‘Some bloke Flora met off the Waltzers.’
Jess linked her arm through hers. ‘Don’t worry. She’s a big girl, she’ll be fine. Come on. Why don’t we go and see if Zac and his mates are here?’ Jess brushed her mousy blonde fringe from her face. Was that blue eye-liner she was wearing? Heather felt the all-too-familiar anxiety tug at her insides – first Flora going off with some strange lad and now her best friend wearing make-up and talking about finding that moron Zac and his mates.
She turned away, trying desperately to spot Flora. But her sister had been swallowed by the crowds.
‘Hey, she’ll be okay,’ said Jess, watching Heather intently. ‘You worry too much. Come on.’
Heather tried to smile, but she suddenly felt a sense of foreboding so strong she had to pause to catch her breath. She pushed down her unease and followed Jess further into the fair.
10
I must be dreaming but I’m remembering you and the fair, the music, the crowds. I start to feel scared, just like I did the first time I went there, and I begin to thrash around, my legs jerking, but it must be my imagination because I know I can’t move. I feel like I’m under water and that the surface is up ahead, glinting enticingly, the sun beaming down, like the light at the end of a tunnel, but I can’t reach it. I can’t pull myself out of the cold darkness. I can’t reach you.
I don’t know if I let out a moan. Is that voices I hear? A hand stroking my brow? Is it my mother? I’m desperate to talk to her, to explain. I need to tell her what happened, and why, before it’s too late. But I can’t move, I can’t speak. Is this what it feels like to be dying?
My mind slips back to the fair. It’s all I can think about. And even in my muddy, confused state I know that the fair is very important. That it all started there. I mustn’t forget. It’s the link to everything.
11
Jess
BRISTOL AND SOMERSET HERALD
Friday, 16 March 2012
WOMAN BRANDISHING A GUN SPOTTED BY NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR
by Jessica Fox
An Eye-Witness to last week’s shootings saw a woman leaving the property with a gun on the morning of the double murder in Tilby.
Peter Bright, 37, who lives next door to where mother and son Deirdre and Clive Wilson were shot dead, described seeing a ‘dark-haired woman’ leaving their cottage with a gun used for ‘hunting’.
He said: ‘I had just come back from a run and thought I heard a shot, then a thump and a bang coming from next door. I didn’t think too much about it until I was putting the bins out. And then I saw this dark-haired woman stride down their garden path with what looked like a shotgun slung over her shoulder as though about to go and shoot birds. She had a derangedlook on her face. I watched her get into her car and then I heard screams from my wife. When I turned back I saw what Holly was screaming about. The Wilsons’ front door was wide open and Deirdre’s body was slumped at the foot of the stairs. That’s when I put two and two together and realized the woman I saw had just shot Deirdre Wilson.’
Mr Bright continued, ‘I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The woman was totally calm when she left the house. She got into a sky-blue estate car. I remember thinking it was weird because I’d passed that car over an hour earlier while on my run, which must have been about 6 a.m. And that same car had been heading into Tilby Manor Caravan Park and had been driving very erratically.’
Avon and Somerset police are appealing for more witnesses to come forward.
I file the story in time for the lunchtime deadline so it will appear in tomorrow’s paper, then take a long slug of coffee.
Peter had been twitchy when Jack and I visited him first thing this morning. We’d just turned up on the off-chance he would be in. He worked from home, he said. Something in software. He was obviously a keen runner as he was still in his Lycra when we got there, although he didn’t look as though he’d just been exercising: he was surprisingly fresh-faced with no hint of sweat. His wife, Holly, made us a cup of tea served in floral bone-china cups, then sat next to Peter on the sofa in their small, immaculate living room, too close so that her right side was pressed up against his left. There was an overpowering smell of plug-in air freshener in the room, butdespite the bright furnishings the cottage was dark and a bit gloomy. It was the views of the beach and the sea beyond that were the selling point. Holly had seemed nervous, too, and didn’t want to go on record or give any quotes, even though she described to us the full horror of finding Deirdre Wilson slumped on the hallway floor.
‘There was so much blood,’ she said, shredding a tissue into her lap. ‘More than I thought there would be, not that I knew what to expect. Her eyes were wide and staring …’ She gulped. ‘I’ll never forget it.’
Peter placed his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders. Then he explained to us that their house was the mirror opposite of Deirdre and Clive’s. ‘And as it’s a terrace I could hear every bang. I didn’t know they were shots. Obviously you don’t expect to hear gunshots, do you? That’s why it was such a shock to see that woman carrying a gun leaving their house. She acted like she didn’t care who saw her. I mean, she could have come in the middle of the night. Under darkness. You know?’
I’d sat and nodded as I took notes. I still found it hard to believe we were sitting there talking about Heather. And where had she been coming back from at six in the morning? Why had she not been at home, tucked up in bed with Adam? Or downstairs feeding her little boy? Had she spent the night somewhere else? With someone else?
The shootings had taken place around 6.45 a.m. So what had she been doing before that?
‘I don’t understand why anybody would want to kill them,’ said Holly, into a tissue. ‘I know they hadn’tlived there very long but they seemed normal. Deirdre spent most of the time either pottering in the garden or walking her dog along the beach. A few older ladies would drop in from time to time, with a cake. I think she held the odd coffee morning. She was in the WI, you know …’ She sniffed and dabbed delicately at her nose. ‘Clive kept himself to himself. He would also walk Hulk …’ I raised an eyebrow and she laughed. ‘I know. Odd name for a dog that looks like a teddy bear. I think they wanted something masculine. It was plain to see he loved that dog. I’d sometimes bump into him on the way to the newsagent’s where he’d always go to collect theRadio Timeson a Saturday morning, or coming back from the pub as I was putting out the bins. He always said hello. They weren’t loud people. They didn’t play music or bang around the house. They just seemed …’ she stared up at me with woeful eyes ‘… decent.’
After I’d finished interviewing them, Jack took Peter outside so he could photograph him standing in the front garden, with the Wilsons’ cottage in full view behind him. I stood watching, hoping the rain would hold off long enough for Jack to get a decent shot. The house was no longer cordoned, but seven or eight bunches of flowers had been left to wilt in the Wilsons’ neat front garden. While Jack was busy repositioning Peter and snapping away, I wandered over to take a closer look at the Wilsons’ house. The curtains were closed but the place was tidy, with garden gnomes and stone animals dotted around the front garden and between the well-tended plants. There was a Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the living-room window and a wrought-ironumbrella stand in the corner of the front porch. I wondered if anybody had been in there to clean away the blood in the hallway.
Then I drifted over to the flowers. Most of the messages attached had faded in the rain but there was one from Deirdre’s granddaughter, Lisa, withTo a wonderful Granscrawled on a card attached to a drooping bouquet of lilies and another from ‘the ladies at the WI’ on some wilting peach roses.
I was about to walk away when I saw a bunch of carnations that looked fresher than the rest. The card wasn’t signed, but I could tell there was writing on it. I crouched to get a closer look. Written in large block capitals were the words ‘THIS WAS ONE BULLET YOU COULDN’T DODGE.’
