‘At the beginning of the year Deirdre Wilson booked two nights in one of the caravans. She said she was in the process of buying a house in the area so wanted to be near as she had a few things to sort out. She brought her dog with her. It was extremely cute. Like a bear. Heather got talking to Deirdre.’ He smiles at the memory. ‘You know what Heather’s like. She’s always so good at small-talk. She’s genuinely interested in people. Anyway, Heather was really taken with the dog, I can’t remember its name, and Deirdre told Heather she used to breed them, and gave Heather her contact details as her son, Clive, still did. I remembered Heather telling me about it. We felt it would be good for Ethan – for all of us – to have a puppy.’
‘So you spoke to Deirdre?’
‘Yes. Only on the phone to get her son’s details. By this time she’d moved into her cottage in Tilby.’
‘So then you contacted Clive?’
He nods. ‘Yes. We met up in the Funky Raven, as that’s near where his mum was living, and he was staying with her. The dogs were expensive. Over a grand. I gave him a deposit and he promised there would be a litter due in a few weeks. We wouldn’t be able to take the puppy, of course, until it was a few months old, but we could come and see the litter and reserve one. I gave him three hundred quid up front.’
Margot sits back down on the sofa again. ‘And what happened?’
‘He was bloody lying, wasn’t he? The fucking con artist. There was no pregnant bitch. I asked around and apparently he had a dog. A male dog. So I met up with him again and asked for my money back. But he continued lying about it, making excuses. Anything, rather than give me the money. I threatened to knock his block off if he didn’t return it.’
‘Oh, Adam.’
‘Well,’ he growls, ‘it was out of order, Marg.’
Her mind races. ‘Even so, a note like that after he died was a bit extreme.’ There is dirt under her fingernails from cleaning out the horses earlier. She picks at it distractedly. ‘Especially with a murder investigation going on. What were you thinking?’
He shakes his head, his eyes bloodshot. ‘That’s the thing. I wasn’t thinking straight. Heather was in the hospital … They were saying she’d killed him. I was just so angry, with her … with Clive … everyone. It was stupid, I know. I blamed Clive. For the money … and then for what happened after, with Heather killing him … I think he was on her radar because of that. You know she’s not been well,’ he points to his head, ‘mentally. She flipped. She was angry with the world. She had a bee in her bonnet about Flora’s disappearance. She blamed herself for that … I think it all got too much. So, the night after Heather did …’ he gulps ‘… what she did, I came home and scribbled the note on a piece of paper to get the wording right, then rang up a florist and told them it was a joke for a friend’s birthday.’
‘And Deirdre? Where does she fit into all this? She must have known that Clive wasn’t really breeding from his own dog. Was she in on the scam too?’
‘I don’t know what she thought, Marg. She was an old lady. Maybe she didn’t know what he was up to.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the police any of this after … after …?’
‘I didn’t want them to think that was why Heather killed them.’
‘Over a dog.’ She laughs. ‘But that’s ridiculous.’
He frowns. ‘I know that, but the police would try to find any spurious link, wouldn’t they?’
Margot gets up. She feels woolly-headed after all the wine. She needs a warm drink. Adam follows her into the kitchen with the empty wine glasses. ‘I’m sorry I got angry,’ he says, his shoulders relaxing. ‘The note, it was a stupid thing to do. I regret it.’
She clicks the kettle on and Adam sits at the wooden table, his head in his hands. She can’t help but think there’s more to it. Yes, three hundred pounds is a lot of money to lose but that level of anger at a man who died at the hands of your wife? It makes no sense to her.
‘Did you ever get the money back?’
‘No. Clive wouldn’t admit there was a problem. He continued to promise us a puppy.’
She rests a hand on his shoulder. He still has his coat on. She desperately wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. She has to believe in him, for Heather’s sake. For Ethan’s. ‘I’m sorry, Adam.’
He places his hand over hers. They stay like that for a while, then Margot moves away to make hot chocolate. After a few minutes she hands Adam a mug. ‘Here, drink this.’
