Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

  I place the cup under my nose. I can tell by the delicious aroma that it’s coffee and I’m thankful she hasn’t brought me some weak herbal crap. I need caffeine and I’m suddenly desperate for a cigarette.

  I offer Margot my seat but she waves me away. ‘Oh, no, that’s fine. I need to make a call so I’ll go into the day room. I’ll leave you two to catch up.’

  I watch her through the glass panel in the door as she stops to chat to the policeman on duty, although I can’t hear what they’re saying.

  Now is my chance. I sit down and pretend to notice Heather’s ring for the first time. She’s holding her cup with her left hand; the right rests in her lap. ‘Oh, wow, I remember your family ring,’ I say, lifting up her right hand and pretending to admire it. ‘You used to always wear that when we were kids. Flora had one, too, didn’t she?’

  I sound so fake, but I’m hoping Heather won’t notice.

  She stretches her fingers. ‘Yes. Matching ones. We never took them off.’

  ‘Was Flora wearing hers the day she disappeared?’

  Heather takes her hand away and uses it to cup her tea. She gives me a long look, her green cat’s eyes narrowed, and I hold my breath. Does she know what I suspect?

  Eventually she says, ‘I thought so. But I found it afterwards. In her room.’ She holds up her right hand and wriggles her little finger. ‘I wear it now.’

  I think back to the morning when I last saw Flora. I can’t remember if she was actually wearing it or not, despite what Margot said to the police. Maybe Heather’s not the psychopath I thought she was. And Margot would have noticed the extra ring, wouldn’t she? If it meant something. Heather must be telling the truth.

  I try another tack. ‘It’s all so sad,’ I begin, ‘what happened to Flora and now you, in this awful situation.’ I reach for her hand again. ‘You know, if you did ever want to tell your side of the story, in your own words …’

  She snatches her hand away. ‘I thought you were here as my friend.’

  ‘I am. But I can’t lie to you, Heather. You’re all over the news already. Everybody speculating, putting words in your mouth. People need to understand that you’re human. Not some …’ I pause for dramatic effect, making sure she’s paying attention ‘… cold-blooded killer.’

  She blinks, studying my face, but doesn’t say anything.

  ‘I want people to know the real you. The you we all know and love. The wife. The mother …’

  ‘The murderer,’ she adds bitterly. Is she thinking of her father? She doesn’t know I know about that. She never told me. Then she adds, ‘Everyone obviously thinks I killed the Wilsons.’

  ‘No … I don’t know. Look, we don’t need to dwell on that bit so much. I want people to see you as I see you. Gentle, kind …’

  ‘You haven’t seen me for nearly twenty years,’ she says levelly. ‘How do you know I’m kind?’

  ‘Well, you used to be. You’d do anything for anyone. And, according to your mum, you haven’t changed. She said you’re a brilliant mother to Ethan.’

  She’s silent. ‘I don’t know …’

  And in that moment I feel it. That familiar swell of excitement in my gut, the anticipation that she’s wavering, that I might be the only journalist in the UK with a story from Heather’s point of view. A surge of adrenalin shoots through me. ‘You could read it through before anything is published. Show them all that you’re just a normal wife and mother. Put doubt in their minds … But,’ I lean forward, as if telling her a secret, ‘we need to be quick, because once you’re charged with this, Heather, proceedings will be active and there will be restrictions on what can be printed.’

  ‘I think the police are coming to interview me tomorrow. The doctors said if I’m well enough today …’

  ‘Can you put them off? Say you’re still ill? Just until after Friday?’

  She looks doubtful. ‘That’s two days away.’

  ‘If we printed this, you’d get sympathy from the public. It could make a difference, Heather, especially if it ended up going to trial.’

  Something crosses her face. Panic, maybe. ‘I don’t know …’ she says again, reaching over to place her takeaway cup on the bedside unit.

  Come on, Heather. Come on.

  ‘Think about it,’ I say, trying to sound understanding rather than frustrated. ‘I could write something based on what I know already and give it to you to read. You wouldn’t really need to do anything.’

