Margot’s stomach tightens. She doesn’t know. ‘Um. What exactly has the doctor said?’
Heather looks around the room, bewilderment in her eyes. ‘That I’ve had an accident.’
Margot brings the cup back to Heather’s lips. ‘Well, let’s wait to speak to them, shall we? Can you remember anything?’ What were you doing in Bristol? Why did you kill Clive and Deirdre Wilson? She has to bite her lip to stop her questions spilling out of her mouth.
‘They said I was in a coma.’
Margot puts the cup down. ‘Yes. That’s right. For seven whole days.’
Heather touches the bandage on her head gingerly.
‘Is it sore?’ Margot asks.
Heather shakes her head, then winces. ‘A little.’ She’s struggling to keep her eyes open. ‘Ethan?’
‘Ethan’s fine. He’s with Gloria.’
‘I feel so tired,’ she says. Margot’s heart hammers. Heather closes her eyes again. Is she back in the coma? Margot leaps up. ‘Heather.’ She shakes her gently. ‘Heather. Sweetheart.’
Heather groans a little and her eyes flutter open. ‘I’m just tired,’ she says, and closes them again.
Dr Khan comes into the room, Adam following close behind. She’s the same female doctor that Margot has seen sporadically during the week. ‘She was talking to me,’ says Margot, trying to quell her panic, as though she’d been given this wonderful miracle only to have it snatched away again.
Dr Khan, who looks to be in her late thirties, with gold-rimmed glasses and a glossy dark bun, bustles over to Heather, checking her vital signs. Then she turns to Margot and Adam. ‘Don’t worry. She’s just sleeping. Coma patients are often tired when they come around. And it can take a few days – longer in some cases – for the disorientation to wear off. Heather only woke up a few hours ago.’
A few hours. Why didn’t someone ring before? Why hadn’t Margot been with her? Or Adam? Heather had woken up and been alone. She must have felt scared, wondering where she was and what had happened.
‘I’ve just been explaining to Mr Underwood,’ Dr Khan smiles reassuringly at Adam, ‘that we’ve done all the necessary checks and the signs are very encouraging. Heather has regained full consciousness.’
‘What about brain damage?’ Margot asks.
‘As far as we’re aware, there is no sign of damage or trauma to the brain. However, it does seem that Heather has trouble remembering the …’ she swallows and pushes her glasses further up her nose, glancing briefly at the sleeping Heather ‘… incident that brought her here. But, again, this is sometimes the case.’
‘She knew who I was,’ Margot says.
Adam strides past her and perches on the chair Margot only recently vacated. He takes Heather’s hand in his large one and, with the other, smooths her silky dark hair from her forehead. ‘Hello, love,’ he says to her. ‘It’s Adam. I’m here.’
Her eyes flicker open and lock with his, and Margot sees such intimacy between them that she feels as though she’s intruding.
Even though Margot wants never to leave Heather’s side again, she knows they need time alone and steps out of the room, along with the doctor.
They glance at the policewoman, who’s still standing outside Heather’s door, like a security guard or a bouncer. Margot would love to tell her to bugger off and that she’s encroaching on a private family moment. Instead she moves away and Dr Khan follows. ‘It’s really encouraging,’ Dr Khan says again, when they’re out of earshot of the officer. ‘This is the best possible outcome we could have expected for Heather.’
‘I know visiting hours are over, but can I stay?’
She flashes Margot a regretful smile. ‘I think Heather needs rest right now. She’s in the best hands, Mrs Powell, I can assure you of that.’
Margot goes to find Jess in the main waiting room. It’s now eleven o’clock, and the room is dimly lit and nearly empty, apart from Jess flicking through a magazine in the corner, and a bloke staring into space, sipping from a coffee cup.
Jess jumps up when she notices Margot. ‘How is she?’
Jess looks tired, Margot thinks, and some of her mascara has smudged around her eyes. ‘She’s surprisingly well. No sign of brain damage. Although she’s very tired. Adam’s still with her but the doctor said it would be best for me to come back first thing.’
Jess rushes into Margot’s arms. ‘I’m so pleased,’ she says, giving her a hug. ‘That’s great news. It must be such a relief.’
