Jess’s whole face brightens. ‘Really? That’s brilliant. Thank you.’
And then she’s gone. Leaving Margot alone with her thoughts while she waits for her son-in-law to return home.
32
Jess
The road ahead is dark as I turn out of Tilby Manor onto Cowship Lane. There are no streetlights and I have to concentrate hard on the cats’ eyes in front of me to show the way.
A hard ball of disappointment is lodged in my chest. I was hoping to stay longer, chat with Margot in her cosy kitchen. What is it about her, about them, that I’m constantly drawn to? Is it because they’re like the family I never had? I was like this as a child and it hasn’t changed. I felt so happy when Margot first agreed to see me, and now it seems we’re becoming friends. That she trusts me. But when I told her about Adam knowing Clive, she shut down, and now I feel pushed out. I shake my head, dislodging the thoughts. I’m not family. Margot doesn’t see me as another daughter. I’m just someone who knew them all a long time ago.
I don’t know what compels me to do it, but instead of driving along the high street and out towards the M5, I take the turning that leads to the seafront. The road is small and narrow, more a lane, really, with the beach on my left and a row of houses on my right. Eventuallyit becomes Shackleton Road. The Wilsons’ house is the fourth in a terrace of six. I pull up outside. There is no CCTV along this street. The killer’s identity rests on the shoulders of Peter and Holly Bright, as far as I’m aware, unless other witnesses have come forward, although Angela Crosswell, the police press officer, informed me only yesterday that this wasn’t the case. Nothing substantial anyway. A sighting of a woman fitting Heather’s description boarding a bus to Bristol later that morning, another at a beach, and a café, all within the local area, but they’ve all been discounted because it was either during or after the time Heather lay unconscious in the barn.
The tide is in, lapping against the wall, the breeze spraying salt onto my windscreen. It’s not yet 8 p.m. but it feels a lot later. The sky is moonless, the only light coming from the windows of the terraces in front of me.
I pull up, roughly where I imagine Heather parked that fateful morning, under a streetlamp, and switch off the engine as I watch the Wilsons’ house. Is Norman staying there? It looks empty: no lights on, net curtains hanging limply. Someone has knocked over one of the garden gnomes and it lies on its back next to the flowerbeds, bright red and blue among the dull greens of the lawn. I try to imagine what must have been going through Heather’s mind when she pulled up here ten days ago with Margot’s gun.
This won’t do. I need to get home and sort things out with Rory. We’ve been avoiding each other since Friday night. All I seem to be thinking about at the moment is Heather and Margot.
I turn the key in the ignition when a rap on my window makes me jump. A long, weathered face appears at the glass. My heart races when I realize it’s Norman. I could just drive away without speaking to him, but that would be mean. I wind my window down and arrange a smile on my face. ‘Hi, Norman.’
‘Oh, it’s you. I wondered who was watching the house.’ He’s wearing a woolly hat, pulled down low on his brow, and a scarf that’s flapping open in the wind, revealing a colourful tattoo on his neck that looks like a bird, although I can’t quite make it out. I wonder if he regrets it, that tattoo, now he’s older.
‘Are you staying there?’ I incline my head towards the house. Although I can’t imagine he’d want to after what happened.
‘No. A week after the …the murders…’ he swallows as though it pains him to say it ‘… I travelled down from Reading and I’ve been staying at Clive’s place in Bristol, but the police have put me up somewhere else tonight. A cheap B-and-B.’
Why would the police do that? My reporter’s antenna twitches. ‘Oh, really? How come?’ I ask, trying to sound casual.
‘They had a warrant. They wouldn’t tell me any more.’ He looks downcast. ‘My brother … Well, I think he might have been involved with drugs.’
This isn’t a surprise after my talk with the landlord of the Funky Raven but I remain silent.
His shoulders sag. ‘But we know it wasn’t some drug lord who killed him, don’t we? It was that woman. That Heather Underwood.’
‘I … Well, I think the police will want to look at everything. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.’
He makes apftsound with his tongue. I wonder why he’s here at this time of night. I know he was at Margot’s earlier, but what has he been doing since then? Lurking around Tilby or nipping back over to Bristol to put photographs on my car? Does he know where I live? But if he’s responsible for the photographs, then why?Back off, someone had written. Back off from what? From finding out more about Clive?
‘Anyway,’ he says, stepping away from my car so that he’s standing on the narrow pavement. ‘I’d better get back to the B-and-B. Got to sort out funerals, for when the bodies are released.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ I don’t know what else to say.
He hangs his head. ‘Thanks,’ he mutters. Then he lifts his eyes to meet mine. ‘You know she did it, don’t you? Heather Underwood. And it wasn’t because of drugs.’
‘What do you mean?’
He wraps his scarf tighter around his neck. ‘I hope they lock her up and throw away the key, that’s all I’m saying.’
Without another word he stalks off, hands in his pockets, towards a car further up the street. His legs are skinny and bowed, his back hunched. He’s just a sixty-year-old man, I think, a man who’s angry and grieving. He means me no harm.
I put the car in gear and head towards home.
It’s only nine o’clock by the time I get back, and the underground car park is empty of people. There are spaces for seven cars – two spaces per flat and one for visitors – andonly four are filled, not including mine. Still, four cars, which means that at least someone should be at home. I’m not going to be alone in my building. Although I note with a heavy heart that Rory’s Fiat isn’t there.
As I get out of the car, the all-too-familiar feeling of being watched makes me jumpy. Is someone taking my photograph now? I look wildly about me, my scalp prickling. But, of course, nobody’s there. I hurry past the parked cars, almost running to the side door that leads to the flats, using my key fob to gain access.
And that’s when it hits me. How would anybody be able to get in here? The car park is secure, with an electric gate. There is a pedestrian side access, but that’s locked and only residents have a key, although there have been times when it’s been left unlocked. And it’s possible to climb the gate, I suppose, without being seen at night, but you’d have to be young and fit and tall. I doubt Norman would be able to scale it. Wayne Walker is tall and fit. Could it be him? Is he telling me to back off the story because of what I did to him with the phone hacking? But I’ve learned my lesson. I’d never be so stupid again.