  She looks towards the door, as though afraid the police will arrive at any second. ‘I suppose I could say my head hurts.’ She puts a hand to her bandage. ‘It does a bit anyway. It could be all the stress.’

  Guilt rushes in, like the tide. ‘Oh, Heather, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be asking you this …’

  ‘No. It’s okay. I know you’re only trying to help me.’ She sits up straighter in bed, looking determined. ‘Let’s do it.’ She laughs and I join in, and right away we’re fourteen again, giggling conspiratorially because we’re planning to do something we shouldn’t. ‘But don’t tell Mum,’ she adds. ‘She’ll only try to talk me out of it.’

  I feel uneasy at leaving Margot out of the loop, but I’m so desperate for this story that I’m sure, in this moment, I’d agree to anything.

  A nurse comes in and shoos me out, saying visiting hours are over and Heather needs her rest. Heather does look tired, the colour of her face not far off that of the white pillow she’s lying on. I promise to be back to see her soon.

  I almost skip down the corridor and out to my car. I can hardly believe my luck. While I’m driving home I call Ted on hands-free.

  ‘Guess what,’ I cry, when he answers. ‘I’ve only gone and bloody done it. Heather’s agreed to an exclusive.’

  There’s a pause and then: ‘Right, but we’ll only be able to use it if she’s not charged.’

  I’d hardly expected him to whoop down the phone. After all, this is the ever-cynical Ted. But I was hoping for a bit more enthusiasm. ‘I’m praying she can put the police off, just until it’s printed on Friday. And we can put it on our website before that, of course.’ Not that anyone will read it, I silently add.

  He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds and then: ‘Okay. Let’s hope. But good work, Jess. I knew you could do it.’

  I put the phone down and do a little air punch. At last, a sliver of praise from Ted.

  I’m beaming as I pull into the underground car park. And then my euphoria dies, replaced by guilt.

  It’s been worth visiting Heather, both on a personal and professional level. I just hope she manages not to speak to the police tomorrow. I long to talk to Jack and dissect my conversation with Heather in detail. But he’s been acting oddly lately and I don’t feel as close to him since all this has happened.

  Something else has been niggling at me, too. Something I haven’t wanted to think too much about. Those photos on my car. When they were taken I’d been on a job with Jack in Tilby. I recognize the scenery in the distance. Had Jack taken the photos without me being aware? Then why put them on my car with the words ‘Back off’? Why would he want to scare me from the story? So he can take it over for himself? I feel instantly guilty for my treacherous thoughts. Jack’s one of my closest friends. And he’s a snapper, not a reporter. But I can tell he’s hiding something from me – I know him too well.

  Rory’s already home. I can smell spices and curry paste as I take off my coat and shoes in the hallway. My stomach grumbles at the prospect. I’ve not eaten anything since lunchtime.

  ‘Good day?’ he says, as I walk into the living room, slinging my laptop bag onto the sofa. This is how we are with each other now. Polite, but distant. We could be flatmates, rather than lovers. I remember, with a jolt, that I haven’t even told him about the photographs on my car and the threatening message. We haven’t really conversed since I told him I’d found the engagement ring a few days ago.

  ‘Busy,’ I say, walking through to the kitchen. I stand beside him, watching as he
stirs the curry. Usually we’d kiss now, or I’d wrap my arms around his waist as he cooked. But we just stand there, like virtual strangers.

  ‘I thought …’ he indicates the frying pan ‘… we could sit down for once and talk properly.’

  I pull a regretful face. ‘I’ve got a bit of work to do. I went to see Heather today.’

  ‘Heather?’

  ‘The woman I used to be friends with,’ I say, surprised that he doesn’t remember. How can he not know about Heather, when she and her family are all I’ve thought about for the past couple of weeks?

  ‘The woman who murdered two people in Tilby?’ He turns to me, a horrified expression on his face. ‘You went to see her?’

  ‘Yes. She’s still in hospital. She agreed to an interview.’ He turns away and his shoulders tense. Disapproval emanates from every pore. ‘What?’

  He sighs. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s obviously not nothing,’ I spit, tiredness making me tetchy. ‘It’s my job, Rory.’

