Then She Vanishes(32)
His eyes narrow. ‘The police? Why?’
She holds up a hand to prevent him going off on one. It’s always been Adam’s way. Talk first and think later. It had taken Margot a long time to like him, if she was being honest with herself. Heather had been so young and innocent in that department. She’d never had a boyfriend before – not one Margot knew about anyway. But when Heather was just eighteen she’d met Adam at the annual barn dance to raise funds for the church hall. He was from a little village in south Gloucestershire, but had been staying with his uncle Saul on his farm a mile or so from Tilby, learning the trade. Adam’s cousin, Ezra, had had a crush on Heather, but it had been strong, silent, gruff Adam who had stolen her heart. She’d seemed besotted with him from the outset, which had worried Margot. She couldn’t help but think he was a crutch, after Keith and Flora. They were inseparable. Heather was never one for lots of friends, especially after Jess, but she’d kept in touch with a few girls from college. Soon, they had fallen by the wayside as Heather spent all her time with Adam.
She often wondered if Adam had convinced Heather to stop seeing her friends. Heather had let slip once that he was a little possessive. But as time went on and Adam and Heather took over running the caravan park, Margot began to see another side to Adam. He was fiercely loyal to Heather and, under the gruff exterior, he was warm, especially to animals. He seemed more comfortable with the horses than he did with people. Despite her reservations, he’s been a good husband and father. It’s only in the last few months that she’s noticed a change in him – snappy with Heather, less patient when things went wrong. Just before Heather’s ‘accident’, she saw him fling files across the office in a fit of rage. He hadn’t noticed she was outside. When she asked him about it later he’d been red-faced and apologetic, saying he was looking for some paperwork and had got frustrated. He had reminded Margot of Keith, towards the end.
‘It’s nothing,’ she lies now. She’s definitely not going to tell him they suspect Heather might have had something to do with Flora’s death. ‘They just wanted to ask if I could have a look through the register and see if Deirdre or Clive Wilson had ever stayed here. They’re trying to find a link.’
The lines in his forehead deepen. ‘We’ve already told them we don’t know the bloody Wilsons. Why won’t they listen? Why can’t they see that Heather’s been struggling? The post-natal depression …’
‘They’re just trying to do their job,’ she says levelly.
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 its insulation, 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 the campsite 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.