There were paintings, too, in a similarly limited palette of blacks and grays, greens and yellows. Trees like grasping fingers tore at a jaundiced sky, shadowy white figures moved through a field lit from within with green lights. In one of the paintings, Heather recognized the solid shape of Fiddler’s Mill House crouched alone at the top of a hill, and far to the right, emerging from the woods, a figure dressed in a shapeless red garment. This last painting Heather looked at for some time, until the café woman came and took her empty plate away. Her tea had gone cold.
Heather put whytewitch59’s webpage into her favorites, for no other reason than the sense she would want to look at the pictures again. Impulsively, she went to the “contact me” page and sent whytewitch a quick message—“Hi, my name is Heather Evans, how are you? I really love your work and would love to chat about it and your time at Fiddler’s Mill. I’m happy to talk online, or if you’re London based, maybe we could grab a coffee—on me.” She added her email address and clicked submit.
When she’d done that, another thought occurred to her. Taking out an old USB stick from her handbag, she spent some time saving a few of the photographs and paintings on to it. There was a small Internet café, a few doors down, that offered printing—she’d seen it as she’d wandered up the road. Perhaps Reave would be more willing to talk about Fiddler’s Mill if he could see it.
HMP Belmarsh looked more like an industrial estate from the outside, but up close it was an impressive monstrosity of brown brick. DI Parker wasn’t there to meet her this time; instead she was greeted by a short man with an overly orange tan who introduced himself as DC Turner, giving her approximately three seconds of his attention before turning back to his phone. Parker, he explained with an absent expression, was up north again. Heather was surprised by the genuine pang of disappointment she felt.
“What’s happened? Has there been another murder?”
He jerked his head up and stared at her, as if only just realizing she was with him at all.
“I can’t really comment on that, love.”
“Okay then. Don’t call me love, yeah? Thanks.”
He turned away from her with a long-suffering sigh, and she knew immediately that she would never form a long and lasting friendship with DC Turner. In truth, she generally didn’t mind people calling her love, or honey, or even treacle, if they didn’t look like a miserable piss-pot dickhead with a tanning bed fixation. DI Parker, with your charmingly messy hair and hazel eyes, come back, all is forgiven.
“Anything you want me to try and get him to talk about?”
They were outside the small interview room, and Heather could see Michael Reave already, sitting with his hands clasped in front of him on the table. DC Turner raised his eyebrows at her.
“Just do what you can.” He opened his mouth, and she could feel the “love” dangling there, half formed. “… Miss Evans.”
This time when they entered, Michael Reave lifted his head and watched her sit down. There was a plastic cup of water in front of him, and his hair had been carefully brushed back from his forehead. He had also shaved, but Reave appeared to be one of those men whose five o’clock shadow could only be chased away by the razor briefly. He wore a long-sleeved navy jumper, and he leaned forward as she sat, his elbows on the table.
“Hello, Mr. Reave.”
He smiled lopsidedly. “What do I have to do to get you to call me Michael?”
“Not have murdered a load of women?” The answer was out before she could stop herself, but to her surprise his smile turned into a grin—it was brief and then gone, an oddly boyish expression.
“I didn’t, but I can hardly blame you for thinking that.” He tipped his head to take in the tiny room, the chains at his wrists, the burly guards behind him. “They’re letting us have another chat, lass. You must have impressed them.”
Heather shrugged. “I reckon you did that, Mr. Reave. What would you like to talk about today?”
“I thought of another story to tell you. It’s another one your mother liked. Would you like to hear it?”
Heather paused. “I do want to talk about my mother. And Fiddler’s Mill. I’d love to know what she was like when she was there—and what the commune was like, too.”
Reave looked away, staring at the door. His hands, she noticed, were covered in little white scars; the hands of someone who worked outdoors, who worked with knives.
“I’ll tell you a little about that place,” he said eventually. “If you listen to my story.”
“All right then.” DC Turner hadn’t offered her a cup of tea, or anything to drink, and she felt she had nowhere to put her hands. Self-consciously she rested them on the table. “Tell me a story.”
“Once upon a time,” there was a flash of that boyish grin again, “there was a king, who had a beautiful daughter. The princess sought a
