“Fiona Graham’s family were from Manchester. What would they be doing down here?”

“I don’t know, but I’ve heard that even Northerners like to leave their icy lands occasionally.”

That got a smile. “All right. And, this certainly looks like our girl to me.” Parker shuffled some papers on the desk and came up with an old school photo. It was a typical school portrait, still housed in its brown cardboard frame. In it, Fiona Graham looked a couple of years older than she had been at the fête, and she was grinning widely at the camera, wild corkscrews of ginger hair framing her face. She was wearing a school uniform—dark green cardigan, shirt with light green checks.

“I’ll pass this on to Fiona’s parents, and see if they can confirm it.” Parker put the photos down and took a sip of his coffee. “This is your mother in the photo? And you say that your father took it?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about that day; how her mother, normally so icy and distant, had suddenly broken down in tears, shaking and hiding her head in her hands. How her dad had herded them away from the happy picnic area, his own face oddly pale around the jowls.

“Any idea if your parents knew Fiona Graham’s parents?”

She shrugged and picked up her own coffee. It was vile, but it was a good distraction. “I’ve no clue.”

“Still, quite a coincidence, isn’t it? A connection to Reave, a connection to Fiona Graham …”

“You don’t even know yet that Fiona is a victim,” Heather pointed out quickly. “She might have just wandered off. People do that, sometimes—life gets a bit too much, or she’s in debt, or fallen out with her family.” She smiled. “I left home as soon as I could, didn’t think too closely about what I was doing. I’d just had enough of it all. Maybe she just had enough of it all, too.”

Parker was nodding, but not smiling.

After a moment he picked up one of the photographs she’d seen earlier—the one of an untidy bedroom. He passed it to her over the desk. It was clear immediately that something terrible had happened in the room. Shoes and bags were scattered on the floor, and there were dark patches of what was clearly blood on the carpet—not a huge amount, but enough to imply a certain level of violence.

“This is Fiona Graham’s bedroom,” Parker said, somewhat unnecessarily. “There’s more blood on the landing, on the stairs. Pictures knocked off the wall, stuff like that. She didn’t leave under her own steam, Heather.”

“No. No, I guess not.” Heather stared at the photo, trying to take in every detail. “Inspector, if there is a link between my parents and Fiona Graham … what would that mean? What if my mother was sitting on something, something she knew and felt she couldn’t tell anyone, not even me? I mean, my mother killed herself just as these murders started and now this?”