She lowers her eyes. ‘I … don’t remember.’
Ruthgow looks at Margot, his lips set in a grimace.
‘Can I see Flora?’ pleads Heather.
‘I’ll see what I can arrange,’ he says, getting up from his chair and adjusting his trouser legs. They’ve gone slightly saggy at the knee, observes Margot. ‘Thank you, Heather. You’ll have to come into the station next week and give a formal statement. If you’re up to it, that is.’ He pauses at the door. ‘You have a motive now, Heather. I have to warn you, you might be charged with this.’
Heather sits up. ‘But I can’t remember what happened.’
‘Well, I suggest you try.’
Margot stands up, fists clenched at her sides. ‘You can’t charge her with this. If she did kill those – thosebastards,’ she spits, ‘I don’t blame her. I don’t –’
‘Margot,’ Ruthgow says, his voice firm. ‘We’ll takea formal statement next week. Please try not to worry about all of that for now.’ He shoots Heather a knowing look before leaving the room.
They are allowed ten minutes with Flora, Heather riding in a wheelchair, even though she insists she’s strong enough to walk. But Brenda’s having none of it. ‘You’re lucky you’re being allowed to do this,’ she says, tucking a blanket around Heather’s legs.
‘Her sister has just been found after nearly twenty years,’ snaps Margot. ‘She should bloody well be allowed to do this.’
Brenda shrinks away in surprise. ‘I’m just saying. I don’t want my patient getting pneumonia.’ She insists on accompanying them to see Flora, even though, reluctantly, she allows Margot to push the wheelchair.
Flora is in the corner of the small four-bed ward with the curtain pulled closed around her bed. The others are empty. Margot wheels Heather into the cubicle, leaving Brenda sitting in a chair next to the ward’s entrance.
Flora has a bit more colour in her cheeks and a sheen of sweat above her upper lip but her chest still rattles when she breathes.
‘The naloxone is working. But it means she’ll have withdrawal symptoms. We’re trying to manage it as best we can,’ explains one of the doctors. A different one this time. A young woman.
Margot bends over and kisses Flora’s forehead, which causes her eyes to open. And then she notices Heather and tears seep out of the corners of her eyes and run down the sides of her face.
‘Hey,’ says Heather, taking her sister’s hand. ‘It’s going to be okay. We’re here for you. You’ll get through this.’
‘I thought …’ she coughs ‘… I thought I’d killed you back at the barn. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The gun, it just went off … There was so much blood on your blouse and on the floor when you hit your head.’
Margot frowns. ‘What do you mean, sweetheart? What gun?’
Flora tries to sit up but Margot stops her. ‘Don’t try to move.’
Heather lowers her voice. ‘We struggled over a gun. I remember that much. In the barn.’
Margot turns to Heather. ‘But why didn’t you say that to DCI Ruthgow?’
Heather glances at her sister and Margot notices a look pass between them.
‘Mum,’ says Heather, ‘do you mind if I have some time alone with Flora?’
‘Of course.’ She kisses Flora’s clammy forehead and steps out of the cubicle. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’
She goes and sits next to Brenda, who pats her arm sympathetically. From where she’s sitting she has a view of the cubicle and the mint-green curtain surrounding Flora’s bed. She can just see the wheels of Heather’s chair underneath it. She can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but she can hear one of her daughters faintly crying and the word ‘sorry’ floats across the room towards her.
And in that moment warmth engulfs Margot, like she’s just downed a glass of brandy. She’d hoped and prayed for this moment so many times over the yearsthat she’s lost count. But here they are at last: she and her two precious daughters. All under one roof for the first time in eighteen years. Safe.
Then Heather pokes her head around the curtain and calls Margot over. She stands up, an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach instantly dispelling her happiness of a moment before.
When she reaches the cubicle Heather pulls her in and indicates for her to sit on Flora’s bed.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ she whispers, dread swirling in her stomach. Although she thinks she knows what they’re going to say.
51
