“He takes them away somewhere to kill them, he doesn’t kill them at their homes or in any sort of public space. He likes to be in control. I … I don’t think he kills in a frenzy. It’s about power, about exercising power over them, and the presentation of the bodies is all about that, too.”

Heather nodded.

“I thought that,” she said absently. “That he cares about the bodies. He cares about them beyond death.”

Parker looked at her sharply. “Cares isn’t quite the way I would put it.”

“No, but …” Heather tapped her fingers against the marble top. “Does he care about the way they’re displayed because he wants them to look as much like the original Red Wolf murders as possible? Or because he himself needs them to be that way?”

“That’s the big question isn’t it?” Parker sighed. “Does he know Reave, or is he just a very enthusiastic fan?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry that my chats with Reave haven’t helped much.”

“They do help, though.” Parker turned toward her. “We might not see how yet, but I’m certain —”

A noise outside made them both turn to the window. It was dark, the glass reflecting back the image of the two of them stood closely together, when a sudden streak of movement made them both jump.

“Was that a fox?”

Heather laughed nervously, her heart suddenly racing. “A dog, maybe?” Something in her voice must have been off, as Parker touched a hand to the small of her back.

“Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Yeah, I …” She took a breath, embarrassed at how jumpy she was. “God I’m all over the place at the moment. Sorry, I’m probably terrible bloody company.”

“I think you’re pretty great company, actually.”

Again, she had the powerful sense that she didn’t want him to leave. As if he had heard her thoughts, he bent his head toward her, an uncertain expression on his face mixed with something else. Without thinking too closely about what she was doing, Heather took hold of the front of his shirt and, pulling him toward her, kissed him.

There was a second where he didn’t move—Heather could almost hear him questioning his own judgement—and then his arms were around her, his mouth pressed firmly to hers. He tasted of wine and something else she couldn’t place, and his hands as they slid up the back of her shirt were pleasantly calloused. Together they bumped against the kitchen table, and as she kicked off her trousers, her hands busy at his belt, she briefly wondered what her mum would think.

All things considered, I think me fucking a policeman on your kitchen table is fairly small beans, Mum.

“Are you … Is this okay?”

Heather looked up into Ben’s flushed face and realized she’d laughed out loud.

“God, yes. Don’t bloody stop.”

Afterward, they stumbled upstairs, laughing quietly, and had a slower second round in the guest room. When they were lying together in the dark, finally exhausted, Heather found herself listening to his breathing, slow and steady and somehow comforting. It would be easy to lie here, listen to him go to sleep, let tonight become a pleasant memory, eased and turned fuzzy around the edges by too much wine and sleep—but the images of the bodies he had described, the words he had used to describe the killer, were floating in her head like buzzing neon signs.