Then She Vanishes(70)

And now this. A motive. It’s a difficult thing to come to terms with, but I have to accept that Heather shot dead Clive and Deirdre.

I’ve been conflicted over this for so long. But now I’m almost relieved.

‘What are you doing here?’ asks Dylan.

I realize I’m still holding his arm, and I remove my hand, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I’m a journalist now. I’ve been covering the story about Heather.’

I didn’t know he was living so locally. Could he have been following me? Had he planted those photographs behind my windscreen wiper and posted that bus ticket through my door? But why? What would have been his motive for following me and telling me to back off?

I still haven’t told Jack about the photographs.

Dylan swears under his breath. ‘I need a fag.’

I open my bag and retrieve my packet of Marlboro Gold. ‘Here,’ I say, offering it. He takes one without saying thank you, and waits for me to light it for him. When I’ve done so, we both move away from the crowd.

‘I can’t get over this,’ he mutters, as we walk down the street. ‘It’s like Rose and Fred West all over again.’

‘I hope not. They had more than one body buried in their garden.’

Dylan raises his eyebrows. ‘Maybe now everybody will stop pointing the finger at me,’ he says. He takes a deep puff on his cigarette. ‘The police wouldn’t leave me alone after Flora went missing. Even when my fairground mates vouched for me. The cops made my life a misery. They were everywhere. They questioned everyone who worked there and wouldn’t let us leave. We were supposed to go up to Blackpool but we had to stay on in Tilby until the police had finished with their enquiries.’

Dylan stops to lean against a wall, one leg bent backwards with his foot resting on the brick. He still manages to look cool. Part of me wishes he’d become fat and ugly in the interim years. For Flora. But no. Here he is looking better than ever. Arsehole. While beautiful, vibrant Flora has been reduced to decaying bones. He might not have killed Flora but it’s still his fault she’s dead. He should have walked her home. She was just sixteen years old.

Jack is oblivious to me and Dylan standing further up the street – he’s too busy snapping away with his camera. He’s now taken it off the tripod and has it pressed up to his face as he tries to get as close to the forensics tent as possible. Any minute now I’m sure he’ll be shooed away by the police officer. I had better be quick.

‘When did you meet Clive?’

He exhales smoke slowly into the misty air. ‘Oh, years ago. My mum was dating his brother, Speedy.’

‘Speedy?’

‘That was his nickname. Because he supplied drugs and was always on speed. But his real name was Norman.’

Norman. Oh, my God. ‘Norman Wilson was dating your mum in 1994?’ Is he still involved with drugs? Were both Clive and Norman dealers? Were they running some kind of drugs racket here in Bristol? But Norman had said he hadn’t seen much of Clive over the years.

He nods. ‘For a few years. They split up a year or so after Flora went missing.’

‘And Clive and his mum, Deirdre? You knew them too?’

‘We spent Christmas with them once. There, actually.’ He gestures to the house down the street.

Jack is now glancing around for me. He waves when he spots me but Dylan doesn’t notice. ‘It was before I met Flora. Must have been Christmas ’ninety-three. They seemed okay. Deirdre was nice. Chatty, fussing around us all, making sure we had enough to eat and drink. She had a couple of cute dogs. Clive was quiet, a bit odd, but nothing out of the ordinary, although it was obvious he was a total mummy’s boy.’

‘In what way was he odd?’

He takes another puff on his cigarette. ‘Not very friendly. Avoided eye contact, that kind of thing. He’d stare at my mum a lot, too, when she wasn’t looking. I noticed him leering at her arse as she helped Deirdre carry the roast spuds through to the dining room.’

I picture Clive from the photographs that Norman’s daughter Lisa had emailed across. He hadn’t looked particularly sinister. But, then, it’s not as though psychopaths have it tattooed on their foreheads, is it? ‘Did Flora and Clive ever meet?’

‘That’s the weird thing,’ he says. ‘I can’t remember them ever meeting. He did come to the fair once, though. That summer. With Speedy. Norman,’ he corrects himself. ‘But I can’t remember if Flora was there that day.’

‘And Deirdre?’

‘Deirdre never came to the fair. I only met her that one time at Christmas.’

I try to get it all straight in my mind. ‘So, the day Clive visited you and Norman, how long was it before Flora went missing?’

He pushes his hair back from his face. ‘I don’t know.’ He sounds irritated. ‘A few days. That same week, I’m sure. But it’s a long time ago. I can’t remember exactly.’

‘But the day Flora went missing. You didn’t see him?’

He shakes his head.

Something doesn’t add up. ‘Why was Norman at the fair? Did he work there?’

Dylan drops the cigarette butt onto the pavement and grinds it into the tarmac with the heel of his boot. ‘No. Not exactly. He used to supply us with drugs.’ His head shoots up. ‘You’re not reporting any of this, are you?’ He moves away from the wall and stands up straight. ‘We’re just old mates, having a chat.’