Jack opens the passenger door and turns to me before getting out. ‘Well, come on. What are you waiting for?’ He assesses me, his eyes softening. ‘Don’t tell me the nerves are kicking in? That you really are human, Jessica Fox.’ I know he’s teasing me but he’s closer to the truth than he knows. Usually, when faced with a task like this – a death knock or door-stepping a celebrity, a disgraced official – I hide behind my journalist façade. But Margot knew me before I was a journalist. She knows the real me. It will be like I’m standing before her naked. I’ll have nothing to hide behind.

I take a deep breath and follow Jack. He’s got his camera case slung across his body but he still looks conspicuous. Paparazzo. I turn to him. ‘Perhaps you should stay here a minute. I don’t want to spook Margot.’ I remember her as a straight-backed horsy woman, kind and caring, like Heather, but on first impressions she could be brusque and no-nonsense. A little intimidating.

Jack shrugs good-naturedly. ‘Sure, whatever you think. I’ll wait in the car.’

I hand him the keys and smile at him gratefully, hoping Margot hasn’t spotted us already.

I walk slowly around the side of the house to the front door. Nothing much has changed – even the door is painted the same olive green – and I see the fountain in the distance, the hedges that hide the fields beyond and the caravan park. And in that moment I imagine I’m fourteen again, calling for Heather. I almost expect to hear the soft bark of Goldie and I feel a lurch in my heart. Don’t be soft, I tell myself. That was a long time ago.

I rap on the door and wait, my heart hammering despite the bollocking I’m inwardly giving myself for being a wuss. I need another fag but I know that would be unprofessional. Oh, come on, Margot. Open the door. I know you’re in.

And eventually, after what feels like years, the door opens and she’s standing there in a waxed jacket and cream jodhpurs, a furious look on her face, her arms folded. Her once raven hair is streaked with white, and her eyes are lined, her neck jowly. She would only be in her late fifties but looks older, more weathered, although she’s still striking. Tall and slim, she’s wearing a slash of red lipstick that is darker around the edges. Her green eyes access me but I can tell she doesn’t recognize me. ‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ she snaps. ‘Leave us alone. I’ve told the other one and I’m telling you the same. If you come here again I’ll call the police.’

I lift my eyes to hers. ‘Margot,’ I say softly. ‘It’s me. Jessica Fox. Heather’s old friend.’