‘Please … go on.’ Margot senses Ruthgow’s gaze on her but she avoids looking at him.
‘So, for the next few weeks I hung around their street in Southville when I could. I saw Clive help Deirdre move to her cottage in Tilby and took that opportunity to knock on their Southville neighbours’ doors and ask questions. They said they’d seen Clive out and about very occasionally with a dark-haired girl younger than him. And, no, they didn’t know her name. I became convinced it was Flora. I thought maybe she’d run off with him, but it didn’t make sense to me. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t have contacted us to let us know she was okay.
‘Then – a few days before the shootings – I found out that Clive was staying with his mum in Tilby. Getting away from all the people he owed money to, was the rumour going around. I think moving to Tilby was a way for them to have a stab at pretending to be respectable. So I took that opportunity to knock at the house in Southville, hoping Flora would answer. But, of course, there was nothing. Then I sneaked around the back. They have a basement with a grubby-looking window that looks out onto the garden. I was sure I saw a shadow move beyond the glass. But when I knocked nobody answered.’
‘You should have called the police then,’ says Ruthgow.
‘With what evidence? You wouldn’t have believed me. Adam didn’t.’ Heather hangs her head. ‘I told him, the night before the shootings. He was already stressed and angry with Clive because of the puppy and losing money to him – money we could ill afford.’
Until now Margot wasn’t aware of any money issues. But she keeps quiet, willing Heather to continue.
‘He thought I was being delusional, that my post-natal depression had returned. He said I was obsessive. He didn’t even listen to me. We rowed and he walked out, taking Ethan with him.’
Margot shuffles in her chair. Why hadn’t Adam told her the truth about the row?
‘So … after the row with Adam, and on the morning of the shootings I couldn’t sleep and woke up early. I thought I’d go to Clive’s Bristol house again, hoping he was still in Tilby with his mum.’ She sighs. ‘I left here early and drove there while it was still dark, but of course nobody answered when I got there. So I went around the back again. I was sure I could see movement behind the window, like before. A shadow. I knew somebody was there.’
‘You could have been hurt,’ says Ruthgow.
‘It was stupid. And reckless. I was desperate. But I called Flora’s name. I banged on the glass and called her name until someone came to the window.’
Margot sits up straighter in her chair. There are so many questions she wants to ask but she’d promised Ruthgow she’d be quiet if he allowed her to stay for this informal interview.
‘The face. It was older, haggard, but I knew straight away it was Flora.’
Margot holds her breath.
‘Flora recognized me too. She looked dreadful, and fearful. The fear …’ Heather shakes her head, as if trying to dispel the memory. ‘Anyway. She opened the window. I helped her climb out. She …’ she glances at Margot almost regretfully before turning back to Ruthgow ‘… she became agitated when I told her to come with me. She – she refused. At first.’
Margot opens her mouth to speak but Ruthgow throws her a warning look. ‘What do you mean, refused?’ he asks, calmly.
‘She seemed reliant on Clive. There were track marks on her arms. He’d obviously got her hooked on drugs.’
‘He’s a monster,’ hissed Margot, before she could stop herself.
Heather squeezes her mother’s hand. ‘I know, Mum. But he’s all Flora knew, for eighteen years. God knows …’ she gulps ‘… God knows what he did to her.’
‘Held her prisoner.’
‘She lived in the basement, that much was obvious. But, Mum, the weird thing is, it wasn’t locked. She could have left … before.’
Margot can hardly believe what she’s hearing. ‘You mean she stayed there voluntarily?’
Heather looks uncomfortable. ‘Maybe not at first. But, yes, by the time I found her, yes.’
Margot stands up, suddenly furious with Ruthgow. ‘Why didn’t you find her? She was under our noses this whole time! We could have saved her from all those years of horror!’
Ruthgow’s expression darkens. ‘Margot, please keep calm or you’ll have to wait outside. This is important.’
Margot sinks back onto her chair, but she darts him a look of anger.
He turns his attention back to Heather. ‘Go on,’ he says gently.
