Then She Vanishes(49)

He shrugs. ‘I’d like to live here.’

‘Really?’ It’s not a particularly sophisticated or happening place. The town is mostly full of chains or pound shops, the only arcade further up the hill. And, driving along the high street to get to the beach, it doesn’t look like it’s changed much. ‘I lived on the other side of town. No sea views for me.’

He laughs. ‘Still. A beach on your doorstep is a good thing.’

‘It was hardly on my doorstep. I was surrounded by countryside mostly. There were a lot of cowpats.’

He turns so that he’s facing the row of terraced houses on Shackleton Road and starts taking more snaps. I follow him as he enters the Wilsons’ front garden. There are no new flowers or cards, and the bouquets that were left there after it happened are all dead, the leaves paper-thin and brown. I wonder who will remove them. A family member, perhaps. I think of the message, This was one bullet you couldn’t dodge. Who could have written it? And why?

I still can’t believe this happened. That Heather did something so … brutal.

‘I want to try the other next-door neighbours again,’ I say to Jack, as he stands back, checking his viewfinder. They were away on the day of the shootings, but they might know something about Clive or Deirdre.

I walk to the house on the right of the Wilsons’. It’s painted a pale ice-cream pink, with shutters at the windows. It has an extra floor, dwarfing Deirdre and Clive’s house. I knock, Jack at my shoulder, and wait, hoping they’re in. It’s eleven so they’re most likely at work. Jack and I really need to try in the evening. Just when we’re about to retreat down the front path, the door opens revealing a woman in a dressing-gown. She’s around forty, with a tissue pressed to her nose. She looks like she’s just got out of bed.

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ I begin, then introduce myself and Jack. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your neighbours, Clive and Deirdre Wilson?’

She blinks at us, as though the light is too bright for her eyes. ‘Which paper are you from again?’

‘The Bristol and Somerset Herald.’

She shrugs and, to my surprise and excitement, she lets us into the house. ‘Excuse the state of me,’ she says. ‘Terrible cold. Taking a sickie. But don’t put that in the paper.’ She laughs, then coughs dramatically while Jack and I look on helplessly.

When she’s recovered she indicates that we follow her into the living room. It’s spacious, decorated in various shades of grey, with a huge bay window and high ceilings. ‘Lovely place you’ve got here,’ I say. The view is even better from here than it is at the Brights’ house, on the other side of the Wilsons’, which is slightly obscured by the lifeboat station.

‘Thanks. Please, sit.’

Jack and I perch on the sofa, as far away from her as possible, not wanting to catch her germs. I reach into my bag for my notebook. ‘So, your name …?’

She perches on the window-seat. ‘I’m Netta Black.’

‘And how well did you know Deirdre and Clive?’ I ask.

She pulls her dressing-gown further around herself. It’s nearly floor-length and a deep sable velour. She glances at Jack self-consciously. ‘I’ve been here four years, and they moved in not that long ago, so I didn’t know them very well, mostly just to say hello to, although my husband, George, went down the local pub – you know the Funky Raven?’ I shake my head. ‘– with Clive a couple of times. Until he was barred.’

‘Your husband was barred?’

She laughs, then splutters into a handkerchief. ‘No. Clive was barred. I’m not sure why. Some disagreement with the owner. George didn’t really know much about it. And Clive didn’t always live here anyway. He stayed with his mum a couple of times a week but I think he’d got a place Bristol way.’

This is news to me. His brother, Norman, had said Clive had had to move in with their mum because he was having financial troubles. I think of Heather and the fact she was spotted on CCTV in Bristol on the morning of the killings. ‘Do you know where in Bristol?’

She chews her lip. ‘Hmm. I think George mentioned it was in Southville.’

Southville. That was where Heather had been. She must have gone looking for Clive earlier that morning. But why? And if she had, the murders weren’t down to a spur-of-the-moment temporary insanity. They were premeditated. Planned. Jack’s words about Heather being some secret assassin come back to me. No. That’s not real life. Heather is a normal suburban wife and mother. Not some kind of hit-woman. Then why?

I glance across at Jack, but he looks bored, his eyes unfocused, as though he’s thinking about something else. I turn my attention back to Netta.

‘And what did you make of Clive and Deirdre when you saw them?’ I ask.

She chews her lip again, thinking. Then, ‘They seemed nice. Particularly Deirdre. I’d see her walking her cute dog on the beach. She was just an old lady. Honestly, it’s dreadful what happened. This woman who the police say killed them – who was she?’

‘I don’t know,’ I lie. ‘And Clive?’ I’m trying to get the conversation back on track. ‘What was he like?’

‘Gruff. Typical bloke. He chatted to my husband but he seemed a bit awkward around me. Wouldn’t look me in the eye, that kind of thing. George said he was just shy. But he wasn’t young. He was a bit … what’s the word? … rough at the edges. He wore sovereign rings and a gold chain around his neck. He had tattoos. You know the type?’ She pulls a face and I’m shocked at her snobbery. I wonder what her assessment would be of me, sitting on her plush velvet couch with my bleached blonde hair and my second-hand clothes.