Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

  We never mentioned it again, even to each other.

  After Flora disappeared, Leo was arrested but Hayley gave him an alibi. I heard they split up not long after.

  If I wrote a story about him now, would I reveal this secret? It would certainly add fuel to the fire and I know that’s what Ted would want me to do. But it would hurt Margot and Heather. If it was another family I’d do it in a heartbeat.

  Leo asks what I’d like to drink and calls the young waitress over. I order a caramel latte, then pull out the chair opposite him and slide into it, shrugging off my coat.

  ‘So, Jess. I’m intrigued. Why did you want to meet after all these years?’ He leans forwards and gazes at me intently. A lock of hair falls into his eyes and I’m momentarily disarmed.

  ‘Um. Actually,’ I say, when I’ve recovered, ‘it’s a bit awkward.’ I can feel myself blushing. This is ridiculous.

  He leans back in his chair and I notice a hint of a smirk he’s trying to hide. Shit! He thinks I’ve called him out of the blue to hook up. Inwardly I squirm. ‘I’m a reporter,’ I blurt out.

  The smile disappears from his face and he sits up straighter. ‘A reporter?’

  ‘I’m covering the story of the shootings. And Heather …’

  He fiddles with the handle of his cup, averting his eyes. ‘So why do you want to see me? I’ve tried to keep out of it.’

  ‘She’s your niece.’

  He lifts his eyes to mine. ‘I’m well aware of that.’ His voice has lost its previous warmth.

  ‘And Margot. She needs you. After everything she’s been through …’

  He holds up his hand. ‘You know nothing about it.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I say hotly. ‘I’ve been in touch with Margot. She means a lot to me.’

  He sighs. ‘Not again.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You. The way you were back then. You were obsessed with Flora, Margot and Heather. You couldn’t keep away. They might as well have adopted you.’

  I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. Was it that obvious? My need for them then? I’d thought I’d hidden a lot from them, like how often I was on my own, how occasionally Mum wouldn’t even come home at all, preferring to stay over at her new boyfriend’s house, or have a drink with a friend, leaving me alone for a few days. But then, at other times, she’d want to spend all Sunday with me, curled up on the sofa watching old black-and-white films on TV and eating chocolate. Those were some of my favourite times, just the two of us. ‘It’s not like that. Not now.’ I don’t need anyone now, I add silently. I rely on myself.

  Leo takes a sip of his tea, regarding me over the rim of his cup. I stir my frothy latte and try to avoid eye contact. This isn’t playing out as I’d hoped.

  I take a deep breath and start again. ‘Do you think Heather did it? The shootings, I mean. There’s another set of fingerprints on the gun. It could have been someone else.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Leo puts his cup down. ‘Listen, Jess. You seem like a nice woman. But our family, we have our demons. If I were you I’d keep out of it.’

  ‘Every family has their demons.’

  ‘Not like ours.’

  I decide to change the subject. ‘Do you ever go back to Tilby?’

  He shakes his mop of shaggy hair. ‘I haven’t been back in years. Couldn’t wait to leave the place. I moved to Bristol. Somewhere more anonymous. Started over.’

  ‘What do you do now? For work, I mean?’

  His body relaxes and he’s clearly relieved to be talking about something else. ‘I work for a car dealership. It suits me. I miss the outdoors but I couldn’t ever go back to Tilby.’ His expression darkens again and he says quietly, ‘My life was ruined after Flora went missing. The rumours destroyed me. Do you …’ he gulps and glances down at the floral oilcloth on the table ‘… do you know what it’s like to be looked upon as a monster? A pervert? I know I’m not a saint but Flora … She was my niece, for fuck’s sake.’ His face flushes with anger.

  ‘I can’t imagine.’

  ‘I hate the fucking place now.’

  ‘I’m sorry for bringing it all up again.’

  He reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘It’s fine. It’s been nice to see you, Jess. But the story you’re writing – whatever angle you’re going on – well, I can’t help you. I don’t want to be associated with any of it. I’ve got a new life now. I don’t want the press dredging it all up so that people can point the finger at me again. Do you understand?’

