Outside, an ambulance wailed its way down the road, throwing up a brief flash of blue light across rain spattered windows.

“Listen, Ben, I’m a shit person, okay? I’m a mess, always have been. God,” she swallowed past the bitter laughter that was bubbling up her throat. “Yeah, I wanted to get my career back, I wanted to try and understand a serial killer, maybe stop something dreadful from happening, but I can also stand here and say, yes, I also wanted you, and I didn’t make that up. I was glad you turned up on my doorstep, and I’m not sorry you ended up in my bed.” She looked down into her tea, furious that she was suddenly close to crying. “That night was the only bright spot in what has been a pretty hideous fucking month.”

“Heather,” Ben took a step toward her and then stopped, seeming to think better of it. “Heather, this taints the investigation. It’s not like I’m investigating some shoplifting here, or tax evasion. People are dying. And I’ve been led down the garden path by someone who was looking for information, for juicy details that she can use to spice up a newspaper article. I have a duty to the victims and by letting you do this I have failed them.” He stopped and ran both hands through his hair. There was less anger now; instead he seemed tired, and sad. “Someone else has gone missing, a woman with two little kids, I …” He shook his head ruefully. “You’d think I’d have learned my lesson about telling you this stuff, right? The point is, I don’t have time for it. Not if I want to stop this bastard.”

“I’m sorry, Ben.”

“Yeah, well. I’m sorry, too.”

He offered to drive her back to Balesford, but she refused; the idea of another entirely silent car journey with him was too much. Instead she called for a cab and stood out by the bagel shop waiting for it. When it came, she gave the driver her mother’s address, and then sat in the back seat, peering out at the rain smeared streets as they went. When they passed an off license with all its lights still on, she got the cab to stop and nipped inside, returning to the car with a bottle of vodka and a packet of paracetamol.

If she had to go back to her mum’s house, it wasn’t going to be sober.

Later, a few vodkas into the evening and feeling both sick and very tired, Heather was curled up on her mother’s sofa with Pamela Whittaker’s album on her lap. Whether it was the alcohol or the effects of a very rough couple of days, Heather was finding each image more unsettling than the last—and there were so many of them. Pamela might have regretted her time at Fiddler’s Mill, but it had certainly inspired her; there were photographs and images packed in so thickly that in some places Heather found several images hidden under another, crammed in like grisly pressed leaves.