‘I’m fine, thanks. Just wanted a quick look at the register. The police were here earlier …’

His eyes narrow. ‘The police? Why?’

She holds up a hand to prevent him going off on one. It’s always been Adam’s way. Talk first and think later. It had taken Margot a long time to like him, if she was being honest with herself. Heather had been so young and innocent in that department. She’d never had a boyfriend before – not one Margot knew about anyway. But when Heather was just eighteen she’d met Adam at the annual barn dance to raise funds for the church hall. He was from a little village in south Gloucestershire, but had been staying with his uncle Saul on his farm a mile or so from Tilby, learning the trade. Adam’s cousin, Ezra, had had a crush on Heather, but it had been strong, silent, gruff Adam who had stolen her heart. She’d seemed besotted with him from the outset, which had worried Margot. She couldn’t help but think he was a crutch, after Keith and Flora. They were inseparable. Heather was never one for lots of friends, especially after Jess, but she’d kept in touch with a few girls from college. Soon, they had fallen by the wayside as Heather spent all her time with Adam.

She often wondered if Adam had convinced Heather to stop seeing her friends. Heather had let slip once that he was a little possessive. But as time went on and Adam and Heather took over running the caravan park, Margot began to see another side to Adam. He was fiercely loyal to Heather and, under the gruff exterior, he was warm, especially to animals. He seemed more comfortable with the horses than he did with people. Despite her reservations, he’s been a good husband and father. It’s only in the last few months that she’s noticed a change in him – snappy with Heather, less patient when things went wrong. Just before Heather’s ‘accident’, she saw him fling files across the office in a fit of rage. He hadn’t noticed she was outside. When she asked him about it later he’d been red-faced and apologetic, saying he was looking for some paperwork and had got frustrated. He had reminded Margot of Keith, towards the end.

‘It’s nothing,’ she lies now. She’s definitely not going to tell him they suspect Heather might have had something to do with Flora’s death. ‘They just wanted to ask if I could have a look through the register and see if Deirdre or Clive Wilson had ever stayed here. They’re trying to find a link.’

The lines in his forehead deepen. ‘We’ve already told them we don’t know the bloody Wilsons. Why won’t they listen? Why can’t they see that Heather’s been struggling? The post-natal depression …’