Then She Vanishes(97)

I gather my things together and make my way to work. It’s not raining but a mist has settled over Bristol, giving everything an ethereal quality. As I walk the cobbled streets of the Welsh Back and turn left at the Llandoger Trow, I can almost imagine I’ve gone back in time. What had Flora been doing in the derelict building across from mine? It still doesn’t make sense. Was she the person who’s been following me? Did she post the bus ticket through my door in a bid to reach out to me? To tell me? How did she get into the building? And what about the photos and ‘Back off’? I can’t imagine they were from her.

It’s nearly nine as I trudge up Park Street and bump into Jack coming out of the newsagent’s with a can of full-fat Coke in his hand. ‘Need some energy,’ he says, holding up the can with a guilty look on his face, as though I’ve caught him with an illegal substance.

‘I could do with some of that this morning,’ I admit, and quickly fill him in on what happened last night.

‘Bloody hell!’ he exclaims, when I’ve finished. ‘So what does this mean for your friend, Heather?’

I push open the door to the building. Stan isn’t huddled on the ground this morning, which gives me hope that he might have found a bed last night.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But it throws doubt on the investigation. I suppose the police will question Flora.’

‘If she admits it, make sure you get the story before smug Harriet Hill has the chance.’ He smirks. ‘I’ve got some news also. Shall we go somewhere for lunch? Can’t really talk about it here.’ He lowers his voice to make his point.

‘Sure,’ I say, feeling lighter despite everything. I’ve missed Jack and feel guilty that I’d been silently accusing him of leaving the photos on my car.

‘Great.’ His eyes are shining as he slopes off towards Seth and the picture desk – if you can call it that.

I plonk my bag down and am taking off my coat when Ted strides over, holding a copy of the Daily News. ‘I know,’ I say, before he can start. ‘But I was the one who found Flora last night. I was the one who was at the hospital with her mother. I don’t know how Harriet got hold of that story before I’ve even had the chance to type it up.’ I jut out my chin, daring him to have a go at me.

To my surprise, he doesn’t. ‘It’s bad luck, I know,’ he says, running a hand across his stubbled jaw. ‘But we can print your Heather Underwood interview tomorrow. Maybe you can include a quote from Flora, if she’s well enough.’

I pull a doubtful face, although I’d love to see Flora again. I still can’t believe she’s alive.

‘But even so,’ he says, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans, ‘what you’ve done so far is great.’

I can only stare at him in shock as he walks back into his office. I smile to myself as I sit at my desk to type up the rest of Heather’s story, wondering how Harriet Hill found out that Flora had shot the Wilsons before I’d had the chance to.

I wait for Jack outside as he’s finishing up. I’ve had a productive morning, completing the Heather article, which will be front-page news tomorrow. I even had a call from Jared congratulating me on my ‘scoop’. Even Harriet bloody Hill won’t have that story, I think, as I light a cigarette and huddle in the doorway. It’s gone cold and we’ve been predicted snow, even though it’s late March. I see Stan walking down Park Street wrapped in a dirty blanket, a cap pulled down over his frizzy hair. I notice how people flash him sidelong glances of disapproval or pity. Others press their chins to their chests and hurry past, pretending not to notice him.

‘Hey, Jessie,’ he says, when he approaches me. He’s the only person, apart from Rory, who calls me Jessie. But it’s stuck and I don’t like to correct him now.

‘Sorry, Stan. Am I standing in your spot?’

‘You’re in my home.’ He grins, and I move out of the way so he can make himself comfortable in the corner. I hand him a couple of my cigarettes and he presses one to his lips so I light it for him. ‘Did you catch up with that geezer in the end?’ he asks, after he’s taken a few drags.

‘What geezer?’

‘The bloke who came looking for you last week.’

‘A bloke was looking for me last week?’ This is the first I’ve heard of it.

‘Yeah, tallish fella.’

I think of Flora and my suspicions that it had been she who was following me. ‘Could it have been a woman?’

He shakes his head and picks what I hope is a bit of ash out of his beard. ‘Nah. Definitely a bloke.’

I think of Wayne Walker. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Stocky. Quite handsome.’

That doesn’t sound like Wayne. Unless it was Adam. ‘Did he have dark hair and a beard?’

‘Nah. He was blond.’

I frown, trying to think. Was it Norman? ‘Was he quite old?’

‘He was young. Well, about your age, I reckon.’

‘What did he want?’

He pulls the blanket firmly around his shoulders. ‘Wanted to know your movements. What time you left, that kind of thing. He looked official, actually. I thought he was a policeman.’

A policeman? Why were the police looking for me? ‘Did he … did he say anything else?’