Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Any abnormalities, fractures, that kind of thing. Like, for example, had she ever broken her collarbone?’

  ‘No. She broke her ankle years ago when she was about six. Her left one. I don’t think it was ever set properly. It used to play up now and again. And it was weaker.’

  DC Spencer sits up straighter. ‘Broken left ankle, you say?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She turns to Ruthgow and raises an eyebrow.

  Ruthgow leans forward, his elbows on the table. ‘The body that has been found died somewhere between 1993 and 1996 and is believed to be a young female, aged between fifteen and seventeen. Unfortunately, due to the amount of time that has passed, we’re unable to determine the cause of death at this point, although we have forensic pathologists working on it as we speak. But there is one thing we’re certain about. There has only been one past breakage.’

  Here it comes, thinks Margot, bracing herself. She won’t cry. She clenches her fists in her lap, pressing the fingertips into the soft flesh of her palms. She’ll wait until she’s alone in the car to shed any tears. ‘The left ankle?’

  Ruthgow smiles. ‘No. Right collarbone. There is no indication that either ankle has ever been broken. We won’t know for definite, of course, until we run the DNA sample you gave us, but …’ he sits back in his chair and Margot’s amazed that he looks relieved ‘… I don’t think the body is Flora’s.’

  Margot waits until she’s safely ensconced inside her Range Rover before letting the tears flow. She’s not even sure what she’s crying about, exactly: that the body doesn’t look as if it’s Flora’s, or that it’s somebody else’s daughter and that another family, another mother, has had to live the same limbo life as she has for the past eighteen years. Part of her wanted it to be Flora so that she could finally – not move on, she’ll never be able to move on – have some kind of closure and lay her to rest. Yet the other part, the bigger part, is relieved because it means there is the smallest hope that maybe Flora didn’t die all those years ago, that she’s alive somewhere. Happy. It’s a fantasy she sometimes allows herself, but not too often. Hope is a powerful thing that, as yet, has led only to disappointment.

  She reaches in her bag for a tissue and wipes away the tears. This won’t do. She has to be strong. She promised Heather she’d go back to the hospital and tell her the news. And even though it won’t be officially confirmed until the DNA results are through, this is what Heather will want to hear.

  Because it means Heather had no motive to shoot Clive Wilson.

  Her mobile rings and she answers it when she sees Leo’s name flash on the screen. She’d texted him earlier to tell him about the remains.

  ‘They don’t think it’s her,’ she says, her body sagging against the seat. She repeats what Gary Ruthgow had told her about having a DNA test just to be sure.

  ‘That’s great news if it’s not her,’ says Leo.

  ‘It is. And it isn’t.’

  ‘But if it’s not her body, it means there’s no motive for Heather,’ he says.

  ‘I know.’ She leans her head against the steering wheel and closes her eyes. ‘Are you still coming to visit today?’

  There’s an awkward silence. ‘I, um, listen, sis, I’d love to come back to support you. I feel dreadful I’m not there for you – and Heather, but it’s just … it brings it all back, you know.’

  She does know. After it transpired Dylan had an alibi it was Leo who was hounded most by the police. She knows that a large number of people still believe he had something to do with Flora’s disappearance even though he, too, had an alibi.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, into the silence, and she can hear the emotion in his voice. He hasn’t been back to Tilby in fifteen years. When they meet up she and Heather always travel to Bristol to see him. Not once has she doubted him. She knows he’d never be capable of hurting his niece, yet that doesn’t stop the gossip and speculation. It was his liking for younger women that did it, she knows that. She’d heard the rumours at the time that he slept around with much younger women, but she never felt he was inappropriate with her own girls. He was their uncle. She knew he didn’t view them in that way, even if Sheila had once made a throwaway comment that Margot should watch him around her daughters. She insisted she’d been joking, but Margot hadn’t found it remotely funny.

  ‘That’s okay. I’ll keep you up to date with any news.’

