‘It wasn’t pleasant. All they want at this point is to be left to grieve, but …’ He paused, and Heather got the impression that he was once again telling her more than he should. ‘They identified the little girl as their daughter, and they do remember the occasion. Fiona had been taking part in a sort of junior conservation scheme, and there was a little presentation of certificates at the fête. It was called the Young Nature Walkers prize, or something. That’s why they were there.’

‘Huh. I don’t remember anything like that.’

‘As far as we can tell, they didn’t speak to your mother, or your father, and there’s no obvious connection between them.’

Heather shook her head. ‘Isn’t that weird, though? I mean, it’s a huge coincidence that they went to a fête and sat and ate cake with the woman who used to know the man who …’ She squeezed her eyes shut; shifting all the facts into place was giving her a headache. ‘The man who inspired the killer who murdered their daughter?’

‘The woman who had been writing to Michael Reave for decades,’ he corrected her, and Heather shivered despite the warmth of the kitchen. ‘Yeah, we think it’s a strange coincidence too. We’re going back through the letters you gave us, and the ones Reave has from your mother, in case we can draw any more connections between your mother and the victims.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m sorry to ask this, but … what was your relationship like with your mother?’

Heather leaned back, almost laughing then swallowing it down hard. ‘Do you think that’s a fair question to be asking me right now?’

‘I’m sorry, I really am, but I’ve got women being … Look, I had to talk to another father about his daughter today, and we had to ask him to identify her belongings, only there were spots of blood …’ His voice was tight with emotion, and Heather felt a swift pang of desire for him. ‘He’s going to do it again, and probably very soon. We need to get the jump on him.’

‘You’re right.’ She looked down at the kitchen tiles. ‘Look, I left home when I was sixteen, not long after my dad died. I barely spoke to my mum after that – just the occasional awkward phone call when a relative died, that sort of thing. We weren’t close. She sent me Christmas cards.’ Quite out of nowhere, it became difficult to speak. Her throat felt stuffed with feathers. ‘Christ, it was a bloody mess, if you want the truth.’

‘Do you think it’s possible she was picking the victims somehow?’