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.