Then She Vanishes Page 8

  Jack frowns, his eyes flickering to the lads, then back to me. ‘Like I said earlier, I think I know. The scandal. It was all over the news. Were you involved?’ He rips open both packets of crisps and places them between us with a help-yourself gesture.

  Behind him, through the window, I can see that it’s already getting dark. It’s still a few weeks until the clocks go forwards. People are scurrying past on their way home from work, huddled under umbrellas. I think of the walk to the Welsh Back and shudder, remembering the footsteps the other night, the sense that I was being followed. I could really do with a glass of wine.

  Jack shovels a handful of crisps into his mouth and I take a deep breath. I need to get this off my chest. ‘Yes. It was immoral. I know that now. A teenage girl was found dead after overdosing on drugs. She was missing for a few months before that, and during that time we – we hacked her phone, as well as her stepdad’s.’

  He takes a sharp breath, nearly choking on the crisps. ‘I had an inkling that’s what you were going to say. But were you arrested?’

  ‘No. My news editor was. The buck stopped with him. But …’ I blink back tears ‘… I was involved. So was my colleague, Mark. We shouldn’t have done it. We knew it was wrong, but we were running on adrenalin. It was a big case. A missing teenage girl. We all assumed her stepdad might have had something to do with it. Things had become shady. The boundaries were unclear. I was sacked, along with Mark and a few others, including my editor. We were so desperate for the story. We thought if we hacked their phones we’d find out something incriminating about the stepdad … It was stupid. Reckless.’

  Jack swallows. ‘Shit, Jess. Does Ted know?’

  I nod and shuffle in my seat. I pick up a crisp but don’t eat it, just hold it uselessly. ‘Yes. I had to be honest with him. He would have found out anyway. But he took me on, providing I kept on the right side of the law, of course. He gave me a second chance and I’m so grateful for that. Oh, God, Jack, it was just horrible. The worst. The embarrassment. The fear I’d be arrested. Charged. Prison, even. The trial is still hanging over my editor and others … Well, you’ll have read about it, no doubt. I felt so guilty – I still feel guilty, especially towards the girl’s family.’

  Jack exhales through his nose. Then, ‘What does Rory think?’

  This is the bit I’m most ashamed of. ‘I never told him. Not about me. He knows my editor was arrested and charged but that’s it.’

  Jack’s eyes are round with shock. ‘What? How could he not know?’

  I put down the crisp, feeling sick. ‘He wouldn’t have a clue what goes on. He’s not a part of this murky world, thank God. And I wasn’t charged. I told him they had to get rid of me because of cutbacks.’

  He groans. ‘You lied? Oh, Jess.’

  I close my eyes. I have a headache coming on. ‘I know,’ I mumble, massaging my temples. ‘Rory thinks the best of me. I suppose I didn’t want to disappoint him by admitting I was also involved.’

  I open my eyes. Jack reaches across the table and takes my hand. He doesn’t say anything – he doesn’t have to – just squeezes my fingers gently.

  I feel close to tears but I won’t cry. ‘He would look at me differently. He wants marriage, kids, the whole fairytale. And I want it too. After my upbringing …’ I swallow a lump in my throat ‘… I want a good man. A family man. I just …’ I lower my voice so that it’s barely audible ‘… I just don’t know if I deserve it.’

  Jack leans forwards, still holding my hand. ‘Of course you do. You realize you made a mistake. Nobody’s perfect, Jess. Blimey. Certainly not me and I bet certainly not Rory, whatever you think. But you should tell him.’

  ‘I know.’ I take my hand from his and push the crisps packet away from me. I’ve completely lost my appetite. ‘There’s more,’ I say.

  Jack stays silent, waiting, as he regards me over his pint glass.

  ‘The case I’m talking about. It was Marianne Walker-Smith.’

  He snorts. ‘Shit.’

  I don’t need to tell him what happened. The whole country knows. Marianne, a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, went missing on Christmas Eve eighteen months ago from Reading. Everyone, including the press, suspected her stepfather, a rough-looking local hard nut made good. Wayne Walker was a builder, who made a lot of money but couldn’t shed his thuggish image despite his flash cars and fancy suits. He was arrested but released with no charge after lack of evidence. A few months later, and just before I was sacked, Marianne’s body was found on Clapham Common. A heroin overdose. She’d got in with the wrong crowd, the police said, and run away from home. There had been sightings of her with an older man, but nothing to suggest she’d been murdered.

