Then She Vanishes

by Claire Douglas

  It’s Deirdre’s role in all this I can’t get over. How could she have helped her son to abduct these women, turned a blind eye as he drugged and raped them? I’ll never understand it.

  ‘Flora’s too ill to face charges,’ says Margot. ‘Temporary insanity would be her plea, though I’m sure if it ever … if it ever came to her being fit enough to stand trial, although that’s not likely …’

  ‘Oh, God, Margot. I’m so sorry.’

  I close my eyes, tears seeping out from underneath my lashes as I think of Flora as I like to remember her: a sixteen-year-old girl in love, floating about her sunny bedroom in her long skirts and DM boots, singing along to ‘Martha’s Harbour’ and no doubt thinking of Dylan.

  ‘Despite the stroke, and how ill she is, at least she’s safe. She’s away from those monsters,’ says Margot.

  ‘I know. I understand.’

  ‘Don’t forget about us, will you?’ she says suddenly. ‘Heather would love to see you again. She’s allowed to come home at the weekend.’

  I open my eyes, blinking away the tears. ‘You’re both stuck with me now,’ I say, as I gaze across the river. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ And I realize that this is what I want. To grow some roots. To enjoy my life with Rory here in Bristol. Maybe to have children one day. To be a mum. I’ll learn from my parents’ mistakes, not become like them. Because I have Margot as a role model.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Her voice sounds lighter. ‘Thank you for being there for me. For being a friend to me and Heather, above being a journalist.’

  I’m surprised. I never consciously understood that that’s what I’ve done. But it’s true. I’ve held back much more than I would if another family had been in the same situation. I kept Margot’s confidence, when asked, not writing about finding Flora having overdosed on heroin, or going after Leo and revealing what I knew about his dalliance with the underage Deborah Price. I’d needed Margot and she’d needed me. We were there for each other.

  I’m smiling as I end the call, promising Margot that I’ll visit Heather at the weekend. And then I stand up, pocketing my phone as I make my way home, to Rory and our future.

  Epilogue

  Heather

  Three months later

  My sister is propped up in bed, her head resting on a layer of pillows when I visit, her dark hair sleek and shiny and cut to her shoulders. She’s no longer in a hospital but a rehabilitation centre for stroke victims. It has a view of Tilby Bay from her window and sometimes, when it’s quiet, you can hear the waves crashing against the rocks below. It’s therapeutic, and Flora has always loved the sound of the sea.

  I take out the book I’ve been reading to her every day for the last week. Rebecca. She never got the chance to finish it before she went missing, and even though she occasionally reads to herself, her eyes get tired. I take her hand, her good hand, and she squeezes mine, a sign for me to continue. The signet ring on her little finger glints in the late-morning sun. She’d been delighted when I returned it to her. Before the stroke, Flora told me Deirdre had stolen it when she’d snatched her.

  It’s been a long road to recovery for Flora. She’s only now starting to regain a little speech; before she’d communicate with me by blinking, once for no and twice for yes. I take her out when it’s a nice day, wheeling her chair along the seafront, and she closes her eyes and takes deep breaths, cleansing her lungs. She’s no longer dependent on the heroin that ravaged her body over the last two decades. She has put on some weight and looks healthy, younger now that her face has filled out. She has defied all the odds, but I knew she would. She’s strong, my sister.

  I visit her every day without fail. Making up for lost time, I suppose. I often bring Ethan with me, although today he’s at nursery. When he first met Aunty Flora he’d been scared, running to me and hiding behind my back. But eventually he’d warmed to her, no longer noticing that one side of her face droops and that she finds speech difficult. I think the fact we’re so alike helps. He knows this is Mummy’s sister. Sometimes Jess comes, too, and the three of us sit together and listen to 1990s music in companionable silence, born out of our shared history and a bond that growing up together can sometimes bring.

  Flora has never been charged. She was too ill to be formally interviewed under caution, and then she had the stroke. The drugs have done so much damage to her nervous system. But I haven’t given up hope. I have no doubt she’ll make a full recovery. It might take a while, but she’s determined. Even though the stroke isn’t what any of us would have wished upon Flora, I still thank my lucky stars every day that she’s here. And I know Mum does too.

  Mum, as always, has been amazing. The caravan park has been sold and she’s put in an offer on a large bungalow with sea views where she’ll live with Flora. They are due to complete any day now. Adam and I have bought a smallholding not far away, just big enough for a few horses. Adam has taken a job at the shooting range, and starts there next month. We’ve had to work on our marriage. He feels guilty that he never believed me about the Wilsons having something to do with Flora’s disappearance, and it’s taken me a while to forgive him for that. But life is too short: the last few months have taught me that much. And I love Adam. I want it to work between us.

  Mum and the police officer, Gary Ruthgow, have grown closer, going on dates and enjoying each other’s company. I always suspected she had a thing for him. But it’s wonderful to see her truly happy at last.

  Watching how Mum tends Flora so patiently and with such love has made me want to be a better mum. A better person. Everything I did – have done – was for love.

  I wish I could say the same for the other members of my family.

