Abruptly, Heather leaned over the bed and was noisily sick, snatching up the bucket just in time. A hot curd of bread pudding and sour red wine splashed wetly against the plastic bottom, her stomach clenching and flexing until it was all out of her. After that, some vital energy seemed to leave her and she finally slept, despite the smell of sick and the brightly burning lights.

She woke up at around 4 AM, sitting straight up in the bed. My toothbrush was in the cabinet, she thought wildly, with no idea why the information was important. It was only when she’d stepped out to turn the light off, then slipped back into bed, that she realized what it meant: if she’d put the toothbrush in the cabinet that morning, then why hadn’t the note and the feathers fallen out then?

She lay awake for some time after that, until the rancid smell of vomit forced her out of the bedroom and onto the downstairs sofa.

CHAPTER

20

“SORRY ABOUT THE mess.”

Heather stepped around a stack of box files as DI Parker led her through the chaotic office. It was remarkably shabby for a police station, to her mind, mostly filled with people frowning at pieces of paper or eating Subway sandwiches, but it was at least very lively.

“Like I said before, you’re busy, right?”

Ben Parker gave her a quick smile over his shoulder. “Always. But as it happens, part of the ceiling collapsed in the east side of the building, so a lot of stuff that was over there is now being found a home over here,” he waved at the overloaded desks. “It’s also where we’d normally interview people, so you’ll have to make do with my office today.”

At the far end of the open plan space they came to a row of small, closed off offices, the glass partitions dotted with Post-its and pale dots of old Blu Tack adhesive. Parker led them inside one and set down the two coffees he’d been carrying on a crowded desk. As Heather sat down, she found herself trying to see everything on the desk at once; there were handwritten reports there, printouts of emails, and a few large photographs of what looked like someone’s bedroom.

“Is this an interview then? I mean, that sounds very official.”

“Ah, no.” Parker sat down, the chair squeaking slightly. He ran a hand through his hair, also looking at the chaos on his desk. He seemed to have briefly forgotten why they were there. “Just a chat. The photograph you think might be Fiona Graham. You have it with you?”

“Yeah, I …” Heather hauled her bag up onto her lap, ready to delve into it for the photograph, when something else on the desk caught her eye. It was a series of clear plastic evidence bags, each containing what appeared to be a cheery birthday card. On the far end one contained something else entirely: a smooth gray rock about the size of the palm of her hand. It was polished and shiny, with a rough heart shape scratched into the surface. Heather stopped, her own heart doing something like a somersault. “What is that?”