Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

  She pictures her son-in-law, tall and brooding with his craggy looks. Outdoorsy, curt, a little anti-social at times, but he loves his wife and son. Doesn’t he? She might not have been convinced at first, but he’s right for Heather: their personalities meld together, making each a better person. Heather brings Adam out of himself and Adam is a solid, calm presence for Heather, who’s always been so sensible but who, underneath, can be anxious at times. He’s reliable and would do anything for her. And, okay, they argue now and then, but who doesn’t?

  ‘Margot? Are you all right?’ Jess has finished all the food on her plate, and is leaning back in her chair, her hands resting on her stomach. One of the pom-poms from her jumper is missing.

  Margot snaps back to the present. ‘Sorry. I’m just in shock. I need to speak to Adam.’ She stands up. He’ll be due home any time soon and she wants to be alone when she confronts him.

  Jess stands up too, gathering up her bag and looking a bit disappointed. ‘I’m sorry to have upset you,’ she says, her voice full of concern.

  Margot waves her hand. ‘No. No. It’s not that.’ She’d wanted to ask Jess if she’d come and see Heather, as a friend, not a journalist. Now, though, she wants to be alone with her thoughts. She feels as if she’s being driven mad with them, jumbling in her head, making her feel dizzy.

  Jess grabs her coat, shouldering it on. ‘I’ll go. Thank you for a lovely meal. How is Heather, by the way?’

  ‘She’s getting there.’ Margot surprises herself by giving Jess a quick hug. ‘I’m grateful to you,’ she says, when she’s released her, ‘for caring. You’re a good girl. Thank you for telling me about Adam. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Heather wants to see you so we’ll have to arrange something soon.’

  Jess’s whole face brightens. ‘Really? That’s brilliant. Thank you.’

  And then she’s gone. Leaving Margot alone with her thoughts while she waits for her son-in-law to return home.

  32

  Jess

  The road ahead is dark as I turn out of Tilby Manor onto Cowship Lane. There are no streetlights and I have to concentrate hard on the cats’ eyes in front of me to show the way.

  A hard ball of disappointment is lodged in my chest. I was hoping to stay longer, chat with Margot in her cosy kitchen. What is it about her, about them, that I’m constantly drawn to? Is it because they’re like the family I never had? I was like this as a child and it hasn’t changed. I felt so happy when Margot first agreed to see me, and now it seems we’re becoming friends. That she trusts me. But when I told her about Adam knowing Clive, she shut down, and now I feel pushed out. I shake my head, dislodging the thoughts. I’m not family. Margot doesn’t see me as another daughter. I’m just someone who knew them all a long time ago.

  I don’t know what compels me to do it, but instead of driving along the high street and out towards the M5, I take the turning that leads to the seafront. The road is small and narrow, more a lane, really, with the beach on my left and a row of houses on my right. Eventually it becomes Shackleton Road. The Wilsons’ house is the fourth in a terrace of six. I pull up outside. There is no CCTV along this street. The killer’s identity rests on the shoulders of Peter and Holly Bright, as far as I’m aware, unless other witnesses have come forward, although Angela Crosswell, the police press officer, informed me only yesterday that this wasn’t the case. Nothing substantial anyway. A sighting of a woman fitting Heather’s description boarding a bus to Bristol later that morning, another at a beach, and a café, all within the local area, but they’ve all been discounted because it was either during or after the time Heather lay unconscious in the barn.

  The tide is in, lapping against the wall, the breeze spraying salt onto my windscreen. It’s not yet 8 p.m. but it feels a lot later. The sky is moonless, the only light coming from the windows of the terraces in front of me.

  I pull up, roughly where I imagine Heather parked that fateful morning, under a streetlamp, and switch off the engine as I watch the Wilsons’ house. Is Norman staying there? It looks empty: no lights on, net curtains hanging limply. Someone has knocked over one of the garden gnomes and it lies on its back next to the flowerbeds, bright red and blue among the dull greens of the lawn. I try to imagine what must have been going through Heather’s mind when she pulled up here ten days ago with Margot’s gun.