  But Wayne was angry and wanted someone to blame. One evening, when I still lived in London, I was on my way home from a night out with friends when he accosted me as I was walking alone to the tube station, slamming me into a wall and breathing into my ear that he would fuck me up, among other things.

  ‘You weren’t the only journalist who slagged him off in the press,’ says Jack, when I finish telling him. ‘Why did he come after you?’

  I run my finger around the rim of my glass. ‘I don’t know. Someone saw, yelled out and he ran off. But I knew who he was. I recognized his bulldog face.’

  ‘It was just an empty threat. He wouldn’t do anything. He can’t know where you live now.’

  I remember how scared I’d felt the other night when I’d thought I was being followed. ‘No. You’re right. It just freaked me out.’

  ‘Not surprising. He sounds like a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘I think he knew something about the phone hacking. Maybe someone in the police tipped him off. It was before my editor was charged –’

  I’m interrupted by Finn walking through the door. He looks smart, dressed in drainpipe jeans, a white shirt and a pin-striped blazer. He’s shorter than Jack, although still tall at about six foot, with white-blond hair and blue eyes. He reminds me of Matt and Luke Goss from Bros. He’s a year younger than me, and I know that I, of all people, shouldn’t judge but it’s hard to believe he’s a cop.

  He shakes out an umbrella and looks around until he spots us. Irritation briefly passes over his face when he sees me sitting with Jack. ‘Oh,’ he says, coming over to us, looking flustered. ‘I didn’t realize you were meeting Jess first.’

  I stand up so quickly I feel light-headed. ‘I’m just going.’

  ‘You haven’t finished your drink,’ says Jack. ‘Don’t go yet. You don’t mind, do you, Finn?’

  Finn looks like he does mind. Very much. But he’s too polite to say so. Instead he hastily scouts around for another chair while I squirm with embarrassment, wanting nothing more than to make a swift exit. I don’t want to play gooseberry.

  He pulls up a seat between me and Jack. ‘So, how’s things?’ he says to me. ‘You okay? How’s Rory?’

  ‘Fine. We’re both fine. You?’

  ‘Busy with work. You know. Hoping to be made a sergeant so have to put the hours in.’

  I nod politely but the conversation feels formal and stilted. I love Jack so much. I just wish I felt as comfortable with Finn.

  ‘So, what are you working on at the moment? Still the Wilson case?’ he asks.

  ‘Yep. Can you give us anything? Tip-offs et cetera?’ I try to sound playful but his expression darkens.

  ‘You know I can’t. It’s unprofessional,’ he replies stiffly.

  Jack rolls his eyes. ‘Always the professional, eh, Finn.’ He winks but Finn doesn’t look amused.

  I down the rest of my Coke so fast it gives me indigestion and I suppress the urge to burp. ‘Anyway,’ I say, in a voice that sounds like I’ve inhaled helium, ‘I’d better be off. Rory will be wondering where I am.’

  I rummage in my bag for my umbrella and, telling Jack I’ll see him in the morning, I rush outside, the cold air instantly cooling my cheeks. I take a few deep breaths and stand under my umbrella for a minute, looking th
rough the window at Jack and Finn. Finn’s back is to me but I can see Jack glancing at his boyfriend tenderly, his hand over Finn’s.

  I walk briskly along the Watershed and cross the footbridge over the river. I wouldn’t normally go home this way – it can feel a bit lonely in the dark walking through Queen’s Square at this time of night – but it’s the most direct route to our flat from the pub. Queen’s Square is deserted, as most of the Georgian buildings that line the pavements are now offices, and I quicken my steps, trying to stop my imagination running away with me. But I’m sure I hear footsteps again. They sound heavy, like men’s boots. The rain is harder now and the wind tugs at my umbrella. I focus on my destination, walking as quickly as I can without running, and soon I exit the square and am passing the Llandoger Trow pub. I can see a few people huddled together outside it, smoking under an umbrella, the light from within casting an amber glow onto the cobbled pavement. A woman carrying a briefcase emerges from the building opposite and walks briskly in the other direction and I instantly feel safer, until I turn right onto the river and I’m alone again.

