Then She Vanishes(68)

Except – as I’m beginning to realize – these things have a way of coming back to haunt you. To make you sit up and pay attention, like a devout preacher, or a strict, determined teacher, so that you can no longer just put your hands over your ears to block out the sound.

I flick my cigarette butt onto the ground and stamp on it.

It’s stopped raining so I take down my umbrella and trudge the rest of the way to the office, stopping at Woodes on Park Street to buy two coffees, handing one to Stan, who’s cuddled up in his sleeping-bag outside the door.

‘Sounds like it’s all kicking off in there today,’ he says, inclining his head towards the building. ‘Your boss has been out here asking me if I’ve seen you. He’s tried calling you apparently.’ He warms his hands on the cardboard cup. He has on threadbare fingerless gloves and his nails are yellow. Sometimes he finds a bed in a shelter, but more often than not he sleeps outside, on a bench in College Green or in a doorway. I’ve always wanted to ask him how he ended up here. What happened? Was he a teenage runaway, hiding from an abusive family? Drugs or alcohol? He can’t be that much older than me.

I check my watch. I’m not late. If anything, I’m fifteen minutes early. Has Ted heard about Flora’s body being found?

‘I’d better go,’ I say, moving away from him to open the door.

He grimaces, as though I’m about to walk into a lion enclosure at a safari park. ‘Rather you than me. This is why I don’t have a job.’ He chuckles.

When I get upstairs Sue isn’t in, but Ted is pacing the floor and Ellie is sitting staring up at him, all wide cow eyes, hugging her knees, and Jack is standing over his desk, fiddling with his camera. Nobody has thought to turn on the overhead light and the effect is dark and murky.

‘What’s going on?’ I say, putting my coffee on my desk and shrugging off my coat. I hang it on the back of my chair and throw the umbrella onto the floor. The sky outside darkens and thunder growls.

‘There you are!’ Ted whips around to stare at me. He’s got that look in his eye again: excitement and fire. I glance across at Jack who rolls his eyes. ‘Our boy Jack here has given us a great tip-off from his copper boyfriend.’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘Although, obviously, we can’t reveal the source if anybody asks.’

I pause, surprised. Finn said he never gives tip-offs – and I know Jack has asked many times.

‘A body has been found.’

Nothing new, I want to say, but I don’t. Margot asked me not to tell anyone and I’ll respect her wishes and do the right thing, for once.

I pretend to look shocked.

‘The police think it’s Flora Powell,’ he says. ‘You know, the sister of Heather Underwood.’

‘Yes. I know who Flora is.’

‘But that’s not all,’ he says. He can hardly contain himself. He’s like a comedian on a stage who can’t wait to deliver the punchline. ‘The body has been found in a house in Southville, Bristol.’

I frown. Southville? My stomach twists. Please no …

‘In a Victorian house in Ridings Road, apparently owned by Clive Wilson.’

I feel sick. ‘What?’

His eyes are shining. ‘That’s right. At last there’s a motive. It seems like Clive Wilson killed Heather’s sister. She must have found out somehow, and shot him in revenge.’

My head is spinning. It would make more sense than the idea that Heather had shot the Wilsons in some indiscriminate attack. Heather was always ultra-protective of her sister.

‘Can you and Jack go to the address now? See what you can find out?’ It’s not really a question and Ted has already turned away to talk to Ellie before I can answer.

Jack pulls his camera case onto his shoulder. Without speaking, we leave the office, almost bumping into Sue as she’s coming through the front door. She knocks me with her elbow and my coffee spurts over the top of the plastic rim. She’s wearing new glasses that take up almost half of her face.

‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ She laughs, pushing her glasses further up her nose while I lick the coffee from the lid.

‘A body’s been found,’ says Jack. ‘It’s all go here today, Sue.’ He glances at me, about to make a quip, no doubt, but I shoot him a look that says, Don’t make jokes. Not about this. And he closes his mouth.

‘What a story this is turning out to be,’ says Jack, as he strides down Park Street. He turns his collar up against the rain and I try to hold my umbrella over his head, but he’s way too tall and one of the spokes keeps jabbing him in the ear. ‘Here, let me have that,’ he says, taking it from me. I link my arm through his while he holds it over both of us. ‘This must be weird for you,’ he says.

I sip my coffee. ‘It is. When I first heard, I thought there must be some mistake, that Heather couldn’t possibly have shot those two people. But now … if Clive had killed Flora and she’d somehow found out, well, it makes more sense. It’s still extreme, don’t get me wrong, but more understandable somehow.’

He’s quiet for a few moments. Then, frowning, he says, ‘What doesn’t make sense, though, is why she’d kill his mother. Why did she kill Deirdre Wilson as well?’





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