  Two weeks ago I had a phone call from Deborah Price. She’d been in Flora’s year at school and, once, Jess and I caught her getting off with Uncle Leo in the sand dunes when she was barely fifteen. I was surprised to hear from her after all these years. She wasn’t friends with Flora and had never really spoken to me, even when we caught Uncle Leo’s hand in her bikini top.

  ‘I know it’s a bit weird to be calling you,’ she’d said, her voice husky, while I wondered who had given her my number, ‘when we don’t really know each other.’ A baby cried in the background. I’d heard through the grapevine that she had five children and I occasionally spotted her around Tilby, looking stressed, her hair scraped back into a greasy bun, as she pushed a double buggy and pulled on a dog’s lead, a fag hanging from her mouth. ‘How is Flora?’

  ‘She’s getting better,’ I’d replied curtly, wondering if she was only calling to get the gossip on my sister.

  ‘I read about what happened in the newspapers.’ The press had had a field day with the story and it had run for weeks. Everybody from the past got dredged up: Norman pleading his innocence that he wasn’t involved in any kidnapping; Marianne Walker-Smith’s brutish-looking stepfather, who cried on TV over her death; an old girlfriend of Clive Wilson’s, who said he liked her to dress up as a schoolgirl in the bedroom.

  I was on the verge of putting the phone down until she added, ‘I’ve always felt guilty about that night. It’s haunted me for years.’

  I’d cleared my throat. ‘What night?’

  ‘The night Flora disappeared.’

  I’d frozen, mobile clamped against my ear. What did she know about that night?

  Her voice was heavy with unshed tears. ‘I was with Leo that night. We were having it off in the bushes near the lane that led to your house. He had a girlfriend but he couldn’t keep away from me. We heard you and Flora having an argument and you stomping off home. We saw a car pull up and Flora get into it.’

  ‘You saw Flora getting into Clive’s car?’

  ‘Yes. But we hadn’t known it was Clive. Not then. Not until all this came out.’

  ‘And did you tell the police any of this, that you saw her getting into a car?’ I shot back, already knowing the answer. If they’d told the police they could have run a trace on the car. They could have saved Flora
years of torment and abuse.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I wanted to when it became obvious that something awful had happened to Flora. But Leo, he said we’d get into trouble and he’d end up in prison. I wasn’t yet sixteen you see. I wasn’t sixteen until the thirty-first of August. Leo was in his late thirties. It would have looked wrong, ruined his reputation.’

  ‘It was bloody wrong,’ I hissed, feeling sick. I terminated the call, not wanting to hear any more of her excuses, and instantly called Leo.

  He acted all cheerful to hear from me until I asked him if Deborah’s story was true.

  His silence said it all.

  No wonder he’d left Tilby. He always maintained it was because everyone secretly thought he’d hurt Flora. But I think it was because the guilt of what he’d done was too much. He’d kept quiet all these years to save his own skin.

  I’ll never forgive him. And neither will Mum. As soon as I told her what he’d done she went straight to Gary Ruthgow about it. I’m hoping Leo will get his comeuppance.

  I do feel bad for lying: to the hospital, to my mum, to Jess, to the police. But of course I remember that fateful day. I’ve always been able to remember.

  I remember hearing a cough and turning to see Colin, our long-term tenant, standing at the entrance, assessing me with concern in his baggy eyes. Colin, who I knew was very fond of me, took my word for it when I assured him all was fine and he returned to his caravan. It was only later, when he looked back on that morning, when he noticed I’d already been out, that he must have realized what had really happened. Jess told me she always felt Colin knew more than he was letting on. And it’s true, but he kept quiet. For me.

  He’d gone by the time Flora came into the barn. He didn’t see her confront me when she saw the gun was still in my hand, or the struggle that ensued between us.

  He wouldn’t have known the gun had gone off as we’d wrestled with it, or witness Flora run from the farm and board a bus back to Bristol. He didn’t know that I lay on the floor of the barn, unconscious.

  Later, in the hospital, Flora begged me to tell our mother, and the police, that it was her. ‘You could have died because of me. I want to do this. Think of your son. They’ll go easy on me after everything I’ve been through,’ she’d said. ‘You saved me. Now it’s my turn to save you.’

  And save me she did. I’m here, free, able to walk around, to push Ethan on the swings in the park, ride my horse, be with my husband. Live a normal, full life. An even better life than the one I had before because Flora, my brave, beautiful sister, is in it.

  It doesn’t always sit well with me, letting Flora take the blame. But I continue the pretence for Ethan’s sake.

  After all, I’m good at keeping secrets: my father’s death was no accident.

  When Flora and I argued in the barn over the gun, the Wilsons were already dead.

  I’d driven to Tilby and shot them while Flora slept in her room. She caught me trying to put the gun back in the cabinet: she’d been withdrawing and said she needed them for her next fix. That moment only cemented it for me. I’d done the right thing – I didn’t even think of the consequences of my actions. I just knew I couldn’t let them live and risk them luring Flora back into their sordid world.

  No, it wasn’t my sister who killed Clive and Deirdre Wilson.

  It was me. And I’d do it all over again.

  As for Uncle Leo, let’s just say I’ll be watching him.

