Dead Man Walking. Paul Finch

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      ‘It was pouring rain by this morning.’

      ‘What if he was wearing body-armour?’

      ‘I have a gut feeling he wasn’t.’

      ‘No disrespect, Gem, but it’s his gut feeling that counts. If there’s a bullet in it, the job’s a good ’un. If there isn’t, because it’s stuck in a Kevlar vest, this whole thing could kick off again.’

      She shrugged. ‘If that’s the case, we’ll find out soon enough.’

      ‘You should have gone for a head-shot.’

      ‘Hey, I’m really sorry! But it was dark and it all happened in the blink of an eye!’

      ‘Whoa, whoa …’ He raised his hands. ‘Just winding you up.’

      She sniffed as she resumed typing. A second passed while Heck stood up and strode to a noticeboard on the left. It had been pasted with crime scene glossies, the three first-string murders along the top; the ten second-string murders along the bottom.

      ‘Do you really need these in here?’ he asked.

      ‘They’re a reminder, apparently.’

      ‘You girls needed reminding?’

      ‘Of what could happen to us if we got this thing wrong.’

      ‘Or of what very nearly happened to you anyway.’

      She eyed him warily. ‘You know, Mark … many other-halves would have driven all the way down here to the West Country to offer their congratulations.’

      ‘That’s one of the reasons I came here … the main reason, in fact. But it doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared and shaken when I heard what nearly occurred.’

      ‘Not as scared as me.’ She went back to her keyboard.

      ‘You realise I was only informed about it this morning?’ he said. ‘When it was all over?’

      ‘Of course. You aren’t part of the enquiry.’

      ‘Gemma, we’ve spoken on the phone nearly every day since you came down here. Would it have hurt to tell me you’ve spent the last couple of weeks on decoy duty?’

      ‘You’d only have worried. What would be the point?’

      Heck turned away, hands jammed into his pockets. Frustrated, he reassessed the display. Devon and Cornwall photographic had captured the victims from just about every angle, in unstinting detail and deluxe colour. The first string was somewhat less graphic. A variety of household items had been used: pliers, scissors, tin-openers, hammers. But in most cases death had resulted quickly, without prolonged sexual torture. However, in the second string – the slayings of the young couples – it was a different story. Okay, the men had all been despatched with speed, usually by having their skulls battered, but the women, who were beaten half-senseless first (or if they were lucky, until they were completely unconscious), had been stripped of their clothes and underwear and laid out as though on a dissection slab. The usual wholesale slashing and stabbing had followed, no part of their bodies left unravaged, though extra attention had always been paid to the abdomen and genital area. Even then, towards the end of the series, progressively more recognisable bloodlust was visible, the maniac attacking each new victim with ever greater savagery, to the point, in the final couple of cases, where full evisceration had resulted. Even with the eye of an experienced and detached investigator, it was difficult not to flinch back from these glossy, brightly coloured images of young women spread-eagled and sliced open.

      Whatever part of the process had actually killed them, the madman had always completed each task with his usual coup de grâce: a brutal blow to either eye, delivered with a specially sharpened screwdriver, and with such force that it penetrated through to the brain. In fact, the two cavernous holes in the slashed, bloody face of Sarah Bunting, the last female victim before the Stranger had attacked Gemma, revealed that he’d plunged his steel four or five times through either socket.

      ‘God knows what he’d have done to you if you hadn’t got that shot off,’ Heck muttered, his stomach churning.

      ‘Well I did, didn’t I?’ Gemma replied primly, still typing. ‘So there’s nothing to be upset about.’

      ‘How’s Maxwell?’

      ‘Single fracture to the skull …’

      ‘Small change for letting himself get zapped the moment the bastard showed up.’

      ‘But there are no complications …’

      ‘He’d have another one by now if your pic was being added to this gallery.’

      She glanced up hard. ‘So he’s going to be alright … I’m sure that’s the answer you were actually looking for.’ She sat back and folded her arms. ‘Let’s cut to the chase, Mark … what’re you really doing here? You don’t think I should have volunteered to be a decoy, do you?’

      ‘It’s not just that …’

      ‘Oh, it’s not just that?’

      ‘Look … I don’t like the way, every time one of these sex maniacs cuts loose, we respond by finding every female detective we’ve got, sticking her in a short skirt and sussies, and sending her out on the streets to see if she can pull him.’

      ‘I wasn’t wearing sussies. You’d be so lucky.’

      ‘This isn’t a joke, Gemma!’

      ‘What … you’re telling me that?’

      ‘There must have been a dozen other ways you and the rest of the girls could have been more useful in this enquiry.’

      ‘And do you really believe that, Mark? Or is it actually the case that you mean there were a dozen other ways I could have been more useful?’

      He shrugged, awkward. ‘Obviously you mean more to me than the others …’

      ‘Thirteen victims, Mark. And no main lines of enquiry. And on top of that, a decreasing cooling-off period between each attack. It was needs must.’

      In truth, Heck couldn’t dispute that.

      ‘You didn’t want me to take this Devon and Cornwall attachment in the first place, did you?’ she said. ‘Even before there was any talk of us using decoys.’

      ‘Because the moment I heard D&C were checking with other forces for female officers who were authorised and experienced with firearms, I knew the long-term plan was to put them out there as bait …’

      ‘No, you didn’t. You thought it might. But even that was enough to give you the willies.’

      ‘Am I not supposed to be concerned about you?’ he said. ‘I mean, throw your mind back nine months – when I cornered that nutter who’d been chucking acid in people’s faces. I chased him across the railway bridge at Mile End, remember, even though СКАЧАТЬ