It’s not until much later, following an afternoon spent sitting beside Heather, brushing her lovely long hair and talking to her about the horses, her husband and son, that Margot gets the phone call. Adam’s gone to his mum’s, promising to bring Ethan back to spend the night. He’d popped in to see Heather, too, but he didn’t stay long. She’s noticed his visits are getting shorter. Margot had to get the bus back. She wasn’t a fan of public transport. Too enclosed with not enough air, and she always seemed to end up squashed against the window with the person next to her invading her space with their pointy elbows.

She’d walked into a dark, empty house – it’s at times like these that she misses a dog to greet her – to the phone ringing.

It’s Ruthgow, who informs Margot that Adam’s fingerprints are on the gun. As well as her own. But there is another set that doesn’t match those of anybody they have on record. Someone else, other than Heather, held the gun that day.

Chapter 22

22

Jess

Jack and I stand in the porch and watch as Adam speeds out of the driveway in his blue estate. Jack is still clutching the bag of peas Margot gave him. He holds them up to me: the bag is melting and water drips at our feet. ‘Forgot to give them back. I’ll just leave them here.’ He bends over and dumps them by a pair of dirty wellies.

In the distance a dog barks but there are no other sounds. The sun is struggling to come out from behind a grey cloud. ‘I forgot how quiet it is in the country,’ I say. ‘Come on, it’s this way.’

We trudge through the long grass, the dew darkening the hem of Jack’s trouser legs. ‘I’m not decked out for this,’ he observes, as he almost slips on the grass and clutches my arm, panic written all over his face. ‘Isn’t there a main path?’

I stifle a giggle. ‘I’m afraid not. Sorry, Jack, you’re going to have to get your posh designer shoes a little bit dirty.’

He grins, which gives him a sinister look with his swollen lip and black eye.

We pass the fountain where Heather and I would spend hours sprawled on the lawn, sketching, and walk until we get to a thick hedge with a large arch in the middle.

‘It’s through here?’ Jack asks, as though he expects to be walking into a pit full of tigers.

‘Yes. It’s clever, isn’t it? It means the main house has privacy away from the caravan park.’ It’s neater than it was in 1994, now pruned and shaped. I imagine, in the summer, the arch is filled with flowers.