Then She Vanishes(54)

Dylan refused to report the ‘unprovoked attack’ to the police, saying he didn’t want to ‘antagonize things further’.

Later that same week Flora vanished, leaving behind all her possessions and passport. A few days after she went missing her blouse was found covered with blood. It is a case that has shocked and baffled the local community of Tilby for nearly twenty years, and even though a body has yet to be found, police suspect ‘foul play’.

Dylan said: ‘I was a suspect in Flora’s disappearance at the time, of course, being her boyfriend. I was one of the last people to see her alive. But I was with my mum’s boyfriend at the time. I was only with Flora for a month, but she was special to me. I still think of her.’

Heather’s family have been contacted and refuse to comment.



The landlord of the Funky Raven looks up in surprise when we enter. He’s standing behind the bar, buffing an empty pint glass with a cloth. The small, old-fashioned pub is quiet, just two men in their sixties standing by the jukebox, chewing the fat over a beer.

Jack strides to the bar, his camera slung over his shoulder. ‘Are you Stuart Patterson?’ he asks confidently, causing the two men to stop talking and watch him with interest, as though he is a rare animal at a zoo.

‘Who wants to know?’ the landlord replies, in a thick Bristol accent.

Jack will, no doubt, mistake it for West Country or ‘Farmer’, as he calls it. It might sound the same to non-locals, but a pure Bristolian accent is harsher than West Country, all accentuated rs and ls.

I step forward, adopting my friendly, non-threatening expression, to introduce myself and Jack. I clear my throat. ‘We understand Clive Wilson was barred from this pub.’

Stuart has very thick, dark eyebrows that remind me of Burt’s in Sesame Street, and are a contrast to his white hair. ‘That’s right, he was.’ He glances towards the men by the jukebox: they have now resumed their conversation. ‘He was caught trying to sell drugs to a group of teenagers.’

Clive Wilson was a drug-dealer? That doesn’t sound right.

‘What sort of drugs?’ asks Jack.

‘Pills mainly. Es, I think. I told him I didn’t want him dealing in my pub.’ He’s still cleaning the pint glass and it squeaks as the cloth rubs against it.

‘Did you inform the police?’ I ask.

‘I did. But I couldn’t prove anything. The kids were too scared to come forward. So the police did nothing. Clive didn’t have a criminal record of drug-dealing or any history so they picked him up but had to let him go again.’ He sighs regretfully, and places the glass on the counter. ‘Do you want a drink while you’re here?’

I turn to Jack, who nods. ‘Sure. I’ll have a lager shandy,’ he says.

‘Do you have any elderflower cordial?’ I ask, expecting him to say no.

He looks triumphant as he reaches for the fridge behind him and places a bottle of sparkling elderflower on top of the bar.

I try to pay for the drinks, but Jack won’t let me. He orders a couple of packets of crisps as well, and I open them, my stomach rumbling. ‘Do you know anything else about Clive? Or Deirdre?’ I ask.

‘I’m afraid not. Before that I always thought he was all right,’ says Stuart. ‘He’d come in from time to time, have a drink by himself. I didn’t take him for a drug-dealer, but you just never know what goes on behind closed doors, do you?’ He blows air out of his mouth. It makes a whistling noise. ‘His mother, Deirdre, seemed like a sweet old thing. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Can’t see why anybody would want her dead.’

Jack sips his pint thoughtfully while I take the opportunity to shove a crisp into my mouth. ‘Do you think it’s weird that a woman killed them?’

Stuart shrugs. ‘Women kill too – although it was particularly violent. A gun. I don’t know.’

‘But it’s quite unusual for a woman to break into someone’s home and shoot two random people, isn’t it?’ he presses.

‘Unless it wasn’t random,’ says Stuart, his eyebrows wriggling up and down as though they have a life of their own. ‘But I’ve never met this Heather Underwood,’ he adds, wiping away non-existent stains on the bar with the same cloth he used to clean his glass. ‘She never came in here, although her husband has a couple of times.’

‘Adam?’ I ask, surprised. I would have thought his local would be The Horseshoe in the high street. It’s much nearer to where they live.

He nods, his hands making large, circular movements as he sweeps the cloth back and forth along the mahogany. Can’t the man stay still for two seconds? ‘Yep. Nice bloke. Keeps himself to himself. Actually,’ he pauses mid-swipe, ‘I’ve seen him talking to Clive.’

I’m so shocked I almost choke on my crisps. ‘What? When?’

His caterpillar eyebrows knit together as he remembers. ‘A while back now. Probably a month ago. Before I barred Clive anyway. Yes, they met up a few times and they always sat over there.’ He points to a table in the far corner, by a fireplace. ‘It looked a bit hush-hush, to be honest.’ He taps his nose. ‘A few times I wondered what they were concocting. But I recognized Adam because he used to go to the shooting range, where I’m a member.’

‘Do you recall anything else?’ asks Jack, when it’s obvious I’m unable to speak. I’m reeling. Adam hasn’t once mentioned any connection to the Wilsons. In fact, I remember him categorically denying any prior knowledge of them.