Dead Man Walking

‘Suppose he modified his MO. Suppose he didn’t just start carrying a gun when he went on the job, suppose he cleared off to another part of the country to do it. I mean, we know he’s a Scot. Up here in the Lakes, he’s only an hour from the border.’

‘Ten years ago, Heck …’

‘Yeah, but like you say, you shot him. Suppose he survived but was badly damaged. It might have taken a decade for him to recover his health.’

She sighed, though it didn’t sound like a sigh of frustration; more a sigh of puzzlement. ‘Heck … what do you want me to do about this?’

‘Well, now you mention it … nothing.’

‘Come again?’

‘I’m drawing this to your attention, ma’am, because I still respect you. And because I’d like to think we’re still friends to some degree. Plus I thought you might be interested. And you are, I can tell. If you remember, the Stranger taskforce never publicised that intelligence about the Frank Sinatra song.’

This was another key factor in Heck’s thinking. The original investigation team had avoided any public mention of Strangers in the Night. Firstly on the grounds the song was actually irrelevant to the case at the time, but secondly because cranks had a habit of putting themselves forward as serial killer candidates, so it was always useful to withhold one small detail.

‘What’s the current status of the enquiry?’ Gemma asked.

‘It’s not even started. I’ll be accompanying the casualty down to Westmorland General just as soon as the ambulance gets here. And then liaising with DI Mabelthorpe from Windermere nick.’

‘And this assault happened around midnight?’ She sounded unimpressed. ‘That’s almost eleven hours ago. Life moves at a slower pace up there, eh?’

‘Ma’am, we only found Tara Cook an hour and a half ago. And this fog is literally so bad we can’t get a chopper up to examine the main crime scene. In fact, we don’t even know where the crime scene is. Tara Cook reckons they’d been wandering for hours, lost, when they were attacked.’

‘Heck … this couldn’t just be some wandering maniac?’

‘The chances of that are a hundred to one, ma’am. First of all that any such person would exist up here without us already knowing it, especially as he’s armed. Secondly that he could have run into these girls in the fog purely by accident.’

‘You think he’d stalked them from earlier?’

‘Somehow or other he must’ve known where they’d be. I mean, stalking would be the Stranger’s style, wouldn’t it? From what I remember. He used to pick his targets in the pubs around the West Country, followed them for a couple of hours before they’d parked up somewhere and got down to it …’

Gemma went silent again, and this time he heard her fingers hitting a keyboard. The Serial Crimes Unit, which she headed, was one of the busiest offices in Scotland Yard’s elite National Crime Group. It existed solely to investigate or assist in the investigations of series or clusters of connected violent crimes, wherever in England and Wales they might occur. It was a near-certainty she’d have other important tasks to be getting on with as well as this.

‘Anyway, that’s it, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Just thought I’d give you a heads-up …’

‘And this suspect was definitely whistling Strangers in the Night? The witness is quite sure?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You didn’t prompt that from her in any way?’

‘Definitely not.’ Tara Cook had begun mumbling the moment Heck had carried her out to the boat and laid her on the deck, but they’d been halfway across the tarn, en route straight to the Keld, before he’d realised what she was actually saying. With her reeling senses and battered mouth, it had been difficult getting anything intelligible from her. She’d clutched at him and Mary-Ellen with hands like talons, burbling, weeping, showing remarkable animation for someone so badly hurt. ‘Din’ see his face. No face … but that song. Stran’ in the Ni’. Kept on whistling it while he was creeping after us. Strangers in the Night …’

‘That was the main thing she remembered about him,’ Heck said. ‘The song. Absolutely petrified her. Sounds like he was playing cat and mouse with them for quite a while before he struck.’

As he relayed all this, Heck wondered again about his own experience on the tarn’s east shore, specifically the chuckle he thought he’d heard. Hadn’t Gemma once described her assailant on Dartmoor as having a snorting, pig-like chuckle? Of course, there was no guarantee he’d actually heard anything. He’d been so isolated at the time by the mist and the trees and the icy, ear-numbing silence that his senses had been scrambled.

‘I’m not sure I’ll be part of this investigation once it kicks into action, ma’am,’ he added. ‘But if you’re interested, I’ll try and update you regularly.’

‘Do that by all means … if you wish.’

‘Excuse me?’ he said. ‘If I wish?’

‘The song’s most likely a coincidence, Heck.’ By her tone, she was quite decided on that. ‘For all we know, your perp could be some kind of crooner obsessive. And the fact he ran into two girls is exactly how it sounds – he ran into them. He got lucky.’

‘Just like the Stranger did ten years ago, you mean? Having carefully trawled for his victims first.’

‘Heck, it’s more likely some opportunist headcase than a middle-aged madman who survived a bullet wound in the chest and a dunking in a Devonshire swamp, and then suddenly, over a decade later, decided to recreate the best night of his life four hundred miles away on a frozen mountaintop.’ She paused. ‘Don’t you think?’

Heck was unwilling to admit that what she said made pretty good sense. Because still, some deep gut instinct advised him there was much more to this.

‘Like I say, ma’am, I’ll keep you informed.’

‘And like I say, Heck … if that’s what you want.’

