Margot sits up straighter in her chair. There are so many questions she wants to ask but she’d promised Ruthgow she’d be quiet if he allowed her to stay for this informal interview.

‘The face. It was older, haggard, but I knew straight away it was Flora.’

Margot holds her breath.

‘Flora recognized me too. She looked dreadful, and fearful. The fear …’ Heather shakes her head, as if trying to dispel the memory. ‘Anyway. She opened the window. I helped her climb out. She …’ she glances at Margot almost regretfully before turning back to Ruthgow ‘… she became agitated when I told her to come with me. She – she refused. At first.’

Margot opens her mouth to speak but Ruthgow throws her a warning look. ‘What do you mean, refused?’ he asks, calmly.

‘She seemed reliant on Clive. There were track marks on her arms. He’d obviously got her hooked on drugs.’

‘He’s a monster,’ hissed Margot, before she could stop herself.

Heather squeezes her mother’s hand. ‘I know, Mum. But he’s all Flora knew, for eighteen years. God knows …’ she gulps ‘… God knows what he did to her.’

‘Held her prisoner.’

‘She lived in the basement, that much was obvious. But, Mum, the weird thing is, it wasn’t locked. She could have left … before.’

Margot can hardly believe what she’s hearing. ‘You mean she stayed there voluntarily?’

Heather looks uncomfortable. ‘Maybe not at first. But, yes, by the time I found her, yes.’

Margot stands up, suddenly furious with Ruthgow. ‘Why didn’t you find her? She was under our noses this whole time! We could have saved her from all those years of horror!’

Ruthgow’s expression darkens. ‘Margot, please keep calm or you’ll have to wait outside. This is important.’

Margot sinks back onto her chair, but she darts him a look of anger.

He turns his attention back to Heather. ‘Go on,’ he says gently.

Heather reaches over and takes Margot’s hand again. ‘I had to coax her out of there. She was … she was like a wounded animal. All wide-eyed and cowering. It was awful. The basement she’d been living in was squalid. She was like a zombie, dishevelled, dirty, high on drugs. If I hadn’t been looking for her I would have mistaken her for another drug addict – there’s a surprising number of them in this city, as you know. She was so skinny, Mum …’ Heather wipes tears from her eyes but continues, her voice wobbly. ‘When I tried to convince her to leave with me she became panicky and violent, trying to hit me. I wanted to call the police but she wouldn’t let me – she was trying to protect Clive and Deirdre. She sobbed that they had abandoned her. That Deirdre was sick and now she was getting all Clive’s attention. It was sordid. It disgusted me. It was like they’d brainwashed her.’