Tuesday, 20 March 2012

BRISTOL DAILY NEWS

TRAGIC SISTER’S EX REVEALS SEASIDE SHOOTER’S VIOLENT PAST

by Harriet Hill

The suspect in the murder of Deirdre and Clive Wilson once attacked her sister’s boyfriend.

Dylan Bird, 37, alleged that the sister of his girlfriend at the time – tragic missing teen Flora Powell – flipped out and struck him ‘numerous times’ with a riding crop during a jealous rage.

Heather Underwood, now 32, was only fourteen when her older sister, Flora, dated Dylan in the summer of 1994.

‘It was obvious Heather never liked me,’ said Dylan. ‘She was over-protective of Flora and I think jealous of our relationship. Then, a few days before she went missing, I’d gone over to the caravan park to see her one evening, but Heather wouldn’t let me anywhere near her. And then she started screaming at me, spouting loads of lies about how I was a bad influence and that I was no good. And then she took her riding crop to me, hitting me with it so that I actually had lacerations to my back.’

Dylan refused to report the ‘unprovoked attack’ to the police, saying he didn’t want to ‘antagonize things further’.

Later that same week Flora vanished, leaving behind all her possessions and passport. A few days after she went missing her blouse was found covered with blood. It is a case that has shocked and baffled the local community of Tilby for nearly twenty years, and even though a body has yet to be found, police suspect ‘foul play’.

Dylan said: ‘I was a suspect in Flora’s disappearance at the time, of course, being her boyfriend. I was one of the last people to see her alive. But I was with my mum’s boyfriend at the time. I was only with Flora for a month, but she was special to me. I still think of her.’

Heather’s family have been contacted and refuse to comment.

The landlord of the Funky Raven looks up in surprise when we enter. He’s standing behind the bar, buffing an empty pint glass with a cloth. The small, old-fashioned pub is quiet, just two men in their sixties standing by the jukebox, chewing the fat over a beer.

Jack strides to the bar, his camera slung over his shoulder. ‘Are you Stuart Patterson?’ he asks confidently, causing the two men to stop talking and watch him with interest, as though he is a rare animal at a zoo.

‘Who wants to know?’ the landlord replies, in a thick Bristol accent.

Jack will, no doubt, mistake it for West Country or ‘Farmer’, as he calls it. It might sound the same to non-locals, but a pure Bristolian accent is harsher than West Country, all accentuated rs and ls.

I step forward, adopting my friendly, non-threatening expression, to introduce myself and Jack. I clear my throat. ‘We understand Clive Wilson was barred from this pub.’