel weird for him, she wonders, being here again after all these years? Another Powell daughter, another case. She sees him glance at the framed photograph of Flora and Heat
her on the wall. Everybody notices that photo when they come into the kitchen, even if they’ve been here many times before, and they all get the same look on their face: a mixture of sadness and relief that it’s not their loved one who’s gone.
He asks for coffee. Black, no sugar. Different from how he’d had it eighteen years ago. She’s always had a good memory for silly, irrelevant details. Like she remembers that the last time she saw him he was wearing a pale blue shirt with creases criss-crossed along the front, as though it had come straight out of its packet, and his hands had trembled slightly as he held his coffee cup. He’d been too thin then, and he’d smoked too much, and even though he’d told her later that his wife had died a few years before, he still wore a single gold band on his left hand. She notices now that he no longer wears it. He’s clean-shaven and his shirt is ironed and, if it’s possible, he’s grown even more attractive. She dismisses this thought straight away. That part of her life is over.
He was always a man of few words but he’s hardly said anything since he arrived, just short answers to her many questions about his life in Bristol. It doesn’t sound like he ever remarried. Another thing they have in common.
She hands him his coffee and sits down opposite him. She didn’t make any for herself. She couldn’t stomach it. ‘So?’ she says. ‘What have you come all this way to tell me?’
He looks serious, professional, and sits up a little straighter. His body fills the chair and she can smell an expensive aftershave on him. ‘First, Margot, I need to apologize. For never finding out what happened to Flora.’ He runs a hand across his chin and she jolts at the memory of the familiar gesture. ‘It haunts me. I’ve never given up. I want you to know that.’
Then She Vanishes Page 9