These forums were created and curated by people who regularly sought out the bloodiest details of the worst side of humanity, and it wasn’t long before she found a long thread detailing the Michael Reave case. There were pictures of crime scenes, and of bodies. In some cases, just pieces of bodies. Judging from the clinical lighting and lack of dramatic angles, some of these at least seemed genuine, photographs snuck out from police archives or from the investigation in the late Eighties and early Nineties, and in the face of them something, some barrier she hadn’t been aware of, was broken into pieces. She thought of the images of Reave’s victims she had already seen, their faces caught smiling or uncertain in photographs that would go on to become infamous – this was where they ended up. Because of Michael Reave.

One of the first pictures showed a young woman lying naked and face down in a field. Her arms had been bound behind her back, and she had long red hair, glossy and loose, across her shoulders and across the grass. Her skin looked painfully white, and around her body was a rough garland of bedraggled wild flowers, clearly placed there with some thought and care. Heather, who knew virtually nothing about plants and nature, thought she recognized some of the blooms – bluebells, daisies, pale yellow primroses, and the nodding heads of foxgloves, pink and purple and somehow obscene. Next to her was an item of clothing that was difficult to identify, both because of how it lay against the grass, and the fact that it had been soaked with blood.

The next picture had also been taken outdoors, and the woman was lying with her eyes to the sky. In the centre of her chest there was a large, almost round hole, and bursting up through it was a young tree, the sort you could buy from garden centres, small and ready to plant. Heather could see the dark wetness of the inside of her chest, although the hole itself was relatively clean. She wore what looked like a white shirt, unbuttoned, but it was stained a dark, brownish red; only a small patch on the collar gave away the fact that it had ever been white at all.

‘He dresses them,’ she said, feeling her stomach turn over. The eggs felt heavy and unwelcome. ‘He dresses the bodies, arranges them. He cares more about them dead than alive. He cares about this picture he’s creating.’

She scrolled down, already wondering why she had decided to do this to herself. Hadn’t today been enough?