I plonk my bag down and am taking off my coat when Ted strides over, holding a copy of the Daily News. ‘I know,’ I say, before he can start. ‘But I was the one who found Flora last night. I was the one who was at the hospital with her mother. I don’t know how Harriet got hold of that story before I’ve even had the chance to type it up.’ I jut out my chin, daring him to have a go at me.
To my surprise, he doesn’t. ‘It’s bad luck, I know,’ he says, running a hand across his stubbled jaw. ‘But we can print your Heather Underwood interview tomorrow. Maybe you can include a quote from Flora, if she’s well enough.’
I pull a doubtful face, although I’d love to see Flora again. I still can’t believe she’s alive.
‘But even so,’ he says, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans, ‘what you’ve done so far is great.’
I can only stare at him in shock as he walks back into his office. I smile to myself as I sit at my desk to type up the rest of Heather’s story, wondering how Harriet Hill found out that Flora had shot the Wilsons before I’d had the chance to.
I wait for Jack outside as he’s finishing up. I’ve had a productive morning, completing the Heather article, which will be front-page news tomorrow. I even had a call from Jared congratulating me on my ‘scoop’. Even Harriet bloody Hill won’t have that story, I think, as I light a cigarette and huddle in the doorway. It’s gone cold and we’ve been predicted snow, even though it’s late March. I see Stan walking down Park Street wrapped in a dirty blanket, a cap pulled down over his frizzy hair. I notice how people flash him sidelong glances of disapproval or pity. Others press their chins to their chests and hurry past, pretending not to notice him.
‘Hey, Jessie,’ he says, when he approaches me. He’s the only person, apart from Rory, who calls me Jessie. But it’s stuck and I don’t like to correct him now.
‘Sorry, Stan. Am I standing in your spot?’
‘You’re in my home.’ He grins, and I move out of the way so he can make himself comfortable in the corner. I hand him a couple of my cigarettes and he presses one to his lips so I light it for him. ‘Did you catch up with that geezer in the end?’ he asks, after he’s taken a few drags.
‘What geezer?’
‘The bloke who came looking for you last week.’
‘A bloke was looking for me last week?’ This is the first I’ve heard of it.
‘Yeah, tallish fella.’
I think of Flora and my suspicions that it had been she who was following me. ‘Could it have been a woman?’
He shakes his head and picks what I hope is a bit of ash out of his beard. ‘Nah. Definitely a bloke.’
I think of Wayne Walker. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Stocky. Quite handsome.’
That doesn’t sound like Wayne. Unless it was Adam. ‘Did he have dark hair and a beard?’
‘Nah. He was blond.’
I frown, trying to think. Was it Norman? ‘Was he quite old?’
‘He was young. Well, about your age, I reckon.’
‘What did he want?’
He pulls the blanket firmly around his shoulders. ‘Wanted to know your movements. What time you left, that kind of thing. He looked official, actually. I thought he was a policeman.’
A policeman? Why were the police looking for me? ‘Did he … did he say anything else?’
‘Nah. He stalked off when I wouldn’t tell him anything.’
I smile at him, overwhelmed by fondness for this man whom I’ve talked to every day for the last nine months but don’t really know. ‘Thank you.’
He grins. ‘Any time.’
‘So, what’s the big secret?’ I ask Jack, as we sit at a table in the café near the top of Park Street.
He fiddles with his paper napkin. ‘I’m leaving.’
I stare at him, speechless, the glass of elderflower cordial nearly slipping out of my hand. ‘But – but why?’
‘I’m going back to Brighton. Got a job on the Argus. I miss my home town, Jess. I’m sorry. And, also, it’s as a reporter.’
A reporter? I knew it. Has he been tipping off Harriet Hill? Would he do that? Undermine me? No. I can’t believe he would.
‘I’ve been earning extra cash selling contact details to the nationals,’ he adds, his cheeks flushed. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Jess.’
I shrug. ‘There’s no law against it.’
‘I thought it could be a way in, that’s all.’
‘But what about Finn? Will he move to Brighton with you?’
‘We’re over.’