Margot steps away, suddenly feeling like a traitor. What would Heather think if she knew that Margot had been fraternizing with her one-time best friend? Would she mind? ‘Do you need a lift home?’ says Jess, pulling her parka around her and stifling a yawn.
‘That’s really kind but I’ll wait for Adam. Thank you, Jess. For tonight.’
Jess smiles shyly. ‘I’m glad I could help. And I’m so happy that Heather’s going to be okay.’
She gives Margot a wave and leaves the room. Margot watches her go, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face. Heather’s awake. And now, at last, they might finally get some answers.
26
Jess
Monday, 19 March 2012
BRISTOL DAILY NEWS
THE SEASIDE SHOOTER’S FRIEND REVEALS ALL
by Harriet Hill
A family friend of the alleged Seaside Shooter who killed a Tilby couple revealed the moment she found her.
Mother and son Deirdre and Clive Wilson were shot dead in their home last Friday, the 9th. The suspect, Heather Underwood, 32, is currently in a coma in hospital after turning the gun on herself.
Sheila Bannerman, 58, who has worked with the family for years, had arrived at Tilby Manor Caravan Park at around 8 a.m. on the 9th to put out the horses to graze. She explained: ‘I’d gone into the main barn, as that’s where the tack room is, to get a head collar for one of the horses when I found Heather. She was on the floor with the gun beside her and a wound to her chest. There was also a pool of blood surrounding her head. I thought she was dead, that she’d been murdered. I called the ambulance and they arrived within minutes. When I later found out that she was the one who had killed those two people and tried to take her own life – well, I couldn’t believe it.’
The Powell family, who have owned the caravan park since 1991, have had their share of tragedy. Margot Powell’s elder daughter, Heather’s sister Flora, disappeared in 1994 when she was only sixteen. The police never solved the case, although many locals, including Sheila herself, believe that Flora was murdered. ‘I knew the family back then,’ she said. ‘Flora’s bloodstained blouse was found but never her body. Her uncle Leo was arrested at the time but released without charge. Leo always has had a liking for younger women and I think a lot of the locals believe that there’s no smoke without fire, especially now he’s left. We all wonder what he’s running away from. Tilby’s a safe, sleepy seaside town. For two awful tragedies to befall one family is particularly heart-wrenching.’
Sheila described Heather as a ‘happy, smiley woman’, who is a brilliant mum to her son, Ethan, eighteen months. She said: ‘Heather was always quiet and thoughtful, but unfailingly polite. I’ve never heard a cross word from her, even as a teenager. She was exceptionally close to her sister, Flora, and I think her disappearance messed her up more than anyone would have thought. She suffered post-natal depression after her son was born and, as far as I’m aware, she was still on anti-depressants. I think she must have just flipped. It’s Margot I feel sorry for. She lived for those girls, you know.’
Police are remaining tight-lipped about what occurred on the 9th, but Heather Underwood is currently in hospital under police guard.
Avon and Somerset Police are urging anyone with any information to come forward.
I stare in disbelief at the front page of the newspaper that Ted has slammed down in front of me.
‘Why has the Daily News got this fucking story in today’s paper, not us?’ he bellows in my ear.
/> I flinch. My heart is racing but I try to remain calm. I can feel Ellie and Jack’s eyes on me and my face burns. ‘Because I’ve been working on the exclusive with Margot Powell. It’s nearly finished. Plus, I’m the only journalist who knows, at the moment, that Heather has actually woken up from her coma.’ It’s not fair of Ted to compare. The News is a daily whereas we come out on Tuesday and Friday.
‘Well, write it up as quick as you can and it can be our front-page headline tomorrow. Ellie can put it on the website too.’ He pauses, as if considering something. Then, ‘And can you get hold of this Leo? Sounds like he was a suspect when Flora Powell went missing. He might know more about the current shootings or give us some insight into Heather’s past.’
What will Margot think if I go after her brother? I’m once again torn between wanting the story and my loyalty to the family.
