Then She Vanishes(20)

After I’d finished interviewing them, Jack took Peter outside so he could photograph him standing in the front garden, with the Wilsons’ cottage in full view behind him. I stood watching, hoping the rain would hold off long enough for Jack to get a decent shot. The house was no longer cordoned, but seven or eight bunches of flowers had been left to wilt in the Wilsons’ neat front garden. While Jack was busy repositioning Peter and snapping away, I wandered over to take a closer look at the Wilsons’ house. The curtains were closed but the place was tidy, with garden gnomes and stone animals dotted around the front garden and between the well-tended plants. There was a Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the living-room window and a wrought-iron umbrella stand in the corner of the front porch. I wondered if anybody had been in there to clean away the blood in the hallway.

Then I drifted over to the flowers. Most of the messages attached had faded in the rain but there was one from Deirdre’s granddaughter, Lisa, with To a wonderful Gran scrawled on a card attached to a drooping bouquet of lilies and another from ‘the ladies at the WI’ on some wilting peach roses.

I was about to walk away when I saw a bunch of carnations that looked fresher than the rest. The card wasn’t signed, but I could tell there was writing on it. I crouched to get a closer look. Written in large block capitals were the words ‘THIS WAS ONE BULLET YOU COULDN’T DODGE.’

Intrigued I ripped it from the cellophane wrapping and, before anyone noticed, I pocketed it.





12




Jess


‘Have you shown that card to Ted yet?’ asks Jack, wheeling his chair over to me with a glint in his eye. ‘This could be a story in itself.’

‘Not yet,’ I reply, tapping at my keyboard, my eyes glued to the screen. I’ve filed the eye-witness story, so I’m working on a Clive and Deirdre background piece. But now I’m worried I’ve done the wrong thing. I shouldn’t have pocketed the card. It would be interfering with a crime scene. If Clive or Deirdre had enemies, the police will want to know. I can’t afford to take one step out of line. Ted had told me that when he offered me the job.

Jack had been so excited when I showed him the card in the car. He’d turned it over in his fingers and kept asking me what I thought it meant.

‘It means that one or both of them had enemies,’ I’d said. Other than that I didn’t fully understand why I’d decided to take it. Maybe to prove Clive Wilson wasn’t the squeaky-clean uncle, brother and son that his family had tried to portray. Unless the message had been meant for Deirdre. I doubted that. She looked like a lovely, doting grandmother. Maybe the killer had shot her because she’d got in the way or had come home unexpectedly. But, then again, perhaps Deirdre wasn’t who she’d appeared to be.

I still can’t bring myself to think of Heather as the killer.

There has to have been some mistake.

I recall my conversation with Margot yesterday. She’d insinuated there might be some doubt, although I found it interesting that Adam had quickly shut her down. Something doesn’t seem right there.

‘You don’t think Heather was in it with someone, do you?’ asks Jack now. ‘Or someone paid her to do it?’

I can’t help but laugh at Jack’s wild imagination. ‘She’s not a professional assassin. And this is Tilby we’re talking about, not some big city. It’s the biggest crime that’s been committed there for as long as I can remember.’

Since Flora, I think, although I don’t say that to Jack.

‘But how do you know?’

I swivel in my chair so that I’m facing him. ‘I’m sure the police would have noticed if she’d received a large payment recently.’

‘Could have been made in cash.’

‘I’m sure the police are in the process of going through everything.’

Jack shrugs. ‘They have a caravan park. Money must go in and out all the time. It might not be noticeable. Maybe they were in debt. Maybe her husband was in on it, too.’

I think of Adam. What is his background? His story? I know nothing about him, other than that he’s a brooding, abrupt man to whom I’ve taken an immediate dislike, even though I can’t put my finger on why. I’m sure he’s hiding something. How could Heather have ended up with someone like him?

But still. Jack’s theory does sound a bit far-fetched. I can’t imagine Margot would let her caravan park be used as a front for criminal activity. But I don’t want to burst Jack’s bubble.

‘This could be a good story, Jess. It’s only Thursday,’ continues Jack, eagerly. ‘We’ve got until Monday lunchtime to find out more before the deadline for Tuesday’s paper.’

I suppress a sigh. Jack looks like an eager puppy, but then I remind myself this is probably the biggest story he’s ever worked on. He’s hungry for it. I can’t blame him for that. ‘Like what?’

He flops back in his chair. ‘I don’t know. You’re the reporter. I’m just saying it looks dodgy. Clive had enemies. This card implies that someone isn’t surprised he’s dead.’

I hold up my hands in mock-surrender. ‘Okay, okay, I get your point. I’ll talk to Ted and see what he suggests.’ I glance across the desk at my mobile. It’s disappointingly quiet. I’d been hoping Margot would call. I’d thought I was getting somewhere yesterday. I bet Adam talked her out of speaking to me.