Parker grinned a little crookedly. “I’m not an FBI profiler, Heather.”
She came closer, leaning on the counter next to him so that she had to look up into his face. His cheeks and forehead were a little flushed, contrasting nicely with his hazel eyes—in this light, they almost looked green.
“Come on. You must have thought about it?”
Outside, the wind picked up, throwing dry autumn leaves against the windows. Parker cleared his throat.
“Well, a white male in his thirties, maybe. Has a job that allows him to move around, probably lives alone. If he does have a wife, she’ll know nothing about it. And he’ll be someone with a troubled background, just like Reave. Abusive or absent parents, most likely. Not everyone who is abused as a child grows up to be a serial killer, but almost all serial killers have experienced abuse.”
“Is that like how not all bastards vote Tory, but all Tories are bastards?”
That surprised a laugh out of him. “I thought politics were off the table until at least the third date.’”
“Well you’re already at my place, so …” Unhelpfully, memories of the trapped bird, of the note in the medicine cabinet, the scent of her mother’s perfume, all rose up at once. Suddenly, Heather wanted Parker to stay—while he was here, the house felt safer, less bleak. Catching the killer seemed like a wild fantasy, something she had been using as a distraction; even understanding her mother seemed like an impossible task. And she was tired of feeling sad. It would be so good, she thought, to feel something else for a while. “I think technically that counts as the fourth or fifth date.”
She looked him in the eyes as she said it, hoping he would get the hint. He looked away, smiling, but made no move to step away from her.
“Uh. I think the killer chooses his victims very carefully, maybe has them chosen well in advance, because he knows how to take them with the minimum of fuss. There has to be something that links them, but I can’t bloody see it. They’re all roughly the same age, thirty-four, thirty-five, that’s it.”
“They’re all roughly the same age as me.” She frowned.
“Heather, we showed the photo you gave us to Fiona Graham’s parents.”
“Oh.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead, trying not to imagine Fiona Graham’s grief-stricken mother, sobbing over a picture of her daughter that she had never seen before. “They must be devastated.”
“It wasn’t pleasant. All they want at this point is to be left to grieve, but …” He paused, and Heather got the impression that he was once again telling her more than he should. “They identified the little girl as their daughter, and they do remember the occasion. Fiona had been taking part in a sort of junior conservation scheme, and there was a little presentation of certificates at the fête. It was called the Young Nature Walkers prize, or something. That’s why they were there.”
“Huh. I don’t remember anything like that.”
“As far as we can tell, they didn’t speak to your mother, or your father, and there’s no obvious connection between them.”
Heather shook her head. “Isn’t that weird though? I mean, it’s a huge coincidence that they went to a fête and sat and ate cake with the woman who used to know the man who …” She squeezed her eyes shut; shifting all the facts into place was giving her a headache. “The man who inspired the killer who murdered their daughter?”
“The woman who had been writing to Michael Reave for decades,” he corrected her, and Heather shivered despite the warmth of the kitchen. “Yeah, we think it’s a strange coincidence, too. We’re going back through the letters you gave us, and the ones Reave has from your mother, in case we can draw any more connections between your mother and the victims.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry to ask this, but … what was your relationship like with your mother?”
Heather leaned back, almost laughing then swallowing it down hard. “Do you think that’s a fair question to be asking me right now?”
“I’m sorry, I really am, but I’ve got women being … Look, I had to talk to another father about his daughter today, and we had to ask him to identify her belongings, only there were spots of blood …” His voice was tight with emotion, and Heather felt a swift pang of desire for him. “He’s going to do it again, and probably very soon. We need to get the jump on him.”
“You’re right.” She looked down at the kitchen tiles. “Look, I left home when I was sixteen, not long after my dad died. I barely spoke to my mum after that—just the occasional awkward phone call when a relative died, that sort of thing. We weren’t close. She sent me Christmas cards.” Quite out of nowhere, it became difficult to speak. Her throat felt stuffed with feathers. “Christ, it was a bloody mess, if you want the truth.”
“Do you think it’s possible she was picking the victims somehow?”
For a long time, Heather didn’t say anything at all. There was a rushing noise in her ears, and a terrible thumping behind her eyes. I know what you are, and I think you know too. She could picture her mother, crouched over a terracotta pot with a knife in one hand, her face twisted with some unknowable emotion.
“Heather?”
“I don’t know what to say to that, Ben. Of course, I don’t think she was picking these women. I can’t believe my mother was involved at all. But what if the link is my family? My mother?” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to think that way, but that photo, and my mum’s suicide …”
He turned slightly toward her, looking concerned. “If there is a link, Heather, we’ll find it.”
“I know, you’re right. I just …” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, thinking hard. What if this was a