Again, I’m reeling. ‘What? When?’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been myself for the last few weeks. Finn, well, he turned out to be a knob.’ He smiles sadly.
I’ve always thought so but I’ve never admitted that to Jack. ‘In what way?’
He leans back in his chair and stretches his long legs out underneath the table. ‘Urgh. You name it. Controlling. Bullying. Possessive.’ He ticks them off on his fingers. ‘And then …’ He glances at me, almost shyly.
‘What?’
‘He started to get violent. It began with a slap across the face, then a punch to the thigh. But lately he’d just fly into these jealous rages. That night when we met up, I didn’t get mugged. It was Finn. He punched me because he was jealous. He said he noticed a …’ he adopts a silly French accent ‘… frisson between us. He was convinced something was going on.’
I can’t help but laugh, the idea is so ludicrous. ‘Uh … Hello, you’re gay!’
‘I know.’ He sighs. ‘But I’ve …’ he lowers his voice and glances around the café ‘… slept with women before.’
‘So he thought we were sleeping together? Oh, my God, Jack!’
‘I know.’ He stares down at his gourmet cheese and chutney sandwich. I’ve ordered the same yet neither of us has taken a bite yet. ‘The awful thing was, he hated me having any friends, male or female, because he was convinced I’d end up sleeping with them.’
I’m suddenly full of rage at the thought of Finn beating up my lovely friend. ‘What a bastard! You should report him, Jack. Seriously.’
He hangs his head. ‘I can’t.’
‘It’s wrong. He deserves to be prosecuted.’ I remember how subdued Jack had become, how he’d flinch if I touched him. I wonder how long it had been going on.
He looks shamefaced. ‘But it sounds ridiculous. I’m six foot five, taller than him. I’m –’
‘No!’ I slam my fist on the table, causing our plates to jump. ‘For fuck’s sake. It’s assault. And a police officer, too!’ A police officer. ‘Wait. Was it him?’
Jack opens his sandwich and begins picking the lettuce out of it. ‘Was what him?’
‘Stan said some bloke had been asking after me. He said he thought it might have been a police officer.’
Jack’s head shoots up. ‘What?’
‘And the photos on my car.’
‘What photos on your car?’
With everything that’s been going on, I haven’t even had the chance to tell Jack all about it. But as I explain I notice his face pales. ‘What is it, Jack?’
‘I found a photograph of you. In our bedroom.’ His gaze goes to my coat hanging over the back of my chair. ‘You’re wearing that coat in it. I asked Finn about it. He said it was mine. Accused me of taking it because I fancied you.’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Shit. What a bastard.’
He must have scaled the gate to get to my car. He’s certainly strong enough.
I reach over and squeeze his hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’ ‘Back off’ makes sense now. Not someone warning me off the story, but a jealous lover warning me off their boyfriend. ‘Have you moved out?’
‘Finn left yesterday. He’s staying with …’ he rolls his eyes ‘… Harriet Hill of all people. Oh, yes, it seems the two of them have struck up a friendship.’
‘Harriet Hill? I – I just can’t –’ We burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. ‘Hey,’ I say, a though
t striking me. ‘You don’t think he’s “the source”, do you? We wondered how she was getting all her stories.’
His eyes widen. ‘Of course! What a wanker! He’d have knowledge of the case through his job. And then he fed the information back to her.’
‘So much for his I don’t give tip-offs because it’s unprofessional crap.’ I mimic Finn’s voice. ‘He wanted to make me look bad, no doubt, by giving her all the good stuff.’
He pats my hand, which still rests on top of his. ‘I’m sorry. And I love you, you know. Just,’ he winks, ‘not like that.’
A lump forms in my throat. ‘I can’t believe you’re leaving. You’re my only friend in Bristol.’
‘You have Heather now.’
That’s true. All this time I’d wanted to believe my old friend was innocent and now I know she is we can move on, resume our friendship as women.
‘And Rory. He’s a good bloke.’
‘I know,’ I say, taking my hand from his and picking up my sandwich. ‘I’m lucky to have him.’
