Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

  ‘I can’t get over this,’ he mutters, as we walk down the street. ‘It’s like Rose and Fred West all over again.’

  ‘I hope not. They had more than one body buried in their garden.’

  Dylan raises his eyebrows. ‘Maybe now everybody will stop pointing the finger at me,’ he says. He takes a deep puff on his cigarette. ‘The police wouldn’t leave me alone after Flora went missing. Even when my fairground mates vouched for me. The cops made my life a misery. They were everywhere. They questioned everyone who worked there and wouldn’t let us leave. We were supposed to go up to Blackpool but we had to stay on in Tilby until the police had finished with their enquiries.’

  Dylan stops to lean against a wall, one leg bent backwards with his foot resting on the brick. He still manages to look cool. Part of me wishes he’d become fat and ugly in the interim years. For Flora. But no. Here he is looking better than ever. Arsehole. While beautiful, vibrant Flora has been reduced to decaying bones. He might not have killed Flora but it’s still his fault she’s dead. He should have walked her home. She was just sixteen years old.

  Jack is oblivious to me and Dylan standing further up the street – he’s too busy snapping away with his camera. He’s now taken it off the tripod and has it pressed up to his face as he tries to get as close to the forensics tent as possible. Any minute now I’m sure he’ll be shooed away by the police officer. I had better be quick.

  ‘When did you meet Clive?’

  He exhales smoke slowly into the misty air. ‘Oh, years ago. My mum was dating his brother, Speedy.’

  ‘Speedy?’

  ‘That was his nickname. Because he supplied drugs and was always on speed. But his real name was Norman.’

  Norman. Oh, my God. ‘Norman Wilson was dating your mum in 1994?’ Is he still involved with drugs? Were both Clive and Norman dealers? Were they running some kind of drugs racket here in Bristol? But Norman had said he hadn’t seen much of Clive over the years.

  He nods. ‘For a few years. They split up a year or so after Flora went missing.’

  ‘And Clive and his mum, Deirdre? You knew them too?’

  ‘We spent Christmas with them once. There, actually.’ He gestures to the house down the street.

  Jack is now glancing around for me. He waves when he spots me but Dylan doesn’t notice. ‘It was before I met Flora. Must have been Christmas ’ninety-three. They seemed okay. Deirdre was nice. Chatty, fussing around us all, making sure we had enough to eat and drink. She had a couple of cute dogs. Clive was quiet, a bit odd, but nothing out of the ordinary, although it was obvious he was a total mummy’s boy.’

  ‘In what way was he odd?’

  He takes another puff on his cigarette. ‘Not very friendly. Avoided eye contact, that kind of thing. He’d stare at my mum a lot, too, when she wasn’t looking. I noticed him leering at her arse as she helped Deirdre carry the roast spuds through to the dining room.’

  I picture Clive from the photographs that Norman’s daughter Lisa had emailed across. He hadn’t looked particularly sinister. But, then, it’s not as though psychopaths have it tattooed on their foreheads, is it? ‘Did Flora and Clive ever meet?’

  ‘That’s the weird thing,’ he says. ‘I can’t remember them ever meeting. He did come to the fair once, though. That summer. With Speedy. Norman,’ he corrects himself. ‘But I can’t remember if Flora was there that day.’

  ‘And Deirdre?’

  ‘Deirdre never came to the fair. I only met her that one time at Christmas.’

  I try to get it all straight in my mind. ‘So, the day Clive visited you and Norman, how long was it before Flora went missing?’

  He pushes his hair back from his face. ‘I don’t know.’ He sounds irritated. ‘A few days. That same week, I’m sure. But it’s a long time ago. I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘But the day Flora went missing. You didn’t see him?’

  He shakes his head.

  Something doesn’t add up. ‘Why was Norman at the fair? Did he work there?’

  Dylan drops the cigarette butt onto the pavement and grinds it into the tarmac with the heel of his boot. ‘No. Not exactly. He used to supply us with drugs.’ His head shoots up. ‘You’re not reporting any of this, are you?’ He moves away from the wall and stands up straight. ‘We’re just old mates, having a chat.’

  Old mates? I want to laugh in his face.

