Then She Vanishes(73)
Heather’s mouth hung open and her eyes grew large and round. ‘What? No. No, that can’t be right.’
‘The police will have a motive now. They’ll think you found out somehow and killed him. And his mother.’
Heather shook her head. ‘But, no, that’s … That can’t be. It’s not Flora.’
‘There’s a strong likelihood it is,’ said Margot, gently. Why else did you kill Clive and Deirdre Wilson? she had added silently. She took Heather’s hand. ‘Listen, the solicitor I instructed – Louisa Milligan – said there’s enough evidence to suggest you could be charged with manslaughter on account of diminished responsibility or …’
Heather squeezed Margot’s hand so tightly that it hurt. ‘Ow,’ she said, snatching it back. There were three half-moon indents where Heather had dug her nails into the flesh.
‘I’m sorry but, Mum, you’re not listening to me. I didn’t kill Clive. I’ve never met him. Yes, Adam spoke to him about getting us a puppy. But – and I know I can’t remember that morning, what I’m supposed to have done – but why would I kill him? Surely if I found out he’d killed Flora I’d remember something as huge as that … wouldn’t I?’ She tailed off, confusion written all over her face.
‘You know what the doctors said. A traumatic incident can sometimes cause temporary amnesia. The brain is protecting you from remembering something so horrific. It could have blocked out the fact that you knew Clive killed Flora.’
‘No. It’s not Flora. It’s not! It’s not!’ Heather began to thrash her arms about and Margot was worried she’d pull out her drip.
She stood up and restrained her daughter by placing her hands firmly on Heather’s upper arms. ‘Honey. Stop. Please. Otherwise I’ll have to call the nurses.’ It was like speaking to a child, not a grown woman.
Heather stopped writhing, but her face remained deathly pale. Margot continued, ‘I’m going to the police station this afternoon to talk to them. To – to make an identification.’ If you can call it that, she thought, after so many years. ‘And to give my DNA. I’ll know more after I’ve been.’
Now that’s where she is. Stuck in a claustrophobic room in a police station having provided her DNA.
The door opens and Gary Ruthgow enters, his bulk taking up most of the doorway. Behind him a slight young woman trots in, holding a file to her chest. His face softens when he spots her sitting stiffly on the uncomfortable plastic chair with her handbag on her lap. ‘Hello, Margot.’
She dips her head but doesn’t smile. ‘Gary.’ Her heart beats faster and she has to take another sip of water because her tongue is sticking to the roof of her mouth. This is it? The moment she finds out for certain whether or not that body is her daughter’s.
His eyes go to the empty chair beside her. ‘You didn’t bring someone with you?’
She shakes her head. Just get on with it.
Ruthgow and the DC, who introduces herself as Clotilde Spencer, take the seats opposite. Ruthgow clears his throat and looks across the table at her, his expression serious. She notices he’s wearing a soft pink tie flecked with white. ‘Now, obviously it won’t be possible for you to identify Flora, due to the, uh, decomposition of the body.’ She winces at the word. She’s trying not to think about her beautiful Flora being reduced to bones. ‘That’s why we’ve taken the DNA sample from you. But we wanted to know if there was anything else that might help us identify the remains that we’ve found.’
‘Such as?’
‘Any abnormalities, fractures, that kind of thing. Like, for example, had she ever broken her collarbone?’
‘No. She broke her ankle years ago when she was about six. Her left one. I don’t think it was ever set properly. It used to play up now and again. And it was weaker.’
DC Spencer sits up straighter. ‘Broken left ankle, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
She turns to Ruthgow and raises an eyebrow.
Ruthgow leans forward, his elbows on the table. ‘The body that has been found died somewhere between 1993 and 1996 and is believed to be a young female, aged between fifteen and seventeen. Unfortunately, due to the amount of time that has passed, we’re unable to determine the cause of death at this point, although we have forensic pathologists working on it as we speak. But there is one thing we’re certain about. There has only been one past breakage.’
Here it comes, thinks Margot, bracing herself. She won’t cry. She clenches her fists in her lap, pressing the fingertips into the soft flesh of her palms. She’ll wait until she’s alone in the car to shed any tears. ‘The left ankle?’
Ruthgow smiles. ‘No. Right collarbone. There is no indication that either ankle has ever been broken. We won’t know for definite, of course, until we run the DNA sample you gave us, but …’ he sits back in his chair and Margot’s amazed that he looks relieved ‘… I don’t think the body is Flora’s.’
Margot waits until she’s safely ensconced inside her Range Rover before letting the tears flow. She’s not even sure what she’s crying about, exactly: that the body doesn’t look as if it’s Flora’s, or that it’s somebody else’s daughter and that another family, another mother, has had to live the same limbo life as she has for the past eighteen years. Part of her wanted it to be Flora so that she could finally – not move on, she’ll never be able to move on – have some kind of closure and lay her to rest. Yet the other part, the bigger part, is relieved because it means there is the smallest hope that maybe Flora didn’t die all those years ago, that she’s alive somewhere. Happy. It’s a fantasy she sometimes allows herself, but not too often. Hope is a powerful thing that, as yet, has led only to disappointment.