Then She Vanishes(77)

When Margot spots me, her green eyes light up and she hurries over, pulling me in for a hug. I allow myself to be engulfed by her warmth, the smell of her familiar musky perfume, before she releases me.

‘Thank you for coming. Heather will be so pleased to see you,’ she says, taking my arm and leading me through the atrium towards the maze of corridors while I wonder if this is true. I’ve no idea of the reaction I’ll receive from Heather and my heart races at the thought. She’d be within her rights to tell me to get lost.

Margot’s chatting the whole way, and I wonder if she’s nervous. I can’t help the small thrill that runs through me at the thought that I’m allowed into her inner sanctum.

But I know not to be fooled. Behind that refined politeness Margot would fight to the death for her family. I’ve been on the receiving end of her hostility, and I don’t want that to happen again. I need to tread a very fine line here between being loyal to her but also getting Ted the story he wants.

Yet again I wonder if I’m the right person for this job. How objective can I be? I’ve already admitted to myself that I want to believe Heather is innocent and that there is a rational but not-yet-found explanation for all of this – although, as time goes on, it’s looking less likely.

My heart starts to beat faster as we approach Heather’s room and my mouth is so dry I can only nod as Margot tells me Heather’s no longer in ICU and that the police will be formally questioning her tomorrow, now the doctors deem her well enough. She doesn’t say it but I sense her unease about what will happen when Heather is discharged. Will she be taken straight into police custody or will she be allowed home? At least she has Margot to fight for her. I’m sure she’ll get her the best lawyers, the best defence team. I imagine she has money squirrelled away. She’s never been one for material things, preferring to spend her cash on her animals.

I can’t believe I’m about to see Heather again. How will it be between us after all these years? We’ve both changed so much. I swallow, wishing I had some water.

A police officer is standing outside Heather’s door. A man: young and slim with closely cropped hair and a pointed chin. He doesn’t smile as we approach but he nods to Margot, standing aside to let us pass.

I wasn’t expecting that. She’s in hospital, hardly able to go anywhere. I dart Margot a questioning look but she just shakes her head briefly.

Heather is sitting up in bed when we enter, on top of the blankets. She’s wearing sheepskin slippers and lilac pyjamas, and her hair – which is exactly the same as I remember it – is long and shining, as though it has recently been brushed. She’s older, of course, with faint lines around her eyes, but she’s still got the amazing complexion I remember, pore-less, almost, with a hint of peach at her cheekbones. There is no sign that she’s been so ill, apart from a bandage around her head. She blushes when she sees me but her face breaks into a wide smile – she still has that dimple in her left cheek – and in that moment she’s my fourteen-year-old best friend again. My eyes fill with tears and I blink them away. I must be going soft.

‘Hey, you,’ she says.

I rush towards her bed, then hesitate, wondering whether to give her a hug. But she saves me making that decision by leaning forward, her arms outstretched. I bend towards her and hold her, her silky hair brushing my nose. She smells of shampoo and hospitals.

When we break apart she indicates the chair next to her bed. ‘Please, sit down.’ I take a seat, and pull my skirt over my patterned tights primly, suddenly feeling self-conscious. I should have brought her some flowers, or grapes, or a magazine, or something. I bet she would have if I was the one in the hospital bed. Heather was always thoughtful like that.

Margot clears her throat. ‘I’ll go and get us some coffee,’ she says, retreating from the room so that Heather and I are alone.

‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ says Heather, her eyes bright. ‘You’ve hardly changed.’

‘It’s so lovely to see you too,’ I gush, surprised at myself. I never gush. I’m acting like a teenager, not my usual professional self. I have to remember who she is. Why I’m here. Not just as an old friend, but as a reporter. ‘You’ve not changed a bit. But now you’re married. And a mum!’ And a murderer.

She smiles shyly and takes the photo frame from her bedside cabinet and presses it into my hands. ‘That’s my little boy, Ethan.’ She points to the man cuddling him. ‘And that’s my husband, Adam.’

For some reason, I don’t tell her I’ve already met them in my capacity as a journalist. Instead I say how beautiful her little boy is.

‘What about you?’ she asks. ‘Married? Children?’

‘I live with my boyfriend, Rory. We were in London but moved to Bristol last year.’

‘And how’s your mum?’

I grimace. ‘She’s still the same, but since she got married and moved to Spain I hardly see her.’ My voice is imbued with a bitterness I always try to hide.

Heather doesn’t say anything but reaches over and squeezes my hand. I realize that this is what it’s like to have an old friend, someone who knew you in childhood, someone who remembers all the hurt, the pain and the anguish you went through as well as the good times. Someone who knew you before you had the chance to put up the barriers and become a different, more cynical person. Heather is the closest thing I ever had to a sister.