  ‘Yep, just chatting, don’t worry,’ I lie. I won’t have any qualms in using what he tells me if I need to. I owe him nothing.

  Dylan’s eyes dart towards the house and he grimaces. ‘I haven’t seen Norman in years. I’m sure he’s a reformed man. Or perhaps not. I don’t know.’ His expression changes and he looks sad. ‘Me and Flora, we were kids. I know we wouldn’t have lasted. But I’ve carried the guilt for all these years, wondering if I could have done something. I should have made sure she got home okay … but I left her there.’

  I frown, trying to keep up. ‘Left her where?’

  He chews his lip and has the good grace to look ashamed. He hangs his head. ‘In London. We went there for the day. But while we were there we had a huge row and came back separately. Went to the fair. There’s witnesses to put me there. I’m not lying.’ His blue eyes flash. ‘But I should have seen her home. She disappeared from the bus stop back in Tilby. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes. I read it at the time.’

  ‘A family drove past and saw her walking past the clock tower. It was less than ten minutes from her home.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘She came home safely from London.’

  I stare at him, appalled. Does that make it better? Because she hadn’t disappeared in London after he’d left her there? I should have told someone. I should have told Heather the truth, or just stopped Flora going. If she’d been in Tilby she wouldn’t have been at the bus stop, and she wouldn’t have been walking along the high street, alone at night. She might still be alive and Heather wouldn’t have ruined her life trying to get revenge.

  Dylan groans. ‘And now this.’

  I frown. ‘What?’

  ‘Clive.’ He covers his face with his hands. Is he crying? ‘It’s my fault,’ he says, through his fingers. ‘He must have killed her because of me.’

  38

  August 1994

  Flora shoved a twenty-pound note into a beaded fabric purse. It was all the money she had. She wasn’t allowed to touch her savings. They were sitting in her building-society account waiting until she was old enough to buy her first car, her mum always said. And it wasn’t as if she was running away. No, it was just a day trip. She’d be back by dark. Before anyone worked out that she was gone.

  Her mum was so busy with the caravan park that she wouldn’t notice where she was. Just as long as she returned home at the normal time, all would be well. She would have asked Heather to cover for her, but she still wasn’t talking to her sister. She was furious with her for almost splitting up her and Dylan. Almost. But it hadn’t worked.

  When she’d seen that girl kissing him she’d been incensed. And then, much to her delight, he’d pushed her away. He had his back to her so she couldn’t see his face, but the girl looked dejected, stepping away from him and folding her arms across her chest, her pouty lips turned down. ‘You know I’ve got a girlfriend,’ she’d heard him say, and then he must have sensed Flora watching because he turned, his face falling when he realized she had seen. He must have thought she was about to flounce off in a huff. But, no, she wouldn’t give that hussy the satisfaction. Instead she’d marched right up to Dylan and flung her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. When she opened her eyes the girl had gone.

  They were invincible. Nobody could come between them.

  And now this. London. She was so excited last night she hardly slept.

  They planned to meet by the clock tower at 6.30 a.m. to get the bus into Bristol. From there they had booked a Stagecoach to London. Only ten pounds for a return trip, and Dylan had kindly paid
for her. She was still unsure exactly why Dylan was so desperate to go to London, or what he planned to do when they got there, but she didn’t care. She’d never been to London before. A whole day with the love of her life. She imagined them wandering around Trafalgar Square or Hyde Park, hand in hand. It was going to be so romantic and it would be such a relief to be away from Tilby, the fair and that idiot, Speedy, who seemed to be hanging around more and more often, these days.

  Despite the early hour the sun was already out, and she could hear the cockerel crowing from the farm next door. A shiver of anticipation ran through her. She dressed quickly in her favourite sleeveless ivory blouse, with the lace collar and a blood-red ankle-length skirt with tassels at the hem, slipping on her mood stone necklace that Dylan had bought for her. It was a deep blue. Happy. And then she crept out of her bedroom, her rucksack on her back, and padded down the landing, her black DM boots in her hand. She knew her mum would be up already, mucking out the horses with Sheila. Uncle Leo should still be in bed. He was a late riser and didn’t normally emerge until gone nine.

