‘She was only fourteen at the time,’ says Jess. ‘Jesus.’
Heather was only ten when she shot her father. But Margot pushes the thought away. Ruthgow is wrong. She knows that, deep down, no matter what else Heather has done she’d never hurt Flora.
She remembers the white blouse she’d had to identify. The bloom of blood at the front. Could that have come from a gunshot wound?
Margot feels sick at the thought. With trembling hands she pours herself another glass of wine and offers more to Jess.
Jess declines. ‘I’d better not.’
Before Margot has the chance to think about it she says, ‘You can stay here tonight. If you like?’ She doesn’t know why she makes the offer, really. Maybe it’s because she’s so fed up with spending the night alone in this big old house. It would be lovely to have some company again.
Sometimes, when Adam was away or she wanted some space, Heather would stay over in her old room. And when Ethan came along he would stay with her. Those were Margot’s favourite times, when it was just the three of them.
Jess opens her mouth, looking surprised. ‘I … Well, that’s really kind of you, but I’d better not. Rory – my boyfriend – he’ll be expecting me home.’
Margot tries to look understanding despite the hard stone of disappointment lodged in her chest.
‘I’ve been thinking about Deirdre a lot,’ Margot says, trying to move the conversation on. She hasn’t seen Jess in nearly twenty years and now here she is, asking her to stay over. Jess must think she’s lonely and desperate. ‘And wondering what transpired between her and Heather when she stayed here earlier this year. I haven’t told the police yet.’
‘Oh, Margot! You should,’ says Jess. ‘I think Clive was into some dodgy dealings. I found a card outside his mother’s house, the kind that comes with flowers. It said, “This was one bullet you couldn’t dodge.” He obviously had enemies.’
Margot pushes her bowl of soup away from her. She’s hardly eaten any and it’s cold. Since Heather was taken to hospital the weight has been falling off her. Now hercollarbones jut out and her once tight-fitting jodhpurs are loose. ‘But his mother, Deirdre. Surely not her.’This was one bullet you couldn’t dodge.Where has she read that before?
Jess shrugs and Margot notices she hasn’t eaten much either. ‘I don’t know. I’m in the process of gathering more information about them from the neighbours. But as they haven’t lived there that long …’ Jess sighs.
Margot stretches, her back hurting on the hard chair. She suggests they move into the living room and Jess nods encouragingly. She can see, by the clock on the wall, that it’s gone nine. She doesn’t want Jess to leave yet.
It’s not until they’ve settled at either end of the sofa, Margot with another drink in her hand, Jess with water, that she reveals the nugget of information she’s been keeping to herself.
‘When the police called about the fingerprints, they said something else,’ she admits. ‘About Heather.’
Jess sits forwards, her eyes brimming with expectation.
‘Her car was caught on CCTV earlier that morning. The morning of the shootings. At around five a.m. Fifteen miles away. In Bristol.’
Jessica’s eyes widen. ‘In Bristol?’
‘Yes. Southville.’
‘What would she be doing there?’
‘I don’t know. The police asked if we know anyone who lives in that area but we don’t. I just don’t understand what she would have been doing in Bristol at that time in the morning. I keep thinking about it. Was she looking for her victim, with a shotgun in the car? I just …’ Margot covers her face with her hands.
‘Oh, Margot …’
They’re interrupted by the shrill buzzing of Margot’s phone. They both turn towards where it sits on the coffee table. Margot reaches for it. ‘It’s Adam. I’d better answer,’ she says.
Margot’s never heard her son-in-law sound so animated. ‘I’ve had a call from the hospital, Marg. It’s Heather. She’s come around. She’s awake.’
25
Margot
Margot doesn’t think of the millions of questions swirling around in her brain, or that she’s just left Jess sitting outside the ICU as though she’s no more than a chauffeur. All she can concentrate on, as she runs down the corridor, only half aware that Adam is following, and brushes past the policewoman still standing guard and into Heather’s room, is that she’s awake. Her daughter is awake.
The doctors warned Margot when it first happened that Heather might not be herself if she came around. That the longer she spent in a coma the higher the chance that she could be in a permanent vegetative state. No, all Margot cares about is having her baby back in her arms. Her warm-blooded, breathing, conscious daughter.
Heather is propped up by pillows when she comes in, although her face is pale and she’s still attached to a drip. Margot rushes over to her and tentatively gathers her into her arms, careful of the wires. ‘Oh, my darling,’ she says, into Heather’s hair. And then she sits beside her on the chair and takes her hand.