  This won’t do. I need to get home and sort things out with Rory. We’ve been avoiding each other since Friday night. All I seem to be thinking about at the moment is Heather and Margot.

  I turn the key in the ignition when a rap on my window makes me jump. A long, weathered face appears at the glass. My heart races when I realize it’s Norman. I could just drive away without speaking to him, but that would be mean. I wind my window down and arrange a smile on my face. ‘Hi, Norman.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you. I wondered who was watching the house.’ He’s wearing a woolly hat, pulled down low on his brow, and a scarf that’s flapping open in the wind, revealing a colourful tattoo on his neck that looks like a bird, although I can’t quite make it out. I wonder if he regrets it, that tattoo, now he’s older.

  ‘Are you staying there?’ I incline my head towards the house. Although I can’t imagine he’d want to after what happened.

  ‘No. A week after the … the murders …’ he swallows as though it pains him to say it ‘… I travelled down from Reading and I’ve been staying at Clive’s place in Bristol, but the police have put me up somewhere else tonight. A cheap B-and-B.’

  Why would the police do that? My reporter’s antenna twitches. ‘Oh, really? How come?’ I ask, trying to sound casual.

  ‘They had a warrant. They wouldn’t tell me any more.’ He looks downcast. ‘My brother … Well, I think he might have been involved with drugs.’

  This isn’t a surprise after my talk with the landlord of the Funky Raven but I remain silent.

  His shoulders sag. ‘But we know it wasn’t some drug lord who killed him, don’t we? It was that woman. That Heather Underwood.’

  ‘I … Well, I think the police will want to look at everything. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.’

  He makes a pft sound with his tongue. I wonder why he’s here at this time of night. I know he was at Margot’s earlier, but what has he been doing since then? Lurking around Tilby or nipping back over to Bristol to put photographs on my car? Does he know where I live? But if he’s responsible for the photographs, then why? Back off, someone had written. Back off from what? From finding out more about Clive?

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, stepping away from my car so that he’s standing on the narrow pavement. ‘I’d better get back to the B-and-B. Got to sort out funerals, for when the bodies are released.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I don’t know what else to say.

  He hangs his head. ‘Thanks,’ he mutters. Then he lifts his eyes to meet mine. ‘You know she did it, don’t you? Heather Underwood. And it wasn’t because of drugs.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck. ‘I hope they lock her up and throw away the key, that’s all I’m saying.’

  Without another word he stalks off, hands in his pockets, towards a car further up the street. His legs are skinny and bowed, his back hunched. He’s just a sixty-year-old man, I think, a man who’s angry and grieving. He means me no harm.

  I put the car in gear and head towards home.

  It’s only nine o’clock by the time I get back, and the underground car park is empty of people. There are spaces for seven cars – two spaces per flat and one for visitors – and only four are filled, not including mine. Still, four cars, which means that at least someone should be at home. I’m not going to be alone in my building. Although I note with a heavy heart that Rory’s Fiat isn’t there.

  As I get out of the car, the all-too-familiar feeling of being watched makes me jumpy. Is someone taking my photograph now? I look wildly about me, my scalp prickling. But, of course, nobody’s there. I hurry past th
e parked cars, almost running to the side door that leads to the flats, using my key fob to gain access.

  And that’s when it hits me. How would anybody be able to get in here? The car park is secure, with an electric gate. There is a pedestrian side access, but that’s locked and only residents have a key, although there have been times when it’s been left unlocked. And it’s possible to climb the gate, I suppose, without being seen at night, but you’d have to be young and fit and tall. I doubt Norman would be able to scale it. Wayne Walker is tall and fit. Could it be him? Is he telling me to back off the story because of what I did to him with the phone hacking? But I’ve learned my lesson. I’d never be so stupid again.

  I run up the back stairs to the first floor, my mind racing, thinking of the photographs in my bag. And for the first time in ages I yearn for Rory, for how it used to be between us in the early days, when we’d tell each other everything, me curled up in his arms before talk of babies and marriage began to divide us.

