He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Listen, we appreciate your help. I appreciate it. I know it’s grim, sitting in that room with him.’ He stopped, sighing suddenly. ‘We’ve found Miss Graham’s body.’

‘Oh.’

Unable to stop herself, Heather thought of the photo she had given Parker, of the little grinning redhead with the smudge of cream on her cheek. The idea that such a fate was waiting for her, a few years down the line, was unspeakable.

‘Was she … was it like the rest?’

Parker shuffled his paperwork back into a pile, signalling that the conversation was over.

‘It’s best I don’t tell you about it, to be honest. You’ll come back? Try again?’

‘You don’t think it’s pointless, then?’

‘I will take anything I can get at this point. We have to find this guy and stop him. Soon. Plus,’ he glanced away, looking to see, she suspected, whether any colleagues were in earshot, ‘I’d like to see you again.’

Heather grinned. ‘You know, there are other ways to ask someone out. Ways that don’t involve a third-wheel serial killer. Call me old-fashioned.’

DI Parker smiled ruefully at her. ‘Like I said, I take what I can get.’

23

Heather sat cross-legged on her mother’s sofa, the terracotta pot in her lap. She turned it around and around in her hands, her fingers occasionally brushing over the ragged heart-shaped scratch in the clay. Nikki was pouring more wine into their glasses as she sat on the floor.

It was a heart. It was nothing. She could wander into any department store in London and find some sort of rustic crap emblazoned with hearts – coasters, toast racks, plates. Probably everyone had something with a heart on in their house, whether you were stylish or chintzy or utilitarian. They were weirdly hard to avoid.

Yet.

‘My mum never liked this sort of thing, you know.’

‘What?’ Nikki took a sip of her wine and raised an eyebrow. ‘Flowerpots?’

‘Hearts.’ Heather turned the pot around so she could see the scratched heart. ‘My dad was always so careful about what Valentine’s gifts he brought home for her. He always said she was fussy. But the more I think of it …’ She frowned. ‘He gave her all sorts of presents, my dad, but never love-hearts and flowers. When it was her birthday, he’d get chocolates in her favourite flavours, candles that smelled of things like fresh laundry and sea breezes, jewellery and perfume and books. No teddies clutching hearts or massive bouquets of flowers.’

‘Okay,’ said Nikki. ‘So what? Lots of people don’t do the whole Valentine thing. And would that have been so out of character for your mum? She never struck me as soppy, exactly.’