He clears his throat. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll do all I can, Margot, I promise.’

After he’s hung up, Margot slumps into a chair, feeling as though all her energy has been sucked from her. She doesn’t even know where to start with her thought process. She needs to go back and talk to Heather.

She hurries along the winding corridors to the area where Heather’s room is. Visiting time is nearly over. The nurses and doctors – they all know who she is now – are usually happy to be a bit lenient, but Margot doesn’t want to break any rules.

The same policeman is still outside Margot’s door and he raises an eyebrow when he sees her. ‘Back again?’ He smiles. He’s young, this policeman, with twinkly hazel eyes and a round freckled face. He’s young enough to be Margot’s son. She likes him. Out of all the police officers who have stood guard in the two weeks since Heather was admitted, he’s the only one who bothers to talk to her or treat her as though she’s an actual human being, rather than the mother of a criminal.

‘Forgot to ask Heather something,’ she says, throwing him a benign smile. He steps aside to allow her to pass.

Heather is lying on top of the bed in her dressing-gown, her head resting against the puffed-up pillows; a nurse is taking her blood pressure and temperature.

Heather lifts her eyebrows in surprise but doesn’t say anything until the nurse has left.

‘Well?’ she whispers.

‘I’ve called Ruthgow. He’s going to look into it. You need to tell me everything, Heather.’

‘Some of it is still patchy. I can’t remember what happened before …’ She touches the bandage around her head. ‘And I don’t remember shooting the Wilsons but,’ she flushes, ‘I do remember getting obsessed with her in the weeks leading up to … it.’

Margot perches on the edge of Heather’s bed. ‘With who? Deirdre?’

‘I just couldn’t get it out of my head, the thing with the dogs and the ring.’ She holds her right hand up. ‘This ring, Mum. Flora’s.’