I go into the kitchen, my head reeling, and make myself a cup of tea to take to bed (Rory always thinks it’s weird that the caffeine doesn’t keep me awake like it does him). I’m returning to my bedroom when I hear the letterbox rattle. I slam my mug down, spilling tea, and dart into the hallway, thinking it’s Rory, just in time to see something fluttering to the floor. It looks like a leaflet. I bend over to pick it up. It’s a bus ticket – I recognize the local company’s logo. I turn it over, expecting a note on the back but there is nothing. When I read it again I see ‘BRISTOL TO TILBY’ printed on the front. And a date: 9 March 2012. The date of the Wilson murders. I wrench open the front door, hoping to catch the person who posted it, but the corridor is empty.

Chapter 33

33

Margot

The back door slams and Margot’s heart leaps in her chest.

He’s back. Adam’s back at last. Where has he been all this time? Ethan must be exhausted.

She jumps up from the sofa. She probably shouldn’t have had that third glass of wine. She feels light-headed and has to hold onto the door jamb for support. She’s just read Jess’s text. She’d thought she recognized the words – she’d seen them before. It’s only now she remembers where: in the office when she was searching through the bookings to see if Clive or Deirdre had ever stayed here. They had been scribbled on a piece of paper and she’d moved it aside without really thinking about it.

She doesn’t know her son-in-law as well as she thought.

Adam strides in and her heart sinks when she sees he doesn’t have her grandson with him. ‘Is he at Gloria’s again?’ she says, trying to push away the jealousy. She’s hardly spent any time alone with Ethan lately, and when she offers, Adam tells her, in a slightly patronizing way, ‘You’ve got too much on your plate at the moment.’ In her lowest moments she can’t help but worry that he’s purposely keeping him away from her.

He runs a hand across his stubble, an aura of distraction surrounding him. ‘Ah, yes, but Mum lives on the way to the hospital. It was getting late. I’ll pick him up on the way to see Heather tomorrow.’

He slumps onto the sofa, still in his waxed jacket, eyeing the almost empty wine bottle on the coffee table. ‘Would you mind getting me a glass, Marg, as you’re up?’ he asks, as he reaches for the bottle. ‘Although it doesn’t look like there’s much left.’ His face is pale and drawn with tiredness, the bags under his eyes making him look older than his thirty-four years.