  He spins around to face me, wooden spoon still in his hand. ‘I understand that. But … I don’t know. You’re so secretive. I thought we told each other everything, yet you lied to me about your last job. The phone hacking. The threats. The reason we left London. I gave up everything to follow you here and I feel like you’re doing it all over again.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Pushing me out. Not being honest.’

  I fold my arms across my chest. ‘I knew you’d be like this about it.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Sanctimonious. Disapproving. Judgemental.’

  He takes a step back from me as though I’ve punched him. Hurt flickers in his eyes. ‘Is that what you really think of me?’

  ‘I …’ Is it? Is that why I didn’t tell him the truth about the phone hacking? Because I knew he’d disapprove and judge me? That he wouldn’t love me any more if he knew what I was really like, what I’d do to get a story? ‘You don’t like what I do for a living, do you? It doesn’t sit well with your social conscience. You want to make the world a better place. You’re a teacher! It’s one of the most important, worthwhile jobs there is. And you see mine as –’

  ‘Don’t put words into my mouth! You’re always doing that, telling me what I think or feel, and it’s bullshit, Jess. Journalism can be worthwhile. You don’t have to lower yourself or be morally corrupt to be a good journalist. Have you ever thought that it’s not me who’s being judgemental but that you’re judging yourself?’ A pulse throbs in his jaw and his eyes darken. ‘I just wish you’d trust me a bit more.’

  ‘Just then, though, when I told you about Heather, you sounded … disapproving.’

  He takes a step forward, his expression softening. ‘I wasn’t disapproving. I was worried. Because I love you. I care about you. I want you to be safe. That’s all. I think you’re a wonderful person. You’re funny, kind, confident, clever. It’s you who’s got a downer on yourself, for whatever reason.’

  He’s right. Whatever he says I can never shake the feeling that he’s too good for me, that I don’t deserve him.

  We stand and stare at each other for a few seconds. Then he reaches his hand out and takes mine. ‘I’ll always love you,’ he says. ‘No matter what.’

  And I realize I love him too. Really love him, in a way I’ve never felt about anyone else. He’s never been the problem, it was me, pushing him away because I felt I didn’t deserve him, scared that eventually he’d find out what a fake I really am and leave me anyway.

  I’ve never really trusted anyone in my life. But I need him. I need to stop running away from forming deep relationships, not just with Rory but with friends too.

  I lead him to the sofa. We’ve a lot to talk about. I need to tell him everything.

  We sit up for hours, just talking, like we used to. I admit how lonely and isolating it’s felt, always having my barriers up in case I get hurt. I tell him why I’ve always been a bit obsessed with the Powell family, never having much family of my own. Margot was the mother I wish I’d had, Heather and Flora the sisters. I tell him about my guilt for never revealing to Margot or Heather (until now) that I saw Flora the morning she disappeared and that she was off somewhere with Dylan.

  ‘And now I feel someone is watching me,’ I say, explaining about the photographs and the figure standing outside our building. ‘Maybe even more than one person. At first I thought it was Wayne Walker – the man I was telling you about from London. But I don’t think it is. It’s something to do with the story I’m working on. Why else would they write “Back off”? And then someone pushed a bus ticket through the letterbox.’ I get up and go to my bag to show him.

  Rory’s face grows more concerned. I sit down again and hand him the bus ticket. ‘And sometimes I think it’s Adam who’s following me – Heather’s husband,’ I clarify, when he looks confused. ‘Other times I’m convinced it’s Wayne Walker. I’ve even begun to suspect Jack.’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Because the photos were taken when we were together. He’s so ambitious. I have a feeling he wants to move into reporting instead of taking photos. He’s good. He worked out that Heather’s husband had written this threatening note …’ I fill him in on that, too. It’s a relief to tell him everything.

  When I’ve finished he takes my hand. ‘Come on,’ he says, leading me into the bedroom. It’s dark outside, and the light is off. Rory doesn’t reach for the switch. Instead he leads me to the window. The curtains are open and the full moon makes it easy to see across to the derelict building. He squints to get a better look.