  The flat is dark and empty, and I go about switching on all the lights and closing the curtains. When I get to our bedroom I pause at the window. There it is again. A beam of light from the derelict building opposite. Is it squatters? The beam is moving, as though the person holding the torch is pacing, and then it swings around so that the light almost blinds me. I step back in shock, snatching the curtains closed.

  I jump when my mobile buzzes where I’d left it on the bed. It’s Jack and I’m filled with relief.

  ‘Jack!’ I gasp, about to tell him everything. It’s been ages since he rang me in the evening and usually only when Finn is working nights.

  ‘I’ve found out something I think you’ll be interested in,’ he says, his voice serious and very un-Jack-like. We usually have a bit of banter on the phone first.

  ‘O-kaaay …’

  ‘I did a bit of digging after you found that card with the flowers.’

  ‘Flowers?’ I’m still thinking about a possible stalker in the building opposite and have to concentrate on what he’s saying. ‘What flowers?’

  ‘The ones that were left in Clive Wilson’s garden with the threatening note attached.’

  I slump onto my bed. Suddenly I feel exhausted. ‘Right.’

  ‘I phoned the flower shop – they’re in Bristol – because the name and address was on the card. I remembered it after you let me see it. And –’ he coughs, sounding embarrassed ‘– I pretended to be Finn. Don’t ever tell him – he’d kill me.’

  I laugh, mostly with relief that Jack sounds like his old self again. ‘Bloody hell, you’re getting as bad as me. What happened?’

  ‘I scared them into telling me who purchased the flowers. You’re never going to believe this but … it was Adam.’

  ‘Adam.’ I sit upright, in shock. ‘Adam Underwood?’

  ‘Yep.’ He sounds very pleased with himself. ‘Adam asked the woman in the shop to write the note. She didn’t think anything of it – he said it was a joke for a friend’s birthday.’

  I’m going to have to tell Margot. ‘Good detective work, DS Jack Renton.’ I laugh.

  ‘I’m wasted in this job. No need to thank me.’ He’s chuckling when he hangs up.

  I try to ring Margot but it goes straight to voicemail so I leave a message. Even though we don’t really text each other – Margot’s always preferred to talk – I tap out a quick text anyway. If she’s speaking to Adam tonight she’ll want to ask him about the note as well. Why did he send it? What’s going on between him and Clive?

  I go into the kitchen, my head reeling, and make myself a cup of tea to take to bed (Rory always thinks it’s weird that the caffeine doesn’t keep me awake like it does him). I’m returning to my bedroom when I hear the letterbox rattle. I slam my mug down, spilling tea, and dart into the hallway, thinking it’s Rory, just in time to see something fluttering to the floor. It looks like a leaflet. I bend over to pick it up. It’s a bus ticket – I recognize the local company’s logo. I turn it over, expecting a note on the back but there is nothing. When I read it again I see ‘BRISTOL TO TILBY’ printed on the front. And a date: 9 March 2012. The date of the Wilson murders. I wrench open the front door, hoping to catch the person who posted it, but the corridor is empty.

  33

  Margot

  The back door slams and Margot’s heart leaps in her chest.

  He’s back. Adam’s back at last. Where has he been all this time? Ethan must be exhausted.

  She jumps up from the sofa. She probably shouldn’t have had that third glass of wine. She feels light-headed and has to hold onto the door jamb for support. She’s just read Jess’s text. She’d thought she recognized the words – she’d seen them before. It’s only now she remembers where: in the office when she was searching through the bookings to see if Clive or Deirdre had ever stayed here. They had been scribbled on a piece of paper and she’d moved it aside without really thinking about it.

  She doesn’t know her son-in-law as well as she thought.

  Adam strides in and her heart sinks when she sees he doesn’t have her grandson with him. ‘Is he at Gloria’s again?’ she says, trying to push away the jealousy. She’s hardly spent any time alone with Ethan lately, and when she offers, Adam tells her, in a slightly patronizing way, ‘You’ve got too much on your plate at the moment.’ In her lowest moments she can’t help but worry that he’s purposely keeping him away from her.

