Then She Vanishes(79)

The outer corner of her eyelid flickers, her face impassive.

I remember her twitchy eye. It’s hardly perceptible – you’d only notice it if you knew her well. If you’d maybe grown up with her or, like Adam, loved her and knew all her little idiosyncrasies.

Her eyelid always flickered very slightly when she was lying.

She’s still playing with her hands, almost like she’s nervous. I glance down. And that’s when I notice it. The rings. There’s her wedding and engagement ring on her left hand, a modest ruby among a cluster of diamonds. But also two others, one on each little finger, identical, small and gold with an oval crest on the front that looks a bit like a lion. I remember asking her about it when we were kids, because she always wore it. Then it was on her middle finger. Now there is one on each of her little fingers. She’d told me it was a family ring, handed down through the generations. She had one, so did Flora and her mother. I’d never heard of them before and was intrigued by this grown-up piece of jewellery that she was allowed to wear to school. It sounded very posh and aristocratic to me, and they weren’t like that, the Powells.

Flora never took hers off. She had been wearing it the day she disappeared.

So why was Heather wearing it now?





43




Jess


Heather doesn’t notice me staring in horror at the rings. Two, when there should be one. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe Flora hadn’t been wearing the ring when she disappeared. Except … I was there when Margot first reported Flora missing. Heather and I were standing at Margot’s side, Heather quietly sobbing. It had been late. Gone 11 p.m. Flora was never that late. I remember Margot giving a description to the police, telling them between hot, panicked breaths what her daughter had been wearing that day, including the gold signet ring. I remember because I’d loved the way it sounded like ‘cygnet’. My fourteen-year-old self had imagined lots of fluffy baby swans.

Why had Heather been crying? Could she have known then that Flora would never come home? As far as we were all aware at the time, she was just a few hours late. It was concerning, yes, given Flora’s history of always being punctual. But to cry? Had I thought it odd? I can’t remember. Because I had my own guilty secret: I knew Flora had gone off somewhere for the day with Dylan. I thought perhaps she’d decided to stay the night with him. But I wasn’t worried that she’d run away: the backpack she’d been wearing that morning was too small, not large enough to hold even one set of clothing, never mind more.

Heather had left me alone at her house earlier that evening, at around 7.30 p.m. I hadn’t remembered that until now. When she’d returned she had been wet and covered with mud. She said she’d slipped and fallen after getting her pony in from the field. She’d been wearing a skirt, not her usual riding gear. It had rained that night and I’d thought nothing of it. I’d waited for her in her room, happily doodling and listening to music until she came back. What time had she returned? It must have been nine-ish. Definitely before the curfew anyway, because I remember her looking at her watch and becoming agitated when it got to nine thirty and Flora wasn’t yet home, muttering something about Dylan.

I haven’t thought about that in years. Even after Flora went missing I didn’t think it was strange.

Until now.

Heather had killed her father, whether by accident or not, and now Clive and Deirdre Wilson. She was seen exiting their house on the morning of the murders. And she was caught on CCTV near Clive’s Bristol property earlier that same morning. Does she really not remember or is it just some convenient excuse? And as I watch my one-time best friend, sitting on the hospital bed, twisting the wedding ring on her finger and staring wistfully into nothing, I realize I hardly know her at all. We were friends for just over two years. Two years is such a short time in the grand scheme of things. It might have been an important moment in my life, but it’s a tiny slice out of our thirty-two years. Heather is a killer. There is no disputing that, however much I’ve been trying to convince myself. She’s killed not just once but three times. And now she’s wearing Flora’s ring. What does that mean?

I suppress a shiver despite the stuffy room.

She’s a fucking psychopath. I’m sitting here having a cosy chat with someone who is evidently dangerous. Maybe even criminally insane. I stand up so suddenly I almost knock over Heather’s water and save it just in time.

Heather looks up. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m … just hot,’ I say, replacing the plastic cup.

‘Not surprised. You’ve still got your coat on.’

I can’t speak. My mind is racing. Was she responsible for the photographs on my car? No, it couldn’t have been her. She’s been in hospital, under police guard. Then who? Adam? I thought I saw him that time, following me. Are they working together? Did he put the photographs on my car to warn me off? But what about the bus ticket? What did it all mean?

Why have you got Flora’s ring?

Just then Margot bustles into the room, armed with two takeaway cups. She’s all smiles. ‘Lovely to see you both catching up,’ she says, and her face falls as she notices I’m on my feet. ‘Are you leaving, Jess?’

‘I … um …’ I want to run back to the safety of my flat, jump into bed and stuff a pillow over my head to stop these relentless thoughts. I’ve always been the same: I ran from Heather as a teenager because I couldn’t face up to the part I’d played in Flora’s disappearance; I’ve distanced myself from my mother because she neglected me as a kid, then remarried and started a new life without me. And now I’m doing the same to Rory. But this. I can’t hide from this. I need to face it, head on.