‘Thanks.’ He takes a sip, even though it’s piping hot.
She sits next to him, at the head of the table. ‘So is that what you argued about? The night before? Money? The puppy?’
He lifts his head, his eyes puzzled. ‘No. Heather was on my side about all that. She thought Clive was just stringing us along, too. No, it was something else. She …’ He stares at his mug intently, not meeting Margot’s eyes.
‘What then?’
‘She got this idea in her head that –’
They are interrupted by the shrill sound of the landline.
Adam jumps up. ‘It’s a bit late for phone calls. It could be Mum ringing about Ethan, or the hospital.’ His face is grey.
Margot is on her feet, too, almost running to the little half-moon table in the hallway where the phone is.
‘Hello.’
‘Hello, Margot? It’s Gary – Gary Ruthgow.’
Her heart picks up speed. ‘Gary …’
‘I’m sorry to be calling late. But we’ve found a body. Remains. Bones, really, dating back fifteen to twenty years. And we’re not a hundred per cent sure yet, but …’ Margot’s legs threaten to buckle underneath her weight ‘… I think you should know we’re looking into the possibility that it could be Flora.’
34
August 1994
Heather’s hand trembled so violently that the riding crop fell from her fingers to the grass at her feet. Dylan cowered before her and she noticed blood seeping through his thin tie-dye T-shirt. What had she done?
It had happened again, just like before. The blackout. The rage. She couldn’t even remember doing it, just the familiar bubbling sensation in her head, the flickering orbs of light sweeping across her vision, like the beginnings of an ocular migraine, and then the overwhelming feeling of anger before everything went black. And when she opened her eyes she was faced with this. An injured, cowering mess in front of her.
He had his hands over his head, as though expecting another blow. When it was obvious no more was forthcoming he straightened up, staring at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. He winced as he reached around, gingerly touching his T-shirt. There were beads of blood on his fingertips. He stared at it in horror. ‘You crazy, fucking bitch.’
‘I – I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.’
‘You beat me with a riding crop, that’s what fucking happened.’ He took a step back, as though he was afraid of her. ‘I only asked for Flora. You just flew at me.’
Heather cast her eyes around the garden. Nobody else had seen, thank goodness.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun was at its hottest, and she’d just come back from a ride. She’d been walking across the field towards the barn where the tack room was when she’d seen Dylan skulking against the hedge.
She’d seen red, literally. And now here they were.
‘You’ve actually drawn blood.’ He was still staring at his fingertips in amazement.
She wanted to tell him to get over it, hadn’t he seen blood before?
‘I’m really sorry,’ she repeated, moving towards him.
But he stumbled backwards, terror on his face. ‘Get away from me, you fucking freak. You’re mental.’
‘And you’re no good for my sister. Leave her alone. She’s not interested in a loser like you,’ she snapped.
He smirked. ‘That’s not what she was saying the other night when she was groaning with pleasure underneath me.’
Heather felt the fury pumping through her again. ‘S
he must have been drugged up,’ she fired back, ‘because that’s the only way you can get your kicks.’
His expression darkened and she noticed his fists were clenched at his sides.
‘You’re just a scuzzy sad loser,’ she taunted, on a roll now that she was getting a reaction. ‘And at last my sister’s seen through you.’
‘You’re just jealous,’ he said, turning away. ‘Flora is in love with me.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself. She’s moved on.’
He whipped around so that he was facing her again. ‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you? You control freak. She told me about you, you know. How you were such a cling-on, always tagging along after her. Never letting her have her own life. She hates you.’
It can’t be true. Flora would never say those cruel things about her. Never.
‘Get lost or I’ll tell the police you’re giving my sister drugs,’ she cried.
‘Yes. Go ahead. Call them.’ He lifted up his T-shirt. Four deep whip marks were visible along his tanned back. ‘I’m sure they’ll be interested to hear how you attacked me.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re a nutter.’ Then the smirk was back. ‘Flora knows where to find me. She can’t keep away. You’ll see.’