Heather reaches over and takes Margot’s hand again. ‘I had to coax her out of there. She was … she was like a wounded animal. All wide-eyed and cowering. It was awful. The basement she’d been living in was squalid. She was like a zombie, dishevelled, dirty, high on drugs. If I hadn’t been looking for her I would have mistaken her for another drug addict – there’s a surprising number of them in this city, as you know. She was so skinny, Mum …’ Heather wipes tears from her eyes but continues, her voice wobbly. ‘When I tried to convince her to leave with me she became panicky and violent, trying to hit me. I wanted to call the police but she wouldn’t let me – she was trying to protect Clive and Deirdre. She sobbed that they had abandoned her. That Deirdre was sick and now she was getting all Clive’s attention. It was sordid. It disgusted me. It was like they’d brainwashed her.’
Margot closes her eyes, not wanting to picture it.
‘But I knew it was the drugs talking,’ continues Heather, ‘so I told her I was taking her to see them in Tilby and she willingly came with me. She told me then about the day they had kidnapped her, given her spiked hot chocolate so she blacked out. When she finished talking she was exhausted and fell asleep on the back seat of the car. It was still early morning when I half carried her into the house and laid her on her old bed in her room.’
Margot had left everything as it was the day Flora disappeared. Even her old posters of the Psychedelic Furs and Joy Division were still Blu-Tacked to the walls. ‘I thought being back in her old bedroom might help Flora to remember who she really was when she woke up,’ adds Heather. ‘Clive had used her as his pawn, his plaything, for years, keeping her dosed up on heroin and threatening her that he’d come for me if she …’ Heather’s crying now ‘… if she left or told anyone.’
Margot’s head is reeling. Deirdre had known. All this time. She’d helped her son, her sick, perverted son, keep Flora a prisoner for years. She’s a mother. How could she?
‘And then,’ sobbed Heather – Ruthgow hands her a tissue, which she uses to blow her nose, ‘she was so hooked on drugs I don’t think she cared where she was, as long as she was getting a fix.’
‘Oh, God.’ Margot groans, feeling sick. It was like the horrifying stories she’d read in the newspapers, young girls being kidnapped and kept locked up as prisoners for years.
‘And then?’ probes Ruthgow, gently. ‘What happened after that?’
She lowers her eyes. ‘I … don’t remember.’
Ruthgow looks at Margot, his lips set in a grimace.
‘Can I see Flora?’ pleads Heather.
‘I’ll see what I can arrange,’ he says, getting up from his chair and adjusting his trouser legs. They’ve gone slightly saggy at the knee, observes Margot. ‘Thank you, Heather. You’ll have to come into the station next week and give a formal statement. If you’re up to it, that is.’ He pauses at the door. ‘You have a motive now, Heather. I have to warn you, you might be charged with this.’
Heather sits up. ‘But I can’t remember what happened.’
‘Well, I suggest you try.’
Margot stands up, fists clenched at her sides. ‘You can’t charge her with this. If she did kill those – those bastards,’ she spits, ‘I don’t blame her. I don’t –’
‘Margot,’ Ruthgow says, his voice firm. ‘We’ll take a formal statement next week. Please try not to worry about all of that for now.’ He shoots Heather a knowing look before leaving the room.
They are all
owed ten minutes with Flora, Heather riding in a wheelchair, even though she insists she’s strong enough to walk. But Brenda’s having none of it. ‘You’re lucky you’re being allowed to do this,’ she says, tucking a blanket around Heather’s legs.
‘Her sister has just been found after nearly twenty years,’ snaps Margot. ‘She should bloody well be allowed to do this.’
Brenda shrinks away in surprise. ‘I’m just saying. I don’t want my patient getting pneumonia.’ She insists on accompanying them to see Flora, even though, reluctantly, she allows Margot to push the wheelchair.
Flora is in the corner of the small four-bed ward with the curtain pulled closed around her bed. The others are empty. Margot wheels Heather into the cubicle, leaving Brenda sitting in a chair next to the ward’s entrance.
