And he saw it.

He saw that she was a small pitiful thing, a broken shape on the landscape of his rage.

“That’s it, my lad. That’s it. When you are the wolf, the likes of her are just meat. Bad meat.”

CHAPTER

13

IF HEATHER HAD one good habit, it was that she was early to everything. Arriving at Belmarsh a good hour before she was needed, she had taken root in a greasy spoon in Thamesmead. Heather had a begrudging sort of affection for Thamesmead; like Balesford, it clung to the bottom of London like a sort of crusted canker, but it at least had the good sense to be cluttered with lots of brutalist architecture—looming gray concrete wherever you happened to look, and that vague sense that once this urban landscape had existed only on the design sheets of an extremely optimistic architect.

She ordered a bacon and egg sandwich and a cup of tea, and sat near the window, looking out at a high street crammed with betting shops and fried chicken places. Eventually, she pulled out a folder of scanned letters. Ben Parker had given her a few copies of the letters her mother had sent, and these she had already read feverishly, rigid with indignation, but ultimately, they hadn’t told her much at all. Mostly the letters were short and polite, talking about inconsequential things like the changing of the seasons, the weather, or her dinner plans. Heather couldn’t make head or tail of them; you would never guess that the woman was writing to a convicted serial killer. Every now and then they would drift slightly, mentioning a place she had visited in her youth, but always her mother brought things back on track quickly. Heather had asked Parker why she couldn’t see all the letters, and he’d reluctantly explained that even murderers had rights—although Reave’s mail was monitored, they only made copies when they felt the letter contained something that might be useful. Mostly they didn’t. That could change as the investigation progressed, but for now, they wanted Reave on side.

Inevitably, Heather found herself turning back to the letters of Michael Reave himself, the ones apparently so precious to her mother she had hidden them carefully away in the attic.

… I know you couldnt be with me Colleen. I am happyer here under the sky. Would be happyer with you, but I cant have everything. Ive always known that …

… in all my life Ive never been close to anyone but you …

Heather put the letter down. The foundations of her life seemed weak and ghostly, something that could vanish entirely in just the right shade of moonlight. She thought again of the bird that had managed to trap itself in her bathroom. Even in a busy café, smelling of bacon and coffee, it was hard not to think of that as an omen … At that moment, the woman arrived with her sandwich and tea, and she seized on this normal interaction desperately, nodding and smiling at the woman so much that she looked quite put out. When the waitress had retreated back to the safety of the counter, Heather returned to the letters.