  He runs a hand across his stubble, an aura of distraction surrounding him. ‘Ah, yes, but Mum lives on the way to the hospital. It was getting late. I’ll pick him up on the way to see Heather tomorrow.’

  He slumps onto the sofa, still in his waxed jacket, eyeing the almost empty wine bottle on the coffee table. ‘Would you mind getting me a glass, Marg, as you’re up?’ he asks, as he reaches for the bottle. ‘Although it doesn’t look like there’s much left.’ His face is pale and drawn with tiredness, the bags under his eyes making him look older than his thirty-four years.

  ‘I’ll open another,’ she says, going to the kitchen to fetch a bottle and a glass. To her surprise, he follows her. He leans against the worktop and watches as she pours the wine. There is something brooding about his presence tonight.

  Then his eyes flicker towards the two dirty plates still on the kitchen table and he frowns. ‘Who’s been here?’

  She bites back her irritation. It’s still her house. ‘Jess. She popped over.’

  ‘You seem to be spending a lot of time with her lately.’

  ‘Yes, well, she was once very close to Heather. She knew Flora too.’

  He takes the wine glass from her and clomps back into the sitting room in his walking boots. She follows, wondering how she’s going to bring up the subject of Clive. He reclines on the sofa, his face even more pinched. ‘I understand Jess reminds you of the past. But she’s a journalist, remember? You can’t trust her.’

  Margot purses her lips. There’s no point in arguing with him. He would never understand what it’s been like for her all these years. Losing a child is one thing, but never to know what has happened to that child, never to know if her last moments were of fear, or pain, not to have been there to protect her. It will haunt her, torment her, for ever. That’s one of the reasons she’s never sold Tilby Manor. Just in case Flora is out there somewhere and manages to find her way home – although, deep down, she knows that’s not likely. But if there is just a sliver of possibility that her daughter might have run away, there is also a very thin thread of hope that she might return. And she doesn’t want to cut that thread. Ever. She’ll die here, she’s sure of that.

  For a time Jess was like another daughter. And being with her makes Margot remember the past, yes, but more than that. It makes her house feel like a home again.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘Adam. I don’t want to ask Heather. She’s still fragile and struggling to remember events leading up to the shooting. But I need to know. What did you argue about the night before her …’ she struggles to find the right word ‘… a
ccident?’

  He sits up, suddenly alert now. ‘Jeez, Marg …’

  ‘Was it about Clive?’

  His eyes are round with shock. ‘What? Clive Wilson? Why would we be arguing about Clive?’

  ‘Because you knew him.’

  He stands up, the wine in his glass sloshing so that some of it lands on the ancient patterned rug. ‘What? Of course I didn’t know him. What makes you say that?’ He slams his glass down on the coffee table and, for one fleeting moment, Margot actually feels afraid of him. Was this what he was like when he argued with Heather? Threatening? Aggressive?

  She stands up, too, but she only reaches his shoulder. ‘Please don’t lie to me, Adam,’ she says calmly. ‘You were seen with him in the pub. And I know you wrote a threatening note to him after he died. This was one bullet you couldn’t dodge. Ring any bells?’

  He runs his hand over his chin and she notices a throbbing in his jaw. ‘Fucking hell. Don’t you trust me?’

  She flinches. Adam never normally swears in front of her. ‘I want to know what you’re hiding. I’m Heather’s mother. I’m on your side. Heather’s side. Adam … Please. What were you both involved in? You can tell me anything.’

  He laughs, but there is an edge of mania to it. ‘You really think that I … that Heather … would be involved in anything dodgy?’ He slumps back on the sofa. Suddenly the fight has gone out of him. His chin quivers and she sees, with a jolt, that he’s on the verge of tears. ‘I was just trying to do something good.’ He gulps. ‘The pain she was in. It was always there, since the day I met her. The guilt she felt at Flora’s death. She suffered with bouts of depression long before she had Ethan. But she didn’t want to worry you. You’d been through enough, don’t you see?’

  Margot did. Her daughter, her lovely, gentle, kind Heather, hid her suffering so as not to upset her. The thought of it broke Margot’s heart. ‘Go on,’ she says, in a small voice.