Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

  And that was when we started talking, and when we found we couldn’t stop. I could have listened to him for ever, the soft Irish lilt in his voice, the way he talked about his brothers and sisters and parents. He told me he was a teacher and that he loved kids. And, as I sat practically on his lap, enraptured by this funny, gorgeous, off-the-wall man in the hideous 1970s shirt, I realized I needed to see him again. His optimism and love for his family were infectious. Even then, I was desperate to be part of it, and it wasn’t long before I was. His family welcomed me with open arms and the same wry sense of humour as Rory. I loved them almost as much as I loved him.

  As time passed, I fell deeper in love with him, this man who was so straight. So good. All my other partners had played games, had agendas, but not Rory. He was honest about his feelings right from the beginning, and he listened to how I felt. He’d never pressured me into anything. We talked about the future, of course, in the abstract way you do when you don’t really believe you’ll become thirty, then thirty-one in the blink of an eye, and have to make grown-up decisions, like whether to get married and have children.

  But now, for the first time since we’ve been together, I feel the pressure.

  If I don’t commit to Rory he’ll leave me, find someone else to marry and have his babies.

  I walk to work, despondent but fearless. In the cold light of day I have more courage: I’m ready to tackle anyone who might pose a threat. Back off. Nobody tells me what to do, I think, as my feet pound the pavement. Someone is playing mind games with me and I’m not having it. I refuse to be intimidated. I’m a strong, independent woman. I don’t need this kind of shit in my life.

  It starts to rain and I put my umbrella up, the damp seeping through my sheer purple spotty tights. I’m walking by the river when my mobile buzzes in my coat pocket. I stop to answer it, expecting it to be Ted, asking me to take a detour to interview someone on my way in. I’m surprised when I find it’s Margot. She must want to talk to me about what went down with Adam last night.

  Her voice sounds strained, like she’s been crying. ‘Sorry to bother you, Jess. I just … I needed to talk to someone. It’s too early to visit Heather yet.’

  ‘Are you okay? How did it go with Adam last night? Did you tell him about the note?’

  ‘Yes. That’s all fine. He was buying a puppy from Clive. It’s not that, Jess. It’s … The police called. This is off the record until you hear from them yourself but …’ she gulps ‘… they think they’ve found Flora’s body.’

  I gasp and lean over the railings, the river rushing past me. I need a cigarette so badly that my hand trembles in anticipation. ‘What?’ I manage. ‘Where?’

  ‘They wouldn’t say too much. I need to go to the police station. I need to …’ Her voice is shaky.

  ‘When? Would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘They’ve told me to go later. This afternoon. No, it’s okay, Jess. Thank you, though. I’ll … I’ll be in touch. I’ve got to dash now.’

  I open my mouth to respond but the phone goes dead.

  I drop it into my coat pocket and stand there for a few seconds, gazing out across the river. A seagull swoops down next to me and starts picking apart the remains of a sausage roll near my feet.

  I can’t believe Flora’s body’s been found. After all these years.

  Balancing the umbrella in the crook of my arm, I fumble in my bag for my cigarettes and light one, using my hand to shield the flame from the wind. I close my eyes as I take a few drags, instantly feeling calmer.

  I always believed Flora was dead. Especially when her bloodstained blouse turned up in the undergrowth nearby. But her body having been found after all these years still comes as a shock.

  I’d never told the police or Heather about the part I played in Flora’s disappearance.

  I’d been a teenager, young and silly and terrified. I thought, if I told the truth, I’d get into trouble. So I kept quiet. And, obviously, at the time I didn’t realize that the event I’d previously perceived as so small and unimportant would become so significant, until it was clear that Flora wasn’t coming home.

  So I did to Heather exactly what I’m doing to Rory now. I pushed her away.

  My cheeks feel wet. I’m crying. I hardly ever cry. I hate it. It makes me feel weak and vulnerable. I’ve always felt it serves no purpose. In my view, it’s better to try to get on with things. I brush away the tears angrily. Get a grip, woman, I tell myself. This isn’t about you. It’s about Flora. Beautiful, exotic Flora.