‘I thought the exclusive was going to be the front page.’ I’d spent all weekend working on it, mainly to avoid Rory, who still isn’t really talking to me. I could hear him moving about the flat while I hid in the bedroom. He’d slept with his back to me on both nights, and I’d lain beside him craving a hug, but too stubborn to make the first move.
‘That can go on page two.’
Will Margot be cross if I reveal that Heather is awake? Ted won’t care because, as far as he’s concerned, we’ve got the exclusive now: she’s signed the contract and can’t go back on it. But, I realize, with a jolt, I care. Margot and I are becoming friends. I enjoy her company and would love to see Heather again – despite what she’s supposed to have done. I still want to believe she’s innocent, that there is another explanation. And I don’t want to turn my back on them, like everyone else has. Like this so-called friend of theirs, Sheila Bannerman. Am I turning soft? Ted would think so.
The newsroom is deathly silent as we all await Ted’s next tirade. I brace myself.
‘And have you followed up on Clive Wilson? Talked to neighbours? Found out why someone would leave him such a threatening note when he was already dead?’ he barks.
‘Jack and I had planned to do that today.’
He looks mildly mollified, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. He chews his gum in silence for a couple of moments. Then, ‘Right. Good. But first you can write five hundred words on the fact Heather has come out of her coma and send it over to HQ. You’ve got an hour.’
He stalks off before I’ve had a chance to reply and everyone lets out a collective breath when Ted is safely back in his ‘office’. Jack widens his eyes over Seth’s head with a ‘What’s his problem?’ gesture.
I bash out the five hundred words that Ted wants, keeping it as simple as I can, so that Margot doesn’t find it offensive. I hesitate over revealing what Margot said about Heather not being able to remember. I was at the hospital as a friend on Friday night, not as a journalist, and it doesn’t sit right with me that I’m somehow betraying the family by writing this.
But what choice do I have? I need this job.
I breathe in the salty sea air, the stress of the past few days slowly ebbing away from me. Shackleton Road and the house where Clive and Deirdre were murdered are directly behind me. I’m standing where eye-witnesses say Heather parked, next to the wall overlooking the beach. The beach where we’d sometimes hang out, when we could be bothered to make the fifteen-minute walk. Tilby is hilly, and the town centre a good hike from the beach. You have to walk up some very steep cobbled streets to get to the shops. It was always fun to walk down, but walking back up the steep hill was a different matter. If we had the money we’d get the bus.
The tide is out today and the sand spreads before me, new and unmarked, like freshly rolled pastry. The boats in the harbour are marooned and it’s funny to see them beached. When the tide is in, though, the water reaches right up to this wall.
I’ve managed to get hold of Leo. He was surprised to hear from me. He lives in Bristol now, and has agreed to meet me after work at a café in Park Street. I feel apprehensive at the thought of seeing him again, especially as I kept it from him that I’m now a reporter. He thinks I’m only interested in catching up.
Jack is standing beside me, looking thoughtfully out to sea, a hint of a smile on his face.
‘It’s not exactly Brighton, is it?’ I laugh. Jack has been in a strange mood today. He’s quieter than normal and a lot of my banter has gone straight over his head.
He shrugs. ‘I’d like to live here.’
‘Really?’ It’s not a particularly sophisticated or happening place. The town is mostly full of chains or pound shops, the only arcade further up the hill. And, driving along the high street to get to the beach, it doesn’t look like it’s changed much. ‘I lived on the other side of town. No sea views for me.’
He laughs. ‘Still. A beach on your doorstep is a good thing.’
‘It was hardly on my doorstep. I was surrounded by countryside mostly. There were a lot of cowpats.’
He turns so that he’s facing the row of terraced houses on Shackleton Road and starts taking more snaps. I follow him as he enters the Wilsons’ front garden. There are no new flowers or cards, and the bouquets that were left there after it happened are all dead, the leaves paper-thin and brown. I wonder who will remove them. A family member, perhaps. I think of the message, This was one bullet you couldn’t dodge. Who could have written it? And why?
I still can’t believe this happened. That Heather did something so … brutal.
