Ruthgow leans forward, his elbows on the table. ‘The body that has been found died somewhere between 1993 and 1996 and is believed to be a young female, aged between fifteen and seventeen. Unfortunately, due to the amount of time that has passed, we’re unable to determine the cause of death at this point, although we have forensic pathologists working on it as we speak. But there is one thing we’re certain about. There has only been one past breakage.’

Here it comes, thinks Margot, bracing herself. She won’t cry. She clenches her fists in her lap, pressing the fingertips into the soft flesh of her palms. She’ll wait until she’s alone in the car to shed any tears. ‘The left ankle?’

Ruthgow smiles. ‘No. Right collarbone. There is no indication that either ankle has ever been broken. We won’t know for definite, of course, until we run the DNA sample you gave us, but …’ he sits back in his chair and Margot’s amazed that he looks relieved ‘… I don’t think the body is Flora’s.’

Margot waits until she’s safely ensconced inside her Range Rover before letting the tears flow. She’s not even sure what she’s crying about, exactly: that the body doesn’t look as if it’s Flora’s, or that it’s somebody else’s daughter and that another family, another mother, has had to live the same limbo life as she has for the past eighteen years. Part of her wanted it to be Flora so that she could finally – not move on, she’ll never be able to move on – have some kind of closure and lay her to rest. Yet the other part, the bigger part, is relieved because it means there is the smallest hope that maybe Flora didn’t die all those years ago, that she’s alive somewhere. Happy. It’s a fantasy she sometimes allows herself, but not too often. Hope is a powerful thing that, as yet, has led only to disappointment.

She reaches in her bag for a tissue and wipes away the tears. This won’t do. She has to be strong. She promised Heather she’d go back to the hospital and tell her the news. And even though it won’t be officially confirmed until the DNA results are through, this is what Heather will want to hear.

Because it means Heather had no motive to shoot Clive Wilson.

Her mobile rings and she answers it when she sees Leo’s name flash on the screen. She’d texted him earlier to tell him about the remains.

‘They don’t think it’s her,’ she says, her body sagging against the seat. She repeats what Gary Ruthgow had told her about having a DNA test just to be sure.

‘That’s great news if it’s not her,’ says Leo.

‘It is. And it isn’t.’