‘I didn’t know anyone called Colleen, but there were a lot of us there. Here, this is my work from that period, I had copies made. This is how I file things, how I keep track. Perhaps you’ll find something in there.’

Heather opened the album. Instead of containing family snaps, it was filled with decent-quality colour prints of paintings and photographs, most of which were A4. There was a date painted on the leather cover in white Tipp-Ex: 1978–83.

‘Take it, borrow it. Anything I have to say about Fiddler’s Mill is in there. It might help you, with whatever it is you are doing, Miss Evans.’ She took a deep breath, hovering over Heather, clearly wanting her to leave. ‘And go and speak to Anna. I’ve written the address on a Post-it on the inside. I don’t think you’ll get much sense out of her – I haven’t been able to, not for a long time – but I don’t know, maybe it’ll do her good to think that someone cares about her baby, or whatever it was.’ She suddenly looked to be on the verge of tears. ‘Terrible things happened there, Miss Evans, but forgive me, I don’t want to expose myself to that again, not even to remember the details you want.’ She shuddered all over. ‘It’s a wound that never heals.’

Heather looked up, but Pamela Whittaker was already turning away. She thought of her mother’s suicide note again: monsters in the wood.

‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I have a lot to be getting on with.’

On her way back down the cold concrete steps, Heather’s phone rang. Pausing by a battered and ancient telephone box, she pressed receive.

‘Miss Evans?’

‘Oh, DI Parker. Hello.’

‘I got your voicemail. You have something on Fiona Graham?’

‘Yes, I sent you an email. It’s not much, but there’s a photo I think might be her. My dad took it, years ago.’

‘Do you think your parents knew Fiona Graham?’

The question threw her for a moment. What was he suggesting?

‘Well, I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.’

‘Would you come in to the office tomorrow? I’m back in London.’

‘Here I was thinking I’d lost the chance to see you again.’

He made a small noise of amusement, and Heather was surprised by how much it pleased her to have amused him, even a little bit. It was good to smile after her unpleasant conversation with Ms Whittaker.

‘No such luck,’ he continued.

‘Does this mean you’ve found Fiona Graham?’

There was a pause, and within it Heather imagined all manner of terrible fates for the girl she might have met fleetingly in her childhood. She stood very still, staring unseeing at the scratched glass of the telephone booth.

‘Listen, I’ll tell you what I can tomorrow. If you can make it then?’