Then She Vanishes(4)

Heather tried to teach me to ride. She had such patience, leading me endlessly around the paddock on Lucky, while I tried to get the hang of it. She would tell me funny stories of her mishaps, like the time she thought she’d lost the use of her legs after one of the horses bucked her off. ‘I was such a drama queen about it,’ she’d said, giggling, ‘lying in the middle of the field insisting I was paralysed. My instructor just told me to stop being silly and get back on the horse.’ Despite Heather’s best efforts I never took to riding. I preferred spending time grooming the pony and French-plaiting its tail.

Heather had a menagerie of animals in that barn – a goat she’d rescued, chickens, a pet rat. She spent time with each one, tending them with such love I could only watch with a mixture of awe and envy. My own mother never allowed me to have any pets, saying they were a tie, but Heather’s mum, Margot, was happy for her to have all sorts of animals parading about the place. They even had a peacock that strutted across the field, showing off its feathers. Sometimes, guiltily, I wished my mum was more like Heather’s.

I keep trying to imagine that same sensible girl as a grown woman walking into a house and shooting dead two people.

Tilby’s only fifteen miles away. It won’t take me and Jack long to get there to find out for certain. If he ever turns up. I keep the car parked at my flat on the Welsh Back. It’s only a ten-minute walk from here.

I take another deep drag of the cigarette, instantly feeling calmer. I’ve given up everything else that was bad for me: London, the Daily Tribune, binge-drinking, the odd recreational drugs, the constant moving around, living with different housemates. But I can’t give up this. I need some vices.

I blow out smoke slowly. An old lady wearing a clear plastic hairnet shoots me a disapproving look as she shuffles past. Undeterred, I carry on puffing until only the butt is left. Why is Jack taking so long?

Tilby Manor Caravan Park. The name pops into my head. That was what the Powells had called it. I’d forgotten. I can still remember how much I loved spending time there. We spent our days sketching, or playing house in one of the empty caravans, or spying on Heather’s big sister and her boyfriend. It was idyllic, really. I spent more time at her home than I did my own.

Until our childhood was cut brutally short in 1994.

I went back to her house only a few times after that, and our friendship, which had once been so strong, began to weaken and break, like a strand of my now over-processed hair. By the time we were doing our GCSEs we were acquaintances, mumbling a hello to each other as we passed in the corridors.

If this woman, this killer, is the Heather I knew at school, the story could help my career and put me back on the map, which I desperately need after what happened at the Tribune. I know so much about her and her family. Too much.

But is that what I really want? And at what cost?





2




Jess


We speed down the M5 in my mint-green Nissan Figaro, Jack looking uncomfortable in the passenger seat. He’s been forced to lean to the side slightly so that he can get his legs in, even though he’s pushed the seat as far back as it will go. His camera bag sits on his lap and he cradles it like a beloved puppy.

I quickly fill him in on the story, casually throwing in that I once knew a Heather from Tilby. He’s not fooled. He knows me too well. I try to concentrate on the road to avoid the concern in his eyes. ‘It’s got to be her, hasn’t it? Do you want me to look it up on my phone? I can get the electoral roll. See who’s registered there?’

I shake my head emphatically, pushing away any doubts. ‘It’s not necessarily her. It would be extremely out of character.’ I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself. ‘And no point looking it up. We’ll be there soon.’ I’m trying to put off the inevitable.

‘But you said you haven’t seen her since you were teenagers. People change. Something might have happened to turn her into a killer.’

I shrug, trying to look like I couldn’t care less either way as I concentrate on ignoring the little voice inside my head that says, Do you remember what she told you? It was a secret you promised never to tell. And if you had told, it might not have happened. I mentally shake myself. I was fourteen. It was nearly twenty years ago. How can I be sure I’m recollecting it all correctly?

Jack shuffles against the seat. ‘I’m glad to be getting out the office. Honestly, if Mrs Hodge rings up one more time complaining about the photos I took of Fluffy …’

I giggle. ‘Fluffy? Seriously?’

‘It had been a quiet news day.’ He grins, then shifts his weight and winces. ‘I’m in pain here. Just saying.’

‘How tall are you?’ I laugh as I move into the left-hand lane. The turning for Tilby is coming up.

‘Nearly six five and most of that is leg.’ He raises an eyebrow as if daring me to contradict him. Not that I would. It’s true, he’s all limbs.

‘You’re practically a giant compared to me.’ I’m at least a foot shorter.

‘Yes, well, my height is a slight disadvantage when I’m forced to travel in Noddy’s car,’ he says, his eyes twinkling.

I smack him hard on his bony thigh. ‘And what do you suggest I drive? Some corporate BMW or Mercedes? You can always take the bus next time.’ But I’m smiling as I say it. Jack is one of my favourite people. Nothing ever seems to get him down. Five years younger than me, he’s full of spark, of life, always ready with a quip or a joke. When he started at the paper last summer we soon bonded over our shared love of cigarettes and Kraftwerk. At that time I’d been working at the Herald just a few months. Now he’s one of my closest friends in Bristol. Actually, he’s my only friend in Bristol, apart from my boyfriend, Rory.