Margot slows down as she approaches the door to Heather’s room. As always, her stomach turns over when she sees the police officer standing guard outside. It’s a different one today. A woman this time. And, inappropriately, she thinks how masculine the female constable looks in the unflattering navy slacks and black workmen’s shoes. The officer looks up at Margot and smiles. It’s brief and professional. She’s young, younger than Heather, with auburn hair tied in a low ponytail and clear, pale skin. She stands aside to let Margot pass. Margot has to concentrate on suppressing her desire to give the officer a telling-off. Why are you here? she wants to scream. How can Heather pose a risk when she’s bloody unconscious? But she doesn’t, of course, because this woman is an official and Margot was brought up by her strict councillor father to respect officials. Instead, she pulls the strap of her handbag further up her shoulder and pushes through the door into the room.

The quietness strikes her, as it always does at first. The only sound to be heard is the bleeping of the monitors. Heather’s long dark hair has been brushed and, apart from her pale face, which has lost its usual healthy glow, there is nothing to indicate that she’s fighting for her life. She looks peaceful, as though she’s sleeping. There are no obvious signs of trauma, no bruising or surgical dressings on show. However, Margot knows that underneath the regulation hospital gown, Heather’s chest and shoulder are tightly bandaged and, obscured by that fine head of hair, there’s a shaved patch on the back of her head, with a five-inch gash now stitched and covered with gauze.

Margot dumps her bag on the floor and sits beside her daughter, taking her hand. The left one. The one she used to kill two innocent people. The one she used to point the gun towards her chest. The bullet had gone through her right breast, thankfully just missing her heart and arteries, but she’d banged her head when she fell. Ironically it was the injury to her head, not the gunshot, that had put her daughter into the coma. This information, imparted by a serious-faced consultant when Heather was first brought in, gives Margot hope. It means Heather’s suicide attempt wasn’t serious. She could have shot herself in the head if she’d really wanted to die, or under her chin. The girl’s been around guns since she was a kid. They used to own a farm in Kent before they moved here. Heather knows how to use them properly, and she knows what to do to kill, she tells herself.