  She tiptoed past Heather’s room. Her door was half closed and she could just see the edge of the camp bed on the floor where Jess was sleeping. The girl hardly ever seemed to be at home. A floorboard creaked under her foot and she paused, waiting to see if she had woken anybody. She was just about to continue towards the staircase when she heard a movement behind her. She froze, and turned slowly. Jess was standing at the entrance to Heather’s room in a Snoopy nightshirt, her hair standing on end, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered.

  Flora put a finger to her lips and inclined her head towards the stairs in a follow-me gesture. Jess looked confused but she shadowed Flora down the stairs until they were standing in the hallway by the front door. Goldie came bounding up to them and Flora had to shush her as well. ‘Please, don’t make any noise,’ she whispered.

  ‘Are you running away?’ asked Jess, her big brown eyes wide with horror.

  ‘No. But don’t tell anyone, particularly Heather,’ whispered Flora. ‘I’m going on a day trip. Away from Tilby. With Dylan. Will you cover for me? If anyone asks we’re at the fair. We’ll be back before dark. Mum will never know I’ve gone. But, please,’ she urged, ‘don’t tell Heather.’

  Jess shrugged. In her nightclothes with no make-up she looked younger than fourteen. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Okay. Great.’ Flora sat on the bottom step and slipped her feet into her heavy DMs, tying the laces quickly. She jumped up. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She kissed a surprised Jess on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’ She hoisted the bag further up her back, gave Goldie a quick hug, and snuck out of the front door, turning once more to flash Jess a grateful smile.

  From her bedroom window Heather watched Flora move deftly over the gravel driveway, like a cat burglar. And then she eyed Jess’s empty bed. She’d heard every word they’d said and it broke her heart. Don’t tell Heather.

  There was a time when Flora had told her everything. They never kept secrets from each other. And now here she was, sneaking off to spend the day with her boyfriend, asking Heather’s best friend to lie for her. She remembered Dylan’s cruel words from the other day. Always tagging along after her. You’re such a cling-on. She hates you.

  Was it true? She was beginning to think that maybe Dylan had been right.

  If there was one thing she’d never doubted before, it was Flora’s love for her. But since the other evening, when she’d whipped – it still made her cringe to think of it – Dylan, and Flora had pushed her over, her sister had been avoiding her and the chasm between them was widening. She couldn’t allow that to happen. They’d been through too much together.

  She’d shot their father for Flora, for Christ’s sake.

  39

  Margot

  The air is stale inside the compact interview room and Margot has to remind herself to breathe. Her palms are sweating and she pulls the scarf away from her throat. It feels like it’s choking her. Oh, how she hates confined spaces. She’s happiest when she’s in the open, or when she’s riding her horse across the Gallops. It’s only then she feels she can really breathe. She takes a sip of warm water from the plastic cup a sympathetic WPC had given her when she first arrived.

  Adam had offered to come with her to Bridewell, but she’d refused, saying she would rather be alone. But she’s regretting that now. It would have been better to have someone with her. She wishes Heather was at her side or, failing that, Jess’s reassuring, no-nonsense presence.

  She’d been to see Heather that morning to tell her about Flora.

  Heather was making excellent progress. The police still hadn’t formally interviewed her and wouldn’t until the doctors determined that she was well enough. A police officer continued to stand guard outside her door. Sometimes they even came into the room and sat quietly next to the bed. Margot was sure this was in case Heather said something incriminating in her sleep. She hopes she hasn’t.

  Heather had been dozing when Margot arrived that morning. She was on so many drugs and painkillers, plus intravenous antibiotics because the wound to her chest had become infected, and they made her sleepy. But her brain activity was normal, there was no sign of swelling, and the doctors said, once the infection had gone and her wound began to heal, she could be discharged. Discharged where? That was the question that most bothered Margot.

  Margot had sat on the chair next to Heather’s bed and stroked her hair away from her face. ‘Heather,’ she had said, ‘are you awake?’

  Heather’s eyes had fluttered open and she’d smiled. She sat up and asked if Margot had brought Ethan with her.

  ‘Adam’s bringing him later.’

