Margot closes her eyes, not wanting to picture it.

‘But I knew it was the drugs talking,’ continues Heather, ‘so I told her I was taking her to see them in Tilby and she willingly came with me. She told me then about the day they had kidnapped her, given her spiked hot chocolate so she blacked out. When she finished talking she was exhausted and fell asleep on the back seat of the car. It was still early morning when I half carried her into the house and laid her on her old bed in her room.’

Margot had left everything as it was the day Flora disappeared. Even her old posters of the Psychedelic Furs and Joy Division were still Blu-Tacked to the walls. ‘I thought being back in her old bedroom might help Flora to remember who she really was when she woke up,’ adds Heather. ‘Clive had used her as his pawn, his plaything, for years, keeping her dosed up on heroin and threatening her that he’d come for me if she …’ Heather’s crying now ‘… if she left or told anyone.’

Margot’s head is reeling. Deirdre had known. All this time. She’d helped her son, her sick, perverted son, keep Flora a prisoner for years. She’s a mother. How could she?

‘And then,’ sobbed Heather – Ruthgow hands her a tissue, which she uses to blow her nose, ‘she was so hooked on drugs I don’t think she cared where she was, as long as she was getting a fix.’

‘Oh, God.’ Margot groans, feeling sick. It was like the horrifying stories she’d read in the newspapers, young girls being kidnapped and kept locked up as prisoners for years.

‘And then?’ probes Ruthgow, gently. ‘What happened after that?’

She lowers her eyes. ‘I … don’t remember.’

Ruthgow looks at Margot, his lips set in a grimace.

‘Can I see Flora?’ pleads Heather.

‘I’ll see what I can arrange,’ he says, getting up from his chair and adjusting his trouser legs. They’ve gone slightly saggy at the knee, observes Margot. ‘Thank you, Heather. You’ll have to come into the station next week and give a formal statement. If you’re up to it, that is.’ He pauses at the door. ‘You have a motive now, Heather. I have to warn you, you might be charged with this.’

Heather sits up. ‘But I can’t remember what happened.’

‘Well, I suggest you try.’

Margot stands up, fists clenched at her sides. ‘You can’t charge her with this. If she did kill those – those bastards,’ she spits, ‘I don’t blame her. I don’t –’

‘Margot,’ Ruthgow says, his voice firm. ‘We’ll take a formal statement next week. Please try not to worry about all of that for now.’ He shoots Heather a knowing look before leaving the room.