Then She Vanishes(13)

I log onto Facebook. A few times over the years I’ve tried to search for Heather under her maiden name, Powell. I was intrigued, I suppose, to find out what had happened to her. To see what she looked like now. To know if she ever married or had children. For those two years of my childhood the Powells had felt like family, and even though I could never go back, a part of me missed them. Although numerous Heather Powells came up, they were never her. But now I know her married name I search for Heather Underwood.

Her page is the first to appear and I click on it eagerly, wanting to know more about her life. I’m disappointed to find that her settings are restricted so that I can see only a profile photograph of her. I click on it anyway, intrigued to know what the adult Heather looks like. It’s a close-up and obviously taken on holiday, judging by the palm trees in the background. She’s squinting slightly but my stomach flips at the familiar sight of her: the long dark hair, the almond-shaped eyes, with new lines fanning out at the edges, the clear skin. Oh, Heather.

‘Attractive woman.’

I jump at the sound of Ted’s voice by my shoulder. He’s as stealthy as a bloody cat. I place my hand on my chest theatrically. ‘I was just seeing what information I could get but her privacy settings are too tight.’ I don’t want him thinking I’m skiving by being on Facebook.

‘Fuck.’ He draws breath through his teeth. ‘We need something. Come on, Jess. Where’s that killer instinct you’re famous for?’ I cringe, remembering how it could have landed me in prison. ‘You know the family. You have an in. The Daily News and the fucking nationals are all over this story and it’s already Wednesday. It’ll be just a matter of time before this photo hits the red tops. We need something more. We need an exclusive.’

He’s right. I can’t let what happened at the Tribune put me off. It’s shaken my confidence, but I need this. I push back my chair and gather up my coat and bag. ‘I’ll try Margot again.’

‘Good.’ His eyes glint. ‘And remember, do whatever it takes. But stay the right side of the law.’

Despite myself, my stomach drops as I pull into Cowship Lane, oppressed by the narrow road with the hedges rearing up on either side. Dark clouds gather in the distance, heavy with rain. I take a deep breath. This isn’t just some random woman I’m trying to interview. It’s Margot Powell. But before last year would that have bothered me? I don’t think so.

Up ahead I can see cars blocking the exit to Tilby Manor Caravan Park as well as a local TV news station’s van. I slow down. There is just enough room for me to pass but I can’t get into the driveway. Has Margot decided to speak to the press after all? I can just imagine Ted’s wrath if that’s the case. He hired me despite my previous history because he thought, no doubt, there would be something to gain from my tenacity. I can’t let him down.

I park in a lay-by further along the lane and walk up, trying to look confident. I pull my bag further onto my shoulder as I approach the small gathering of journalists. ‘There’s no point,’ I say, in a loud, clear voice. ‘She won’t talk to you. She’s signed an exclusive with me.’

A woman a little younger than me, with a pointed face and hair in a swishy blonde ponytail, steps forward. I recognize her from the Bristol Daily News. Harriet Hill. She folds her arms across her bust. She looks smart in a long camel coat and black trousers. She assesses me through narrowed eyes, a hint of disgust on her face, no doubt taking in my retro patterned tights and shaggy coat. ‘She’s signed an exclusive?’ she asks, in a haughty voice. ‘With which paper?’ She gives a fake laugh. ‘Don’t tell me – the Herald.’ She spits out the name of our paper as though it tastes horrible. She swivels on her heels to one of the journalists standing beside her – a man I recognize from the Daily Mail – shaking her ponytail in disbelief. ‘The Herald is a bi-weekly.’ She smirks and he looks at the ground.

I ignore her, and push past them. ‘She won’t answer,’ calls Harriet, but I continue striding down the long driveway with a confidence I don’t feel. I can see a Range Rover parked in front of the barn as I walk around the side to the front door. I know Margot won’t answer so I call through the letterbox, hoping I’m too far away for the other journalists to hear me. ‘Margot, it’s me, Jess. If you open the door I guarantee the rest of them will go away.’

I stand back and wait, my heart thudding. I count. One, two, three. Come on. Come on.

Then, eventually, I hear movement behind the door. I call again through the letterbox just to be sure. ‘Please, Margot. If you let me in the others will go. I promise.’

I stand tall, waiting with bated breath as the front door slowly swings open.





7




Margot


It’s been relentless. For days on end Margot’s had to put up with the swarm of insects – because that’s what they are, pests, feeding off her misery – outside her house. She’s had to drive past them every time she visited Heather. She rang Adam and told him to stay at his mother’s with Ethan for a few days. She can’t let them be subjected to this.

And now here’s another. Knocking on her door. She’d thrown a glass of water into the face of the last; a cocky young man who tried to charm her with his fake compliments. Oh, no. She’s no fool. She won’t be hoodwinked into talking to anyone.