  Would I have been able to save her if I’d known?

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ she’d whispered to me, her long hair brushing my face as her mouth pressed against my ear. She’d smelt of White Musk from the Body Shop and fruity lip gloss. I think she knew I looked up to her, and that I’d do anything she asked. ‘Particularly Heather,’ she’d added. Particularly Heather.

  I’d agreed, of course. She’d had a rucksack on her shoulders, one of those school ones in yellow hessian that you could write on. She’d drawn a heart with the initials DB 4 FP inside it with flouncy letters. They were going on a day trip, she’d said. Her and Dylan. She’d be back before dark, as always. ‘But cover for me,’ she’d said. ‘I don’t want anyone to know that we won’t be in Tilby. If anyone asks, I’m at the fair. Okay? Promise?’

  I’d promised.

  I never knew what she did that day. Because I never saw her again.

  But she’d been spotted at nine o’clock that evening walking along the high street. The driver who saw her said she was alone. And then nothing. No other sightings of her. It was as if she’d walked into a black hole or an alternative universe. She simply … vanished.

  And I kept my promise. I never did tell. At first it was because I thought she’d come back and I didn’t want to get her into trouble. I wanted her to think she could confide in me. Trust me. And then, when it was obvious something had happened, I thought maybe she’d run away with Dylan. Guilt and fear kept me away from Heather and, understandably confused and annoyed that I wasn’t supportive of her, Heather became aggressive and surly with me – until eventually I stopped calling for her altogether. I abandoned her when she most needed my friendship. And I’ve lived with the guilt of that for the last eighteen years. Not that I thought about it. That’s what I do best: bury my head in the sand. If I don’t think about it, I can pretend it hasn’t happened.

  Except – as I’m beginning to realize – these things have a way of coming back to haunt you. To make you sit up and pay attention, like a devout preacher, or a strict, determined teacher, so that you can no longer just put your hands over your ears to block out the sound.

  I flick my cigarette butt onto the ground and stamp on it.

  It’s stopped raining so I take down my umbrella and trudge the rest of the way to the office, stopping at Woodes on Park Street to buy two coffees, handing one to Stan, who’s cuddled up in his sleeping-bag outside the door.

  ‘Sounds like it’s all kicking off in there today,’ he says, inclining his head towards the building. ‘Your boss has been out here asking me if I’ve seen you. He’s tried calling you apparently.’ He warms his hands on the cardboard cup. He has on threadbare fingerless gloves and his nails are yellow. Sometimes he finds a bed in a shelter, but more often than not he sleeps outside, on a bench in College Green or in a doorway. I’ve always wanted to ask him how he ended up here. What happened? Was he a teenage runaway, hiding from an abusive family? Drugs or alcohol? He can’t be that much older than me.

  I check my watch. I’m not late. If anything, I’m fifteen minutes early. Has Ted heard about Flora’s body being found?

  ‘I’d better go,’ I say, moving away from him to open the door.

  He grimaces, as though I’m about to walk into a lion enclosure at a safari park. ‘Rather you than me. This is why I don’t have a job.’ He chuckles.

  When I get upstairs Sue isn’t in, but Ted is pacing the floor and Ellie is sitting staring up at
him, all wide cow eyes, hugging her knees, and Jack is standing over his desk, fiddling with his camera. Nobody has thought to turn on the overhead light and the effect is dark and murky.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I say, putting my coffee on my desk and shrugging off my coat. I hang it on the back of my chair and throw the umbrella onto the floor. The sky outside darkens and thunder growls.

  ‘There you are!’ Ted whips around to stare at me. He’s got that look in his eye again: excitement and fire. I glance across at Jack who rolls his eyes. ‘Our boy Jack here has given us a great tip-off from his copper boyfriend.’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘Although, obviously, we can’t reveal the source if anybody asks.’

  I pause, surprised. Finn said he never gives tip-offs – and I know Jack has asked many times.

  ‘A body has been found.’

  Nothing new, I want to say, but I don’t. Margot asked me not to tell anyone and I’ll respect her wishes and do the right thing, for once.

