Tilby’s only fifteen miles away. It won’t take me and Jack long to get there to find out for certain. If he ever turns up. I keep the car parked at my flat on the Welsh Back. It’s only a ten-minute walk from here.

I take another deep drag of the cigarette, instantly feeling calmer. I’ve given up everything else that was bad for me: London, the Daily Tribune, binge-drinking, the odd recreational drugs, the constant moving around, living with different housemates. But I can’t give up this. I need some vices.

I blow out smoke slowly. An old lady wearing a clear plastic hairnet shoots me a disapproving look as she shuffles past. Undeterred, I carry on puffing until only the butt is left. Why is Jack taking so long?

Tilby Manor Caravan Park. The name pops into my head. That was what the Powells had called it. I’d forgotten. I can still remember how much I loved spending time there. We spent our days sketching, or playing house in one of the empty caravans, or spying on Heather’s big sister and her boyfriend. It was idyllic, really. I spent more time at her home than I did my own.

Until our childhood was cut brutally short in 1994.

I went back to her house only a few times after that, and our friendship, which had once been so strong, began to weaken and break, like a strand of my now over-processed hair. By the time we were doing our GCSEs we were acquaintances, mumbling a hello to each other as we passed in the corridors.

If this woman, this killer, is the Heather I knew at school, the story could help my career and put me back on the map, which I desperately need after what happened at the Tribune. I know so much about her and her family. Too much.

But is that what I really want? And at what cost?

Chapter 2

2

Jess

We speed down the M5 in my mint-green Nissan Figaro, Jack looking uncomfortable in the passenger seat. He’s been forced to lean to the side slightly so that he can get his legs in, even though he’s pushed the seat as far back as it will go. His camera bag sits on his lap and he cradles it like a beloved puppy.

I quickly fill him in on the story, casually throwing in that I once knew a Heather from Tilby. He’s not fooled. He knows me too well. I try to concentrate on the road to avoid the concern in his eyes. ‘It’s got to be her, hasn’t it? Do you want me to look it up on my phone? I can get the electoral roll. See who’s registered there?’