Flora has a bit more colour in her cheeks and a sheen of sweat above her upper lip but her chest still rattles when she breathes.
‘The naloxone is working. But it means she’ll have withdrawal symptoms. We’re trying to manage it as best we can,’ explains one of the doctors. A different one this time. A young woman.
Margot bends over and kisses Flora’s forehead, which causes her eyes to open. And then she notices Heather and tears seep out of the corners of her eyes and run down the sides of her face.
‘Hey,’ says Heather, taking her sister’s hand. ‘It’s going to be okay. We’re here for you. You’ll get through this.’
‘I thought …’ she coughs ‘… I thought I’d killed you back at the barn. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The gun, it just went off … There was so much blood on your blouse and on the floor when you hit your head.’
Margot frowns. ‘What do you mean, sweetheart? What gun?’
Flora tries to sit up but Margot stops her. ‘Don’t try to move.’
Heather lowers her voice. ‘We struggled over a gun. I remember that much. In the barn.’
Margot turns to Heather. ‘But why didn’t you say that to DCI Ruthgow?’
Heather glances at her sister and Margot notices a look pass between them.
‘Mum,’ says Heather, ‘do you mind if I have some time alone with Flora?’
‘Of course.’ She kisses Flora’s clammy forehead and steps out of the cubicle. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’
She goes and sits next to Brenda, who pats her arm sympathetically. From where she’s sitting she has a view of the cubicle and the mint-green curtain surrounding Flora’s bed. She can just see the wheels of Heather’s chair underneath it. She can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but she can hear one of her daughters faintly crying and the word ‘sorry’ floats across the room towards her.
And in that moment warmth engulfs Margot, like she’s just downed a glass of brandy. She’d hoped and prayed for this moment so many times over the years that she’s lost count. But here they are at last: she and her two precious daughters. All under one roof for the first time in eighteen years. Safe.
Then Heather pokes her head around the curtain and calls Margot over. She stands up, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach instantly dispelling her happiness of a moment before.
When she reaches the cubicle Heather pulls her in and indicates for her to sit on Flora’s bed.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she whispers, dread swirling in her stomach. Although she thinks she knows what they’re going to say.
51
Mum looks at me with such fear in her eyes that it breaks my heart. After everything I’ve put her through all these years and the not-knowing what really happened to me. It’s aged her. I can tell her the truth now. I can finally see a bit more clearly now the drugs are leaving my body, and I can put things right. At last.
I try to prop myself up on my elbows, but they tremble with the effort. I feel so weak. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I say, my head falling against the pillow and cradling her warm, comforting hand. ‘But you need to hear the truth. It wasn’t Heather.’ I glance across at you sitting with your head bowed. You have tears on your cheeks. I was terrified I’d killed you in the barn that terrible morning. I’m so grateful that you’re alive and here with me now. I turn my attention back to Mum and squeeze her hand gently. ‘She didn’t shoot the Wilsons. It was my fault. I was the one who killed them.’
52
Jess
Thursday, 22 March 2012
BRISTOL DAILY NEWS
SEASIDE SHOOTER’S SISTER FOUND ALIVE IN VICTIMS’ HOUSE
by Harriet Hill
The Missing sister of the alleged Seaside Shooter who killed a Tilby couple has been found in the victims’ basement.
Flora Powell, now 34, who went missing when she was just sixteen, has been found alive at Clive Wilson’s Bristol property. It is thought she was kidnapped and kept a prisoner, hooked on drugs, for nearly eighteen years.
She was found living rough along the Welsh Back by two residents and is said to be in a critical but stable condition in hospital after a suspected overdose.
Police have delayed charging Ms Powell’s sister, Heather Underwood, 32, due to her recovery from a head wound. But now police believe that Heather may not have killed Deirdre and Clive Wilson after all.
A source said: ‘The police are now looking into the fact that it may have been Flora who actually committed the murders. An eyewitness at the time of the killings recalled seeing a “dark-haired woman”, which would also fit Flora’s profile. After what they put her through, she definitely has a motive.’