  I pretend to look shocked.

  ‘The police think it’s Flora Powell,’ he says. ‘You know, the sister of Heather Underwood.’

  ‘Yes. I know who Flora is.’

  ‘But that’s not all,’ he says. He can hardly contain himself. He’s like a comedian on a stage who can’t wait to deliver the punchline. ‘The body has been found in a house in Southville, Bristol.’

  I frown. Southville? My stomach twists. Please no …

  ‘In a Victorian house in Ridings Road, apparently owned by Clive Wilson.’

  I feel sick. ‘What?’

  His eyes are shining. ‘That’s right. At last there’s a motive. It seems like Clive Wilson killed Heather’s sister. She must have found out somehow, and shot him in revenge.’

  My head is spinning. It would make more sense than the idea that Heather had shot the Wilsons in some indiscriminate attack. Heather was always ultra-protective of her sister.

  ‘Can you and Jack go to the address now? See what you can find out?’ It’s not really a question and Ted has already turned away to talk to Ellie before I can answer.

  Jack pulls his camera case onto his shoulder. Without speaking, we leave the office, almost bumping into Sue as she’s coming through the front door. She knocks me with her elbow and my coffee spurts over the top of the plastic rim. She’s wearing new glasses that take up almost half of her face.

  ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ She laughs, pushing her glasses further up her nose while I lick the coffee from the lid.

  ‘A body’s been found,’ says Jack. ‘It’s all go here today, Sue.’ He glances at me, about to make a quip, no doubt, but I shoot him a look that says, Don’t make jokes. Not about this. And he closes his mouth.

  ‘What a story this is turning out to be,’ says Jack, as he strides down Park Street. He turns his collar up against the rain and I try to hold my umbrella over his head, but he’s way too tall and one of the spokes keeps jabbing him in the ear. ‘Here, let me have that,’ he says, taking it from me. I link my arm through his while he holds it over both of us. ‘This must be weird for you,’ he says.

  I sip my coffee. ‘It is. When I first heard, I thought there must be some mistake, that Heather couldn’t possibly have shot those two people. But now … if Clive had killed Flora and she’d somehow found out, well, it makes more sense. It’s still extreme, don’t get me wrong, but more understandable somehow.’

  He’s quiet for a few moments. Then, frowning, he says, ‘What doesn’t make sense, though, is why she’d kill his mother. Why did she kill Deirdre Wilson as well?’

  37

  Jess

  As soon as we arrive at the terraced road in Southville, with its row of almost identical Victorian houses, we spot Clive’s instantly. It stands out like a flamboyant wedding cake in a line of chocolate sponges. It’s been cordoned off with police tape, and a white forensics tent has been erected in the front garden, obscuring the entrance to the basement. A police officer is standing on the front steps, a notebook in his hand, assessing the small crowd of onlookers that has gathered on the rain-slick pavement, shivering in their coats. As yet I can’t see any other journalists or TV stations.

  The house is a far cry from the well-kept Tilby cottage. Paint flakes around the window frames, the net curtains look grubby and the roof is missing a few tiles. I can see that the front garden is overgrown: no cute gnomes or umbrella stands here.

  My recently digested latte curdles in my stomach as it hits me, again, that this is where Flora’s decomposing body was discovered. I glance at the tent. Is that the actual spot where they found her? Or are they using it to block out the view into the basement?

  It’s stopped raining now, but there is dampness in the air and the sky is thick with grey clouds.

  Jack sets down his tripod, a hand to the small of his back as he bends over. We’d parked in the next street even though it would take only fifteen minutes to walk from my place. The way Jack’s acting you’d think we had to trek miles with his camera equipment on his shoulders, like a mule.

  He winces as he stands up. The bruise around his eye has turned a yellowy purple, and it’s in stark contrast to his pale face. ‘I must have pulled a muscle.’ He grimaces.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Seriously? We’ve just walked around the corner.’

