Then She Vanishes(58)

With a trembling hand I turn one over: I’m standing outside my building, turning the key in the lock. You can see only half of my face in profile. Scrawled across it are the words ‘BACK OFF’.





31




Margot


Margot pours herself a glass of Pinot Noir and slumps onto the sofa. It’s been a hard few days and she closes her eyes, trying to gather her thoughts, ignoring the thumping in her temples.

She’s delighted that Heather has regained consciousness and seems to be her old self, but her daughter still maintains she can’t remember anything about the day of the shootings. Heather had cried when the police broke it to her about what had happened. Margot was relieved that they handled it sensitively. They didn’t formally arrest her, or bombard her with questions. A middle-aged police officer, with freckles and warm hazel eyes, who asked them to call her Sarah, sat on the chair next to the bed, held Heather’s hand and gently told her what they suspected.

‘But I don’t even know a Clive or Deirdre Wilson,’ Heather wailed, her eyes round with bewilderment, darting from Margot to Adam, then landing back on Sarah. ‘There must be some mistake.’

Sarah had replied calmly, ‘We have some evidence to suggest you were involved. I’m so sorry, Heather. We’ll give you a few days before we come back and formally question you.’

Heather had nodded, tears streaming down her face, and when Sarah had left, she’d sobbed in Adam’s arms. ‘You don’t think I’d be capable of something like this, do you?’ she’d asked him beseechingly. ‘You know me, Adam. I’m not a killer.’

Adam had met Margot’s eyes over Heather’s head. He’d looked panicked. ‘No, of course not,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this. Please, my love, please don’t worry.’

It had taken everything out of Margot, emotionally, to stay strong. She’d had to bite her lip so she did not reveal to her daughter that Deirdre had stayed at the caravan park. She hadn’t even told the police yet, managing to convince herself that it meant nothing. Heather probably hadn’t even taken any notice of her, checking her in and, as was mostly the case, not seeing her again until she’d checked out a few days later.

It was just a coincidence.

Margot takes a long slug of wine, instantly feeling calmer as it slides down her throat, warming her insides.

The vultures are back again. As soon as the news had broken about Heather being out of her coma they’d returned with a vengeance, quadrupling in number. Every time she left the house there was a swarm of them, like locusts. She was still furious with Sheila for talking to the press, and had called to tell her she was no longer welcome at the caravan park. Luckily they weren’t busy, and she’d find someone else to assist with mucking out the horses. Leo was coming tomorrow to stay and to help and she couldn’t wait to see him, grateful that she wouldn’t be rattling around in the old house by herself any more.

She’s still clinging to the small hope that Heather will be allowed home. The lawyer she’d spoken to about it admitted that Heather wouldn’t get bail if she was charged with murder. Everyone has her daughter down as a gun-toting psychopath, who’s a danger to society. But it’s her Heather, her loving, gentle daughter.

Her thoughts are interrupted by a sharp knock on the door and her eyes ping open. It must be Jess. Margot had rung her earlier asking her over. She wanted her advice but, more than that, she enjoyed Jess’s company. She was young and vibrant and she made Margot feel less alone.

But when Margot answers the door it’s not Jess standing there in the dark. It’s a man she’s never seen before. He’s wearing a bobble hat and a thick scarf, wrapped up to his chin, and his breath fogs in front of him. He looks to be around her age, maybe older, his long, pointed face etched with deep grooves. Her heart starts beating faster. She’s conscious of being alone in the house. Adam is fetching Ethan from Gloria’s, and although Colin is in one of the caravans, he’s too far away to help if she needed it.

‘Are you a journalist?’ she barks, her sharp tone belying her fear.

He thrusts his hands into his pockets. ‘No. I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Norman Wilson. Deirdre’s other son.’

Her insides turn to ice. Why has Deirdre’s son turned up on her doorstep out of the blue?

‘What … what do you want?’

He steps backwards, as if only just realizing his imposition. ‘I’m sorry. It was a stupid thing to do. I can see I’ve scared you.’ He runs his hands over his chin. ‘I was in the area, seeing to the house, you know … and I … I …’ He blinks and she recognizes the grief in his expression. My daughter did this, she thinks. My daughter is responsible for this poor man’s suffering.

She glances down at her slippers. She wants to tell him she knows how he feels. That she’s bearing the burden of loss, too. But the words won’t come.

‘I … I should probably go.’

Her inbuilt politeness is grappling with her fear, each fighting it out as to what the correct response should be: she should ask him in, offer him a cup of tea and her compassion, the polite part of her says. But he’s a strange man and they would be alone in the house, at night, says the other, more cautious, part of her.