‘I’ll open another,’ she says, going to the kitchen to fetch a bottle and a glass. To her surprise, he follows her. He leans against the worktop and watches as she pours the wine. There is something brooding about his presence tonight.

Then his eyes flicker towards the two dirty plates still on the kitchen table and he frowns. ‘Who’s been here?’

She bites back her irritation. It’s still her house. ‘Jess. She popped over.’

‘You seem to be spending a lot of time with her lately.’

‘Yes, well, she was once very close to Heather. She knew Flora too.’

He takes the wine glass from her and clomps back into the sitting room in his walking boots. She follows, wondering how she’s going to bring up the subject of Clive. He reclines on the sofa, his face even more pinched. ‘I understand Jess reminds you of the past. But she’s a journalist, remember? You can’t trust her.’

Margot purses her lips. There’s no point in arguing with him. He would never understand what it’s been like for her all these years. Losing a child is one thing, but never to know what has happened to that child, never to know if her last moments were of fear, or pain, not to have been there to protect her. It will haunt her, torment her, for ever. That’s one of the reasons she’s never sold Tilby Manor. Just in case Flora is out there somewhere and manages to find her way home – although, deep down, she knows that’s not likely. But if there is just a sliver of possibility that her daughter might have run away, there is also a very thin thread of hope that she might return. And she doesn’t want to cut that thread. Ever. She’ll die here, she’s sure of that.

For a time Jess was like another daughter. And being with her makes Margot remember the past, yes, but more than that. It makes her house feel like a home again.

She takes a deep breath. ‘Adam. I don’t want to ask Heather. She’s still fragile and struggling to remember events leading up to the shooting. But I need to know. What did you argue about the night before her …’ she struggles to find the right word ‘… accident?’

He sits up, suddenly alert now. ‘Jeez, Marg …’

‘Was it about Clive?’

His eyes are round with shock. ‘What? Clive Wilson? Why would we be arguing about Clive?’

‘Because you knew him.’

He stands up, the wine in his glass sloshing so that some of it lands on the ancient patterned rug. ‘What? Of course I didn’t know him. What makes you say that?’ He slams his glass down on the coffee table and, for one fleeting moment, Margot actually feels afraid of him. Was this what he was like when he argued with Heather? Threatening? Aggressive?