He looked as though he was about to burst with anger. His big, round head reminded Heather of the blueberries from the Ribena adverts. ‘Give that back to me, you little shit,’ he spluttered.
‘You leave Flora alone,’ cried Heather, taking another step backwards.
He looked confused for a second. ‘I’m not touching Flora. Now give me back the gun or you’ll get a good hiding from me. You and your sister.’
And that was when she pulled the trigger.
She’d been so consumed with anger and fear that her mind was blank as the gun fired in her hands, her arm shuddering under the weight of it.
It was surreal, like watching a movie. Heather felt as if she had floated away from her body and was looking down at them all, watching as her father flew backwards, his eyes wide with surprise, the blood spreading across the front of his shirt. And then their mother’s cries and Flora’s screams, and Heather had dropped the gun to cover her ears because it was all too much.Too much.
And now Flora was scheming behind her back with Jess. Keeping secrets. Pushing her away. After everything.
The floorboard outside her room creaked and Heather jumped into bed, pretending to be asleep, before Jess realized she knew everything.
She couldn’t lose Flora. Not now, not after all they’d been through. She needed to speak to her as soon as possible. She’d heard Flora telling Jess she’d be getting the bus home before dark, which meant she’d be arriving at the bus stop just outside the clock tower at no later than 9 p.m.
And Heather would be waiting.
41
I can’t stop thinking about your last moments. They haunt my dreams. And the blood. So much blood, blooming like ink across your blouse, gathering in the ruts of concrete under your head. The shock in your eyes that someone you love – someone who loves you – could hurt you. I held you in my arms, after. Did you know that? I held you and I rocked you, and I cried because I’d been unable to protect you.
That’s all I have ever tried to do.
42
Jess
BRISTOL AND SOMERSET HERALD
Friday, 23 March 2012
POLICE MYSTIFIED BY BODY IN BASEMENT
by Jessica Fox
A body found in the basement of a Tilby couple who were shot dead two weeks ago is not that of missing teen Flora Powell, police have revealed.
Clive Wilson and his mother Deirdre were killed in Deirdre’s home in Shackleton Road on Friday, 9 March. While searching Clive Wilson’s Victorian property in Southville, Bristol, police discovered the body of a young girl, thought to be aged between fifteen and seventeen, buried in the basement. An excavation had to be carried out after a crumbling internal wall in the basement collapsed during the routine search, revealing the bones. The body is thought to have been at the house since the mid-1990s.
Heather Underwood, who is recovering in hospital from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, is currently under police arrestfor killing Deirdre and Clive Wilson, although no charge has yet been made.
Her sister, Flora Powell, went missing from Tilby in 1994 at the age of sixteen.
DCI Gary Ruthgow of Avon and Somerset CID said: ‘A DNA test has confirmed that the body does not belong to Flora Powell. At this stage we are ruling nothing out and investigations into the identity of the body are still under way.’
Ted chews gum in my ear as he reads over my shoulder. Apart from us, and Sue on Reception, the news room is empty. I can see Seth in the side room going through what look like old slides. Ellie is out doing vox pops with Jack. I haven’t seen much of him recently. Not properly. Not like we used to. We used to go for lunch or for a drink after work at least once a week for a proper gossip. That hasn’t happened since the night he got mugged. He’s been working hard and I wonder if he’s looking for a promotion or another job.
After Ted’s finished reading, he stands back, with a ‘Humph’, his arms folded. I can tell straight away that he’s disappointed. ‘This is nothing that theDaily Newswon’t have,’ he says, half sitting, half leaning against the empty desk next to mine. He looks tired this morning, I observe. He’s not shaved and his eyes sag more than usual. He’s wearing faded jeans that are thinning at the knee and Puma trainers. ‘It’s only Wednesday. This won’t be printed until Friday. By then it will be old news. We need something more, Jess.’
Inwardly I groan. Always something more. I’ve done as much as I can. I’m the only reporter nationally whohas an exclusive with Margot. The red tops have borrowed quotes from my piece, of course, but they’ve had to attribute it to me and to theHerald. It’s strange to see my name in the national press again. But how are we supposed to compete with a daily newspaper when we come out only twice a week and nobody reads our website? I’ve tried to point out to Ted that we need to move with the times and refurbish our online presence, but he keeps muttering that Jared, the editor at HQ, dismissed the idea, citing ‘budget cuts’.
I flick through my notebook looking for themorethat Ted wants. ‘Well, I’m working on the story I got from the landlord of the Funky Raven.’
He runs his hand across his bristly chin and raises one of his shaggy eyebrows. ‘Remind me?’
‘That Clive was dealing drugs to students in his pub. And I bumped into the guy Flora was going out with when she disappeared. Dylan Bird. He told me he thought Clive had killed Flora because Dylan owed him and his brother Norman money for drugs.’ I remember Dylan’s pinched white face, his mumblings of ‘he killed her because of me’.
