Then She Vanishes(69)
Jess
As soon as we arrive at the terraced road in Southville, with its row of almost identical Victorian houses, we spot Clive’s instantly. It stands out like a flamboyant wedding cake in a line of chocolate sponges. It’s been cordoned off with police tape, and a white forensics tent has been erected in the front garden, obscuring the entrance to the basement. A police officer is standing on the front steps, a notebook in his hand, assessing the small crowd of onlookers that has gathered on the rain-slick pavement, shivering in their coats. As yet I can’t see any other journalists or TV stations.
The house is a far cry from the well-kept Tilby cottage. Paint flakes around the window frames, the net curtains look grubby and the roof is missing a few tiles. I can see that the front garden is overgrown: no cute gnomes or umbrella stands here.
My recently digested latte curdles in my stomach as it hits me, again, that this is where Flora’s decomposing body was discovered. I glance at the tent. Is that the actual spot where they found her? Or are they using it to block out the view into the basement?
It’s stopped raining now, but there is dampness in the air and the sky is thick with grey clouds.
Jack sets down his tripod, a hand to the small of his back as he bends over. We’d parked in the next street even though it would take only fifteen minutes to walk from my place. The way Jack’s acting you’d think we had to trek miles with his camera equipment on his shoulders, like a mule.
He winces as he stands up. The bruise around his eye has turned a yellowy purple, and it’s in stark contrast to his pale face. ‘I must have pulled a muscle.’ He grimaces.
I roll my eyes. ‘Seriously? We’ve just walked around the corner.’
He turns away from me to set up his tripod on the pavement opposite Clive’s house and, for one brief, disbelieving moment, I wonder if I’ve offended him. Jack and I always take the piss out of each other. That’s our thing. It’s always done with affection. It’s because we’re close and have the same sense of humour. He’d normally retaliate with a killer comeback: he’d make a quip about my clothes, hair or accent. But he’s silent as he carefully places the camera on top of the tripod.
I touch his shoulder softly. ‘Hey. I didn’t mean it. Are you okay?’
‘Sure. Of course.’ But he doesn’t look at me as he says it.
I’m about to say more when I’m distracted by someone standing at the edge of the gathered crowd. It might have been nearly twenty years since I last saw him, but I can tell it’s him by the way he stands, the arc of his neck, the floppy, curly hair that looks like it should belong on a Labradoodle. He’s wearing jeans and a tan leather biker jacket, with a stripy scarf thrown stylishly around his throat. Even from here I can tell he’s handsome. He reminds me a little of a taller, duskier Rory. I move slowly away from Jack and cross the narrow street so that I’m standing beside the man.
I clear my throat and he turns his head in my direction. He must be nearly forty now. He has lines fanning from his eyes and bracketing his mouth, but he hasn’t changed much. There is no grey amid the thatch of dark curls. His eyes are still a startling blue. He doesn’t recognize me, I can tell. I bet he hardly noticed me back then. I was just a friend of Flora’s sister. A kid. Practically invisible to the likes of Dylan Bird.
I decide to use my anonymity to my advantage. ‘What do you think’s going on here, then?’ I ask, flashing him my most charming smile.
He thrusts his hands into his pockets. ‘I heard a body’s been found. They think it’s been there years.’ He talks out of the side of his mouth. I’d forgotten he used to do that.
I wonder how he would have heard. Maybe a friend lives in this street.
‘Did you know the man who lived there?’
He frowns, the lines between his eyebrows transforming into deep furrows, giving him a wolf-like appearance. ‘I met him once or twice. A long time ago.’
He met him once or twice. How? How did Dylan know Clive?
‘Do you live around here, then?’
He shakes that mop of curls. ‘About five minutes away. I was just passing on my way to work.’ He looks at his watch theatrically. ‘Which reminds me, I’d better get going.’ He steps away from me but I grab his arm.
‘Wait!’ I cry. ‘Dylan. It’s me. Jessica Fox. I was Heather Powell’s best friend. I met you when you were going out with her sister, Flora.’
His eyes narrow as he surveys me. ‘Oh, yeah. I remember you. And Heather. She attacked me once.’
‘I know. I read about it in the newspapers.’ Heather had played down the incident at the time. She must have been embarrassed. I would have been, too. It was so out of character for her to be violent. Or was it? Now I know she shot her father, when she was only ten, I’m not so sure. The more I find out about Heather the less convinced I am of her innocence. I’m reminded of the differences that always lay between us, which I’d refused to see. Like how, out of the two of us, I always thought I was the stronger, harder, more independent one because Heather seemed quieter, softer than me. Yet the incident with the riding crop, the possessive way she acted around Flora, her justification to me of her uncle Leo when he’d killed a sheep that had wandered onto their land, all point to someone who was much steelier than I’d given her credit for.