‘What—?’ Heather thought of the heart scratched into the terracotta pot, the sense that she was being watched. What did Reave know about that, exactly? ‘Michael, what do you know? Am I in danger?’

He shook his head, not looking at her.

‘Don’t go up there. There’s nothing for you there. Don’t poke around in stuff that doesn’t concern you, lass.’

But DI Parker had stepped forward, lightly touching the back of Heather’s arm, signalling that today’s session was over. Later, as they walked back to the prison entrance, Heather found herself thinking about Michael Reave’s final words. They had only left her with more questions.

‘What about his family? Are any of them still around?’

Parker shook his head. With another session over but no closer to any answers, he looked distracted again, impatient to be somewhere else.

‘All dead. His mother, as I mentioned before, vanished when he was a kid, and if she’s still alive she’d be very old now, and she certainly wouldn’t fit our profile. There was a father and an older sister, both of whom have a few scattered reports with social services – suspicions of sexual abuse in the family.’

‘Jesus.’

‘But they’re both dead now too. Some distant relations, but nothing that leads anywhere.’

Outside, under the cold blue sky, Heather stood alone at a bus stop, still thinking about her mother and the mysteries she had left behind. It was clearer than ever that Colleen Evans had been of enormous importance to Reave, had represented something to him that Heather couldn’t begin to understand. And she had to believe that Colleen had had a similar attachment to him, yet nothing about that fitted in with the strict and unbending woman Heather had grown up with. There was something else, some other connection. There had to be.

When the bus eventually came along, Heather got on board without looking at the driver. She found a seat at the back of the bus, got out her notebook, and began writing.

26

Before

Early mornings in the woods were full of birdsong and light. The muttering from Michael’s graves was at its quietest but he still liked to visit each one, letting them feel his wolf-shape as he passed over them – it was important that they knew he was there, no matter how far he travelled these days. On this particular morning, the wood was awash with bluebells, a near-purple haze that peeked around every corner. Michael was considering picking some to take with him on his next outing – he had taken to placing flowers in the mouths of his women, so that a little piece of Fiddler’s Wood would rot with them – when he heard a soft voice calling.

‘Is someone there?’

He leaned his shovel against a tree and moved towards the sound.

‘Hello?’