She landed a blow finally, pushing the man’s face back and away from her, but he lunged back and bit her, sinking his teeth into the flesh of her hand just as though he was a rabid dog. The stink, that had never really gone away, increased to the point that it seemed to stop her breath in her throat.
“Get off, help, HELP …”
Fiona wriggled backwards frantically, her wrists and her lower back burning fiercely against the carpet weave. If she could just get free of him and down the stairs, there could be someone in the street. Her hand was bleeding and her heart was trying to thump its way out of her chest. He lunged again, and this time she saw that he had a white pad in his gloved hand, which he crushed into her face. A number of smells mingled together, sending spikes of pain into her eyes.
“Listen,” he said, quietly, as though they were talking softly together in a library. He pressed his face close to her ear. “Listen. I’ve come to take you home.”
Later, when both the humans were gone, Byron crept out of the trainer cupboard, belly close to the floor. The house still smelt strongly of the stench that had frightened him in the first place, so he slunk downstairs to the front door, which smelt only of blood.
CHAPTER10
“ARE YOU SURE you want to go through with this? You can still back out.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Heather immediately. If she could get out of bed with this cloud of foreboding hanging over her, if she could get dressed and come here, all the way to this prison and to this anonymous little room without turning around, then she certainly wasn’t going to chicken out now.
DI Ben Parker looked at her gravely, as though trying to spot her doubts. He was about an inch or so taller than her, on the stocky side, with sandy hair and hazel eyes—not her type at all, generally, but there was an untidiness to him that was faintly endearing; the knot in his tie slightly skewwhiff, a sense that he had tried to make his hair do something impressive, then given up because he had other things to think about. “Are there any tips you can give me? Any rules? Should I avoid making eye contact or anything like that?”
“He’s a serial killer, not Tom Cruise. We’re not monsters.” He gave her a smile that was more eyebrows than teeth. “Just remember, you can leave at any time. He can’t reach you and you’re not on your own. And, you know, see if you can get him talking. But don’t provoke him. Don’t deliberately lead him toward conversations that you can’t handle. And if I tell you to leave the room, do so immediately.”
“Right. Great. Anything else?”
“You’ll be fine. If you’re ready …?”
Heather nodded, not quite trusting herself to say anything that wasn’t sarcastic. DI Parker led her into a small room with pastel yellow walls. Inside there were a pair of burly looking prison guards, watching her with interest. And sitting at a wide table, was Jack in the Green, the Red Wolf. Michael Reave.
She had been preparing herself for him to seem pathetic, smaller in real life and somehow pitiable—or at least, she had been hoping for such. But in the flesh, he seemed even more vital and threatening. He was tall and broad across the shoulders, his black hair dusted with salt but still thick, and although he was pale he looked healthy enough. He was wearing a simple white T-shirt and a pair of black tracksuit bottoms—socks but no shoes—and there was a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.
“Michael, we’ve brought you a visitor.”
Reave had been looking at the table, and as he lifted his head, Heather had the strangest sense that he was bracing himself for something. And indeed, as they made eye contact, an emotion flitted across his unshaven face that she couldn’t identify. She watched him blink several times as she sat herself down opposite him. DI Parker stood nearby, his arms crossed over his chest. There was a small black box on the table which she took to be a recording device of some sort.
“Mr. Reave, thank you for speaking to me today.”
She had an envelope with copies of the letters, which she placed on the table.
“You’re Colleen’s girl.” It wasn’t a question. He spoke with a soft northern accent that ordinarily she would have found appealing. “She had a little girl.”
“She did. I’m Heather, Mr. Reave, and my mum …”
He twitched, as though she had struck him. “Michael. It’s Michael, to you.”
For reasons she couldn’t name, the hair stood up on the back of her neck, and she found herself looking at his hands—big powerful hands, scarred across the knuckles. Despite all her bravado and her certainty that she was going to ace this like some big-time journalist, the idea of being on first name terms with a serial killer had turned her stomach to ice, and she couldn’t think of anything to say at all. Bizarrely, it was Michael Reave that saved her.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said. “I mean, I was sorry to hear about your mum.”
Heather nodded, contemplating the strangeness of being offered condolences by a serial killer. It all seemed too outlandish to be true; her mother’s body crushed against rocks, decades of correspondence with a convicted murderer. This small, yellow room and the man who sat in it. She cleared her throat and shifted in the chair, trying to ignore the compulsion to shiver.
“Thank you,” she said. “I hadn’t seen much of her over the last few years, but it’s been a bit of a shock.” She knew that DI Parker hadn’t told Reave how she had died—his idea was that hearing it from Heather might provoke some sort of reaction. “She took her own life.”
Michael Reave nodded slowly, not looking away. There wasn’t a trace of surprise on his face at all,
