Chapters (118)
- About the Author
- Dedication
- Prologue
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- 1
- Chapter 2
- 2
- Chapter 3
- 3
- Chapter 4
- 4
- Chapter 5
- 5
- Chapter 6
- 6
- Chapter 7
- 7
- Chapter 8
- 8
- Chapter 9
- 9
- Chapter 10
- 10
- Chapter 11
- 11
- Chapter 12
- 12
- Chapter 13
- 13
- Chapter 14
- 14
- Chapter 15
- 15
- Chapter 16
- 16
- Chapter 17
- 17
- Chapter 18
- 18
- Chapter 19
- 19
- Chapter 20
- 20
- Chapter 21
- 21
- Chapter 22
- 22
- Chapter 23
- 23
- Chapter 24
- 24
- Chapter 25
- 25
- Chapter 26
- 26
- Chapter 27
- 27
- Chapter 28
- 28
- Chapter 29
- 29
- Chapter 30
- 30
- Chapter 31
- 31
- Chapter 32
- 32
- Chapter 33
- 33
- Chapter 34
- 34
- Chapter 35
- 35
- Chapter 36
- 36
- Chapter 37
- 37
- Chapter 38
- 38
- Chapter 39
- 39
- Chapter 40
- 40
- Chapter 41
- 41
- Chapter 42
- 42
- Chapter 43
- 43
- Chapter 44
- 44
- Chapter 45
- 45
- Chapter 46
- 46
- Chapter 47
- 47
- Chapter 48
- 48
- Chapter 49
- 49
- Chapter 50
- 50
- Chapter 51
- 51
- Chapter 52
- 52
- Chapter 53
- 53
- Epilogue
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- Read more
- Read more
- BRISTOL DAILY NEWS
- October 2018
- THE BEGINNING
‘Have you shown that card to Ted yet?’ asks Jack, wheeling his chair over to me with a glint in his eye. ‘This could be a story in itself.’
‘Not yet,’ I reply, tapping at my keyboard, my eyes glued to the screen. I’ve filed the eye-witness story, so I’m working on a Clive and Deirdre background piece. But now I’m worried I’ve done the wrong thing. I shouldn’t have pocketed the card. It would be interfering with a crime scene. If Clive or Deirdre had enemies, the police will want to know. I can’t afford to take one step out of line. Ted had told me that when he offered me the job.
Jack had been so excited when I showed him the card in the car. He’d turned it over in his fingers and kept asking me what I thought it meant.
‘It means that one or both of them had enemies,’ I’d said. Other than that I didn’t fully understand why I’d decided to take it. Maybe to prove Clive Wilson wasn’t the squeaky-clean uncle, brother and son that his family had tried to portray. Unless the message had been meant for Deirdre. I doubted that. She looked like a lovely, doting grandmother. Maybe the killer had shot her because she’d got in the way or had come home unexpectedly. But, then again, perhaps Deirdre wasn’t who she’d appeared to be.
I still can’t bring myself to think of Heather as the killer.
There has to have been some mistake.
I recall my conversation with Margot yesterday. She’d insinuated there might be some doubt, although I found it interesting that Adam had quickly shut her down. Something doesn’t seem right there.
‘You don’t think Heather was in it with someone, do you?’ asks Jack now. ‘Or someone paid her to do it?’
I can’t help but laugh at Jack’s wild imagination. ‘She’s not a professional assassin. And this is Tilby we’re talking about, not some big city. It’s the biggest crime that’s been committed there for as long as I can remember.’
Since Flora, I think, although I don’t say that to Jack.
‘But how do you know?’
I swivel in my chair so that I’m facing him. ‘I’m sure the police would have noticed if she’d received a large payment recently.’
‘Could have been made in cash.’
‘I’m sure the police are in the process of going through everything.’
Jack shrugs. ‘They have a caravan park. Money must go in and out all the time. It might not be noticeable. Maybe they were in debt. Maybe her husband was in on it, too.’