Mum. She needs to know the truth. If I die now, my story will disappear with me.
I can’t allow that to happen.
24
Margot
The police had revealed something else to Margot on the phone. Something she’s desperate to tell someone about. That was one of the reasons she’d called Jessica. In that moment she felt Jess would understand, knowing Heather as she had.
After she’d put the phone down to Ruthgow, she immediately rang Adam, who had sounded his usual cynical self, warning her not to take it too seriously, that it didn’t mean anything, it could be a fingerprint from ages ago, and she found she couldn’t tell him the rest. He’d only find a way to downplay it and she needed something. She needed hope.
She’d been distracted momentarily by the arrival of a couple wanting to rent a caravan. It was unusual at this time of year: it gets very cold and windy up here as the field with the camping site has views of the sea, although the occasional punter did turn up, usually a rambler who was braving the cliff walks. But it wasn’t until Easter that business began to pick up and that was still four weeks away.
The couple who turned up were young, around Heather’s age. They looked mismatched: him tall andgangly with glasses and not much to say, and her pretty, petite and bubbly, talking for both of them. She’d asked a few probing questions about Heather, saying she’d read about it in the newspaper. It made Margot wonder, as she showed them to a caravan, if they were journalists. Even so, she wasn’t about to turn away their business. If the newspaper they worked for was foolish enough to pay for them to stay, she’d take their money, thank you very much. But they wouldn’t get a word out of her. And she knows Adam would never talk. Sheila has been a friend for years – yes, she can be a bit of a gossip, but she’s loyal. Margot made sure she was polite to the couple, but she evaded their questions expertly – she’s had enough practice this last week – telling them where she was if they needed anything, not that they should: the caravans are well stocked, with a running shower and hot water.
But when she got back to the dark, empty house she realized there was nobody to call. She’s definitely found out who her friends are since this happened. Women from her shooting club, whom she’s known since she moved here, have shunned her. Even the postman, whom she’s been chatting to for twenty years and is always so cheery, avoided eye contact when she saw him scuttling up the path yesterday. And then there are the others, friends who have lost touch over the years now ringing up to get the lowdown. Pam had popped in briefly two days ago, but had seemed edgy and uncomfortable, going out of her way to make sure she didn’t utter Heather’s name.
When Flora went missing everyone rallied around. For weeks her friends would sit with her, or bring homemade lasagnes, letting her talk or cry, comforting her,helping her with the business and the horses. But those same people are now acting as though she has a contagious disease. She’s no longer somebody to be pitied. She’s the mother of a killer.
Margot’s never felt more alone.
So, when Jessica suggested coming over Margot found herself agreeing, desperate for company.
It’s just gone eight when the doorbell rings but Margot’s ready for it, like a dog that’s been left in the house for days by its owner. She opens the door onto the starless night, a moth buzzing around the outside light that’s illuminating Jessica. Beyond her is darkness, thick and encompassing, as though they’re under a giant tent. The campsite isn’t visible from here, or the stables, but she can hear the horses whinnying to each other.
Jess isn’t in her llama coat today. Instead she’s huddled in an oversized parka that swamps her frame and makes her look young and vulnerable. She also seems tired and a little sad. Gone is the hard-faced journalist expression she usually wears, making Margot wonder if it’s all just an act. She doesn’t blame her. By the sound of it, the poor girl has had to stand on her own two feet for so long that it’s not surprising she had to toughen up. She remembers Simone as a crisp, efficient woman, who made sure Jess was clean and fed and clothed in the latest fashions, but she wasn’t particularly warm towards her, and would think nothing of leaving her alone all day and late into the evening. When Heather had mentioned it, worrying about her friend in her usual way, Margot’s heart had ached at the thought of small, scrappy Jess sitting alone in the house with nobody for company, having to helpherself to her own microwave dinner while she waited for her mother to get back from work or her latest date. So, Margot had welcomed her into their family.
It feels like she’s doing the same again, if under different circumstances this time.
Her breath fogs out in front of her and Margot thinks again of the young couple in the caravan, trying to get warm. At least Colin is now hardened to it.
‘Thank you for coming over,’ Margot says, opening the door wider to allow Jess over the threshold. She starts to take off her trainers, but Margot tells her not to. ‘The boards need re-sanding. This place is going to the dogs.’ It’s too much upkeep, now that it’s just her.
She ushers Jess into the kitchen. The Aga is on, and Jess stands next to it, warming her hands.
‘I don’t know if you’ve eaten already, but I’ve got some chicken soup,’ she offers, going to the pan simmering on the hob. ‘Do you want some?’
Jess grins. ‘I hardly ate my dinner. I’d love some. Thank you.’
She sits at the kitchen table while Margot dishes out soup for them both, and rummages in the bread bin. There’s a loaf Adam brought home a few days ago from the farm shop. A bit stale but it will be okay with soup. Margot hasn’t had the chance to go shopping since Heather’s been in hospital.
She sits opposite Jess, placing a plate of the stale bread between them. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘I should be asking you that,’ says Jess, her brown eyes full of concern. ‘How’s Heather?’
Margot swallows some soup. It’s too hot and scalds hermouth. ‘The same. I worry, sometimes, that she’ll be in a coma for years. The doctors assure me that’s rare. But they also say with head injuries everybody is different.’
Jess nods, then eats a few spoonfuls before adding, ‘And how’s Adam coping?’
Margot tears off a piece of bread and sinks it into the soup. She hasn’t got much appetite. She’s eating, sleeping, washing, feeding the horses, cleaning mechanically, like a robot. ‘Adam is … struggling, I think. He’s never been the most communicative of men, but now it’s like he’s gone into himself.’ He’d be furious if he knew she had Jess here.
‘I can understand that,’ she says. ‘And the fingerprints. The police think someone else held the gun that morning? Not just Heather?’
Margot hesitates, suddenly unsure if this was a good idea. She knows she’s agreed to an exclusive but this information is so new, so precious, that she feels she wants to nourish and protect it, like a seedling, giving it time to grow. But, on the other hand, if those fingerprints put doubt on the fact that Heather carried out the horrific shootings, well, she’d want everyone to know it.
Jess must notice her conflicting emotions because she sits back in her chair, putting the spoon down. ‘I’m here tonight as a friend. Not as a journalist,’ she says.
Can Margot believe her? She studies her face. She’s hardly changed, not really. Aged, of course, but underneath the new fine lines and the make-up and the heavy fringe she sees the same Jess who practically lived with them for two years. She was like a member of the family for a time.
