Dead Man Walking. Paul Finch

uncertainty they were dealing with the same killer as before, that disappeared when the old man’s DNA was discovered in both female victims’ eye-sockets, implying the same screwdriver had been used in both attacks.

      These initial three slayings constituted what investigators would later come to refer to as ‘the first string of murders’, primarily because they hadn’t yet fully adopted the Stranger’s trademark MO.

      The ‘second string’ would commence within a few months. These would be more organised and less opportunistic in nature, and as they’d focus primarily on courting couples and doggers, would comprise the crimes for which the Stranger would best be remembered. He was clearly learning fast by this stage, because in these cases all the new victims were stalked beforehand, covertly and professionally. But he was also enjoying himself more – possibly because the females in these cases were ‘dressed for sex’, and because the very isolated locations in which he found them allowed him to take his time. Whatever the reason, the methods used to eliminate these latter victims were increasingly more gruesome, a wider variety of implements used, the females in particular suffering ever greater and more prolonged savagery.

      Gemma perused the raw detail with her usual unemotional eye, though even for someone who had been physically present at several of the crime scenes, the final few photographs made harrowing viewing, while the accompanying medical reports were sufficient to put the most experienced homicide investigator off her lunch. Of course, in all this mass of information there were only three obvious connectors to the case Heck had just reported from the Lakes. As he’d said, the unsuccessful assault on the two walkers was vaguely similar to the successful assault on the two hitchhikers near Glastonbury. But that could be coincidental. Likewise the second possible connector, which was the blitz assault with the heavy stone; again, the use of such a crude weapon would not be atypical of the average opportunist offender. But the third connector was more difficult to dismiss.

       Strangers in the Night.

      The press had only come to dub the killer ‘the Stranger’ when the second string of murders was well underway and he’d settled on his targets of choice: sexual adventurers looking to hook up with strangers. But as far as Gemma was aware, that was the only reason they’d given him such a moniker. By pure chance, the song Strangers in the Night had happened to be on the radio during his final attack – the one in which she had been the intended victim – but the investigation team had never publicised this fact. The only other non-police person who could have known about it was the Stranger himself.

      On its own, this fact perhaps wasn’t quite enough to chill the blood, but then Gemma would have been lying to herself if she didn’t admit she hadn’t spent at least some part of the last ten years wondering where the Stranger’s body lay.

      Or if indeed it lay anywhere at all.

      She ruminated on this for several minutes, before standing up, straightening her skirt and leaving her office. The main detectives’ office, or DO, as it was known, was located at the far end of the department’s main corridor and filled with chattering keyboards and idle discussion. As usual, about half the team were on base, and one of these was big, bearded Detective Sergeant Eric Fisher. SCU was not a cold-case unit, but Gemma always believed in keeping half an eye on the past, and it fell within DS Fisher’s remit, along with his many other analytical roles, to regularly review all their open and unsolved cases, particularly in response to new and possibly relevant info flowing in from more current enquiries.

      ‘Eric, what are you doing?’ Gemma asked.

      He glanced up from the nest of paperwork over which he’d been slumped.

      ‘Homework, ma’am.’

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘I’m at Winchester Crown tomorrow. Regina v Smallwood.’

      ‘If you’re giving evidence tomorrow, I’d have hoped you’d be on top of it by now.’

      ‘So would I.’

      ‘Yeah, well drop it for the time being.’

      Fisher sat back, his swivel chair creaking beneath his vast girth. ‘Ma’am, I …’

      ‘This won’t take a minute.’ Gemma leaned with folded arms against the filing cabinets alongside him. ‘Strangers in the Night …?’

      ‘Okay … nice song.’

      ‘That’s all it means to you?’

      ‘Well …’ He adjusted his glasses as he pondered this. ‘Believe it was originally part of a movie score. Frank Sinatra released it sometime in the mid-60s …’

      ‘No comedians today, Eric, please.’

      ‘Sorry, ma’am.’ He pawed the spillage of paperwork on his desk. ‘Always get nervous when I’m going to Crown. Just trying to lighten the load. Erm …’ He squinted as if it would help him recollect. ‘The Stranger referred to it as his tune, or something like that … on the night you shot him.’

      Gemma pursed her lips. ‘Who else knew about that, Eric?’

      ‘Aside from a select few in the Stranger taskforce, and SCU, no one.’

      ‘That’s what I thought.’

      ‘That intel’s accessible via SCUA and HOLMES 2, but only if you know what you’re looking for beforehand. If I remember rightly, a strategic decision was taken back in 2004 to withhold that specific detail from the public.’

      ‘That’s correct,’ she said. ‘And no one has reversed that decision at any time since?’

      ‘Not to my knowledge.’

      ‘Okay, Eric … thanks for that.’ She moved to a big grimy window overlooking Victoria. It was shortly before noon, but the dull, damp greyness of late November pervaded the city. Many shop-fronts were lit, vehicles shunting along Broadway in a river of headlights.

      ‘Something wrong, ma’am?’ Fisher asked.

      ‘No, it’s okay.’

      She didn’t elaborate, so he shrugged, spun around at his desk and recommenced his homework.

      ‘But I’m going to be away for a couple of days,’ she added as an afterthought.

      He spun back again. ‘Anywhere nice?’

      ‘Normally, yeah. But at this time of year I’m not so sure. Cumbria.’

      He arched a bushy, red-grey eyebrow. ‘You’re not by any chance seeing …?’

      ‘Don’t ask me that, Eric … okay? Just don’t!’

      Immediately, she regretted her curtness. Two and a half months ago, Eric Fisher had only been one of several SCU detectives to express dismay that Heck, in his opinion the most proficient investigator in their team, was transferring north. In fact, despite Gemma having so adversarial a rep inside the National Crime Group that she was quietly referred to as ‘the Lioness’, the normally affable DS Fisher had been so forthright in his view that she’d ‘catastrophically mishandled’ her latest disagreement with Heck that she’d almost suspended him. She’d only resisted that ultimate sanction because she’d known where such impertinence stemmed from – a genuine conviction they were making a big error letting Heck leave.

      ‘Maybe,’ she admitted. ‘Possibly. Yes alright, probably.’

      Fisher nodded, quietly pleased. ‘Cool.’

      ‘There’s nothing cool about it, trust me,’ she said. ‘I’d much rather stay here.’

      ‘You going up there alone?’

      ‘For the moment.’

      He seemed puzzled. ‘So … what’s the case?’

      ‘There isn’t a case just yet. Not for us.’ Understandably, he looked none the wiser. ‘It’s a ghost if you must know, Eric.’ Sensing several others