Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

  The couple who turned up were young, around Heather’s age. They looked mismatched: him tall and gangly with glasses and not much to say, and her pretty, petite and bubbly, talking for both of them. She’d asked a few probing questions about Heather, saying she’d read about it in the newspaper. It made Margot wonder, as she showed them to a caravan, if they were journalists. Even so, she wasn’t about to turn away their business. If the newspaper they worked for was foolish enough to pay for them to stay, she’d take their money, thank you very much. But they wouldn’t get a word out of her. And she knows Adam would never talk. Sheila has been a friend for years – yes, she can be a bit of a gossip, but she’s loyal. Margot made sure she was polite to the couple, but she evaded their questions expertly – she’s had enough practice this last week – telling them where she was if they needed anything, not that they should: the caravans are well stocked, with a running shower and hot water.

  But when she got back to the dark, empty house she realized there was nobody to call. She’s definitely found out who her friends are since this happened. Women from her shooting club, whom she’s known since she moved here, have shunned her. Even the postman, whom she’s been chatting to for twenty years and is always so cheery, avoided eye contact when she saw him scuttling up the path yesterday. And then there are the others, friends who have lost touch over the years now ringing up to get the lowdown. Pam had popped in briefly two days ago, but had seemed edgy and uncomfortable, going out of her way to make sure she didn’t utter Heather’s name.

  When Flora went missing everyone rallied around. For weeks her friends would sit with her, or bring homemade lasagnes, letting her talk or cry, comforting her, helping her with the business and the horses. But those same people are now acting as though she has a contagious disease. She’s no longer somebody to be pitied. She’s the mother of a killer.

  Margot’s never felt more alone.

  So, when Jessica suggested coming over Margot found herself agreeing, desperate for company.

  It’s just gone eight when the doorbell rings but Margot’s ready for it, like a dog that’s been left in the house for days by its owner. She opens the door onto the starless night, a moth buzzing around the outside light that’s illuminating Jessica. Beyond her is darkness, thick and encompassing, as though they’re under a giant tent. The campsite isn’t visible from here, or the stables, but she can hear the horses whinnying to each other.

  Jess isn’t in her llama coat today. Instead she’s huddled in an oversized parka that swamps her frame and makes her look young and vulnerable. She also seems tired and a little sad. Gone is the hard-faced journalist expression she usually wears, making Margot wonder if it’s all just an act. She doesn’t blame her. By the sound of it, the poor girl has had to stand on her own two feet for so long that it’s not surprising she had to toughen up. She remembers Simone as a crisp, efficient woman, who made sure Jess was clean and fed and clothed in the latest fashions, but she wasn’t particularly warm towards her, and would think nothing of leaving her alone all day and late into the evening. When Heather had mentioned it, worrying about her friend in her usual way, Margot’s heart had ached at the thought of small, scrappy Jess sitting alone in the house with nobody for company, having to help herself to her own microwave dinner while she waited for her mother to get back from work or her latest date. So, Margot had welcomed her into their family.

  It feels like she’s doing the same again, if under different circumstances this time.

  Her breath fogs out in front of her and Margot thinks again of the young couple in the caravan, trying to get warm. At least Colin is now hardened to it.

  ‘Thank you for coming over,’ Margot says, opening the door wider to allow Jess over the threshold. She starts to take off her trainers, but Margot tells her not to. ‘The boards need re-sanding. This place is going to the dogs.’ It’s too much upkeep, now that it’s just her.

  She ushers Jess into the kitchen. The Aga is on, and Jess stands next to it, warming her hands.

  ‘I don’t know if you’ve eaten already, but I’ve got some chicken soup,’ she offers, going to the pan simmering on the hob. ‘Do you want some?’

  Jess grins. ‘I hardly ate my dinner. I’d love some. Thank you.’

  She sits at the kitchen table while Margot dishes out soup for them both, and rummages in the bread bin. There’s a loaf Adam brought home a few days ago from the farm shop. A bit stale but it will be okay with soup. Margot hasn’t had the chance to go shopping since Heather’s been in hospital.

