Then She Vanishes(37)

‘And you’ve never heard her mention Clive or Deirdre Wilson? She’s never had any dealings with them that you know of?’

She swallows, playing with the rings on her hands. She has two on her wedding finger and a signet ring that I recognize on the little finger of her right hand. Heather and Flora used to wear them too. Family rings, Heather called them. ‘I didn’t think she knew them. And it might be a coincidence. But Deirdre stayed here in one of the caravans. About five weeks ago. I saw it written in the register …’ she glances up at me, pain etched on her face ‘… in Heather’s handwriting.’

So Heather had met Deirdre Wilson. What happened between them? Did she do or say something to make Heather kill her?

‘But she’d never mentioned her to you?’

‘Never,’ she says firmly. Margot uncrosses her legs and reaches for her tea.

I wait for her to settle back into her chair before asking, ‘Can you explain what Heather was like as a child? I know I became friends with her when we were twelve, but before that, when you lived in Kent.’

Margot looks wistful, her gaze going to the French windows as though a child version of Heather is out there, playing on the lawn. ‘She was sensitive. A born worrier. My mother, when she was alive, said that Heather lived close to the well. She cried easily.’

I don’t remember ever seeing Heather cry. Even after Flora went missing. But I keep quiet.

Margot chews her lip thoughtfully. ‘Flora was more fanciful, I suppose. Heather … Well, Heather was practical. She looked after Flora, even though she was the youngest. And she was always so self-contained, even as a child, content in her own company, sketching or writing or playing alone with her stuffed animals. But she loved being with Flora too. They didn’t seem to need anyone else.’ She sighs. ‘I shouldn’t be talking about her in the past tense. Heather’s still here, still with us.’

I remember how honoured I’d felt when I was finally accepted into their little group. How Heather had cared for me when I was ill once with a tummy bug, holding my hair back as I was sick and looking after me until my mum got home from work.

‘The waters run deep with Heather,’ she says. ‘You never really knew what she was thinking. She never wanted to be any trouble. After Ethan was born she suffered post-natal depression but she didn’t tell anyone for ages that she was feeling so awful. It was only when she couldn’t hide it any more that she admitted it. She didn’t want to make a fuss.’ She closes her eyes as if the memory is too painful, and my heart hurts for her.

When she looks up there is a different expression on her face, as though she’s contemplating telling me something she isn’t sure she should.

‘What is it?’ I ask gently. This is one of my strengths as a journalist: knowing when to speak and when to keep quiet. I’m good at reading people and I know, right now, there’s something important she wants to say.

Jack, who has been silent until now, suddenly sits forward in his seat. He can sense it too. I will him to remain quiet. I don’t want to interrupt Margot’s flow.

Margot sighs. ‘Detective Ruthgow was here yesterday. About what happened to Heather’s dad. My husband, Keith.’

I’m holding my breath.

‘I don’t know if Heather ever told you, Jessica, what happened to her father but I doubt it. She never spoke of it. She was so closed about it all and I think it was her way of coping. We probably didn’t handle it right, in hindsight.’

Heather hardly ever mentioned her dad, apart from that time in our art lesson when she blurted out that he was dead. She’d also once said he’d been a bit of a tyrant. I wait. I can sense Jack crossing his legs and out of the corner of my eye I notice he rests the bag of peas in his lap.

I shake my head, my pen poised, adrenalin pumping through my veins.

‘She killed him. With a gun. By accident.’

I stare at her in shock. Of all the things I’d thought she might say I’d never expected this.

‘Oh, God. Poor Heather. And your husband. I’m so sorry,’ I manage.

The image I’ve always held of my one-time best friend is warping and distorting in my mind, like a perfect photograph that has been damaged by water.

She blinks. ‘Yes,’ she adds curtly. ‘Well, Heather was only ten. She couldn’t have known what she was doing. It was an accident.’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m only telling you because it’s bound to come out. And I’d rather you – well, the public – heard it from me first. I don’t want there to be rumours flying, people filling in the blanks. Do you know what I mean?’

I nod vigorously, my heart racing. ‘I do.’ I pause. ‘Can you explain what happened?’

My shorthand can hardly keep up – and I’m fast at 120 words per minute – as Margot explains what happened on that April day back in 1990 at their farm in Kent. When she’s finished there’s a stunned silence.

Oh, Heather. I can’t believe she never told me. We were so close. I’d thought we told each other everything but there was this huge secret between us. I can’t believe Heather shot and killed her father. Something as traumatic as that must have changed her. Who is Heather?

I’m still trying to process all this when I hear a door slam. I glance at Margot, who’s looking towards the hallway. I follow her gaze. Adam is leaning against the door jamb, even surlier than before, and I’m glad that Jack has accompanied me. But he barely acknowledges us. His face, under all that facial hair, is deathly white.