‘You’re lucky to have each other.’ He pauses as he takes a bite of his sandwich. ‘You know what really pisses me off?’ he says, his mouth still full. ‘I could have had that fucker Finn but I didn’t hit him back, even when he punched me in the face and in the ribs.’
‘That’s because you’re a million times the person he is,’ I say. ‘I wish you’d told me.’
His eyes are downcast, as he says softly, ‘I was ashamed.’
‘Oh, Jack. He should be the one who’s ashamed.’ Then: ‘Can I come with you?’ I say, the idea popping into my head. ‘To Brighton? Do you think they have a job going for another reporter?’
Jack stares at me. ‘I can find out, if that’s what you really want.’
I fidget in my seat. Is that what I want? A new place to live? A new start? But I’d be running away. Again. I’ve moved around so much there’s never been enough time to put down roots. But now I have Heather and Margot and Flora, as well as Rory. I don’t need to be afraid that I’ll lose the people I love, or that I don’t deserve to be happy. Margot’s strength all these years has inspired me. She didn’t run away when Flora disappeared or when everyone thought Heather had killed the Wilsons.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Jack says, wiping some chutney off his chin with the paper napkin, ‘I’d love to work with you in Brighton. But your job. Ted. Rory. You’re living virtually rent-free here, and Brighton is expensive.’
‘Actually,’ I say, taking his hand in mine, ‘I’ll miss you tons but I want to stay in Bristol. Make things work with Rory.’
He places his hand on top of mine. ‘You’re a big softie at heart, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t underestimate me. You always said I was as hard as nails, remember?’
He takes his hand away and resumes eating. ‘I never for a moment thought that was true. I could see right through you, Jessica Fox,’ he says, his mouth full of bread.
‘Well,’ I sit back in my chair, ‘I’ll tell you this for nothing, Jack Renton. You might not want to report your nasty ex for beating you up, but I’ll be watching him. And if he takes one step out of line I’ll be on to him. I can promise you that.’
53
Jess
BRISTOL AND SOMERSET HERALD
Friday, 23 March 2012
TILBY MURDER VICTIMS RESPONSIBLE FOR MORE DEATHS
by Jessica Fox
Police are looking into the possibility that Clive and Deirdre Wilson, who were murdered in their own home earlier this month, are responsible for the deaths of two young women.
The body found in the basement of their Bristol property has been identified as missing teen Stacey King, who disappeared from her home in 1991 when she was seventeen.
Stacey, from Clevedon, lived with foster-parents at the time of her disappearance and was described as ‘troubled and vulnerable’.
A forensic pathologist who conducted an autopsy on Stacey stated that the cause of death was a heroin overdose and he believes she died around 1993. She was found buried beneath a false wall in the basement.
Police are now reopening the case of teenager Marianne Walker-Smith, who was found dead on Clapham Common in London last year of a suspected heroin overdose, as they look into claims made by witnesses who saw her with Clive Wilson before she disappeared.
Clive, along with his mother, Deirdre, was shot dead in Deirdre’s Tilby home earlier this month. As yet, the police haven’t charged anybody with their murders.
Clive’s brother, Norman Wilson, has been questioned by police as to his involvement in the kidnapping of Flora Powell and the murders of both Stacey King and Marianne Walker-Smith.
The police have only ‘scraped the surface’ of what they believe is a drug and kidnapping ring in Bristol, with connections in Reading and London.
Norman’s daughter, Lisa, said: ‘There is no way my dad is involved. We didn’t see much of my uncle or my grandmother over the last ten years and we never visited their Bristol home. I’m not saying my dad was always a saint, and he spoke openly of his battle with drugs when he was younger. But he has been clean for years. I believe him when he says he knew nothing about it.’
Dylan Bird, who was Flora Powell’s boyfriend at the time of her disappearance, has also been released without charge.
He told the Herald, ‘Norman Wilson supplied me and my mates with drugs in the early 1990s but we lost touch after that. I cleaned up my act and I’d heard that Norman moved away and settled down with a wife and kids. I don’t believe Norman had any involvement in the abduction of young girls. Unfortunately his brother and his mum used Norman and myself as bait to lure my beautiful girlfriend into their trap. I’ll never understand how Deirdre Wilson could have stood by and allowed it to happen.’