  I nod. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry not to be more help.’ He gets up from the table and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Take care of yourself.’ And then he’s gone, disappearing out of the door and onto the dark streets.

  I sit and drink the rest of my latte. I’m now alone in the café apart from a woman behind the counter who’s humming to herself as she cleans the coffee machine. Then I gather up my things and pull on my coat. I don’t want to go home. The atmosphere in the flat has reached breaking point.

  We’re still only communicating out of necessity. I know things can’t go on as they are: we will, at some point, have that difficult talk.

  I’m disappointed in my conversation with Leo. I sensed a bitter man and, for the first time, I appreciate how difficult it must have been for him: the prime suspect in a young girl’s disappearance, all those gossips and pointing fingers. No wonder he couldn’t wait to flee the place.

  Just as I’m about to leave the café my phone rings. It’s Margot and I almost drop my mobile in my excitement. And then my stomach lurches. Does she know I’ve just met up with her brother? Did Leo ring her to tell her?

  ‘Jess. I need to talk to you. Would you like to come over?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Only if it’s no problem. But we can do another night if you’d rather.’

  ‘No! I’d love to come tonight. Thank you. I’ll be with you in about forty minutes.’

  I put my phone away and leave the café. It’s not raining but the wind has picked up. It circles my ankles, pulling at the hem of my coat, like an excitable puppy.

  It’s not until I walk down my cobbled street, with the row of colourful houses on the hill in front of me, that I get the same chilling feeling that I’m being followed. The river on my left looks dark and unwelcoming; the apartments opposite are empty with only the occasional light on. A line of boats is tethered to the shore and bobs in the wind. I think of the shadowy person I saw standing by my building as I was leaving for Margot’s on Friday night and shudder, half expecting to see them crouched in one of the doorways, waiting for me.

  I increase my pace, trying to distract myself with thoughts of Rory and the difficult conversation that’s still waiting to be had, and before I know it I’ve reached my building. I take the gate to the car park, texting Rory as I walk that I won’t be home for dinner. He replies straight away: That’s just as well as I’ve gone for a drink with some colleagues. See you later. No kiss.

  I’m reading the text as I approach my car. I don’t usually feel afraid in the car park, it’s well lit and there’s often a resident either leaving or arriving, although it’s quiet tonight. Yet I can’t stop thinking of the person who was lurking outside here on Friday night. Will they come back? Who was it? I look up from my phone as I approach my Nissan. There’s something on the screen, clipped underneath one of my windscreen wipers. At first I wonder if it’s a flyer, but on closer inspection I see that it’s a wad of small, square photographs printed on flimsy paper and cut to size. I pick them up, wondering if this is Jack’s idea of a joke. I wouldn’t put it past him. There are five in total, and, as I flick through them, I shiver. They look as though they’ve been snapped from a distance in the street, but it’s plain to see that each photo is of me.

  With a trembling hand I turn one over: I’m standing outside my building, turning the key in the lock. You can see only half of my face in pr
ofile. Scrawled across it are the words ‘BACK OFF’.

  31

  Margot

  Margot pours herself a glass of Pinot Noir and slumps onto the sofa. It’s been a hard few days and she closes her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts, ignoring the thumping in her temples.

  She’s delighted that Heather has regained consciousness and seems to be her old self, but her daughter still maintains she can’t remember anything about the day of the shootings. Heather had cried when the police broke it to her about what had happened. Margot was relieved that they handled it sensitively. They didn’t formally arrest her, or bombard her with questions. A middle-aged police officer, with freckles and warm hazel eyes, who asked them to call her Sarah, sat on the chair next to the bed, held Heather’s hand and gently told her what they suspected.

  ‘But I don’t even know a Clive or Deirdre Wilson,’ Heather wailed, her eyes round with bewilderment, darting from Margot to Adam, then landing back on Sarah. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  Sarah had replied calmly, ‘We have some evidence to suggest you were involved. I’m so sorry, Heather. We’ll give you a few days before we come back and formally question you.’

