Then She Vanishes(57)

Leo takes a sip of his tea, regarding me over the rim of his cup. I stir my frothy latte and try to avoid eye contact. This isn’t playing out as I’d hoped.

I take a deep breath and start again. ‘Do you think Heather did it? The shootings, I mean. There’s another set of fingerprints on the gun. It could have been someone else.’

‘Like who?’

‘I don’t know.’

Leo puts his cup down. ‘Listen, Jess. You seem like a nice woman. But our family, we have our demons. If I were you I’d keep out of it.’

‘Every family has their demons.’

‘Not like ours.’

I decide to change the subject. ‘Do you ever go back to Tilby?’

He shakes his mop of shaggy hair. ‘I haven’t been back in years. Couldn’t wait to leave the place. I moved to Bristol. Somewhere more anonymous. Started over.’

‘What do you do now? For work, I mean?’

His body relaxes and he’s clearly relieved to be talking about something else. ‘I work for a car dealership. It suits me. I miss the outdoors but I couldn’t ever go back to Tilby.’ His expression darkens again and he says quietly, ‘My life was ruined after Flora went missing. The rumours destroyed me. Do you …’ he gulps and glances down at the floral oilcloth on the table ‘… do you know what it’s like to be looked upon as a monster? A pervert? I know I’m not a saint but Flora … She was my niece, for fuck’s sake.’ His face flushes with anger.

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘I hate the fucking place now.’

‘I’m sorry for bringing it all up again.’

He reaches out and squeezes my hand. ‘It’s fine. It’s been nice to see you, Jess. But the story you’re writing – whatever angle you’re going on – well, I can’t help you. I don’t want to be associated with any of it. I’ve got a new life now. I don’t want the press dredging it all up so that people can point the finger at me again. Do you understand?’

I nod. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m sorry not to be more help.’ He gets up from the table and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. ‘Take care of yourself.’ And then he’s gone, disappearing out of the door and onto the dark streets.

I sit and drink the rest of my latte. I’m now alone in the café apart from a woman behind the counter who’s humming to herself as she cleans the coffee machine. Then I gather up my things and pull on my coat. I don’t want to go home. The atmosphere in the flat has reached breaking point.

We’re still only communicating out of necessity. I know things can’t go on as they are: we will, at some point, have that difficult talk.

I’m disappointed in my conversation with Leo. I sensed a bitter man and, for the first time, I appreciate how difficult it must have been for him: the prime suspect in a young girl’s disappearance, all those gossips and pointing fingers. No wonder he couldn’t wait to flee the place.

Just as I’m about to leave the café my phone rings. It’s Margot and I almost drop my mobile in my excitement. And then my stomach lurches. Does she know I’ve just met up with her brother? Did Leo ring her to tell her?

‘Jess. I need to talk to you. Would you like to come over?’

‘Tonight?’

‘Only if it’s no problem. But we can do another night if you’d rather.’

‘No! I’d love to come tonight. Thank you. I’ll be with you in about forty minutes.’

I put my phone away and leave the café. It’s not raining but the wind has picked up. It circles my ankles, pulling at the hem of my coat, like an excitable puppy.

It’s not until I walk down my cobbled street, with the row of colourful houses on the hill in front of me, that I get the same chilling feeling that I’m being followed. The river on my left looks dark and unwelcoming; the apartments opposite are empty with only the occasional light on. A line of boats is tethered to the shore and bobs in the wind. I think of the shadowy person I saw standing by my building as I was leaving for Margot’s on Friday night and shudder, half expecting to see them crouched in one of the doorways, waiting for me.

I increase my pace, trying to distract myself with thoughts of Rory and the difficult conversation that’s still waiting to be had, and before I know it I’ve reached my building. I take the gate to the car park, texting Rory as I walk that I won’t be home for dinner. He replies straight away: That’s just as well as I’ve gone for a drink with some colleagues. See you later. No kiss.

I’m reading the text as I approach my car. I don’t usually feel afraid in the car park, it’s well lit and there’s often a resident either leaving or arriving, although it’s quiet tonight. Yet I can’t stop thinking of the person who was lurking outside here on Friday night. Will they come back? Who was it? I look up from my phone as I approach my Nissan. There’s something on the screen, clipped underneath one of my windscreen wipers. At first I wonder if it’s a flyer, but on closer inspection I see that it’s a wad of small, square photographs printed on flimsy paper and cut to size. I pick them up, wondering if this is Jack’s idea of a joke. I wouldn’t put it past him. There are five in total, and, as I flick through them, I shiver. They look as though they’ve been snapped from a distance in the street, but it’s plain to see that each photo is of me.