“If he hasn’t torn them up, you’re welcome to them.”

An hour or so later, as Heather sat in a bar in Lewisham nursing a shot of whisky to calm her nerves, DI Parker called. She cleared her throat and answered, willing herself to sound cool and professional.

“I was sorry not to see you today, DI Parker. Belmarsh is a lot more appealing with you in it. Plus your mate Turner is a waste of skin.”

“How did it go? With Reave?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

There was a beat of silence before Parker replied.

“You’ve got to expect him to be temperamental. Difficult to understand. But even how he reacts to things can be useful to us.”

“He knows more about my mother’s death than he’s telling, I’m sure of it.” Heather picked up the glass of whisky, picturing her mother’s face briefly, creased and stern, as it often was. “I’d like to keep going, if that’s possible.”

Parker made a noncommittal noise. “Our priority has to be your safety.”

“Aw, I’m touched. But he’s chained to the table, and you’ve got your giant blokes there. What could he do?”

“Not all damage is physical, Miss Evans.”

Heather took a sip of whisky, grimacing against the burn in her throat. She thought of the morgue, and her mother’s broken body. She hadn’t seen it, of course—ultimately the body had to be identified with her dental records and the engraved wedding ring still on her finger—but it was funny how little phrases stayed with you, particularly when you had a vivid imagination. Her mother’s bones, shattered into lethal shards; her mother’s hair, heavy with sand and pieces of rock. Physical damage. Organic material. The bar, just starting to get busy, dipped and weaved around her as if she was on the deck of a boat, and she forced herself to focus on Ben Parker’s voice. He was speaking again.

“… no way to know it’s related, but it smells like it is to me. It’ll be in the papers by now.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“A woman called Fiona Graham appears to have been taken by force from her house. There are reasons to believe this is our copycat again.”

“Fiona Graham?” Heather blinked. It was like being dunked in cold water. “I feel like I know that name.”

“You do? Where from?”

“I’m not sure.” She willed herself to remember, but despite a strong sense that she’d heard the name before, no other details came to mind. “I’ll have to think about it,” she finished lamely.

“If you do remember, let me know.”

“Sure. Listen …” She bit her lip. The familiarity of Fiona Graham’s name had brought back some of the tight excitement to her stomach despite her unpleasant afternoon at the prison. There were clues here, pieces to a larger puzzle, and she just had to get them all lined up to get her answers. Maybe, in fact, she was the best person to do it. “Are you up for a drink at all? A chat? Today has shaken me a bit, and I could do with looking at a friendly face.”