by Jen Williams
“They grabbed you so hard sometimes, it bruised. Would wake up in the morning with these dark smudges all up my arms, you know? I would think it was dirt, but it wouldn’t wash off.”
“Who? Who would grab you?”
“They said it all had to go back to the land, it’s what they always said—that the land was hungry, so thirsty, and we had to make it better again. I think that’s where …” Her chin and lower lip crumpled, as if she were about to cry. “I think that’s where they put her.” She spoke her final words in a whisper.
“Put who, Anna?”
“My baby.” She dropped her head and looked directly at Heather. Her eyes were abruptly full of tears. “My baby. They took her.”
“You were pregnant at Fiddler’s Mill, and gave birth there?”
“He took her.” Anna’s voice had risen, becoming wavery and shrill. Heather felt rather than saw the other occupants of the room turning to look at them. “I gave birth to her in the woods, in the mud, and they ripped her from me while she was still covered in my blood.”
“Anna, it’s okay, you don’t have to talk about this —”
It was too late. Anna was on her feet, the seat behind her knocked to the floor. “They stole her!” she howled. “Stole my fucking baby and no one will believe me!”
The nurse appeared at the table, moving so quickly and quietly Heather was half convinced she had materialized there.
“Anna honey, it’s okay. Maybe it’s time to go back to your room?” To Heather’s mild surprise the nurse had an American accent—somehow this only made the situation more surreal, and she found herself looking at the corners of the ceiling, wondering where the cameras were. Anna wasn’t mollified by the nurse. Instead, she stumbled away from the table, tears running freely down her face.
“Where did she go? Why don’t you fucking believe me?”
Dr Parvez appeared at the entrance to the communal room, and at a nod from the nurse he took Anna’s arm gently, easing her away from Heather.
“Come on Anna, let’s get you settled, shall we?”
The woman shuffled from the room, her head down and her hair hanging in her face, still muttering about her baby, how she had been taken, how no one believed her. Heather watched her go with a tight wad of distress in her stomach. The nurse turned toward her, her mouth pursed with displeasure.
“Why would you go and talk to her about that? She’ll be like that for the rest of the day now.”
“I didn’t know,” said Heather, not entirely truthfully. “Is it true, that her baby was taken from her? That seems like quite a wild story.”
The nurse rolled her eyes theatrically, but the hostility in her posture seemed to fade a little. “Honey, Anna isn’t well, not well at all. She has lost babies, but not because any boogie man snatched them from her.” She cast her eyes downward and lowered her voice. “Two babies carried to term, but stillborn. It’s been very hard for her. It would be hard for anyone, but for Anna …” She shrugged one rounded shoulder. “The illness makes it worse, because she doesn’t just suffer the grief, her mind provides all sorts of strange reasons for it. Listen,” she picked up Anna’s half-finished cup of tea and peered into it critically. “It’s best if you go now. Dr Parvez will be trying to calm her, and you’ll not be able to speak to her again today. If you come back to see her again, do me a favor and think of better conversation starters, okay? The food, the local news, the weather. You people love your weather.”
Heather agreed that she would, and left, walking back down the gravel path with the big building looming behind her. Just before she turned the corner that would take her to the main road, she looked back, peering up at the blank windows. She wondered if Anna was watching her leave, or if she was in a sedative induced sleep now, dreaming of giving birth in the woods. But the daylight had turned the windows opaque, and if there was anyone looking out, she couldn’t see them.
* * *
The next day was bright and bitterly cold, a blameless blue sky apparently letting the chill of the universe in. Heather stepped out of the cold into a busy central London coffee shop, immediately soothed by the warmth and the gentle chatter of office workers munching through their paninis.
“Hi Diane. How are you?”
It took the older woman a moment to look up from her latte. She did not look much different than when Heather had seen her last—the haircut was a little slicker perhaps, the clothes a little more sober.