‘If you come back here my Uncle Leo will shoot you with his gun,’ Heather yelled.
He flicked his middle finger at her, then turned and trudged away. She watched his retreating back, angry at his words, yet mortified that she had lost control. Again.
Flora had seen him arrive. She was up in her bedroom listening to her favourite All About Eve album, sprawled on her window-seat and thinking of Dylan, their magical evening two nights ago. From her room she had a view of the Big Wheel’s flashing lights between the trees. She wanted to go to him, but knew she had to be careful. Uncle Leo had given her a stern talking-to about drugs, and warned her that if he ever found her in that state again he’d tell her mum and call the police about Dylan. She couldn’t risk it.
And then, as if her thoughts had somehow conjured him up, Dylan was there, in the garden, talking to Heather. Her heart swelled. He had come to see her. Oh, he was so beautiful, she couldn’t bear it. She touched the leaded-glass window with her palm, her eyes scanning the length of the garden and the accompanying fields for Uncle Leo. Was he out riding? In the caravan park with her mum? Or somewhere with that annoying girlfriend of his?
A yelp of pain made Flora’s eyes dart back to Dylan and her sister. She sat forwards, in shock, unable to believe her eyes. Heather was whipping Dylan, her face filled with hatred. Thwack, thwack, thwack, over and over again while he cowered like a poor animal in pain. No. What was she doing? She was hurting him. Stop! She banged on the glass but Heather kept up her relentless, torturous rhythm, her eyes glazed and unfocused.
She was going to kill Dylan. She had to stop it.
Flora ran from her room and down the stairs, almost tripping over her long skirt, and raced through the living room and out of the French windows, barefoot. But she was too late. Dylan was gone and Heather was standing alone, riding crop at her feet.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Flora screamed, grabbing Heather’s arms and shaking her violently. ‘I saw you! I saw you from my bedroom window.’
Heather hung her head, a patch of red had appeared on each cheek. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re a little psycho,’ she cried, still gripping Heather. ‘Where has he gone?’
Heather shrugged. And Flora released her, pushing her hard in the chest so that her sister toppled backwards, landing with a thump on her bottom. Then Flora sprinted across the lawn, faster than she’d ever run in her life, her bare feet snagging on stones and thistles but she didn’t care. She had to catch him.
She spotted him in the distance, just as he was entering the fairground. She tried to call his name, but Flora was too out of breath, too unfit, and the word died on her lips. She panted, clutching her side. Come back! She had no choice but to walk through the fair barefoot. She winced as she imagined treading on gum, sweet wrappers and God knew what else. But she was so desperate to kiss him, to soothe away the sores inflicted by her headcase sister that she would have walked over razor blades if she had to.
Dylan paused at the entrance of the fair, squinting into the sun. He reached around and touched the place on his back, near his left shoulder, where Heather had struck him.
Her poor baby. Flora took a few steps forwards, her breath ragged, still clutching her side, trying to press the stitch away. ‘Dylan!’ she called.
‘Dylan!’ a woman’s voice echoed.
Flora’s voice was drowned by another. A woman, running up to her boyfriend, her love, and jumping into his arms, wrapping her long, brown legs around his waist, her copper curls cascading down her back.
Flora bent over, in physical pain, feeling as though she might throw up as the woman leaned forward, kissing her Dylan deeply on the lips.
She had lost him. And it was all Heather’s fault.
35
My brain feels woozy. The images of that day are still all jumbled up so that nothing is clear. I just wish I could remember more. Everything aches, my head, my limbs, and I never feel warm.
Underneath all the fear and the guilt, I know that Dylan is to blame. He was the one who caused a rift between us. He’s the one with the secrets.
Unfortunately he’s not the only one. Uncle Leo. My mind keeps going back to him yet I can’t quite figure out why. I only know that he’s an important piece in the puzzle I’m trying to work out in my chemically fogged brain.
