Then She Vanishes(60)

‘Margot? Are you all right?’ Jess has finished all the food on her plate, and is leaning back in her chair, her hands resting on her stomach. One of the pom-poms from her jumper is missing.

Margot snaps back to the present. ‘Sorry. I’m just in shock. I need to speak to Adam.’ She stands up. He’ll be due home any time soon and she wants to be alone when she confronts him.

Jess stands up too, gathering up her bag and looking a bit disappointed. ‘I’m sorry to have upset you,’ she says, her voice full of concern.

Margot waves her hand. ‘No. No. It’s not that.’ She’d wanted to ask Jess if she’d come and see Heather, as a friend, not a journalist. Now, though, she wants to be alone with her thoughts. She feels as if she’s being driven mad with them, jumbling in her head, making her feel dizzy.

Jess grabs her coat, shouldering it on. ‘I’ll go. Thank you for a lovely meal. How is Heather, by the way?’

‘She’s getting there.’ Margot surprises herself by giving Jess a quick hug. ‘I’m grateful to you,’ she says, when she’s released her, ‘for caring. You’re a good girl. Thank you for telling me about Adam. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Heather wants to see you so we’ll have to arrange something soon.’

Jess’s whole face brightens. ‘Really? That’s brilliant. Thank you.’

And then she’s gone. Leaving Margot alone with her thoughts while she waits for her son-in-law to return home.





32




Jess


The road ahead is dark as I turn out of Tilby Manor onto Cowship Lane. There are no streetlights and I have to concentrate hard on the cats’ eyes in front of me to show the way.

A hard ball of disappointment is lodged in my chest. I was hoping to stay longer, chat with Margot in her cosy kitchen. What is it about her, about them, that I’m constantly drawn to? Is it because they’re like the family I never had? I was like this as a child and it hasn’t changed. I felt so happy when Margot first agreed to see me, and now it seems we’re becoming friends. That she trusts me. But when I told her about Adam knowing Clive, she shut down, and now I feel pushed out. I shake my head, dislodging the thoughts. I’m not family. Margot doesn’t see me as another daughter. I’m just someone who knew them all a long time ago.

I don’t know what compels me to do it, but instead of driving along the high street and out towards the M5, I take the turning that leads to the seafront. The road is small and narrow, more a lane, really, with the beach on my left and a row of houses on my right. Eventually it becomes Shackleton Road. The Wilsons’ house is the fourth in a terrace of six. I pull up outside. There is no CCTV along this street. The killer’s identity rests on the shoulders of Peter and Holly Bright, as far as I’m aware, unless other witnesses have come forward, although Angela Crosswell, the police press officer, informed me only yesterday that this wasn’t the case. Nothing substantial anyway. A sighting of a woman fitting Heather’s description boarding a bus to Bristol later that morning, another at a beach, and a café, all within the local area, but they’ve all been discounted because it was either during or after the time Heather lay unconscious in the barn.

The tide is in, lapping against the wall, the breeze spraying salt onto my windscreen. It’s not yet 8 p.m. but it feels a lot later. The sky is moonless, the only light coming from the windows of the terraces in front of me.

I pull up, roughly where I imagine Heather parked that fateful morning, under a streetlamp, and switch off the engine as I watch the Wilsons’ house. Is Norman staying there? It looks empty: no lights on, net curtains hanging limply. Someone has knocked over one of the garden gnomes and it lies on its back next to the flowerbeds, bright red and blue among the dull greens of the lawn. I try to imagine what must have been going through Heather’s mind when she pulled up here ten days ago with Margot’s gun.

This won’t do. I need to get home and sort things out with Rory. We’ve been avoiding each other since Friday night. All I seem to be thinking about at the moment is Heather and Margot.

I turn the key in the ignition when a rap on my window makes me jump. A long, weathered face appears at the glass. My heart races when I realize it’s Norman. I could just drive away without speaking to him, but that would be mean. I wind my window down and arrange a smile on my face. ‘Hi, Norman.’

‘Oh, it’s you. I wondered who was watching the house.’ He’s wearing a woolly hat, pulled down low on his brow, and a scarf that’s flapping open in the wind, revealing a colourful tattoo on his neck that looks like a bird, although I can’t quite make it out. I wonder if he regrets it, that tattoo, now he’s older.

‘Are you staying there?’ I incline my head towards the house. Although I can’t imagine he’d want to after what happened.

‘No. A week after the … the murders …’ he swallows as though it pains him to say it ‘… I travelled down from Reading and I’ve been staying at Clive’s place in Bristol, but the police have put me up somewhere else tonight. A cheap B-and-B.’

Why would the police do that? My reporter’s antenna twitches. ‘Oh, really? How come?’ I ask, trying to sound casual.

‘They had a warrant. They wouldn’t tell me any more.’ He looks downcast. ‘My brother … Well, I think he might have been involved with drugs.’