“Heather, sit down. I heard about your mother.” Diane turned in her seat and made a complicated gesture at a nearby barista. He nodded and set about making a fresh pair of coffees. “How are you holding up?”
“About how you’d expect, really. Thanks for seeing me. I know that with the way things ended at The Post, well …”
Diane flapped her hands dismissively. They both paused as their coffees were brought over.
“Listen, Diane, I have a story,” Heather looked down at her hands. “I think it’s going to be pretty big.”
Diane raised one perfect eyebrow. “And what? You want to give it to me?”
“Yes. Well, no.” Heather grinned. It was good to see Diane again. Her no-nonsense attitude made everything seem saner than it had ten minutes ago. “I want you to run it, eventually, but I need time. It’s about the Red Wolf.”
“Heather, every paper is dripping with the Red Wolf at the moment, if you’ll forgive the phrase. Do you really have a new angle on it?”
“Would speaking directly to Michael Reave himself count?”
It was satisfying to see the look of surprise that passed over her old editor’s face.
“Let’s say you have my attention. How did this come about?”
Heather dumped a couple of extra sugars into her coffee. “First of all, you have to promise me you’ll wait, okay? I can’t mess up the investigation, or my current … arrangement, so the story needs to wait until I have everything. And I want to write it. All right? This is my piece, Diane. More than anything I’ve ever written, okay?”
Diane raised her eyebrows. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’
After a sip of much too sweet coffee to steady herself, Heather told her. About the letters, her mother’s apparently close relationship with a serial murderer, and everything she’d gleaned about the new murders so far: that Fiona Graham had been taken directly from her bedroom, that the police had been going through her personal belongings at the school where she worked, that hearts, or heart shapes, seemed central to the killings. She gave Diane her impressions on Reave himself, and watched as her old editor’s face grew hungry—a look she’d seen whenever a big story was about to break. She left out the note left at her mother’s house, and her own crawling suspicions about her mother’s role in everything; in the story she told, the letters were simply the catalyst that got her access to a murderer. She said nothing about Anna Hobson’s wild claims of stolen babies—she didn’t want to push her luck.
“I’m picturing maybe a series of articles,” Heather said, her voice low. “About Reave, and when they get this new bastard, him, too. From my unique perspective. Do you see? I’m the only person he’s spoken to in any detail.”
“Apart from your mother.” Heather winced at this, but Diane carried on speaking. “You’re right. It’s a unique angle.”
“You have to promise me, Diane, that I get to write it. I’ll come back to you when I have everything I need.”
“Heather, the way things ended before … Well, it leaves me without much space to maneuver. There are people I work with now who wouldn’t be thrilled to see a story from you gracing our paper.”
“Does that really matter? Or, do you think I’ve somehow lost the ability to write in the last few months? Come on, Diane.”
“Tell you what, since I’m fond of you. Send me over a few pages.” Diane sipped at the foam on the top of her coffee. “Give me a solid idea of what you’re going for. It’ll make it easier for me to get it in.”
Hea
ther sighed and leaned back in her chair a little. This was risky, and she knew it, but just seeing Diane again had brought back a lot of memories; memories of how much she had enjoyed her job; memories of how, at one time, it had been enormously important to her.
“Fine. I’ll send over some notes.”
“It’s a deal,” Diane gave one of her rare smiles, like sun breaking through on a winter day. “This feels like dangerous ground though, Heather. Be careful. Stay safe.”
CHAPTER
25
“THERE’S BEEN A complication with today’s visit.”
Heather curled her hands around the warm polystyrene cup, watching Ben Parker’s face for a clue. Today he was all business again, no hint in his manner of the cozy lunch they’d shared, but he flashed her a slightly pained smile as they walked down the corridor.
“Oh?”
“An incident with another inmate.” Seeing her look, Parker shook his head slightly. “Nothing serious, but alongside a bit of a cock up with communications it’s messed up Michael Reave’s schedule. So. Now he’s in the yard for the next hour, when he’s supposed to be chatting with you.”