  I’m sure I can still hear the footsteps. Heavy and determined. I stop and turn around, ready to confront whoever is behind me, but there is nobody. Someone laughs, piercing the silence. I walk on, but as the river falls away and I’m enveloped by the tall buildings either side of me I can see shadows lurking in every doorway. It’s my imagination, I tell myself. There’s nothing here. I’m just feeling unnerved after reliving past events this evening, that’s all. But I deliberately walk in the middle of the cobbled road anyway, praying no cars turn down this way, until I reach my block.

  I fumble for my key, but don’t allow myself to panic. I turn the lock and let myself into the lobby, closing the heavy glass door behind me with relief. But as I do so I notice a light flash in the lower window of the derelict building opposite. A torch, perhaps. But it’s gone.

  Before I have time to think any more about it, my phone vibrates in my coat pocket. I retrieve it to see Margot’s name flashing up on the screen.

  14

  August 1994

  Flora was falling in love. She was certain of it. She’d never felt like this before. And Dylan was so different from anyone she’d ever met. They’d only been seeing each other for seven days, but it had been the best week of her life. Dylan made her feel so special. And he was nineteen. Nineteen. Three whole years older. She still couldn’t believe her luck that he was interested in her when he could have had anyone. She saw the way other girls flicked their hair and fluttered their eyelashes whenever he was around.

  The country was in the middle of a heatwave, and every day seemed hotter and more humid than the last. When they weren’t at the fair, they were at the beach, sunbathing or splashing about in the extremely cold Channel.

  ‘I don’t know why you keep mooning over that boy,’ Heather had said that afternoon, after Flora had begged her to go with her to the fair yet again. Heather was on her bed, an A4 sketchpad on her knee, getting away from the incessant heat. ‘You know the fair will move on in a couple of weeks and him with it. A girl in every town, I bet.’

  Flora had scowled in response. It wasn’t like Heather to be mean, yet here she was acting like a jealous ex. ‘You’re my sister,’ she’d replied. ‘You’re supposed to be supportive.’

  It had had the desired effect, as Flora had known it would. Nothing like laying a guilt trip on Heather to get her to do what Flora wanted. It worked both ways, though – they’d been doing it to each other for as long as they could remember. So Heather reluctantly agreed to accompany her to the fair for the fifth time that week. On the days that Heather had refused, Flora had gone anyway. Her mother hadn’t noticed, too busy with customers. The caravan park was only in its second summer and the business was starting to take off. But Flora didn’t like to disobey Margot’s rules too often, if she could help it. She knew her mother’s strictness came from a good place, and that she cared more than anything for her and Heather. Which was more than could be said about Heather’s friend, Jess: her mother didn’t seem to give a toss where Jess was half the time, or for how long. Jess might as well have lived with them, the amount of times she stayed over.

  Jess was here now, standing by the coconut stall wearing a crop top and too much make-up. She was jigging along to ‘Saturday Night’ by Whigfield that was blaring out of a nearby ghettoblaster. God, Flora hated that song. Someone had brought a tape back from their holidays in Benidorm and unfortunately it seemed to have caught on. There was even a bloody dance. She’d caught Heather and Jess doing it the other night in Heather’s bedroom. They’d looked mortified, mid-pose, when she came bounding in, Jess in particular. Flora knew Jess wanted her to think she was cool.

  Jess blushed now at the sight of them. ‘Hi, Heather, Flora.’

  Flora smiled kindly, then cast her eyes about for Dylan. Where was he? She couldn’t see him in his usual spot on the Waltzers.

  ‘Right, I’m off to find Dylan,’ she said to Heather, undoing the top button of her lacy blouse and repositioning her yin-and-yang velvet choker. She gathered her hair away from her neck. It was nearly seven thirty but it was still stifling hot and the air smelt sickly sweet. ‘I’ll meet you back here about nine fifteen. Okay?’

  Heather folded her arms across her chest. ‘Fine. But don’t be late. I don’t want to piss Mum off.’

  Flora sighed. Heather was such a party-pooper. ‘I won’t be late.’ Over her sister’s shoulder she spotted Dylan in the distance. He was with another bloke. Someone she didn’t recognize, not that she’d met many of Dylan’s friends yet. This bloke looked a lot older than Dylan, with a hard face and lots of piercings. Flora didn’t want to sound all middle-class about it, but she thought he looked a bit … unsavoury.

