I glance out of the window at the rooftops of Bristol. I can see the cathedral’s spire from up here and the buildings that cluster around College Green. I can tell it’s raining by the sea of colourful umbrellas obscuring the pavements, moving almost as one. A line of traffic chugs up Park Street and a double-decker bus belches smoke as it heaves itself up the hill, like an unfit runner.

Ever since I spoke to DCI Ruthgow this morning I’ve not been able to get the interview out of my head. His words are eating away at me. I’m dying for a cigarette but I daren’t leave my desk until I’ve filed this story. I glance across at Jack, my smoking companion. He’s hunched over his computer, tapping at his keyboard, a phone cradled between shoulder and chin. Sensing me watching, he lifts his head and pulls a silly face. And then, in a placatory voice, he says into the receiver, ‘Yes, yes, I quite understand, Madam. No, I didn’t realize they would use that photo of your cat … I agree, quite inappropriate given his untimely demise … Uh-huh, yes, not Fluffy’s best side admittedly but, no, I didn’t think he looked fat.’

I can’t help but smile and turn back to my computer, studying the words on the screen again, trying to push away the thought I’ve had since speaking to DCI Ruthgow earlier. But it won’t budge.

Is it my Heather?

Tilby is a small town. I should know: I grew up there. And this Heather Underwood would be the same age as the Heather I went to school with. The Heather I was best friends with. We lost touch when we left school, but for a while – for a good couple of years, in fact – we were inseparable. As far as I remember, there was only one caravan park in Tilby, and it was owned by Heather’s family. The surname is different – she was a Powell back then – but it’s too much of a coincidence, although not beyond impossible. Heather isn’t that unusual a name. I flick back through my notebook, trying to decipher my shorthand. Yes, in our interview Ruthgow confirmed that, after killing two people, Heather Underwood went back to the caravan park where she lives with her husband and young son and tried to take her own life.

Heather always wanted to leave Tilby. Would she really still be living at the same address after all this time?

‘Haven’t you finished that yet, Jess?’

I turn to see Ted standing over me, his breath smelling of coffee and cigarettes overlaid with a faint hint of mint. He runs a hand over his beard. It’s the colour of a tobacco stain, the same as his hair.

‘Yep. I’m just about to file it.’