Then She Vanishes(6)

‘So?’ Jack asks, turning to face me. When I don’t say anything, he adds gently, ‘The shooter. It’s your one-time friend, isn’t it?’

I nod and blink away tears before he notices. He’ll tease me mercilessly. Tears don’t go with my persona as a hard-nosed journalist. Jack often says I’m as hard as nails. I think he admires it.

‘Shit,’ he mutters, under his breath, but I notice a light in his eyes. Of course he’s going to be excited by this – I would be, too, if I were him, if it was someone else. Anyone else. But not her. Not Heather. Jack’s hoping this will be our way in, and I’ve had the same thought. Yet it could be a hindrance. I might be the last person Margot wants to see. I wouldn’t blame her. I can still recall her final words to me on the phone all those years ago, her acidic, accusing tone, her once-friendly voice brittle and strained. I grip the steering wheel, unable to move, uncertain of the reaction I’ll get.

Jack opens the passenger door and turns to me before getting out. ‘Well, come on. What are you waiting for?’ He assesses me, his eyes softening. ‘Don’t tell me the nerves are kicking in? That you really are human, Jessica Fox.’ I know he’s teasing me but he’s closer to the truth than he knows. Usually, when faced with a task like this – a death knock or door-stepping a celebrity, a disgraced official – I hide behind my journalist fa?ade. But Margot knew me before I was a journalist. She knows the real me. It will be like I’m standing before her naked. I’ll have nothing to hide behind.

I take a deep breath and follow Jack. He’s got his camera case slung across his body but he still looks conspicuous. Paparazzo. I turn to him. ‘Perhaps you should stay here a minute. I don’t want to spook Margot.’ I remember her as a straight-backed horsy woman, kind and caring, like Heather, but on first impressions she could be brusque and no-nonsense. A little intimidating.

Jack shrugs good-naturedly. ‘Sure, whatever you think. I’ll wait in the car.’

I hand him the keys and smile at him gratefully, hoping Margot hasn’t spotted us already.

I walk slowly around the side of the house to the front door. Nothing much has changed – even the door is painted the same olive green – and I see the fountain in the distance, the hedges that hide the fields beyond and the caravan park. And in that moment I imagine I’m fourteen again, calling for Heather. I almost expect to hear the soft bark of Goldie and I feel a lurch in my heart. Don’t be soft, I tell myself. That was a long time ago.

I rap on the door and wait, my heart hammering despite the bollocking I’m inwardly giving myself for being a wuss. I need another fag but I know that would be unprofessional. Oh, come on, Margot. Open the door. I know you’re in.

And eventually, after what feels like years, the door opens and she’s standing there in a waxed jacket and cream jodhpurs, a furious look on her face, her arms folded. Her once raven hair is streaked with white, and her eyes are lined, her neck jowly. She would only be in her late fifties but looks older, more weathered, although she’s still striking. Tall and slim, she’s wearing a slash of red lipstick that is darker around the edges. Her green eyes access me but I can tell she doesn’t recognize me. ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ she snaps. ‘Leave us alone. I’ve told the other one and I’m telling you the same. If you come here again I’ll call the police.’

I lift my eyes to hers. ‘Margot,’ I say softly. ‘It’s me. Jessica Fox. Heather’s old friend.’

And then, with a jolt of recognition, her face pales. And in that moment I can see that she’s unsure whether or not to slam the door in my face.





3




Margot


The crunch of tyres on gravel makes Margot go to the window. Her heart leaps at first, thinking it’s Adam and little Ethan coming home. But no. Instead of their black saloon, there’s a small vehicle that looks like a replica of one of her grandson’s toy cars parked next to hers. She sees two people get out: a slight blonde girl and a lanky lad carrying a camera case. They look like they’re having a discussion and then the lad gets back inside the car.

Margot experiences a burst of rage that’s become more frequent since it happened. Bloody journalists. She’s sick of them. She’s already sent one lot packing with a flea in their ear. She can’t stand them. They’re like crows, the way they peck over the remains of other people’s misery. What sort of person would choose to do a job like that? Thank goodness Adam and Ethan aren’t home yet. They don’t need this, not when they’re facing the prospect of losing a wife, a mother. She reprimands herself. No. She mustn’t think negatively. Heather will not die. She’ll be fine. Margot’s already lost one daughter and she’s sure as hell not going to lose another. God can’t be that cruel.

If it is a journalist, she’ll give them a piece of her mind. Her anger propels her out of the room and down the hallway. She wrenches the front door open. This one is younger than the last and swamped in a coat that looks like it’s been shaved from a llama.

Oh, Margot enjoys the ticking-off she gives her. It feels good to vent some of her anger. But then the young woman looks up at her and her big doe eyes soften and she says, ‘Margot. It’s me. Jessica Fox. Heather’s old friend.’ And Margot’s stomach falls. Jessica. The Jessica. She remembers her daughter sobbing in her bed after Jessica’s betrayal. Margot had held Heather in her arms while her daughter tried to make sense of it all. Especially after everything she’d been through, the grief over her dad and losing Flora. It was cold and unfeeling. Margot had never forgiven her.