“Look, I spoke to a friend about what was happening. I didn’t think she would— ”

“You didn’t think Diane Hobart, assistant editor of one of our biggest newspapers, would write a story about the Red Wolf? You know what, don’t bother, please. I’m an idiot.” She could hear him moving, as though passing the phone from one ear to the other. She pictured him in his office, perhaps glancing through the glass at his colleagues. “I shouldn’t have told you anything. It’s my fault, really. I know you’re a journalist, Heather.”

“Ex-journalist. If you’ve looked me up, you know that much, too.” She bit her lip briefly, furious with herself and with everything. “I wasn’t taking the piss, okay? Last night … I really enjoyed myself. I genuinely like you, Ben. Please don’t take this to mean something it doesn’t.”

“I think it means I’m a fool who has jeopardized an investigation. Which means I’ve put lives in danger.” He paused, and when he spoke again, she sensed him trying to distance himself. “Look, I’m really just calling to say I’ve canceled any further visitations with Michael Reave. I think it’s best, for you and the investigation, if you keep away from it all for now. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

Heather opened her mouth, not sure what she was going to say, but all she heard was another sigh, and a sharp electronic whine as he broke the connection.

Heather sat in silence, the hand holding her phone lying on her lap. She found herself picturing the walls in the bedroom of the first flat she lived in when she left home—when she ran away from home, really. The wallpaper had been cheap and peeling, and once she had torn off a strip, curious to see what was underneath. It hadn’t been worth it—her landlord had been furious, and underneath there had only been patchy blue paint, the color of cornflowers. But what if she had peeled it off to reveal something darker, some terrible landscape full of truths that were too horrific to look at. And they had been there all the time, lurking under the surface.

She came back to herself abruptly to find a florid-looking man in a football shirt standing over her table. He had a pint of lager in one hand and was looking down at her with glittering, too lively eyes.

“Cheer up, love, it might never happen.”

“What?”

He shrugged, glancing back at a crowd of mates, who were mostly watching the football. The pub had filled up quite a bit in the last hour.

“Got a face like a smacked ass on you, innit? Just saying, you’ll feel better if you have a little smile.”

Heather’s face grew hot all at once, and her heart skipped and stuttered. She stood up, and as she did something else seemed to flow into her, boiling up from the roots.

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

The man pulled his chin in, a ludicrously offended expression on his shining red face.