‘I thought you liked to get ahead of the game, Gemma?’

‘I’ve always been a believer in the Golden Hour principle.’

‘And what about the JDLR principle? Remember that, from when you were a street cop? Just Doesn’t Look Right.’

She sighed. ‘I’m onside with that too. How could I have tolerated you for so long if I wasn’t? But the thing is, Heck … I’m not your supervisor anymore. You need to address these concerns to this DI Mabelthorpe. If there is something in this for us, I’m sure we’ll get the message through the usual channels.’

‘Okay,’ he said, disgruntled. ‘See you around, ma’am.’

‘Yeah. See you, Heck.’ And she hung up.

When Heck ambled back into the rear office, Mary-Ellen was gazing expectantly up at him. Though she’d only been a kid at the time, she knew all about the infamous Stranger enquiry. There was barely anyone in Britain who didn’t. She hadn’t leapt excitedly a few minutes ago when he’d first mentioned there were possible similarities between that case and this, but she was clearly fascinated to know more.

‘What does Superintendent Piper think?’ she asked.

Heck shrugged. ‘She doesn’t want to know.’

‘But what does she actually think?’

He chuckled without humour. ‘That’s always tougher to ascertain.’

Chapter 5 (#u1fab5290-40ec-584a-937a-13cf9b1484f4)

It might have been a signature of the Stranger that he always destroyed his victims’ eyes by stabbing or gouging, but he wasn’t alone in that, Gemma reminded herself. Okay, it wasn’t a common feature of serial sex murders, but occasionally the eyes had it – so to speak. And yet considering this was such a momentous thing to do, quite often those responsible would offer only garbled explanations as to why.

One had professed an ancient, long-discredited belief that an image of the last thing the victim saw before death would be imprinted on the internal optical structures, allowing identification of the murderer on the pathologist’s slab – though no one had taken it that seriously, given this was the educated twenty-first century. Another had described it as a convoluted act of remorse, saying he’d sought to remove all sense that his victims were human beings. ‘As the eyes go, so goes the soul,’ he’d whined in a voice that almost pleaded for his interrogators’ sympathy. ‘It’s easier to tear and mutilate a doll than a living person.’ A third had adopted the polar opposite viewpoint, coldly claiming his victims’ eyes as trophies, and keeping them in jars on the shelves in the ‘workshop’ located in his cellar. The idea they were somehow sentient had excited him. In his eventual confession, he’d admitted: ‘I was aroused by the thought they were being protractedly tortured, trapped indefinitely in sealed glass containers, unable to vocalise their suffering, unable even to blink away the sight of me, their captor, in my endless triumph.’

Gemma hadn’t memorised any of these details, but then she didn’t need to. Even before Heck had hung up, she’d accessed Serial Crimes Unit Advisory, or SCUA for short – the unit’s own intelligence databank, and now called up one case file after another on the screen in her office. Purely on principle, she would never have let Heck know she was doing this. He’d always been a chancer; he took risks and gambles, but so often they paid off because his instincts were very well-honed. She’d benefited from them hugely, but that didn’t mean she could openly approve of this approach, even indirectly, by attaching undue credibility to it. But it was unfortunate, or maybe fortunate depending on your view, that Heck hadn’t mentioned anything about the assailant up in the Lake District going for his victims’ eyes – if he had, that would have been a smoking gun no one could ignore. In the original Stranger investigation, the aspect of the eyes being attacked had been of crucial importance.

Gemma opened the files in question, for the first time in quite a few years. Immediately, all kinds of memories flooded back. The crime scene photographs ensured that, along with the hundreds of statements taken, the intelligence and analysis reports and the many, many names involved – not just the other officers on the case, but the victims and their families, and the numerous suspects who’d slowly, steadily and very frustratingly been ticked off the list as their alibis checked out. She imagined she could smell again the rankness of the reservoir that stifling hot night, could hear the wind whispering through the thick, dry grass on the Dartmoor ridges, could feel the heat rising from the sun-beaten landscape. But more than anything else, she could clearly visualise that bestial, leather-clad face with its frothing, gammy-toothed mouth. Despite the many awful things she’d seen since then, the small hairs at the nape of Gemma’s neck stiffened at the mere memory.

It didn’t affect her quite the way it used to. She didn’t dream about the Stranger anymore – at the end of the day he had given her a soaring career, so she could hardly complain. But like so many other cases for which no real and satisfactory solution had been provided, the subject came up in conversation with discomforting regularity. There’d never been anything to suggest the killer was still alive, but perhaps deep down it wouldn’t have surprised her if something did. Very little about that enquiry had actually been straightforward. The guy had murdered indiscriminately, yet at times had behaved more like a professional assassin than a sex case, never leaving a trace of physical evidence, covering his tracks with amazing skill. And yet all the way through he’d behaved as if he was on a kind of learning curve, constantly modifying and adjusting his methods – so much so that in the initial stages of the investigation, before Gemma was actually attached, West Country police forces hadn’t immediately been sure they were dealing with a serial killer. Had it not been for the brutal stabbing of all the victims’ eyes after death, which rapidly became the Stranger’s trademark, they might have set up separate enquiries.