‘Jack and I had planned to do that today.’
He looks mildly mollified, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. He chews his gum in silence for a couple of moments. Then, ‘Right. Good. But first you can write five hundred words on the fact Heather has come out of her coma and send it over to HQ. You’ve got an hour.’
He stalks off before I’ve had a chance to reply and everyone lets out a collective breath when Ted is safely back in his ‘office’. Jack widens his eyes over Seth’s head with a ‘What’s his problem?’ gesture.
I bash out the five hundred words that Ted wants,keeping it as simple as I can, so that Margot doesn’t find it offensive. I hesitate over revealing what Margot said about Heather not being able to remember. I was at the hospital as a friend on Friday night, not as a journalist, and it doesn’t sit right with me that I’m somehow betraying the family by writing this.
But what choice do I have? I need this job.
I breathe in the salty sea air, the stress of the past few days slowly ebbing away from me. Shackleton Road and the house where Clive and Deirdre were murdered are directly behind me. I’m standing where eye-witnesses say Heather parked, next to the wall overlooking the beach. The beach where we’d sometimes hang out, when we could be bothered to make the fifteen-minute walk. Tilby is hilly, and the town centre a good hike from the beach. You have to walk up some very steep cobbled streets to get to the shops. It was always fun to walk down, but walking back up the steep hill was a different matter. If we had the money we’d get the bus.
The tide is out today and the sand spreads before me, new and unmarked, like freshly rolled pastry. The boats in the harbour are marooned and it’s funny to see them beached. When the tide is in, though, the water reaches right up to this wall.
I’ve managed to get hold of Leo. He was surprised to hear from me. He lives in Bristol now, and has agreed to meet me after work at a café in Park Street. I feel apprehensive at the thought of seeing him again, especially as I kept it from him that I’m now a reporter. He thinks I’m only interested in catching up.
Jack is standing beside me, looking thoughtfully out to sea, a hint of a smile on his face.
‘It’s not exactly Brighton, is it?’ I laugh. Jack has been in a strange mood today. He’s quieter than normal and a lot of my banter has gone straight over his head.
He shrugs. ‘I’d like to live here.’
‘Really?’ It’s not a particularly sophisticated or happening place. The town is mostly full of chains or pound shops, the only arcade further up the hill. And, driving along the high street to get to the beach, it doesn’t look like it’s changed much. ‘I lived on the other side of town. No sea views for me.’
He laughs. ‘Still. A beach on your doorstep is a good thing.’
‘It was hardly on my doorstep. I was surrounded by countryside mostly. There were a lot of cowpats.’
He turns so that he’s facing the row of terraced houses on Shackleton Road and starts taking more snaps. I follow him as he enters the Wilsons’ front garden. There are no new flowers or cards, and the bouquets that were left there after it happened are all dead, the leaves paper-thin and brown. I wonder who will remove them. A family member, perhaps. I think of the message,This was one bullet you couldn’t dodge. Who could have written it? And why?
I still can’t believe this happened. That Heather did something so …brutal.
‘I want to try the other next-door neighbours again,’ I say to Jack, as he stands back, checking his viewfinder. They were away on the day of the shootings, but they might know something about Clive or Deirdre.
I walk to the house on the right of the Wilsons’. It’s painted a pale ice-cream pink, with shutters at the windows. It has an extra floor, dwarfing Deirdre and Clive’s house. I knock, Jack at my shoulder, and wait, hoping they’re in. It’s eleven so they’re most likely at work. Jack and I really need to try in the evening. Just when we’re about to retreat down the front path, the door opens revealing a woman in a dressing-gown. She’s around forty, with a tissue pressed to her nose. She looks like she’s just got out of bed.
‘I’m so sorry to disturb you,’ I begin, then introduce myself and Jack. ‘Do you mind if I ask you some questions about your neighbours, Clive and Deirdre Wilson?’
She blinks at us, as though the light is too bright for her eyes. ‘Which paper are you from again?’
‘TheBristol and Somerset Herald.’
She shrugs and, to my surprise and excitement, she lets us into the house. ‘Excuse the state of me,’ she says. ‘Terrible cold. Taking a sickie. But don’t put that in the paper.’ She laughs, then coughs dramatically while Jack and I look on helplessly.
When she’s recovered she indicates that we follow her into the living room. It’s spacious, decorated in various shades of grey, with a huge bay window and high ceilings. ‘Lovely place you’ve got here,’ I say. The view is even better from here than it is at the Brights’ house, on the other side of the Wilsons’, which is slightly obscured by the lifeboat station.
‘Thanks. Please, sit.’
Jack and I perch on the sofa, as far away from her aspossible, not wanting to catch her germs. I reach into my bag for my notebook. ‘So, your name …?’
She perches on the window-seat. ‘I’m Netta Black.’
‘And how well did you know Deirdre and Clive?’ I ask.
She pulls her dressing-gown further around herself. It’s nearly floor-length and a deep sable velour. She glances at Jack self-consciously. ‘I’ve been here four years, and they moved in not that long ago, so I didn’t know them very well, mostly just to say hello to, although my husband, George, went down the local pub – you know the Funky Raven?’ I shake my head. ‘– with Clive a couple of times. Until he was barred.’
‘Your husband was barred?’
She laughs, then splutters into a handkerchief. ‘No. Clive was barred. I’m not sure why. Some disagreement with the owner. George didn’t really know much about it. And Clive didn’t always live here anyway. He stayed with his mum a couple of times a week but I think he’d got a place Bristol way.’