  Heather flopped back against the pillows. ‘I miss him so much. I just want to get out of here.’

  ‘I know, sweetheart.’

  She had turned her face away from her mother and Margot suspected she was crying. ‘This is all just a nightmare.’ She sniffed. ‘That solicitor you employed came to see me yesterday and was asking all sorts of questions. Do you really think I’ll end up having to go to court?’

  Of course you will, Margot had wanted to say. As soon as the police are able to interview you, you’ll be charged. I have no doubt. But she can’t tell Heather the truth. Not now.

  ‘Listen, love. The police called. There’s been some news.’

  Heather had turned her tearstained face back to Margot. ‘What news?’ Her eyes were hopeful and Margot’s heart sank. Not good news, she wanted to say.

  ‘The man who – who the police think you shot, Clive Wilson, well, a body has been found in the basement of his house. A body that’s been there a long time. They think …’ She’d gulped. It never got easier to say it. ‘They think it’s Flora.’

  Heather’s mouth hung open and her eyes grew large and round. ‘What? No. No, that can’t be right.’

  ‘The police will have a motive now. They’ll think you found out somehow and killed him. And his mother.’

  Heather shook her head. ‘But, no, that’s … That can’t be. It’s not Flora.’

  ‘There’s a strong likelihood it is,’ said Margot, gently. Why else did you kill Clive and Deirdre Wilson? she had added silently. She took Heather’s hand. ‘Listen, the solicitor I instructed – Louisa Milligan – said there’s enough evidence to suggest you could be charged with manslaughter on account of diminished responsibility or …’

  Heather squeezed Margot’s hand so tightly that it hurt. ‘Ow,’ she said, snatching it back. There were three half-moon indents where Heather had dug her nails into the flesh.

  ‘I’m sorry but, Mum, you’re not listening to me. I didn’t kill Clive. I’ve never met him. Yes, Adam spoke to him about getting us a puppy. But – and I know I can’t remember that morning, what I’m supposed to have done – but why would I kill him? Surely if I found out he’d killed Flora I’d remember something as huge
as that … wouldn’t I?’ She tailed off, confusion written all over her face.

  ‘You know what the doctors said. A traumatic incident can sometimes cause temporary amnesia. The brain is protecting you from remembering something so horrific. It could have blocked out the fact that you knew Clive killed Flora.’

  ‘No. It’s not Flora. It’s not! It’s not!’ Heather began to thrash her arms about and Margot was worried she’d pull out her drip.

  She stood up and restrained her daughter by placing her hands firmly on Heather’s upper arms. ‘Honey. Stop. Please. Otherwise I’ll have to call the nurses.’ It was like speaking to a child, not a grown woman.

  Heather stopped writhing, but her face remained deathly pale. Margot continued, ‘I’m going to the police station this afternoon to talk to them. To – to make an identification.’ If you can call it that, she thought, after so many years. ‘And to give my DNA. I’ll know more after I’ve been.’

  Now that’s where she is. Stuck in a claustrophobic room in a police station having provided her DNA.

  The door opens and Gary Ruthgow enters, his bulk taking up most of the doorway. Behind him a slight young woman trots in, holding a file to her chest. His face softens when he spots her sitting stiffly on the uncomfortable plastic chair with her handbag on her lap. ‘Hello, Margot.’

  She dips her head but doesn’t smile. ‘Gary.’ Her heart beats faster and she has to take another sip of water because her tongue is sticking to the roof of her mouth. This is it? The moment she finds out for certain whether or not that body is her daughter’s.

  His eyes go to the empty chair beside her. ‘You didn’t bring someone with you?’

  She shakes her head. Just get on with it.

  Ruthgow and the DC, who introduces herself as Clotilde Spencer, take the seats opposite. Ruthgow clears his throat and looks across the table at her, his expression serious. She notices he’s wearing a soft pink tie flecked with white. ‘Now, obviously it won’t be possible for you to identify Flora, due to the, uh, decomposition of the body.’ She winces at the word. She’s trying not to think about her beautiful Flora being reduced to bones. ‘That’s why we’ve taken the DNA sample from you. But we wanted to know if there was anything else that might help us identify the remains that we’ve found.’