Then She Vanishes(29)

And that had been that. No more discovered clothing, no body, no leads. The last known sighting of her had been on Thursday, 25 August 1994. A witness came forward to say he’d been driving along Tilby’s high street and had seen Flora walking alone in the rain at around 9 p.m. Her curfew had been nine thirty. Margot had made only two stipulations that summer: that Flora and Heather stick together, and that they were home before it got dark.

Yet Flora had broken both those rules. She hadn’t stayed with her sister. And she’d never come home.

‘Margot Powell.’ Ruthgow extends a gloved hand rather formally and Margot takes it.

‘How are you, Gary? Long time.’

He smiles tightly. ‘Indeed.’

Was she being too familiar with him? They’d begun to grow closer at one point, all those years ago, the grieving mother and the grieving widower. They’d even gone for a drink at the local pub, the Horseshoe, where she’d cried into her glass of wine and he’d promised he’d do everything he could to find Flora. But he’d not kept his promise. After the TV stations and the newspapers, and even the town, began to view Flora’s disappearance as old news, Gary Ruthgow had put in for a transfer, left their little local police station (since closed down) and fled to Bristol. A new start. A new life. Hers had crumbled around her ears so that even getting up each day and putting one foot in front of the other was a mammoth challenge. She kept going only for Heather. And then, later, for Ethan.

If Heather died too, her life was all but over.

‘What brings you all this way?’ she asks, when it’s obvious he’s not about to make clear the reason for his visit. He shuffles his feet and blows on his hands as though biding his time.

‘It’s rather delicate, I’m afraid. It concerns Heather. And Flora to an extent.’

Margot’s heart drops. What does he mean? Does he have new information about Flora?

She can see Colin moving about in the caravan next door so she suggests to Ruthgow they go into the house. She doesn’t want Colin to hear anything that the detective might have to say. She’s not fussy to whom she lets her caravans, or who pitches a tent in her field, as long as they look after the place, are clean and tidy and pay their way. But there’s something about Colin that she can’t put her finger on. Something that makes her feel uneasy. She often wonders if he’s running away, hiding out in the back of beyond. Either that or he’s just a loner. He’s got to be in his late fifties at least, with a paunch and a haggard face, wearing the same cable-knit sweater and brown cords day after day. Yet he’s been renting the caravan for nearly six months now and seems to have no intention of moving on any time soon. She can’t complain, though. It’s an income. She’s never had much time for small-talk with the customers, but she’s seen Heather talking to him. Heather seemed quite fond of him, bringing him cups of tea and cooking extra casserole for him. Her daughter always was soft-hearted. The irony isn’t lost on her that that same woman is now the only suspect in a double shooting.

Margot locks the caravan behind her and picks up the basket of cleaning paraphernalia at her feet. ‘Come on, then. I’ll put the kettle on. It’s cold out here.’ As they trudge across the field she gabbles at him, asking how he’s been and if he enjoys living in Bristol. What she’d really like to ask is whether he ever thinks about her. Or Flora, the girl he couldn’t save.

Ruthgow follows her through to the kitchen and she tells him to take a seat. Does it feel weird for him, she wonders, being here again after all these years? Another Powell daughter, another case. She sees him glance at the framed photograph of Flora and Heather on the wall. Everybody notices that photo when they come into the kitchen, even if they’ve been here many times before, and they all get the same look on their face: a mixture of sadness and relief that it’s not their loved one who’s gone.

He asks for coffee. Black, no sugar. Different from how he’d had it eighteen years ago. She’s always had a good memory for silly, irrelevant details. Like she remembers that the last time she saw him he was wearing a pale blue shirt with creases criss-crossed along the front, as though it had come straight out of its packet, and his hands had trembled slightly as he held his coffee cup. He’d been too thin then, and he’d smoked too much, and even though he’d told her later that his wife had died a few years before, he still wore a single gold band on his left hand. She notices now that he no longer wears it. He’s clean-shaven and his shirt is ironed and, if it’s possible, he’s grown even more attractive. She dismisses this thought straight away. That part of her life is over.

He was always a man of few words but he’s hardly said anything since he arrived, just short answers to her many questions about his life in Bristol. It doesn’t sound like he ever remarried. Another thing they have in common.

She hands him his coffee and sits down opposite him. She didn’t make any for herself. She couldn’t stomach it. ‘So?’ she says. ‘What have you come all this way to tell me?’

He looks serious, professional, and sits up a little straighter. His body fills the chair and she can smell an expensive aftershave on him. ‘First, Margot, I need to apologize. For never finding out what happened to Flora.’ He runs a hand across his chin and she jolts at the memory of the familiar gesture. ‘It haunts me. I’ve never given up. I want you to know that.’