Often, a killer’s score card would begin with a lone victim. Certain individuals would then go on to repeat their feat – though such instances were mercifully rare – transcending the title of murderer to earn the more rarefied and frightening designation …

Serial killer.

In this instance, however, their subject had gone straight from standstill to sprint, delivering not one lifeless corpse, but three. And, even though Hawkins tried to avoid understanding the kind of mentality that facilitated these actions, it was her job to comprehend it; fathom it sufficiently to match metaphorical stride with this criminal. To pull alongside and pass.

To take them down.

Inadvertently, of course, killers of this type sometimes helped bring about their apprehension, by being so caught up in supposed justification of their acts that they chose to broadcast their own warped propaganda. Except in this case there had been nothing of the sort – no messages, no communication. Yet.

Despite her frustration, Hawkins couldn’t ignore the exhilaration that came with it; the reason she continued in a career for which most outsiders couldn’t comprehend the attraction. Like a gambling addict chasing the thrill of a loss they couldn’t afford, recently Hawkins had found herself craving the jeopardy of exactly this kind of nuanced, high-stakes crime.

And, at last, here it was.

Her current situation, however – presiding over a room of professional investigators unable to form a cohesive theory, let alone a strategy that might increase their chances of deterring further deaths – was fast turning to the familiar but unwelcome tug of fear that meant the case might be about to stall.

Her optimism leapt when she saw Hunter draw breath, only for him to be cut short by Aaron.

‘Sorry, chief,’ the sergeant interjected, ‘just go over again how this explains why the bodies were half-naked.’

She just about managed not to sigh, having already provided a reasonably comprehensive explanation of Pritchard’s discovery at the top of the meeting.

She reassured herself that at least he was engaged enough to ask. ‘The defibrillator’s electrodes need to make direct contact with skin in order to deliver the appropriate shock.’

‘Oh.’ Aaron went back to chewing his nails. ‘OK.’

Hawkins looked back at Hunter. ‘Any insight?’

‘Well,’ the profiler scratched noisily at the stubble lining his jaw, speaking in his trademark gravel tone, ‘it might be a bit early for that, but at this point only two potential explanations seem realistic. Either the killer gets some sort of kick from executing his victims this way, or he’s trying to hide the fact they’ve been murdered at all.’

She nodded agreement. ‘In your opinion, is either one of those more likely?’