  Margot ends the call, then throws her mobile onto the passenger seat, blowing her nose loudly and peering at herself in the mirror, wiping the stray mascara away from her bottom eyelids. She doesn’t want Heather to see she’s been crying.

  Heather. Something is niggling at Margot. The way her daughter had reacted when she’d told her they thought Flora had been found. She’d been so sure the body hadn’t been that of her sister. Why?

  Unless – and the thought is so awful that Margot can barely bring herself to think it – unless Heather knows exactly what happened to Flora. An image of Keith’s crumpled body comes to mind, the gun slipping from Heather’s trembling hand to the ground.

  Heather had killed her father. Could she have killed her sister too?

  40

  August 1994

  Heather watched as Flora scuttled across the fields and out of sight. She wondered if Dylan was waiting in the lane. She imagined so. The two young lovers running off to London for the day. She turned away from the window in disgust.

  Doesn’t Flora understand how much she’s done for her?

  That day, four years ago, had been like any other on their farm in Maidstone: another day of their father’s aggressive moods, put-downs and bullying. Their mother overcompensated for their father’s lack of love and, as a result, the three of them were close. Their father was the outsider. He bullied Flora most, maybe because she was the eldest, or because she backchatted him more than Heather did. Whatever the reason, it was normal for him to shout abuse at them, particularly when their mother wasn’t in earshot. Flora would sneak into Heather’s room at night when they heard their parents arguing downstairs, and they would huddle together under the blankets until they heard the reassuring slam of the front door, which indicated their father had gone out. He never hit Margot. They were sure of that. But he was a hard man, devoid of humour, as though he’d just woken up one day and all the joy had seeped out of him. Their mum admitted it was like he’d had a personality transplant. He wasn’t her Keith any more.

  But none of them knew what to do about it.

  Thankfully, he’d never hit his daughters either, or shown any kind of physical violence.

  Until that spring day in 1990.

  It was their favourite season on the farm, because of the lambs. They liked to cuddle them, and occasionally feed them with a bottle. Years before, their father had joined in, showing them how to cradle a lamb’s warm little body in the crook of their arm, like a baby. That was until his fun-loving humour was replaced by a prickly, grumpy, anxious state and he snapped at them all the time.

  Stress, their mother called it. Obnoxious-bastard syndrome was what Flora called it.

  On that particular day their father had got out his shotgun because a cow had become entangled in barbed wire and had to be put down. ‘I need to put it out of its misery,’ he’d said, carrying the gun as though he was John Wayne.

  Flora had glanced at Heather and grimaced. But half an hour later, as they were leaving the barn where the lambs were kept, they saw that their father had left his gun out, leaning against the barn gate.

  Their parents were so strict about gun safety. They’d taught them how to use one, of course, but in very controlled conditions, with experts. And they were not allowed to touch a gun without adult supervision.

  That didn’t stop Flora, who almost jumped on it with glee. ‘Look, it’s Dad’s gun.’

  ‘He’ll go mental. Put it back,’ said Heather, her heart racing at the thought of their father’s wrath. But Flora flung it to
her shoulder and made pow-pow noises while pointing it towards the empty field.

  ‘Don’t!’ Heather cried. ‘It’s dangerous. I don’t think the safety catch is on.’

  ‘Oh, chill out,’ said Flora. ‘It won’t have any cartridges in it. Dad will have used those to kill the cow. You know he only ever loads it with one or two.’

  But, still, Heather felt uneasy about it. Gun safety had been drilled into her so many times.

  Flora laughed. ‘We can be cops!’

  ‘You know we’re not allowed to play with them. And, anyway, I don’t think cops use shotguns. Put it down, please, you’re making me nervous.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine …’ The words died on her lips. Their father was striding towards them. Heather began to tremble. Now they were in trouble.

  When he saw that Flora was holding his gun his face turned purple. ‘What the fuck are you doing? Put the goddamn gun down now!’

