“If he’s doing stuff that matches up with the original murders that the public never even knew about … is it possible it was someone else all along?”

For a long second, Parker said nothing. When he spoke again, he sounded newly sure of himself. “No. Ultimately the evidence against Reave was strong, and while he’s been in prison, we’ve had no more murders like it.”

“Until now.”

He grimaced. “Until now.”

“I’d love to hear more about it, if you have time.”

The traffic had slowed, and he had a moment to look over to her. “It’s not normally an appealing subject for conversation, Miss Evans.”

“Then you can’t know many writers. Call me Heather, okay? Bloody Michael Reave thinks it’s fine to call me Heather, so I reckon you can.”

He chuckled reluctantly at that. “Fair enough.”

When they reached the outskirts of Balesford, Heather asked him to drop her off by a row of shops—for reasons she couldn’t put a finger on, she didn’t want him to associate her with her mother’s house. Leaning back to close the car door, she made herself meet his eyes directly.

“I meant it, you know, about having a chat. Balesford is a shithole but there’s a decent Chinese restaurant a few minutes from here. Really good Peking ribs.”

“Well …” To her faint surprise he smiled. “I’m not sure that’s really appropriate, Heather.” She noticed it wasn’t a yes or a no, technically, so she smiled back.

“You’ve got my number, DI Parker.”

Back inside her mother’s house, Heather went into the living room and picked up the book she had found earlier. A book of fairy tales, a wolf on its cover. She thought of the creepy story Michael Reave had told her, of the child that turned into a wolf when he drank from an enchanted stream.

Reave was right, then. Her mother had been interested in this stuff. But why would it be here, lost under the sofa? As though someone had kicked it there.

Remembering the torn page she’d found on her mother’s dressing table, Heather began to flick through it, looking for the story it had been ripped from. But quickly she realized this was going to be harder than it looked; many pages had been ripped out and apparently thrown away. There were still illustrations of round cheeked boys and girls, of bears and castles and soldiers, of fairies and goblins and boggarts, their capering figures appearing every few pages.

No wolves though. No wolves left at all.

CHAPTER

11

“NIKKI, IT WAS so fucking creepy I can’t even tell you.”

“It sounds like it.”

They were in Nikki’s living room again, the remains of a Chinese takeaway strewn across her formerly pristine coffee table. It was late, and the windows looked too dark to Heather. She was glad her friend had put all the lights on, and even the television with the sound off was a reassuring presence.

“He wasn’t what I expected. But what do you expect? I don’t know. People like Fred West—he looks like he’s crawled out from under some bridge somewhere. Ian Brady has the most amazingly punchable face. Or he did. Jeffrey Dahmer looks like he has creep written through him like a stick of rock. But Michael Reave was like … I don’t know. A pub landlord from up north who looks after himself. Or,” she snorted with sour amusement. “Or the dubious love interest in a Mills and Boon. He broods.”