  She sits opposite Jess, placing a plate of the stale bread between them. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘I should be asking you that,’ says Jess, her brown eyes full of concern. ‘How’s Heather?’

  Margot swallows some soup. It’s too hot and scalds her mouth. ‘The same. I worry, sometimes, that she’ll be in a coma for years. The doctors assure me that’s rare. But they also say with head injuries everybody is different.’

  Jess nods, then eats a few spoonfuls before adding, ‘And how’s Adam coping?’

  Margot tears off a piece of bread and sinks it into the soup. She hasn’t got much appetite. She’s eating, sleeping, washing, feeding the horses, cleaning mechanically, like a robot. ‘Adam is … struggling, I think. He’s never been the most communicative of men, but now it’s like he’s gone into himself.’ He’d be furious if he knew she had Jess here.

  ‘I can understand that,’ she says. ‘And the fingerprints. The police think someone else held the gun that morning? Not just Heather?’

  Margot hesitates, suddenly unsure if this was a good idea. She knows she’s agreed to an exclusive but this information is so new, so precious, that she feels she wants to nourish and protect it, like a seedling, giving it time to grow. But, on the other hand, if those fingerprints put doubt on the fact that Heather carried out the horrific shootings, well, she’d want everyone to know it.

  Jess must notice her conflicting emotions because she sits back in her chair, putting the spoon down. ‘I’m here tonight as a friend. Not as a journalist,’ she says.

  Can Margot believe her? She studies her face. She’s hardly changed, not really. Aged, of course, but underneath the new fine lines and the make-up and the heavy fringe she sees the same Jess who practically lived with them for two years. She was like a member of the family for a time.

  ‘In that case let me open a bottle of wine. I could do with a drink,’ says Margot, getting up and going over to the wine rack. She picks a Chablis and pours them both a glass. ‘I just wish I knew exactly what happened that morning,’ she says, passing a glass to Jess. ‘If only Heather had an alibi.’

  Jess hesitates. ‘I’m not supposed to drink in the week and I’m driving.’

  Margot wonders why Jess can’t drink in the week. Has she been forbidden to? Keith used to try to boss her about, telling her what she could and couldn’t do. Is that what’s happening with Jess? She can’t imagine it. It’s obviously a self-imposed rule. ‘Just one won’t hurt,’ she says, and Jess takes it, setting it down next to her bowl.

  ‘Was it normal for Heather and Adam to argue to such an extent that he’d walk out?’ she asks, surprising Margot.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t think so. But they live in the coach house, near the caravan site, so I wouldn’t always know.’

  Jess frowns. ‘And you still don’t know what they argued about?’

  ‘I’ve never asked.’ She probably should, but Adam is so private and she’s worried about upsetting him. He has so much to deal with right now. He must feel guilty about leaving Heather alone like that, especially if she was feeling depressed and suicidal. ‘I don’t want to believe Heather would be capable of such a thing. She’s not trigger happy. She’s not particularly into guns. She’s never been interested in coming clay-pigeon shooting with me. But that neighbour of the Wilsons – he saw her. He saw her leaving the house with a gun. If it wasn’t Heather, how do you explain that?’

  Jess pushes he
r fringe out of her face, her expression troubled.

  ‘And I know,’ Margot continues, desperate to get it all off her chest, now that someone is here to listen, ‘that Heather shot my husband. And I keep telling myself that it was an accident. But what if it wasn’t?’ It must be the wine talking. She’s drinking it too quickly and it’s going to her head. All her dark fears are spewing out of her mouth and she can’t control them. ‘He wasn’t always a good husband. Or father. He could be cruel.’

  Jess raises her eyebrows. ‘Heather never said.’

  ‘It wasn’t anything abusive. He didn’t hit us. I would have left him if he had. He was ex-army and hard. A bully, I suppose, looking back, although I didn’t think so at the time. He instilled fear in the girls. If they put a foot wrong, he’d scream at them. They were nervous wrecks around him. It’s no wonder Heather shot him by accident – I can just imagine his rage when he found her fiddling with that gun. She would have been nervous and her finger would have slipped.’ She sighs heavily. ‘He wasn’t like that when I first met him, or when the girls were really little. But he changed. I think he suffered from mental-health problems. Depression, maybe PTSD, but twenty years ago we weren’t so aware of these things.’ She doesn’t know why she’s telling Jess all of this.