A police spokeswoman confirmed that a man has been arrested and released without charge.
I don’t hear from Margot until the next day.
I’m halfway home when she calls.
She’s crying and her voice is thick through her tears. My stomach tightens. ‘Margot? Are you okay? Is it Flora?’
She’s died. That’s what I’m expecting. But instead Margot says, ‘Flora’s had a stroke.’
I stop in my tracks, gazing out across the river, even though it’s dark and I can’t see much, except the occasional light in a window at the apartments. The river looks black in this light, undulating, stagnant.
A stroke? ‘But isn’t she too young for a stroke?’ It’s a silly thing to say, I know that. But all the people I’ve ever known to have a stroke have been old, like my granddad and Rory’s great-uncle Cian.
‘It’s a result of the many years of drug abuse.’ Margot’s voice sounds so sad that my eyes fill with tears. ‘It’s severe, I’m afraid. She may never recover, fully.’
‘Oh, Margot …’ The unfairness strikes me. This cruel, shit world, I think, and I kick the wooden bench that overlooks the river hard, hurting my foot. Then I slump onto the bench, no longer afraid that I’m being watched. That particular fear is over now that I know it was Finn who’d been following me.
‘Before the stroke, she admitted it all,’ continues Margot, in that same resigned voice. ‘She hadn’t meant to shoot Heather. Heather had been trying to stop her. Clive and Deirdre had kept her prisoner for years, a prisoner to heroin, and she was pushed to the edge.’
‘Did Flora ever tell you what happened that day?’ I ask, as I light a cigarette.
I listen in silence, taking the occasional drag as Margot tells me the sequence of events of that fateful morning.
Heather had taken Flora back to Margot’s house at the caravan park with the idea that she would work on convincing her sister that they needed to go to the police. She left Flora sleeping in her room to make a cup of tea but when she returned Flora had gone. The drawer to the half-moon chest in the hallway was open and, straight away, Heather knew what her sister was about to do because it was where the key to the gun cabinet was kept. Heather raced into the b
arn just in time to see Flora taking the shotgun from the cabinet. ‘It’s the only way I can stop them doing this to someone else,’ Flora had said.
Heather tried to wrestle the gun from Flora’s grasp. But it went off and the bullet struck Heather in the chest. She stumbled and hit her head. Flora thought she had killed her. She was so devastated that she no longer cared what happened to her. She took Heather’s car (‘God knows how she drove it when she’s never had a lesson even if it is an automatic,’ said Margot) and headed for Deirdre’s house in Tilby. She knew the road name as she’d heard them talking about it. The West Ham sticker in the window made her sure she was entering the right house.
After she’d shot them she took a bus back to Bristol. She was too scared to hand herself in, instead managing to score heroin and sleeping rough. One day she saw me coming home from work and followed me, dossing down in the derelict building opposite. Apparently she was trying to reach out to me. She worked out which apartment was mine and then she managed to sneak into my building behind a neighbour and pushed the bus ticket through my letterbox in an attempt to tell me she was in Bristol. But I hadn’t made the connection because I’d thought Flora was dead.
‘She thought she’d killed Heather,’ Margot finishes. ‘And she was scared to come forward. She told the police everything before her stroke. Gary,’ she coughs, ‘um, DCI Ruthgow, has been amazing. Heather will face no charge. And poor Flora …’
‘What will happen to Flora now?’ Surely she won’t be prosecuted for murder, not after everything they did to her and what she’s been through.
Angela at the police press office told me earlier that this was just the tip of the iceberg. Clive had been prolific and Flora was getting too old for him. If Heather hadn’t found her when she had, I’ve no doubt Clive would have killed her. Maybe he would have given her just that little bit too much heroin and buried her in the basement too.
It was just by chance that Clive and Deirdre had bumped into Flora that August night. They’d been coming back from the fair where Clive and Norman had been doing some dodgy drugs deal. Apparently, according to Margot, Clive had recognized Flora from the fair and had taken the opportunity to lure her into the car, knowing she wouldn’t be afraid if his mother was there.
Then She Vanishes Page 30