  Heather had nodded, tears streaming down her face, and when Sarah had left, she’d sobbed in Adam’s arms. ‘You don’t think I’d be capable of something like this, do you?’ she’d asked him beseechingly. ‘You know me, Adam. I’m not a killer.’

  Adam had met Margot’s eyes over Heather’s head. He’d looked panicked. ‘No, of course not,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this. Please, my love, please don’t worry.’

  It had taken everything out of Margot, emotionally, to stay strong. She’d had to bite her lip so she did not reveal to her daughter that Deirdre had stayed at the caravan park. She hadn’t even told the police yet, managing to convince herself that it meant nothing. Heather probably hadn’t even taken any notice of her, checking her in and, as was mostly the case, not seeing her again until she’d checked out a few days later.

  It was just a coincidence.

  Margot takes a long slug of wine, instantly feeling calmer as it slides down her throat, warming her insides.

  The vultures are back again. As soon as the news had broken about Heather being out of her coma they’d returned with a vengeance, quadrupling in number. Every time she left the house there was a swarm of them, like locusts. She was still furious with Sheila for talking to the press, and had called to tell her she was no longer welcome at the caravan park. Luckily they weren’t busy, and she’d find someone else to assist with mucking out the horses. Leo was coming tomorrow to stay and to help and she couldn’t wait to see him, grateful that she wouldn’t be rattling around in the old house by herself any more.

  She’s still clinging to the small hope that Heather will be allowed home. The lawyer she’d spoken to about it admitted that Heather wouldn’t get bail if she was charged with murder. Everyone has her daughter down as a gun-toting psychopath, who’s a danger to society. But it’s her Heather, her loving, gentle daughter.

  Her thoughts are interrupted by a sharp knock on the door and her eyes ping open. It must be Jess. Margot had rung her earlier asking her over. She wanted her advice but, more than that, she enjoyed Jess’s company. She was young and vibrant and she made Margot feel less alone.

  But when Margot answers the door it’s not Jess standing there in the dark. It’s a man she’s never seen before. He’s wearing a bobble hat and a thick scarf, wrapped up to his chin, and his breath fogs in front of him. He looks to be around her age, maybe older, his long, pointed face etched with deep grooves. Her heart starts beating faster. She’s conscious of being alone in the house. Adam is fetching Ethan from Gloria’s, and although Colin is in one of the caravans, he’s too far away to help if she needed it.

  ‘Are you a journalist?’ she barks, her sharp tone belying her fear.

  He thrusts his hands into his pockets. ‘No. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Norman Wilson. Deirdre’s other son.’

  Her insides turn to ice. Why has Deirdre’s son turned up on her doorstep out of the blue?

  ‘What … what do you want?’

  He steps backwards, as if only just realizing his imposition. ‘I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. I can see I’ve scared you.’ He runs his hands over his chin. ‘I was in the area, seeing to the house, you know … and I … I …’ He blinks and she recognizes the grief in his expression. My daughter did this, she thinks. My daughter is responsible for this poor man’s suffering.

  She glances down at her slippers. She wants to tell him she knows how he feels. That she’s bearing the burden of loss, too. But the words won’t come.

  ‘I … I should probably go.’

  Her inbuilt politeness is grappling with her fear, each fighting it out as to what the correct response should be: she should ask him in, offer him a cup of tea and her compassion, the polite part of her says. But he’s a strange man and they would be alone in the house, at night, says the other, more cautious, part of her.

  ‘I’m … Heather doesn’t remember,’ Margot blurts out, suddenly wanting this man to know her daughter isn’t a monster. ‘I don’t understand why she’s done this. If she’s done this. There was another set of fingerprints on the gun. She’s not been charged with anything yet. She …’ Margot runs out of steam.

  Norman’s eyes widen. She notices that they are a clear jade, like a tropical sea, flecked with brown. From the photographs of Clive in the newspaper, he doesn’t resemble his brother. Clive was short and squat, with grey hair and a square jaw, while Norman is long and thin and sinewy, like one of the little wooden mannequins Heather used to have in her bedroom to help her draw people in proportion.