A spokesperson for Avon and Somerset Police confirmed that Flora Powell had been found but refused to comment further on the case.
‘Fucking Harriet fucking Hill,’ I spit, to a startled Rory. ‘How did she get this story when it all happened just last night? Has she got spies at the hospital or something? Shit.’ I fling the newspaper onto the coffee table.
‘I’m sorry. I thought you should see it.’ Rory had gone out to get milk this morning and had bought the newspaper when he saw the headline.
‘Now they’re saying it’s Flora who killed the Wilsons?’ I throw my hands into the air.
‘It makes more sense, though, doesn’t it? You said Margot told you there was an unidentified fingerprint on the gun. And it means Heather’s off the hook.’
I groan. ‘That might be the case – but poor Flora. And poor Margot.’
The sofa sags as he sits down next to me and pulls me into him, kissing my hair.
‘My story about the body in the basement not being Flora is going to be old news now, isn’t it? It’s published tomorrow.’ I sigh. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I should work for a daily again.’
‘If that’s what you want?’
I turn to face him. ‘You’d follow me a second time? Leave Bristol?’
‘Of course. I haven’t got a permanent job here yet. I’m just supply teaching.’
‘I couldn’t ask you to do that for me again. It wouldn’t be fair. And, anyway, we’ve got a good thing going here, haven’t we? Especially if we’re saving to buy our own place.’
He stands up, a half-smile on his face. ‘That’s true. But only if that’s what you want.’
‘It is,’ I say resolutely. I mean it. Rory’s not my father and I’m not my mother. We’ll make our own way, Rory and me. If what Heather, Flora and Margot have been through has taught me anything, it’s that you have to grab happiness when you can as you never know what the future holds. Hold on to the ones you love.
He checks his watch. ‘I need to get off. What time are you going in?’
‘I don’t fancy seeing Ted this morning.’ I have Heather’s interview still to finish writing up, so at least that should pacify him for a bit but I know he won’t be happy about this. And my last article will have to be scrapped as it will no longer be relevant. ‘I’ll walk down in the next ten minutes. I’ve got a lunchtime deadline and at least my story about Heather will be an exclusive.’
Rory bends over to kiss me goodbye. When he’s gone I read through Harriet Hill’s article again. I wonder i
f she knows the ‘two residents’ who found Flora were Rory and me.
I gather my things together and make my way to work. It’s not raining but a mist has settled over Bristol, giving everything an ethereal quality. As I walk the cobbled streets of the Welsh Back and turn left at the Llandoger Trow, I can almost imagine I’ve gone back in time. What had Flora been doing in the derelict building across from mine? It still doesn’t make sense. Was she the person who’s been following me? Did she post the bus ticket through my door in a bid to reach out to me? To tell me? How did she get into the building? And what about the photos and ‘Back off’? I can’t imagine they were from her.
It’s nearly nine as I trudge up Park Street and bump into Jack coming out of the newsagent’s with a can of full-fat Coke in his hand. ‘Need some energy,’ he says, holding up the can with a guilty look on his face, as though I’ve caught him with an illegal substance.
‘I could do with some of that this morning,’ I admit, and quickly fill him in on what happened last night.
‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaims, when I’ve finished. ‘So what does this mean for your friend, Heather?’
I push open the door to the building. Stan isn’t huddled on the ground this morning, which gives me hope that he might have found a bed last night.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But it throws doubt on the investigation. I suppose the police will question Flora.’
‘If she admits it, make sure you get the story before smug Harriet Hill has the chance.’ He smirks. ‘I’ve got some news also. Shall we go somewhere for lunch? Can’t really talk about it here.’ He lowers his voice to make his point.
‘Sure,’ I say, feeling lighter despite everything. I’ve missed Jack and feel guilty that I’d been silently accusing him of leaving the photos on my car.
‘Great.’ His eyes are shining as he slopes off towards Seth and the picture desk – if you can call it that.
Then She Vanishes Page 29