“You can’t just get him out?”
“I could,” Parker conceded. “But the warden isn’t keen. If there’s one thing Reave does like to complain about, it’s his yard access, or lack of it, and the warden doesn’t want to provoke more belly aching. So you’ve got a bit of a wait. Shall I get you another tea?”
Heather glanced down at the brown liquid in the cup. It smelt like it might have been near some tea once. “No. Thanks. Listen, can’t I see him in the yard?”
They had reached the door that led to the small interview room. Parker stopped, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.
“That’s very much not allowed, Heather …”
“But it’s urgent, isn’t it? And you’ll have your guards there. Besides, he might be more amenable in the fresh air. I think it’s worth a try.”
Parker sighed. He looked tired, she realized, the skin under his eyes shadowed and thin.
He rolled his eyes at her and a small smile crept in at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Five minutes later Heather was being escorted down more anonymous corridors by a pair of burly men in uniform, Parker bringing up the rear. Eventually they passed through a series of gates, the clunk of locks and buzzing of various alarms ringing in her ears, until they stepped out into a bleak square courtyard. The ground was a mixture of dirt and gravel, and the stone walls were chipped and scratched here and there with graffiti—someone had painstakingly carved “FUCK PIGS” just to one side of the door. In the center of the shabby square was a series of large wooden planters, filled with some anonymous green bushes, and to the sides of those were two metal stands for cigarette butts, both of which were overflowing. The smell of stale tobacco and ash was powerful, but directly overhead was a bright square of blue sky and Heather found she was glad to see it.
“Heather. You’re a sight for sore eyes, lass.”
Standing by one of the walls was Michael Reave. He was wearing a dark blue long-sleeved jumper and black tracksuit bottoms. His hands were cuffed behind his back, but as he moved toward her, he was smiling easily enough. Outside, under real daylight, he looked somehow larger than he had earlier, more vital. In contrast to DI Parker, he didn’t look tired at all; he looked awake and calm, even younger than he had, and Heather felt a tremor of unease move through her. He might be caged up and constantly watched, but he was still a tall, powerfully built man, and she was sure that if he wanted to do her harm in this space—or any space—he could.
“This is where you have your breaks? Your exercise?”
Reave looked around, as if seeing it for the first time. He shrugged. “It’s one of the places. I take what I can get. And it’s a sunny day.” He smiled, and she realized this was the happiest she’d seen him. “And I have company for once.”
Taking care not to get too close, Heather took a few steps forward. Parker was just to her left, the two burly officers just behind her. “I wondered, Michael, if you could tell me some more about what my mum was like. When she was young. Now she’s gone, I feel like …” She made a point of looking down at her feet, then back up at him, the sun in her eyes. “I don’t know, I feel like I’ve missed a lot, you know?”
He nodded slowly, his face softening a touch. For a long moment, no one said anything. From somewhere behind them Heather could hear the harsh buzz as doors were unlocked and locked again, deeper in the building.
“Colleen,” said Reave eventually, “was kind. Softhearted. She was an educated woman. At least, she was to me. I liked to listen to her talk about stories, about what they meant to her.” He paused, and turned to look in the direction of the planter, although Heather didn’t think he was seeing it. “It didn’t matter to her that I hadn’t had no schooling to speak of. She never judged me for it. She would just share things. That was what your mum was like.”
Heather crossed her arms over her chest, trying to keep a neutral expression on her face. It was proving difficult to match up this vision of her mother—forgiving, sweet natured, kind—with the woman she had spent so much of her teenage life having bitter arguments with. Talking about Colleen seemed to have warmed Reave up, and he took a step toward her. Heather felt cold fingers walk down her spine as the officers shuffled closer in response, clearly uncomfortable.
“Do you know the story of Briar Rose, lass?”
“Another one of the Grimm’s tales?’
“Aye. You’d know it, I reckon, as Sleeping Beauty.” He smiled, and this time it was without humor. “Probably the Disney version, all singing and kind woodland animals.”
