BRISTOL AND SOMERSET HERALD
Friday, 16 March 2012
FAMILY DEVASTED BY SEASIDE SHOOTINGS
by Jessica Fox
The family of a mother and son who were shot dead in the sleepy seaside town of Tilby are shocked and saddened by their ‘senseless’ deaths.
Deirdre and Clive Wilson were killed in their own home just a week ago today.
Lisa Wilson, 29, Deirdre’s granddaughter, described her grandmother as a fun-loving, bubbly lady, who was fit and active and loved to ballroom dance.
Deirdre, who had been a widow for over twenty years, had only moved to the cottage where she died a month previously.
‘My gran loved the sea so decided to save up so that she could buy the cottage. She was so happy to finally put down roots in Tilby,’ Lisa said. ‘Gran had admired the area for a long time and, in the short time she was there, she threw herself intothe local community, joining the Women’s Institute and volunteering at the church café. My uncle Clive had his own place in Bristol, but they were close so he often stayed with her. I don’t think Gran liked living alone. They were just two normal, kind people. Gran loved dogs. She used to breed those beautiful Chow Chows that look like teddy bears. It’s tragic to think all her planning and saving came to nothing. She only got to live in that house for a month. Why would someone want to kill an old lady who never hurt a fly?’
Police are waiting to question local woman Heather Underwood, 32, in connection with their deaths. She is currently in a coma in hospital after trying to take her own life.
Lisa’s father, Norman, 56, added, ‘My brother Clive was a gentle soul. He lived a quiet life with my mum. He’d had a few financial difficulties over the years, a few businesses that went bust. I regret to say I didn’t see them that much over the years after me and my family moved to Reading, although we kept in touch by phone. But I can’t understand why somebody would want to shoot him or my mother. I’ve never heard of this Heather Underwood. And, as far as I’m aware, my mum and brother had never met her. For her to break into their home and shoot them … well, it beggars belief. The family want answers.’
Lisa and Norman Wilson aren’t the only ones who seem baffled by this senseless killing. The police are also perplexed and can find no motive …
I stop typing and read what I’ve written so far. It’s not tying together in the way I want it to. I need to convey who these people were and ask why anyone would want to hurt them. Maybe I should take out the bit about the police being perplexed. It might make them lookineffectual, even though when I spoke to DCI Ruthgow on the phone earlier that was exactly how he’d sounded. He more or less admitted they have no motive, no reason why Heather would shoot those two people. Just evidence: the shotgun she used to try to kill herself was the same one used to kill Deirdre and Clive, then the fingerprints, the type and size of the cartridges used and other forensic results they must have at their disposal, which I can’t report at this time. If Heather wakes up, will she plead temporary insanity? Did she do it because she was depressed? Had she, momentarily, lost a sense of reality? They are all things I’d love to ask Margot, but since she practically shut the door in my face on Monday I haven’t tried to speak to her again, though it’s only a matter of time before Ted sends me back.
And I refuse to give up on Margot until I get her story.
I re-read the article. I need to think of how to end it before filing it ready for the deadline tomorrow. It will be in the newspaper on Friday and I can’t write anything that Margot might read and disapprove of. Not if I want to get her on-side.
I flip through my notes. I’d spoken to Lisa and Norman Wilson this morning and they were very forthcoming on the phone. Lisa had cried, her voice sounding thick beneath her tears, as she described her grandmother. I look again at the photos she emailed. There’s a lovely one of Deirdre sitting in a garden at the end of last summer, a puppy on her lap. Its fluffy teddy-bear face makes me think it must be one of the Chow Chows Lisa described. Deirdre is wearing a straw hat and is smiling, surrounded by peach roses. She looks younger than her age, her eyesclear and blue, her white hair bobbed to her shoulders, her face plump and rosy-cheeked. She appears happy, contented. She looks like a lovely, kind, devoted grandmother. I wonder how she’d felt when Heather had burst into her home carrying a gun. Had Clive been shot first? Or her? The police didn’t say. I try to imagine her fear and shudder, feeling nauseous.