  She’s surprised when Jess reaches across the table and takes her hand. ‘I think you’re amazing.’

  Margot’s cheeks flame. ‘Amazing? I’m anything but.’

  ‘I always thought you were an excellent mum. And the way you coped with what happened to Flora. Now this … and I didn’t even know about what you went through with Keith.’

  Margot chews her lip. She’s not used to someone being so kind to her and she’s annoyed with herself when tears sting her eyes. ‘Oh, shush,’ she says. ‘There’s nothing I can do but carry on, is there? I need to be there for Heather when she wakes.’

  Jess nods and removes her hand.

  ‘Are you okay here with me on a Friday night? Shouldn’t you be with your fella?’ says Margot.

  Jess toys with the stem of her glass. ‘He wants to get married and have kids,’ she blurts out, ‘and I’m not ready. I feel like the worst person ever because I love him. He’s so good, you know. I’m realizing how hard that is to find …’

  ‘There’s no rush. You’re still young.’

  Jess smiles stiffly. ‘Yes.’

  Margot studies her. ‘Are you worried about your career?’

  Jess shakes her head. ‘No. Not really. To be honest, since I’ve moved away from London I’ve been a bit disenchanted with the whole journalism thing.’

  Margot doesn’t understand what drove Jess to become a journalist in the first place, but she doesn’t want to say that. It’s obvious the poor girl is suffering some inner turmoil and she doubts there’s much she can say to help without knowing the facts. She does wonder, though, if it’s to do with Jess’s upbringing. She was practically neglected by Simone, and there was never any sign of the father, but it seemed to be socially acceptable because the Foxes were considered middle class and Simone had a good job as a legal secretary. She wonders now if it would have been different if Jess had been from the only council estate in Tilby. She would probably have been hauled into the care system.

  ‘DCI Ruthgow turned up yesterday,’ she says, watching Jess carefully. ‘He worked on Flora’s disappearance.’

  Jess looks interested. ‘What did he say?’

  Margot sighs. ‘I’m worried he thinks Heather had something to do with it.’

  She’s relieved to see that Jess looks suitably shocked. ‘With Flora’s disappearance?’

  She nods.

  ‘Bloody hell. Surely not. What does he think Heather’s done? Shot her, too, and then buried the body?’

  Margot winces. She would never have believed Heather capable of something like that. But, then again, she’d never have believed Heather could shoot dead two people.

  ‘She was only fourteen at the time,’ says Jess. ‘Jesus.’

  Heather was only ten when she shot her father. But Margot pushes the thought away. Ruthgow is wrong. She knows that, deep down, no matter what else Heather has done she’d never hurt Flora.

  She remembers the white blouse she’d had to identify. The bloom of blood at the front. Could that have come from a gunshot wound?

  Margot feels sick at the thought. With trembling hands she pours herself another glass of wine and offers more to Jess.

  Jess declines. ‘I’d better not.’

  Before Margot has the chance to think about it she says, ‘You can stay here tonight. If you like?’ She doesn’t know why she makes the offer, really. Maybe it’s because she’s so fed up with spending the night alone in this big old house. It would be lovely to have some company again.

  Sometimes, when Adam was away or she wanted some space, Heather would stay over in her old room. And when Ethan came along he would stay with her. Those were Margot’s favourite times, when it was just the three of them.

  Jess opens her mouth, looking surprised. ‘I … Well, that’s really kind of you, but I’d better not. Rory – my boyfriend – he’ll be expecting me home.’

  Margot tries to look understanding despite the hard stone of disappointment lodged in her chest.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Deirdre a lot,’ Margot says, trying to move the conversation on. She hasn’t seen Jess in nearly twenty years and now here she is, asking her to stay over. Jess must think she’s lonely and desperate. ‘And wondering what transpired between her and Heather when she stayed here earlier this year. I haven’t told the police yet.’

