She turns to the beginning of the book, January 2011. She flicks to the next page, then to March. A year ago. But nothing. She sighs, pushing the diary aside and picking up the 2012 diary. And, to her surprise, there it is, on the second page, written in familiar looping handwriting.

Deirdre Wilson, Caravan Three, 3 February 2012, two nights.

She takes her glasses off and rubs at the corners of her eyes. She was here. Deirdre was here just over a month ago. And, judging by the handwriting, Heather had met her.

Chapter 18

18

Margot

Margot stares at Heather’s handwriting, stunned at her discovery. There it is, in blue biro, the proof of a link between her daughter and the Wilsons.

Sliding the diary under her gilet to protect it from the rain, Margot locks the office and darts back through the caravan park. There is a light on in Colin’s caravan and it seeps around the edges of the closed gingham curtains that Heather had run up on the sewing-machine. Her heart lurches at the sight of them. From the windows on the other side of the caravan, Colin will have a view of the cliffs and the sea in the distance. She wonders how he feels about what’s happened with Heather. He seemed very fond of her, although he has only once asked how she is, and Margot felt he took pains to avoid the subject of the shootings, shuffling his feet and keeping his eyes on the ground. When she cleaned his caravan yesterday she found a Get Well card with a cartoon dog holding a bunch of flowers on the front. But he’d only got as far as writing Heather’s name inside. Margot hadn’t meant to pry: it had fluttered to the floor in the breeze she had created when she opened the caravan door. She imagines him now, sitting alone in front of the tiny inbuilt TV with his meal for one, and feels real empathy with him for the first time.

Margot jogs across the field that separates the caravan park from the house, past the paddock and through the garden. One of the horses neighs from the stables. Winnie, she thinks, and the sound comforts her. When she reaches the porch she kicks off her wellies and enters the house.

Only last month Deirdre Wilson stayed here on their caravan site. There was no sign of Clive’s name, but what does it mean? Is it just a coincidence?

She turns on the light in the living room, shuddering as she spots a figure standing at the edge of the driveway. Another journalist? It’s a bit late. She flops onto the sofa, with the diary on her lap. She knows she’ll have to tell Ruthgow about Deirdre.