  I stand beside him. We’re still holding hands. ‘Usually there’s a person with a torch. And they shine it right into the bedroom. And it always seems to be when I’m alone,’ I whisper.

  ‘They could just be squatters,’ he replies, in the same low voice.

  ‘I think whoever it is posted this bus ticket to me. They’re trying to tell me something, I think. Or scare me. I’m still not sure. I’ve never seen anyone coming in or out, just a shadow moving behind the windows, and the torchlight.’ And then I laugh. ‘Why are we whispering?’

  He laughs, too. It’s such a lovely sound and I feel so happy and safe beside him that, for the moment, I no longer care who’s watching me.

  We wait for a few minutes, but there’s no sign of torchlight, or shadows moving. I’m disappointed, worried he’ll think I’m making the whole thing up for a bit of attention.

  He moves away from the window. ‘I’m going over there,’ he says, the determined look I recognize on his face.

  ‘Wait! What?’

  He holds up a hand and I see the teacher in him. ‘You stay here and watch. I’ll take a torch. If I need your help I’ll flash it three times.’

  ‘No! You could get hurt.’ This isn’t what I expected from Rory. ‘Don’t try to play the hero.’

  His jaw sets hard. ‘I’m not. But you’re afraid and you have been for weeks. If it’s a squatter, they won’t hurt me.’

  Before I can say anything else he’s off down the hallway, poking his head into the shoe cupboard for our torch. I race into the kitchen and take a knife from the knife block. ‘Here,’ I say, catching up with him by the door. He opens his mouth to tell me no but I insist. ‘Take it. Just put it into your pocket. Please. If anything happened to you because of me and this story …’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘But keep watch, okay? And if I flash the torch three times, call the police because it means I’m in danger.’

  My mouth is dry. I can’t believe he’s going to do this. ‘Should we just call the police anyway?’

  He shakes his mop of dark hair. ‘No. Not yet. We don’t want to waste their time. It could be a homeless person or they might have moved on. Nothing to worry about. I’ll go over and see.’

  I hug him to me, not wanting to let him go. He’s tall, over six foot, but he’s slim built. He cycles a lot but he’s never been to the gym. Would he be able to protect himself in a fig
ht?

  He pulls away. ‘Hey. I grew up with two older brothers. I’ll be fine,’ he says, as if reading my mind. ‘Now, keep watch.’

  He slips out of the door and I run back to the bedroom. I watch as he crosses the street. He’s wearing his big padded coat and I can see he’s got his hand in his pocket where the knife is. When he gets to the door he stops and fiddles with something for what seems an age. Then, eventually, the door swings open. He turns to me and gives me the thumbs-up. And then he disappears into the building.

  44

  Margot

  Margot sits in the corner of the room watching Heather with her family. Adam is sitting beside his wife’s bed and little Ethan is on her lap, trying to nuzzle into her neck while she reads him his favourite story, Guess How Much I Love You. She resembles the picture of contentment as she rests her cheek against his soft curly hair while he sucks his thumb. Adam watches them with a little smile on his lips. He’s brought in some of the daffodils that he grows in a part of the field they use as their allotment, and they fill the room with a scent that Margot has always found slightly cloying. It looks like a normal family scene, except Margot knows it’s not. The police officer’s presence reminds her that her daughter is under arrest for murder. Tomorrow they will come in to interview her and Margot knows she will be charged. Their lawyer has said she’ll fight for diminished responsibility, but even if that’s the case and Heather gets the lesser charge of voluntary manslaughter instead of murder, she’ll still have to go to prison or a secure hospital under the Mental Health Act. She’ll have to leave her husband and her son and go away for goodness knows how long.

  Will Adam wait for her? How much does he love her daughter? She’s always found him so hard to read. He’s a good father, she can’t dispute that, and she’s always thought him a good husband to Heather. But they’d argued a lot since Ethan was born, and the night before the incident – Margot can’t bring herself to call it anything else – he’d walked out on her, taking his son with him. Why? He was going to tell her the night she got that phone call from DCI Ruthgow, but they were distracted by the possibility that Flora’s body had been found. And she’s not had the chance to ask him again.