  Acknowledgements

  I still have to pinch myself to believe that I’m a full-time writer and on my fifth book. I couldn’t have done any of it without the most fabulous, hardworking (and best-dressed) agent in the world, Juliet Mushens, who always goes above and beyond. I’m so lucky to have her not only as my agent but as a friend.

  The same goes for my two wonderful editors, Maxine Hitchcock and Matilda McDonald, who, along with all the amazing Michael Joseph team – from the sales to the art department – have made my books into Sunday Times bestsellers. I couldn’t ask to work with a nicer, more dedicated team of people and I feel very lucky to be an MJ author.

  A huge thank-you to Hazel Orme for her meticulous copy-editing and her encouraging and supportive emails.

  When I was writing this book I was fortunate to be introduced to a retired CID detective, Keith Morgan, who gave me invaluable help with this story, answering my endless questions about police guards in hospitals, what would happen to a suspect if they were too ill to be questioned or arrested, etc. Before I finished the book, Keith sadly passed away. He was such a lovely, kind-hearted man, who went out of his way to help me and I am so thankful to him.

  Writing can be a lonely business so I really appreciate my writing buddies, Gilly Macmillan, Nikki Owen, Tim Weaver, Liz Tipping, Joanna Barnard, Fiona Mitchell and Gillian McAllister for the chats, support, meet-ups, WhatsApp messages and laughs.

  Thank you to all the bloggers and readers who have bought, shared, borrowed and recommended my books, and to those who have contacted me on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram – your messages really do mean so much to me.

  To all my friends, who have been so kind and supportive, reading and recommending my books, particularly the wonderful netball team for all our pub chatter.

  To my mum and sister for being my first readers, and to my lovely step-parents, step-sister, nieces and in-laws.

  My family, as always, has been incredibly patient while I wrote this book. To my husband, who spends hours listening to me droning on about plots and characters, who’s always honest if he thinks something won’t work, and helps me brainstorm tricky plot points. To my children, who are still too young to read my books – although I suspect my daughter will be reading them soon!

  And last, but definitely not least, to my dad, Ken, to whom this book is dedicated. From a very young age he taught me and my siblings that we could do anything if we put our minds to it and worked hard. Thank you, Dad, for always believing in me, for your continued support, for forcing my books on all your friends (whether or not they want to read them!), for your humour, your generosity and strength.

  Read more

  Read on for an extract

  from Claire Douglas’s new novel …

  JUST LIKE

  THE OTHER GIRLS

  Coming 2020

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  Claire Douglas

  JUST LIKE THE OTHER GIRLS

  The rising fog mingles with the dark night, turning everything opaque. I can barely see yet I know someone else is on the suspension bridge with me.

  I can hear them breathing.

  How foolish I’ve been. I should never have trusted either of them.

  Nobody will come to my rescue. It’s too late at night; even vehicles have stopped driving across the bridge due to the weather. I clutch the railings tightly with gloved hands to anchor myself. One false move and I’ll end up toppling over the side and into the Avon Gorge.

  Someone calls my name. I turn, but I’m disorientated and I can’t tell which direction the voice is coming from. I just know I’ve been lured here. I need to find a way off this bridge. I let go of the railings, stumbling in panic, my breath quickening.

  Don’t lose it. I must stay calm. I need to get out of this situation alive.

  Suicide. That’s what they’ll say it was. Just like the other girls.

  I hear a laugh. It sounds manic. Taunting.

  And then a figure steps out of the fog, clamping a hand across my mouth before I’ve had the chance to scream.

  BRISTOL DAILY NEWS

  CLASSIFIED SECTION

  CARER/COMPANION WANTED FOR ELDERLY LADY * YOUNG FEMALE PREFERRED * MUST LIVE IN * CLIFTON LOCATION * COMPETITIVE SALARY * ROOM AND BOARD INCLUDED * CONTACT MRS ELSPETH MCKENZIE ON BRISTOL 824159.

  October 2018

  It’s even more stunning, more perfect than I remember from my interview. I stand and stare for a while, at the place I will soon call home. The scene
before me is like a photograph in a glossy magazine, or the opening shot of a romantic film. I can almost hear the swell of background music as I take in the row of Georgian townhouses painted in different pastel shades, with their mint-hum-bug-striped canopies, delicate wrought-iron balconies and rooftops that reach up towards a cloudless blue sky. Trees with leaves that are turning red, brown and orange line the pavement and a stretch of grass divides the street from the Clifton Suspension Bridge. A handful of people sit, chatting and laughing, basking in this rare mid-October sunshine. To the side of me an older couple are huddled on a wooden bench overlooking the bridge and the Avon Gorge while sharing a drink from a flask. Beyond them, a young father helps his son with an oversized kite.

  There is an electric charge in the air that makes me think anything is possible. I smile to myself as I bend over to pick up my battered suitcase. Ignoring the fluttering of nerves in my stomach my fingers find the torn-off newspaper advert still in the pocket of my denim jacket. I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. It’s my talisman.

  I take a deep breath and stride towards the McKenzie townhouse.

  This is it. My new job. My new life.

  I’ve waited a long time for this.

  What could go wrong?

  THE BEGINNING

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