  Flora lowered it to the ground, as though she was holding an unexploded bomb. She laid it at her and Heather’s feet and held up her hands in surrender. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she began, her face crumpling.

  It happened within a blink of an eye. Keith was suddenly looming over them, grabbing Flora by her puny little upper arms and shaking her so violently Heather thought she could hear her sister’s teeth rattling. ‘You never play with guns, you stupid, stupid girl,’ he yelled. And then he slapped her hard around the face.

  It was as though time stood still. Even the trees seemed to freeze, mid-sway. Silence descended all around them, as if everything had taken a collective breath, and Flora touched her stinging cheek, tears of shock in her eyes.

  Before Heather could process what she was about to do, she leaned over and grabbed the gun. She stepped away from her father but with the barrel aimed at his chest. She was consumed by a sudden, blinding rage.

  He looked as though he was about to burst with anger. His big, round head reminded Heather of the blueberries from the Ribena adverts. ‘Give that back to me, you little shit,’ he spluttered.

  ‘You leave Flora alone,’ cried Heather, taking another step backwards.

  He looked confused for a second. ‘I’m not touching Flora. Now give me back the gun or you’ll get a good hiding from me. You and your sister.’

  And that was when she pulled the trigger.

  She’d been so consumed with anger and fear that her mind was blank as the gun fired in her hands, her arm shuddering under the weight of it.

  It was surreal, like watching a movie. Heather felt as if she had floated away from her body and was looking down at them all, watching as her father flew backwards, his eyes wide with surprise, the blood spreading across the front of his shirt. And then their mother’s cries and Flora’s screams, and Heather had dropped the gun to cover her ears because it was all too much. Too much.

  And now Flora was scheming behind her back with Jess. Keeping secrets. Pushing her away. After everything.

  The floorboard outside her room creaked and Heather jumped into bed, pretending to be asleep, before Jess realized she knew everything.

  She couldn’t lose Flora. Not now, not after all they’d been through. She needed to speak to her as soon as possible. She’d heard Flora telling Jess she’d be getting the bus home before dark, which meant she’d be arriving at the bus stop just outside the clock tower at no later than 9 p.m.

  And Heather would be waiting.

  41

  I can’t stop thinking about your last moments. They haunt my dreams. And the blood. So much blood, blooming like ink across your blouse, gathering in the ruts of concrete under your head. The shock in your eyes that someone you love – someone who loves you – could hurt you. I held you in my arms, after. Did you know that? I held you and I rocked you, and I cried because I’d been unable to protect you.

  That’s all I have ever tried to do.

  42

  Jess

  BRISTOL AND SOMERSET HERALD

  Friday, 23 March 2012

  POLICE MYSTIFIED BY BODY IN BASEMENT

  by Jessica Fox

  A body found in the basement of a Tilby couple who were shot dead two weeks ago is not that of missing teen Flora Powell, police have revealed.

  Clive Wilson and his mother Deirdre were killed in Deirdre’s home in Shackleton Road on Friday, 9 March. While searching Clive Wilson’s Victorian property in Southville, Bristol, police discovered the body of a young girl, thought to be aged between fifteen and seventeen, buried in the basement. An excavation had to be carried out after a crumbling internal wall in the basement collapsed during the routine search, revealing the bones. The body is thought to have been at the house since the mid-1990s.

  Heather Underwood, who is recovering in hospital from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, is currently under police arrest for killing Deirdre and Clive Wilson, although no charge has yet been made.

  Her sister, Flora Powell, went missing from Tilby in 1994 at the age of sixteen.

  DCI Gary Ruthgow of Avon and Somerset CID said: ‘A DNA test has confirmed that the body does not belong to Flora Powell. At this stage we are ruling nothing out and investigations into the identity of the body are still under way.’