  He turns away from me to set up his tripod on the pavement opposite Clive’s house and, for one brief, disbelieving moment, I wonder if I’ve offended him. Jack and I always take the piss out of each other. That’s our thing. It’s always done with affection. It’s because we’re close and have the same sense of humour. He’d normally retaliate with a killer comeback: he’d make a quip about my clothes, hair or accent. But he’s silent as he carefully places the camera on top of the tripod.

  I touch his shoulder softly. ‘Hey. I didn’t mean it. Are you okay?’

  ‘Sure. Of course.’ But he doesn’t look at me as he says it.

  I’m about to say more when I’m distracted by someone standing at the edge of the gathered crowd. It might have been nearly twenty years since I last saw him, but I can tell it’s him by the way he stands, the arc of his neck, the floppy, curly hair that looks like it should belong on a Labradoodle. He’s wearing jeans and a tan leather biker jacket, with a stripy scarf thrown stylishly around his throat. Even from here I can tell he’s handsome. He reminds me a little of a taller, duskier Rory. I move slowly away from Jack and cross the narrow street so that I’m standing beside the man.

  I clear my throat and he turns his head in my direction. He must be nearly forty now. He has lines fanning from his eyes and bracketing his mouth, but he hasn’t changed much. There is no grey amid the thatch of dark curls. His eyes are still a startling blue. He doesn’t recognize me, I can tell. I bet he hardly noticed me back then. I was just a friend of Flora’s sister. A kid. Practically invisible to the likes of Dylan Bird.

  I decide to use my anonymity to my advantage. ‘What do you think’s going on here, then?’ I ask, flashing him my most charming smile.

  He thrusts his hands into his pockets. ‘I heard a body’s been found. They think it’s been there years.’ He talks out of the side of his mouth. I’d forgotten he used to do that.

  I wonder how he would have heard. Maybe a friend lives in this street.

  ‘Did you know the man who lived there?’

  He frowns, the lines between his eyebrows transforming into deep furrows, giving him a wolf-like appearance. ‘I met him once or twice. A long time ago.’

  He met him once or twice. How? How did Dylan know Clive?

  ‘Do you live around here, then?’

  He shakes that mop of curls. ‘About five minutes away. I was just passing on my way to work.’ He looks at his watch theatrically. ‘Which reminds me, I’d better get going.’ He steps away from me but I grab his arm.

  ‘Wait!’ I cry. ‘Dylan. It’s me. Jessica Fox. I was Heather Powell’s best friend. I met you when you were going out with her sister, Flora.’

  H
is eyes narrow as he surveys me. ‘Oh, yeah. I remember you. And Heather. She attacked me once.’

  ‘I know. I read about it in the newspapers.’ Heather had played down the incident at the time. She must have been embarrassed. I would have been, too. It was so out of character for her to be violent. Or was it? Now I know she shot her father, when she was only ten, I’m not so sure. The more I find out about Heather the less convinced I am of her innocence. I’m reminded of the differences that always lay between us, which I’d refused to see. Like how, out of the two of us, I always thought I was the stronger, harder, more independent one because Heather seemed quieter, softer than me. Yet the incident with the riding crop, the possessive way she acted around Flora, her justification to me of her uncle Leo when he’d killed a sheep that had wandered onto their land, all point to someone who was much steelier than I’d given her credit for.

  And now this. A motive. It’s a difficult thing to come to terms with, but I have to accept that Heather shot dead Clive and Deirdre.

  I’ve been conflicted over this for so long. But now I’m almost relieved.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asks Dylan.

  I realize I’m still holding his arm, and I remove my hand, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’m a journalist now. I’ve been covering the story about Heather.’

  I didn’t know he was living so locally. Could he have been following me? Had he planted those photographs behind my windscreen wiper and posted that bus ticket through my door? But why? What would have been his motive for following me and telling me to back off?

  I still haven’t told Jack about the photographs.

  Dylan swears under his breath. ‘I need a fag.’

  I open my bag and retrieve my packet of Marlboro Gold. ‘Here,’ I say, offering it. He takes one without saying thank you, and waits for me to light it for him. When I’ve done so, we both move away from the crowd.