“It’s the one with the three colorful fairies,” said Heather. “Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather.” To her surprise, she felt her cheeks turn pink. There was something surreal and vaguely embarrassing about naming cartoon characters in a prison yard. “They bless the princess at her christening.”
Reave looked amused now. “That’s right. But in the original story, they were wise women, or witches, and there were thirteen of them in the kingdom. The king only had twelve gold plates for them to eat off—witches being fussy, I suppose—so he decided not to invite one of them. When the thirteenth wise woman arrived at the christening, furious at being snubbed, she cursed the princess to prick her finger on a spindle in her fifteenth year, and die.”
“I remember,” said Heather.
“But the twelfth witch, she hadn’t had a chance to give her gift yet. Although she couldn’t undo the sentence of death …” Reave paused, his eyes abruptly far away. “She couldn’t stop the killing, the twelfth witch, but she could soften it.”
“To a hundred years of sleep instead.”
Reave nodded. “Your mother was like that good witch, lass. She softened things. She took some of the pain out of this world. Like a tiny piece of light in a forest of shadows.”
“And how long was she at Fiddler’s Mill?”
“I’m not sure I could say.” Reave turned away slightly, no longer meeting her eyes. “I didn’t keep an eye on her every movement.”
“But you were close?”
“We were friends.” Something in his tone made Heather’s stomach turn over. “She is—was—my oldest friend, I suppose. The only one who still thought of me, twenty years after Fiddler’s Mill. Her soul was too kind to just let me rot in prison without another thought. Every letter she wrote to me was out of the kindness of her heart—I never asked her to do that.”
“Did you know a woman called Anna Hobson while you were at Fiddler’s Mill, Michael?”
“Anna Hobson? Should I have?”
“She was a young woman who got involved in drugs when she was at the commune. She claims that she got pregnant there, and that the baby was taken from her shortly after it was born. Taken against her will.”
Michael Reave chuckled warmly. “Never heard of her. Doesn’t surprise me that peop
le are making up strange stories about the place, though. What do you think, lass? Do you think that sounds at all likely?”
“I don’t know,” Heather said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her tone. “A lot of stuff I thought was pretty bloody unlikely now seems to be true.”
He nodded at that, conceding the point. Heather decided to try a different approach.
“Did she—did my mum believe you were innocent? Did she think you were a victim of a great injustice or something? Is that why she kept on writing to you?”
“She thought I was good. Knew I was good, I mean. The only person who valued me … In my whole life. Do you know what that’s like?”
Somewhere far above them, a seagull called. Heather pursed her lips, biting down her immediate reply, which had a lot of swear words in it and largely concerned the injustice of her mother’s loyalties. Colleen Evans had believed Michael Reave was good, apparently; had given him unwavering support through his years in prison. Colleen Evans had also watched her sixteen-year-old daughter walk out the front door and not come back; had let her relationship with her only child atrophy into something cold and weak. But it had never been too much effort to pick up a pen and write to her old friend, the Red Wolf.
“Michael,” she said quietly. “Do you have any idea who is killing these women? Do you know who is such a fan of your work? Any thoughts at all?”
Reave shrugged and shook his head, smiling slightly, as though Heather had made a particularly poor joke. Heather took a step forward, ignoring the tension in her own gut.
“How did you choose them? At least tell me that, Michael. Was it random? Or were you looking for something in particular? The person who’s taking them now—does he know what you were looking for?”
“I told your mother once that I was sentenced and found guilty years ago,” said Reave. His voice was soft, dangerous. “Long before any women died, long before I even left the place where I grew up. I was destined to be found guilty, because of who my family was, and what they did to me. Even he …” Reave stopped then, an unreadable expression passing over his face like a summer storm. Heather opened her mouth to ask who “he” referred to, but Reave continued. “I’ve been judged because of what they did to me, what they made me, and they’ll never see any blame for it.”
