He exhales and runs a hand over his beard. ‘Let’s go to the office, then,’ he says, moving towards the front door. Margot follows. It’s raining now and they have to make a mad dash across the yard.
It smells damp as Adam opens the door, despite itsinsulation, as though nobody has inhabited it for a while. But the desk, as usual, is messy, papers, books and pens strewn haphazardly across it, with a half-drunk mug of week-old coffee standing by the monitor, spores of green mould floating on the top. Even the keyboard is covered with papers so that only the ends are visible. Adam looks mildly embarrassed as he rummages – no wonder he can never find anything, she thinks – until he comes to two A4-sized leatherbound diaries. He pushes them towards Margot. ‘These are 2011 and 2012, although there’s only a few pages marked in that one,’ he says.
Margot takes a seat at the desk and moves the debris aside, flicking through the pages of the 2012 diary. She takes out her reading glasses from the inner pocket of her gilet, slipping them on to peer through the list of names.
‘Right, well, I’ll get going,’ says Adam.
‘I’ll lock up,’ she says, without glancing up. ‘Come over for dinner later, if you like. You need to keep your strength up and I’ve got a casserole in the slow cooker.’
‘Thanks, Marg.’ He’s the only person who has ever shortened her name. It would annoy her coming from anyone else. But in Adam’s West Country burr it seems natural. She hears the door bang shut behind him as he leaves.
She licks her index finger before turning over the page. There aren’t many recent names on the list, out of season, so she doesn’t bother to read the first few pages of 2012. Instead she concentrates on the 2011 diary, flicking back to the summer when they were at their busiest. All the names of the customers who stayed on thecampsite are there, in either Heather’s loopy writing or Adam’s more stilted hand.Sean and Sally Peeves, Caravan One, 6 August 2011, one week. Lawrence and Felicity Dawes, Caravan Two, 6 August, two weeks. Petra Anderson, pitch for one tent, four nights.It’s tedious work. And how far should she go back? They’ve been running this caravan park for nearly twenty years. Does she even have the old records? She recalls dumping a load of notebooks in the attic a year or so ago. Maybe she’d give them to the police and they could go through it all. And even if the Wilsons did stay here, what does it prove? That Heather knew them? But it doesn’t explain why she’d want to shoot them.
She turns to the beginning of the book, January 2011. She flicks to the next page, then to March. A year ago. But nothing. She sighs, pushing the diary aside and picking up the 2012 diary. And, to her surprise, there it is, on the second page, written in familiar looping handwriting.
Deirdre Wilson, Caravan Three, 3 February 2012, two nights.
She takes her glasses off and rubs at the corners of her eyes. She was here. Deirdre was here just over a month ago. And, judging by the handwriting, Heather had met her.
18
Margot
Margot stares at Heather’s handwriting, stunned at her discovery. There it is, in blue biro, the proof of a link between her daughter and the Wilsons.
Sliding the diary under her gilet to protect it from the rain, Margot locks the office and darts back through the caravan park. There is a light on in Colin’s caravan and it seeps around the edges of the closed gingham curtains that Heather had run up on the sewing-machine. Her heart lurches at the sight of them. From the windows on the other side of the caravan, Colin will have a view of the cliffs and the sea in the distance. She wonders how he feels about what’s happened with Heather. He seemed very fond of her, although he has only once asked how she is, and Margot felt he took pains to avoid the subject of the shootings, shuffling his feet and keeping his eyes on the ground. When she cleaned his caravan yesterday she found a Get Well card with a cartoon dog holding a bunch of flowers on the front. But he’d only got as far as writing Heather’s name inside. Margot hadn’t meant to pry: it had fluttered to the floor in the breeze she had created when she opened the caravan door. She imagineshim now, sitting alone in front of the tiny inbuilt TV with his meal for one, and feels real empathy with him for the first time.
Margot jogs across the field that separates the caravan park from the house, past the paddock and through the garden. One of the horses neighs from the stables. Winnie, she thinks, and the sound comforts her. When she reaches the porch she kicks off her wellies and enters the house.