  He holds up a hand. ‘I’m just trying to understand why,’ he says sadly. He backs away, the gravel crunching under his heavy boots. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t think.’ He retreats down the pathway until he’s swallowed into the darkness of the night.

  When Jess turns up half an hour later, she’s aghast when Margot tells her of Norman’s visit.

  ‘Thank goodness you didn’t let him in,’ she says, taking off her coat and hanging it on the peg behind the door. Margot notices her outfit: bright turquoise tights with a blue corduroy skirt and a jumper covered with small pink pom-poms. Her clothes have always been a bit … wacky.

  It cheers her to see how comfortable Jess feels in her home. ‘I felt sorry for him,’ she replies. ‘He had an aura of sadness around him. He’s just looking for answers. We all are.’

  ‘But to turn up here at this time of night? That’s a bit weird.’ Jess follows Margot into the kitchen and refuses the glass of wine she offers but accepts some chicken casserole that’s been in the slow cooker all day. She takes a seat at the table while Margot bustles about with plates and cutlery, making sure to leave enough food for when Adam gets home later.

  ‘He said he was in the area,’ she says, as she hands a plate of casserole and vegetables to Jess.

  Jess takes it with thanks. ‘This smells delicious.’

  Margot scoops some out for herself and sits opposite Jess at the table.

  ‘I bumped into Norman earlier while I was doing some digging on Clive. I found out a few things about him. Like he was banned from the local pub for drug-dealing.’

  Margot’s mouth falls open. ‘What?’

  ‘I know,’ says Jess, through a mouthful of chicken. She pauses to swallow before adding, ‘Deirdre only bought the house in Shackleton Road back in February and already he’d managed to get barred from the local pub.’ She has a self-satisfied look on her face. But then her expression changes and she seems rattled. She reaches for the bag at her feet, and retrieves something, then hands it across the table to Margot. It’s a slightly unfocused photograph of Jess printed on thin paper.

  ‘It was on my windscreen tonight. If you turn it over …’

  Margot does as Jess says and reels when she sees ‘BACK OFF’. The letters a
re written so thickly that she’s surprised they haven’t scored through the paper. ‘Have you shown the police?’

  Jess shakes her messy blonde bob. ‘Not yet, no. But today I was trying to find out more about Clive. I wondered if this was from Norman.’

  Margot gives back the photograph and Jess returns it to her bag. ‘Really? I know I’ve only just met him, and briefly, but he didn’t seem threatening.’

  They eat in silence for a few moments. And then Jess pipes up, ‘I get the impression Norman’s hiding something, though. Or someone else could be scaring me off.’ She stares at Margot, as though expecting her to suggest who that person might be. When Margot doesn’t reply, she adds, ‘And there’s more.’

  Margot’s insides turn over and she puts down her knife and fork. She doesn’t know if she can take any more revelations. Her nerves are frayed enough as it is. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The landlord saw Adam in the pub, talking to Clive.’

  Margot’s head swims and she has to hold onto the edge of the table to steady herself. ‘But that can’t be right. Adam said he’d never met either of the Wilsons.’

  Jess looks at her and Margot detects pity in her eyes. Stupid, foolish, naïve Margot, that look says, believing your gruff and uncommunicative son-in-law.

  Margot clutches the gold locket at her throat. Heather had given it to her one Christmas, a few years after Flora went missing. Inside there is a tiny photograph of her, Flora and Heather.

  The other fingerprints on the gun. Adam had said one set was his, the other undetected. She’d taken it for granted that Adam’s fingerprints were on it because he’d used it before. But now … now … Her head spins. The neighbour spoke of seeing a woman leaving the Wilsons’ house. A woman they’ve identified as Heather, her car leaving the scene. Not Adam. Heather. But what about afterwards? In the barn. Maybe Heather hadn’t shot herself. Somebody else could have done that. Was it Adam? Was it a plan between them that had gone wrong?