  ‘Oh, Margot! You should,’ says Jess. ‘I think Clive was into some dodgy dealings. I found a card outside his mother’s house, the kind that comes with flowers. It said, “This was one bullet you couldn’t dodge.” He obviously had enemies.’

  Margot pushes her bowl of soup away from her. She’s hardly eaten any and it’s cold. Since Heather was taken to hospital the weight has been falling off her. Now her collarbones jut out and her once tight-fitting jodhpurs are loose. ‘But his mother, Deirdre. Surely not her.’ This was one bullet you couldn’t dodge. Where has she read that before?

  Jess shrugs and Margot notices she hasn’t eaten much either. ‘I don’t know. I’m in the process of gathering more information about them from the neighbours. But as they haven’t lived there that long …’ Jess sighs.

  Margot stretches, her back hurting on the hard chair. She suggests they move into the living room and Jess nods encouragingly. She can see, by the clock on the wall, that it’s gone nine. She doesn’t want Jess to leave yet.

  It’s not until they’ve settled at either end of the sofa, Margot with another drink in her hand, Jess with water, that she reveals the nugget of information she’s been keeping to herself.

  ‘When the police called about the fingerprints, they said something else,’ she admits. ‘About Heather.’

  Jess sits forwards, her eyes brimming with expectation.

  ‘Her car was caught on CCTV earlier that morning. The morning of the shootings. At around five a.m. Fifteen miles away. In Bristol.’

  Jessica’s eyes widen. ‘In Bristol?’

  ‘Yes. Southville.’

  ‘What would she be doing there?’

  ‘I don’t know. The police asked if we know anyone who lives in that area but we don’t. I just don’t understand what she would have been doing in Bristol at that time in the morning. I keep thinking about it. Was she looking for her victim, with a shotgun in the car? I just …’ Margot covers her face with her hands.

  ‘Oh, Margot …’

  They’re interrupted by the shrill buzzing of Margot’s phone. They both turn towards where it sits on the coffee table. Margot reaches for it. ‘It’s Adam. I’d better answer,’ she says.

  Margot’s never heard her son-in-law sound so animated. ‘I’ve had a call from the hospital, Marg. It’s Heather. She’s come around. She’s awake.’

  25

  Margot
>
  Margot doesn’t think of the millions of questions swirling around in her brain, or that she’s just left Jess sitting outside the ICU as though she’s no more than a chauffeur. All she can concentrate on, as she runs down the corridor, only half aware that Adam is following, and brushes past the policewoman still standing guard and into Heather’s room, is that she’s awake. Her daughter is awake.

  The doctors warned Margot when it first happened that Heather might not be herself if she came around. That the longer she spent in a coma the higher the chance that she could be in a permanent vegetative state. No, all Margot cares about is having her baby back in her arms. Her warm-blooded, breathing, conscious daughter.

  Heather is propped up by pillows when she comes in, although her face is pale and she’s still attached to a drip. Margot rushes over to her and tentatively gathers her into her arms, careful of the wires. ‘Oh, my darling,’ she says, into Heather’s hair. And then she sits beside her on the chair and takes her hand.

  Heather stares at her, and just as Margot begins to wonder if her daughter recognizes her, her face breaks into a watery smile. ‘Hi, Mum,’ she says, and it’s like music to Margot’s ears. The sweetest, most wonderful sound she’s ever heard. She wants to bury her head in her daughter’s lap and sob, with relief and fear. But she doesn’t. She needs to be stoic. She knows there’s still a long way to go.

  Instead she blinks away the tears. ‘Oh, sweetheart.’ She brings Heather’s hand to her lips. ‘We’ve been so worried about you.’

  ‘My mouth is dry.’ Her lips are sore and cracked. Margot takes the cup of water from Heather’s side table and places it to her lips. Heather leans forwards to take a few sips, then leans back against the pillows. Margot can see through the glass panel in the door that Adam is outside talking to the doctor. Why hasn’t he rushed in here to see his wife?

  ‘How are you feeling, sweetheart?’ she asks, aware of what a silly question it is.

  ‘I feel like I’ve had a fight with a bus. Was I in some kind of accident?’