Only last month Deirdre Wilson stayed here on their caravan site. There was no sign of Clive’s name, but what does it mean? Is it just a coincidence?
She turns on the light in the living room, shuddering as she spots a figure standing at the edge of the driveway. Another journalist? It’s a bit late. She flops onto the sofa, with the diary on her lap. She knows she’ll have to tell Ruthgow about Deirdre.
Margot’s head is reeling as she tries to process all this new information. Now the police know about Heather’s involvement in Keith’s accident she’s sure it won’t be long before the papers sniff out the story, and she knows they’ll go to town. But can she bring herself to call Jessica? She’d given Margot her business card again yesterday, after Margot was forced to admit she’d ripped up the last one. If she doesn’t talk to a journalist soon, one of them will go ahead and print something without her consent.
She sits up, leaning forward to get a better view from the window. There’s definitely someone out there. She’s sure it’s the same pest who was here this morning. Honestly, they’re like horseflies: you get rid of one andanother pops up in their place. This morning’s had been a solitary man, who looked a bit worse for wear, with a three-day-old beard and his hair flattened by the rain. He’d stood at the gate, staring up at the house. When she’d driven past on the way to see Heather she’d wound her window down and told him there was no point in him waiting there: she’d agreed to do an exclusive with another newspaper. He’d opened his mouth, to convince her or to swear at her, she couldn’t be sure which, but she’d driven sharply away before he could speak, gratified to see that her wheels had sprayed mud over the bottom of his trousers.
Adam will be in soon, she tells herself, and she’ll send him out to get rid of the journalist. She stands up so he can see her. He’s illuminated by a lamppost, a fine rain falling on the hood of his parka. ‘Bugger off!’ she shouts, gesticulating, although she knows he can’t hear her. He bows his head, almost as if he’s apologizing, then turns around and gets into a car parked further down the lane.
Before Margot can change her mind she picks up her phone from the coffee table and taps out Jessica’s number. She knows Adam won’t approve of what she’s about to do: he’d tried to talk her out of it last night. But Jessica’s words have eaten away at her, like maggots on meat, and she can’t ignore them any longer. She can’t have faceless journalists digging away at her past.
Who knows what else they’ll unearth?
Adam flashes into her mind.
He’s definitely been acting oddly since it happened. She can’t push away the thought. He’s never been the most communicative of men. At least, not to her. He’sprobably different with Heather, although Margot remembers Heather complaining about her husband’s brusque ways over the years. Like the time they’d attended that village fete and Adam really didn’t want to go so was abrupt and short with everyone. If he was in a bad mood he wouldn’t hide it. It had embarrassed Heather, who’s always had impeccable manners, thanks to Margot. She was very firm about that when her daughters were growing up. Adam still dutifully visits Heather every day, but for only half an hour or so. Margot usually waits outside the room if she arrives at the same time. She can see through the glass in the door that Adam holds Heather’s hand, although she can’t hear what he says to her. But his lips move, so he’s obviously saying something. Yet by his rigid posture she knows he’s angry and confused.
Now she’ll have to tell Adam about Heather killing Keith before it all comes out. She knows Heather’s never uttered a word about it to anyone. That was what they’d all agreed when they left Kent to make a new start in Tilby back in 1991.
The phone rings a few times before it’s picked up and Margot recognizes Jessica’s voice as she says hello. She sounds a little out of breath and, dare she say it, scared.
‘Jessica?’ She knows it’s her. She just needs to be sure someone else – maybe another journalist – hasn’t got hold of the phone. She still can’t quite believe she’s doing this.
‘Margot! Hi. Thank you so much for ringing,’ says Jessica. She sounds like she’s somewhere echoey.
‘I’m …’ Margot hesitates ‘… I’ve been thinking aboutwhat you said. Yesterday. If I gave you an exclusive, would everybody else leave us alone?’
‘I promise you they will,’ Jessica says. ‘And if they don’t, call me. I’ll come over and tell them where to go.’