I scroll down to the next photo. Clive. It looks like it was taken in a pub. He’s sitting with a pint in front of him, grinning. His blurry eyes give away that he’s had a few. He looks his age: the whites of his eyes are bloodshot and, even though the photo is only of his top half, I can see that he’s stocky. He’s wearing a football shirt in grey and maroon – West Ham? Rory would know – and a gold chain around his neck. The hand holding the glass has a fat sovereign ring on the middle finger.
Who were Clive and Deirdre Wilson?
I sense Ted watching me. I look up and meet his eyes through the glass of his office – I say office, it’s more of a cubicle. He’s on the phone and is leaning back in his chair. Who is he talking to? Is it about me?
Stop being paranoid, Jess.I turn back to my computer. He’s probably talking to Jared, our slimy editor at theHerald, who thankfully works at HQ. When he comes here – luckily for us, only very occasionally – he stands too close to me and Ellie, our trainee reporter, and addresses us by our names too many times for it to be natural. Apart from Ted, the office is quiet today. Seth is at his computer slowly going through images. Ellie is out on a story with Jack. Sue sits around the corner so I never see her unless I go to the loo or am heading out,although I can hear her on the phone – her voice is unusually loud – more often than not chatting to her sister about her ‘good-for-nothing’ husband.
I log onto Facebook. A few times over the years I’ve tried to search for Heather under her maiden name, Powell. I was intrigued, I suppose, to find out what had happened to her. To see what she looked like now. To know if she ever married or had children. For those two years of my childhood the Powells had felt like family, and even though I could never go back, a part of me missed them. Although numerous Heather Powells came up, they were never her. But now I know her married name I search for Heather Underwood.
Her page is the first to appear and I click on it eagerly, wanting to know more about her life. I’m disappointed to find that her settings are restricted so that I can see only a profile photograph of her. I click on it anyway, intrigued to know what the adult Heather looks like. It’s a close-up and obviously taken on holiday, judging by the palm trees in the background. She’s squinting slightly but my stomach flips at the familiar sight of her: the long dark hair, the almond-shaped eyes, with new lines fanning out at the edges, the clear skin. Oh, Heather.
‘Attractive woman.’
I jump at the sound of Ted’s voice by my shoulder. He’s as stealthy as a bloody cat. I place my hand on my chest theatrically. ‘I was just seeing what information I could get but her privacy settings are too tight.’ I don’t want him thinking I’m skiving by being on Facebook.
‘Fuck.’ He draws breath through his teeth. ‘We need something. Come on, Jess. Where’s that killer instinct you’re famous for?’ I cringe, remembering how it could have landed me in prison. ‘You know the family. You have an in. TheDaily Newsand the fucking nationals are all over this story and it’s already Wednesday. It’ll be just a matter of time before this photo hits the red tops. We need something more. We need an exclusive.’
He’s right. I can’t let what happened at theTribuneput me off. It’s shaken my confidence, but I need this. I push back my chair and gather up my coat and bag. ‘I’ll try Margot again.’
‘Good.’ His eyes glint. ‘And remember, do whatever it takes. But stay the right side of the law.’
Despite myself, my stomach drops as I pull into Cowship Lane, oppressed by the narrow road with the hedges rearing up on either side. Dark clouds gather in the distance, heavy with rain. I take a deep breath. This isn’t just some random woman I’m trying to interview. It’s Margot Powell. But before last year would that have bothered me? I don’t think so.
Up ahead I can see cars blocking the exit to Tilby Manor Caravan Park as well as a local TV news station’s van. I slow down. There is just enough room for me to pass but I can’t get into the driveway. Has Margot decided to speak to the press after all? I can just imagine Ted’s wrath if that’s the case. He hired me despite my previous history because he thought, no doubt, there would be something to gain from mytenacity. I can’t let him down.
I park in a lay-by further along the lane and walk up, trying to look confident. I pull my bag further onto my shoulder as I approach the small gathering of journalists. ‘There’s no point,’ I say, in a loud, clear voice. ‘She won’t talk to you. She’s signed an exclusive with me.’