36
Jess
When my alarm goes off the next morning I’m surprised to find myself lying on top of the duvet, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Rory isn’t next to me. I touch his side of the bed, the covers still pristine and wrinkle-free. Did he come home last night? I feel a stab of fear and sit up, blinking in the early-morning light that seeps around the edges of the bedroom curtains, my mouth dry.
Despite my self-enforced rule not to drink during the week I’d been so freaked out by discovering someone had been outside my front door that I opened a bottle of wine and drank the lot. I must have staggered in here and collapsed in a heap on the bed. I’d wanted to blot everything out: the fear, the loneliness, the fact someone’s watching me.
I get up and go into the kitchen, hoping that maybe Rory fell asleep on the sofa. But it’s all just as I left it yesterday.
I check my phone, but nothing from Rory. What if something’s happened to him?
I click the kettle on, then stand in the kitchen and call Rory on my mobile. Eventually I hear a raspy ‘Hello?’
‘Rory. It’s me. Where are you? Are you okay?’
There’s a rustling sound, as though he’s getting out of bed. ‘Yeah. Sorry. Ian said I could stay at his so that I could have a few drinks.’
My stomach lurches. We’ve been together for nearly three years and he’s never stayed out without letting me know. ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ It’s not like Rory to play games.
He sighs. ‘I thought you’d be busy. We never see each other much anyway. You’re always out.’
‘That’s not true,’ I say, hurt. My mobile feels hot against my ear.
‘You’re in Tilby a lot …’ The words ‘with Margot’ are left unsaid but I know he’s thinking them. He clears his throat. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I should have called. I’m angry with you and I’m trying to punish you.’
Typical Rory, telling me how it is. Despite myself I can’t help a small sad smile. I nod, even though he can’t see me.
‘But that’s not going to get us anywhere, is it?’ His voice is tinged with regret.
‘No,’ I say quietly.
‘I’m teaching all week in Hanham. But I’ll be home at six. Okay. Then we can talk. Properly.’ This is more like the Rory I know and love. The Rory who always has to find a solution, who hates going to bed on an argument, who prefers to clear the air. He’s not the
type to mooch about for a week in a mood, refusing to discuss our problems. Unlike me.
‘Okay, that would be good,’ I say, closing my eyes, relief flooding through me. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’ The phone goes dead, but I leave it pressed to my ear for a couple of seconds anyway, listening to nothing.
I met Rory at a party in Hammersmith. I had just turned twenty-nine and was still reeling from the breakdown of my first serious long-term relationship. I hadn’t planned on meeting anyone that night. I had sworn off men.
I’d been sitting on the sticky threadbare carpet, my back against the woodchip wallpaper, nursing a beer and wondering why I’d bothered to come. My friend and colleague Anita, from the Standard – where I was working at the time – was dancing in the middle of the room with a group of people I’d never seen before, jumping up and down to the Strokes with an abandon I wish I’d felt.
‘You look like you need cheering up,’ a voice said, and a guy with floppy dark hair, striking navy-blue eyes and an impish grin sat down next to me. He had on flares and a retro 1970s shirt with a swirly orange print. Even though it was hideous he managed to carry it off. He must have noticed me staring at it because he’d blushed a little and glanced down at his clothes. ‘Yeah. Sorry about the get-up. I’ve just come from a seventies party. It was shite.’
I’d laughed then. ‘This party’s even worse.’
He watched the dancers throwing themselves around the floor and cocked an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling mischievously when ‘Jump Around’ by House of Pain came on. ‘It is. But they look like they’re having fun. Come on.’ He got to his feet and pulled me up, my beer sloshing over my chipped mug. ‘Give me that,’ he said, taking it from me and shoving it on the mantelpiece next to a plant with cigarette butts covering the soil. I was mortified. I wasn’t a dancer and I didn’t even know this man. But he didn’t give me much choice as he started throwing me around and performing outrageous moves, trying to make me laugh. And because he was sexy and handsome, I allowed myself to go along with it, before long even beginning to enjoy it. When the song had finished we flopped into a faded old armchair, breathless.
Then She Vanishes Page 20