Margot’s rubber soles squeak as she strides down the corridor to Heather’s room. Because it’s Monday morning, Adam has agreed to stay at the caravan park to check out the young couple, whom she still thinks could be journalists. Margot’s excited at the prospect of spending time with Heather, alone, and has with her an array of chocolate and magazines. At the weekend Adam brought Ethan in to see her and Margot had to fight back tears as he snuggled up to his mother’s chest, his head resting against her collarbone, sucking his thumb, happy and contented to be with her again. Heather had kissed his soft dark curls hungrily, tears running down her cheeks as she practically inhaled him, terrified of being parted from him again. Margot understands how that feels. And in that moment she knew Heather hadn’t tried to take her own life. There is no way she’d ever leave her little boy. He is her world. Maybe it had been an accident. Maybe the gun had gone off in her hand and the bullet hit her chest. Or – she recalls the unidentified set of fingerprints on the gun – somebody else was involved.

Heather is sitting up in bed when she enters the room. She looks up, her eyebrows raised. It’s still a shock to see the huge padded plaster on the side of her head. ‘Mum. Why is that policeman still outside the door?’ she says. She asks the same thing every day. And every day Margot has to come up with more lies.

Today, Dr Khan has suggested they tell her the truth. Gently, of course. The police are champing at the bit to interview her. But Margot had promised Adam not to say anything until he arrived at lunchtime.

‘It’s just policy, love, don’t worry about it.’

Heather frowns and chews her lip. It’s a new thing, this frowning. Before, Heather was a smiley person. She never glowered. But today her eyebrows are so knotted together it looks as though she has a monobrow.

‘And why haven’t you brought Ethan with you? I need to see my baby.’

‘He’s at nursery today. It’s a Monday. Remember?’

‘He’s too young for nursery.’

Margot takes a deep breath and perches on the chair next to Heather’s bed. She deposits the glossy magazines and Maltesers on the table but Heather gives them only a cursory glance.

‘You put him in nursery a few months ago. Just one and a half days a week. Don’t you remember? You thought it would be good to socialize him and give you a bit of a break.’ Margot had been the one to suggest it. With the post-natal depression, Heather had needed some time to herself. She was such a good mother. Ethan always came first – sometimes, Margot felt privately, to the detriment of her daughter.