‘I want to try the other next-door neighbours again,’ I say to Jack, as he stands back, checking his viewfinder. They were away on the day of the shootings, but they might know something about Clive or Deirdre.
I walk to the house on the right of the Wilsons’. It’s painted a pale ice-cream pink, with shutters at the windows. It has an extra floor, dwarfing Deirdre and Clive’s house. I knock, Jack at my shoulder, and wait, hoping they’re in. It’s eleven so they’re most likely at work. Jack and I really need to try in the evening. Just when we’re about to retreat down the front path, the door opens revealing a woman in a dressing-gown. She’s around forty, with a tissue pressed to her nose. She looks like she’s just got out of bed.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ I begin, then introduce myself and Jack. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your neighbours, Clive and Deirdre Wilson?’
She blinks at us, as though the light is too bright for her eyes. ‘Which paper are you from again?’
‘The Bristol and Somerset Herald.’
She shrugs and, to my surprise and excitement, she lets us into the house. ‘Excuse the state of me,’ she says. ‘Terrible cold. Taking a sickie. But don’t put that in the paper.’ She laughs, then coughs dramatically while Jack and I look on helplessly.
When she’s recovered she indicates that we follow her into the living room. It’s spacious, decorated in various shades of grey, with a huge bay window and high ceilings. ‘Lovely place you’ve got here,’ I say. The view is even better from here than it is at the Brights’ house, on the other side of the Wilsons’, which is slightly obscured by the lifeboat station.
‘Thanks. Please, sit.’
Jack and I perch on the sofa, as far away from her as possible, not wanting to catch her germs. I reach into my bag for my notebook. ‘So, your name …?’
She perches on the window-seat. ‘I’m Netta Black.’
‘And how well did you know Deirdre and Clive?’ I ask.
She pulls her dressing-gown further around herself. It’s nearly floor-length and a deep sable velour. She glances at Jack self-consciously. ‘I’ve been here four years, and they moved in not that long ago, so I didn’t know them very well, mostly just to say hello to, although my husband, George, went down the local pub – you know the Funky Raven?’ I shake my head. ‘– with Clive a couple of times. Until he was barred.’
‘Your husband was barred?’
She laughs, then splutters into a handkerchief. ‘No. Clive was barred. I’m not sure why. Some disagreement w
ith the owner. George didn’t really know much about it. And Clive didn’t always live here anyway. He stayed with his mum a couple of times a week but I think he’d got a place Bristol way.’
This is news to me. His brother, Norman, had said Clive had had to move in with their mum because he was having financial troubles. I think of Heather and the fact she was spotted on CCTV in Bristol on the morning of the killings. ‘Do you know where in Bristol?’
She chews her lip. ‘Hmm. I think George mentioned it was in Southville.’
Southville. That was where Heather had been. She must have gone looking for Clive earlier that morning. But why? And if she had, the murders weren’t down to a spur-of-the-moment temporary insanity. They were premeditated. Planned. Jack’s words about Heather being some secret assassin come back to me. No. That’s not real life. Heather is a normal suburban wife and mother. Not some kind of hit-woman. Then why?
I glance across at Jack, but he looks bored, his eyes unfocused, as though he’s thinking about something else. I turn my attention back to Netta.
‘And what did you make of Clive and Deirdre when you saw them?’ I ask.
She chews her lip again, thinking. Then, ‘They seemed nice. Particularly Deirdre. I’d see her walking her cute dog on the beach. She was just an old lady. Honestly, it’s dreadful what happened. This woman who the police say killed them – who was she?’
‘I don’t know,’ I lie. ‘And Clive?’ I’m trying to get the conversation back on track. ‘What was he like?’
‘Gruff. Typical bloke. He chatted to my husband but he seemed a bit awkward around me. Wouldn’t look me in the eye, that kind of thing. George said he was just shy. But he wasn’t young. He was a bit … what’s the word? … rough at the edges. He wore sovereign rings and a gold chain around his neck. He had tattoos. You know the type?’ She pulls a face and I’m shocked at her snobbery. I wonder what her assessment would be of me, sitting on her plush velvet couch with my bleached blonde hair and my second-hand clothes.
Then She Vanishes Page 15