Then She Vanishes(61)

This isn’t a surprise after my talk with the landlord of the Funky Raven but I remain silent.

His shoulders sag. ‘But we know it wasn’t some drug lord who killed him, don’t we? It was that woman. That Heather Underwood.’

‘I … Well, I think the police will want to look at everything. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.’

He makes a pft sound with his tongue. I wonder why he’s here at this time of night. I know he was at Margot’s earlier, but what has he been doing since then? Lurking around Tilby or nipping back over to Bristol to put photographs on my car? Does he know where I live? But if he’s responsible for the photographs, then why? Back off, someone had written. Back off from what? From finding out more about Clive?

‘Anyway,’ he says, stepping away from my car so that he’s standing on the narrow pavement. ‘I’d better get back to the B-and-B. Got to sort out funerals, for when the bodies are released.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I don’t know what else to say.

He hangs his head. ‘Thanks,’ he mutters. Then he lifts his eyes to meet mine. ‘You know she did it, don’t you? Heather Underwood. And it wasn’t because of drugs.’

‘What do you mean?’

He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck. ‘I hope they lock her up and throw away the key, that’s all I’m saying.’

Without another word he stalks off, hands in his pockets, towards a car further up the street. His legs are skinny and bowed, his back hunched. He’s just a sixty-year-old man, I think, a man who’s angry and grieving. He means me no harm.

I put the car in gear and head towards home.

It’s only nine o’clock by the time I get back, and the underground car park is empty of people. There are spaces for seven cars – two spaces per flat and one for visitors – and only four are filled, not including mine. Still, four cars, which means that at least someone should be at home. I’m not going to be alone in my building. Although I note with a heavy heart that Rory’s Fiat isn’t there.

As I get out of the car, the all-too-familiar feeling of being watched makes me jumpy. Is someone taking my photograph now? I look wildly about me, my scalp prickling. But, of course, nobody’s there. I hurry past the parked cars, almost running to the side door that leads to the flats, using my key fob to gain access.

And that’s when it hits me. How would anybody be able to get in here? The car park is secure, with an electric gate. There is a pedestrian side access, but that’s locked and only residents have a key, although there have been times when it’s been left unlocked. And it’s possible to climb the gate, I suppose, without being seen at night, but you’d have to be young and fit and tall. I doubt Norman would be able to scale it. Wayne Walker is tall and fit. Could it be him? Is he telling me to back off the story because of what I did to him with the phone hacking? But I’ve learned my lesson. I’d never be so stupid again.

I run up the back stairs to the first floor, my mind racing, thinking of the photographs in my bag. And for the first time in ages I yearn for Rory, for how it used to be between us in the early days, when we’d tell each other everything, me curled up in his arms before talk of babies and marriage began to divide us.

The flat is dark and empty, and I go about switching on all the lights and closing the curtains. When I get to our bedroom I pause at the window. There it is again. A beam of light from the derelict building opposite. Is it squatters? The beam is moving, as though the person holding the torch is pacing, and then it swings around so that the light almost blinds me. I step back in shock, snatching the curtains closed.

I jump when my mobile buzzes where I’d left it on the bed. It’s Jack and I’m filled with relief.

‘Jack!’ I gasp, about to tell him everything. It’s been ages since he rang me in the evening and usually only when Finn is working nights.

‘I’ve found out something I think you’ll be interested in,’ he says, his voice serious and very un-Jack-like. We usually have a bit of banter on the phone first.

‘O-kaaay …’

‘I did a bit of digging after you found that card with the flowers.’

‘Flowers?’ I’m still thinking about a possible stalker in the building opposite and have to concentrate on what he’s saying. ‘What flowers?’

‘The ones that were left in Clive Wilson’s garden with the threatening note attached.’

I slump onto my bed. Suddenly I feel exhausted. ‘Right.’

‘I phoned the flower shop – they’re in Bristol – because the name and address was on the card. I remembered it after you let me see it. And –’ he coughs, sounding embarrassed ‘– I pretended to be Finn. Don’t ever tell him – he’d kill me.’

I laugh, mostly with relief that Jack sounds like his old self again. ‘Bloody hell, you’re getting as bad as me. What happened?’

‘I scared them into telling me who purchased the flowers. You’re never going to believe this but … it was Adam.’

‘Adam.’ I sit upright, in shock. ‘Adam Underwood?’

‘Yep.’ He sounds very pleased with himself. ‘Adam asked the woman in the shop to write the note. She didn’t think anything of it – he said it was a joke for a friend’s birthday.’