‘Well.’ He looked thoughtful now, and Heather got the impression he was talking something through out loud, almost as though she wasn’t there. ‘He’s taken a lot of time over the bodies, and there are things – things that were not released to the press about the original Red Wolf murders – that strongly suggest he intends to keep going.’ He cleared his throat, looking faintly embarrassed again. ‘I studied criminal psychology. Wrote some pieces about serial murder. The Green River killer, Shipman. Bits and bobs, like you say.’

‘If he’s doing stuff that matches up with the original murders that the public never even knew about … is it possible it was someone else all along?’

For a long second, Parker said nothing. When he spoke again, he sounded newly sure of himself. ‘No. Ultimately the evidence against Reave was strong, and while he’s been in prison, we’ve had no more murders like it.’

‘Until now.’

He grimaced. ‘Until now.’

‘I’d love to hear more about it, if you have time.’

The traffic had slowed, and he had a moment to look over at her. ‘It’s not normally an appealing subject for conversation, Miss Evans.’

‘Then you can’t know many writers. Call me Heather, okay? Bloody Michael Reave thinks it’s fine to call me Heather, so I reckon you can.’

He chuckled reluctantly at that. ‘Fair enough.’

When they reached the outskirts of Balesford, Heather asked him to drop her off by a row of shops – for reasons she couldn’t put a finger on, she didn’t want him to associate her with her mother’s house. Leaning back to close the car door, she made herself meet his eyes directly.

‘I meant it, you know, about having a chat. Balesford is a shithole but there’s a decent Chinese restaurant a few minutes from here. Really good Peking ribs.’

‘Well …’ To her faint surprise he smiled. ‘I’m not sure that’s really appropriate, Heather.’ She noticed it wasn’t a yes or a no, technically, so she smiled back.

‘You’ve got my number, DI Parker.’

Back inside her mother’s house, Heather went into the living room and picked up the book she had found earlier. A book of fairy tales, a wolf on its cover. She thought of the creepy story Michael Reave had told her, of the child that turned into a wolf when he drank from an enchanted stream.

Reave was right, then. Her mother had been interested in this stuff. But why would it be here, lost under the sofa? As though someone had kicked it there.