“Oh, I think you’d be surprised.” The knowing tone made Heather look up, but Lillian already seemed to be thinking about something else, her thin mouth creased with displeasure. “A cremation? Is that what Colleen wanted?”

Heather shrugged. “She was very clear about it in her will.”

Lillian made a small noise, then gestured with her glass to the printouts on the table. “Are you working on a story? I would have thought you’d be too grief stricken for such.”

With a lurch, Heather realized she had left whytewitch’s images out, but before she could sweep them away Lillian was picking up one of the photographs with her free hand. She nodded slightly.

“Fiddler’s Mill? Goodness, this must be a very old photograph.”

“You know it?” Heather couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.

“Me? Not personally, dear, but your mother talked about it a lot. It was a memorable time for her, I think.”

Heather put the glass of wine down. “She did? That surprises me, to be honest, because she never even mentioned it to me.”

“Well.” Lillian shrugged gracefully. “There are things you don’t want to talk to your daughters about, at least, not while they are young.”

“Perhaps you could tell me what you remember?” Heather nodded to the stools at the kitchen counter, and they sat together. “Anything she said about it would be useful.”

“Are you writing a story about it?” Lillian asked. “Colleen talked a lot about your career as a journalist, too.”

“Not really.” She assumed that her mother hadn’t mentioned that she’d been thrown off the newspaper in disgrace. “I’m just curious about, you know, her life, her past. I feel like I missed out on some things that were important to her.”

“Well, I’m not sure that I can help you.” Lillian sipped from her wine again, looking across the kitchen to the back door as though the memories were waiting out there for her. “My memory, you see, it isn’t what it was.” She smiled brightly at Heather. “Don’t get old dear, it’s quite tedious.”

Heather smiled back, thinking of the photos of the women with their bodies left dismembered in fields. “It’s better than the alternative. Is there nothing you can tell me?”

“She mentioned communing with nature, eating a lot of very bad food. There might have been a boyfriend.” Heather sat very still, trying to ignore the creeping dread settling over her with every word. “Maybe more than one.” Lillian chuckled. “As I said, these aren’t the things you talk about to your daughter, not if you want to be setting an example. Perhaps you should go up there, dear. Have a look around.”

“Up there?”

“To Fiddler’s Mill. It could be,” she shrugged one shoulder, “what is it young people say? Closure. A way of dealing with your grief. To go and see this place that was so important to your mother.”

Important to Mum, thought Heather. And important to a notorious serial killer. Great.