  Jess took Heather’s arm and led her away, chattering in her ear, although it didn’t look as though Heather was listening. Flora wanted to reassure her sister, tell her not to worry. But she knew it would fall on deaf ears. Even though Flora was the elder, it was Heather who was more sensible and reliable, Heather who had looked out for them both when their dad died.

  Flora waved at Dylan, who raised a hand in return, but he didn’t smile. He was in deep conversation with Mr Piercings. She stood where she was, waiting for them to reach her, not wanting to interrupt.

  There was something different about Dylan tonight, thought Flora, as he approached. He was attempting a smile, despite a tension around his mouth. ‘This is my gypsy girl, Flora,’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘And this,’ he indicated Mr Piercings, ‘is Speedy. My mum’s boyfriend.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Flora, wondering why he had that nickname.

  He held out a hand. She noticed his fingernails were yellow and bitten down. Flora took it dutifully, not wanting to appear impolite. Manners. Manners. Manners. Her mother had drilled it into them since they were little. But really Flora wanted to recoil. He was even odder-looking up close, although younger than she’d initially thought. He had a distinctive tattoo on his neck of a green parrot. How could Dylan’s mum fancy this guy? She’d not met her, of course, considering she’d only known Dylan a week and he was living on-site with the other workers at the fair. But he’d shown her a photo of a delicate pretty blonde, with the same dazzling blue eyes as his own. His mum had had him young, he said. She’d only been seventeen, and he’d never known his dad.

  ‘Nice to meet ya,’ said Speedy. He had a similar accent to Dylan – London, with a hint of West Country. His eyes lingered a little too long on the open neck of her blouse.

  Dylan, as if noticing, pulled her closer to him. ‘Anyway, Speedy just popped in to say hi. He’s off home now. Say hi to Mum for me.’

  Speedy grinned in response. ‘Yep, that’s right. I’m going. But I’ll bring your mum next week. It’s been a while since she’s seen you. Think about what I said, though, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Dylan, his jaw set.

  ‘Great.’ Speedy smirked at Flora, then at D
ylan, before turning around and walking off.

  Dylan didn’t say anything for a few moments, watching Speedy weave his way through the crowds. It wasn’t until he’d disappeared that Dylan turned to her. ‘Sorry about that. He’s a bit of a prat.’

  ‘He’s your stepdad?’ Flora said, unable to believe it.

  ‘Not stepdad. My mum’s boyfriend. It won’t last five minutes. He’s all right, really.’

  ‘You just said he was a prat.’

  Dylan grinned. ‘He’s all right … for a prat. But he’s harmless. And he’s good to Mum.’

  Something didn’t feel right but Flora couldn’t put her finger on it. She wasn’t used to boys, but she felt he was hiding something from her.

  ‘Is he local? I thought you said your mum lived in Swindon.’

  He shrugged. ‘She does. And he lives with her. For now. He came to give me this.’ His eyes lit up as he disentangled himself from her and retrieved something from his jeans pocket. Then he held it flat against his palm as though it was diamonds. It looked like a bag of herbs to her.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Pot.’

  She frowned. ‘Pot? As in …’

  ‘As in weed. Grass. Skunk. Whatever you want to call it.’ He folded his fingers around it and slipped it back into his pocket.

  Flora gasped. ‘Shit, Dylan. Drugs.’

  ‘Sssh,’ he hissed, looking wildly around him as though expecting the police to be lurking at the coconut stall. ‘I was hoping you’d smoke some with me.’

  Flora stared at her feet. Drugs. She didn’t even smoke cigarettes. She realized how provincial and out of her depth she really was. Despite the heat, she suddenly felt cold. ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘I thought you were cool.’ He sounded disappointed. ‘But maybe you’re too young for me, after all.’

  Her head shot up. She couldn’t let him think that. She’d let him touch her in places she’d never been touched. She hadn’t known her body could respond to someone like that, hadn’t known she could desire someone so much. She wanted him to be her first. If he dumped her now she wouldn’t be able to live, to breathe, without him. He occupied her every thought. It was like she was possessed.