She’s delighted that Heather has regained consciousness and seems to be her old self, but her daughter still maintains she can’t remember anything about the day of the shootings. Heather had cried when the police broke it to her about what had happened. Margot was relieved that they handled it sensitively. They didn’t formally arrest her, or bombard her with questions. A middle-aged police officer, with freckles and warm hazel eyes, who asked them to call her Sarah, sat on the chair next to the bed, held Heather’s hand and gently told her what they suspected.

‘But I don’t even know a Clive or Deirdre Wilson,’ Heather wailed, her eyes round with bewilderment, darting from Margot to Adam, then landing back on Sarah. ‘There must be some mistake.’

Sarah had replied calmly, ‘We have some evidence to suggest you were involved. I’m so sorry, Heather. We’ll give you a few days before we come back and formally question you.’

Heather had nodded, tears streaming down her face, and when Sarah had left, she’d sobbed in Adam’s arms. ‘You don’t think I’d be capable of something like this, do you?’ she’d asked him beseechingly. ‘You know me, Adam. I’m not a killer.’

Adam had met Margot’s eyes over Heather’s head. He’d looked panicked. ‘No, of course not,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this. Please, my love, please don’t worry.’

It had taken everything out of Margot, emotionally, to stay strong. She’d had to bite her lip so she did not reveal to her daughter that Deirdre had stayed at the caravan park. She hadn’t even told the police yet, managing to convince herself that it meant nothing. Heather probably hadn’t even taken any notice of her, checking her in and, as was mostly the case, not seeing her again until she’d checked out a few days later.

It was just a coincidence.

Margot takes a long slug of wine, instantly feeling calmer as it slides down her throat, warming her insides.

The vultures are back again. As soon as the news had broken about Heather being out of her coma they’d returned with a vengeance, quadrupling in number. Every time she left the house there was a swarm of them, like locusts. She was still furious with Sheila for talking to the press, and had called to tell her she was no longer welcome at the caravan park. Luckily they weren’t busy, and she’d find someone else to assist with mucking out the horses. Leo was coming tomorrow to stay and to help and she couldn’t wait to see him, grateful that she wouldn’t be rattling around in the old house by herself any more.