MacFarlane groaned. “You know I haven’t. If I manage to get out of bed in the morning, I’ve exhausted my resources. But there is a bright side to look on. Think on, lad! There may be six, there may be a dozen cases, but if it’s a dreaded series we’ve got hold of, it’s one killer we’re looking for. That’s the thing about a series. Solve one of them, and the rest come tumbling down like a stack of dominoes. You’re right: we haven’t the manpower to look at all these again. We’ll have to leave them in the coffin box and hope that we can solve the latest one. And perhaps that will be the domino that brings down the rest.”

Redfyre sighed. “May I make a suggestion? In the Jack the Ripper cases, the first and the last killings gave the most useful indications. Makes sense. The first time, any killer is less likely to know how to cover his tracks. He may have acted out of impulse with little planning. Made mistakes. In the last, he may have grown overconfident out of contempt for the police. Grown careless.”

“It’s the first pull of the trigger that gives the clearest insight into motive. It tells you about the killer’s immediate location. Murderers rarely operate far from home. They have a hunting ground. It also identifies his choice of victim: prostitutes? Rich and elderly? Italian tenors? His prey. So, let’s say we were to look at our own series, taking the whole range as background and the first and the latest—as far as we know them to be—for detailed investigation. Where the hell does that leave us? Cambridge is the hunting ground, all right. But the prey? An Argentinian tango dancer and a vagrant? In whom would those two arouse an impulse to murder?”

“Let’s give it a go, sir. Firmly put all the other bodies in between back in the box and thrash away at the first and last until they give up their secrets. Do we have any other option?”

He knew what the response would be. The force, like all other services and businesses in the country, was suffering from the enormous losses of men to the war. And, unlike others, the police force was not able—and on top of that, was unwilling—to call on the thousands of spirited women eager to step in and fill gaps as they had learned to do throughout the four years of struggle. They were dangerously short of men of the right age and experience.

“My remaining inspectors are up to their gum-boot tops in country crime of one sort or another, from pig-rustling to attempted witch-burning,” MacFarlane said lugubriously. “They’re covering a bloody county, and now Norfolk’s asked for help with an outbreak of pitchforkings. You’re my city boy, Redfyre.”