“It was searched when Reave was arrested. As best they could, anyway—it’s a big piece of land. And Lancashire CID had another look when they realized the link with these new disappearances. It’s all very different now, you’d hardly know there had been a commune there.” Parker tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “The information on Reave’s background is incredibly sparse. Everyone who might have known him when he was a child is dead now, and there’s hardly any record of him from those years, and nothing from adulthood. There’s a birth certificate, enrolment in an infant’s school, and then he seems to just drop off the face of the earth.”

Heather pursed her lips, taking this in. “He has got to know something. When do you want me to go back?”

“Give him a day or so to think about it, but otherwise, as soon as possible.”

“You really think it could help? With the current murders, I mean?”

“There’s every chance Reave has vital information.” Parker drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel briefly. “Whoever this new person is, we think he has a personal tie to Reave. The murders are just too similar.”

“Stuff only the killer could know, things like that?”

He snorted a little and pushed a hand back through his hair. Abruptly Heather could see how tired he was, and how young. Certainly no older than she was.

“I can’t really comment on that, but yeah. The original Red Wolf killings were, well, uniquely weird. Michael Reave is a particularly strange monster, and it’s a very good thing that he’s in prison. But whoever this new guy is? He has certainly done his research.” He cleared his throat, apparently realizing he was being unprofessional. “Anyway, Elizabeth Bunyon and Sharon Barlow weren’t found in London, of course, but our biggest source of information so far is sitting in a cell at Belmarsh. I’m liaising with Lancashire CID on this, giving them all the assistance we can but …” Outside, a set of traffic lights turned green, and for a moment the car was filled with the sound of purring engines. DI Parker apparently drove faster when he was agitated. “Serial murderers are their own kind of unpredictable.”

“You’re sure it’s a serial killer? Is he taking souvenirs?”

“What is it you do for a living again, Miss Evans?”

“Uh, well. I’m a writer.”

“Oh.”

She laughed. “Just bits and bobs, you know. Freelance. Copywriting mostly …” She smiled. “Film reviews sometimes. A lot of proofreading at the moment.”

“Well.” He looked thoughtful now, and Heather got the impression he was talking something through out loud, almost as though she wasn’t there. “He’s taken a lot of time over the bodies, and there are things—things that were not released to the press about the original Red Wolf murders—that strongly suggest he intends to keep going.” He cleared his throat, looking faintly embarrassed again. “I studied criminal psychology. Wrote some pieces about serial murder. The Green River killer, Shipman. Bits and bobs, like you say.”