  Ted chews gum in my ear as he reads over my shoulder. Apart from us, and Sue on Reception, the news room is empty. I can see Seth in the side room going through what look like old slides. Ellie is out doing vox pops with Jack. I haven’t seen much of him recently. Not properly. Not like we used to. We used to go for lunch or for a drink after work at least once a week for a proper gossip. That hasn’t happened since the night he got mugged. He’s been working hard and I wonder if he’s looking for a promotion or another job.

  After Ted’s finished reading, he stands back, with a ‘Humph’, his arms folded. I can tell straight away that he’s disappointed. ‘This is nothing that the Daily News won’t have,’ he says, half sitting, half leaning against the empty desk next to mine. He looks tired this morning, I observe. He’s not shaved and his eyes sag more than usual. He’s wearing faded jeans that are thinning at the knee and Puma trainers. ‘It’s only Wednesday. This won’t be printed until Friday. By then it will be old news. We need something more, Jess.’

  Inwardly I groan. Always something more. I’ve done as much as I can. I’m the only reporter nationally who has an exclusive with Margot. The red tops have borrowed quotes from my piece, of course, but they’ve had to attribute it to me and to the Herald. It’s strange to see my name in the national press again. But how are we supposed to compete with a daily newspaper when we come out only twice a week and nobody reads our website? I’ve tried to point out to Ted that we need to move with the times and refurbish our online presence, but he keeps muttering that Jared, the editor at HQ, dismissed the idea, citing ‘budget cuts’.

  I flick through my notebook looking for the more that Ted wants. ‘Well, I’m working on the story I got from the landlord of the Funky Raven.’

  He runs his hand across his bristly chin and raises one of his shaggy eyebrows. ‘Remind me?’

  ‘That Clive was dealing drugs to students in his pub. And I bumped into the guy Flora was going out with when she disappeared. Dylan Bird. He told me he thought Clive had killed Flora because Dylan owed him and his brother Norman money for drugs.’ I remember Dylan’s pinched white face, his mumblings of ‘he killed her because of me’.

  Ted sighs heavily and my heart sinks, anticipating what he’s going to say. ‘But Clive didn’t kill Flora, did he? At least, there’s no evidence of that now. The body isn’t hers!’

  ‘But if he killed this other young girl he might have killed Flora too,’ I say. ‘Dylan said he’d been at the fair around the same time as Flora. He might have met her.’

  Ted grunts. ‘“Might have” isn’t good enough.’ He slaps the edge of one hand into the palm of the other. ‘We need cold, hard facts. And the fucking Daily News seems to be getting everything before we do.’ A tense silence falls between us. Ted’s blue eyes are cold as he st
ares off into the middle distance, still chewing.

  ‘You know, Jess,’ he says, still not looking at me, ‘HQ are looking for any excuse to shut this place down. They want us all under one roof. I’d hate that, and so would Seth. We’re too old and jaded to make that move.’

  I’d hate it too. I love the freedom we have here.

  ‘We’re the ones who are coming up with the good stories on this,’ I say, my cheeks hot. ‘Not them.’

  ‘Only because you know the family. It keeps Jared off our backs.’

  Jared is ten years younger than Ted, suave with his slicked-back hair, expensive suits and soft-top sports car. Ted is the antithesis to Jared. Ted is what I call old-school. Ex-Fleet Street. There’s nothing suave or slimy about Ted.

  I have one ace up my sleeve, although I’m not sure how ethical it would be to use it.

  But I need to prove to Ted that he wasn’t wrong to employ me. He hired me because of my track record.

  I take a deep breath and it all comes out in a rush. ‘Margot said I can go with her this afternoon to see Heather.’ I feel as if I’ve thrown a hand grenade into the room and am waiting to see if it explodes.

  His eyes flick back to mine and he looks more alert than I’ve seen him all week.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be allowed to interview her,’ I add hastily. ‘But proceedings aren’t active yet because they still haven’t charged her due to her health.’

  ‘She’s getting better, though. It’s only a matter of time.’