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Bryant pulled into the car park of The Tenth Lock pub, which gave direct access to the stretch of canal at the bottom lock of a flight from Merry Hill to Stourbridge.

Kim stepped onto the towpath and assessed the scene quickly. To her left were a bunch of uniforms and Keats. Another sharp shower had accompanied them all the way from Dudley, and one of the two constables to her right had a small sausage dog tucked into his high-vis jacket.

Without speaking, Kim turned left and Bryant turned right towards the cyclist standing next to the two police officers.

Keats saw her approach and waved with a half-smile. Knowing that couldn’t be for her, Kim turned to find Mitch right behind her.

‘You know, one of these days you’re gonna have to let me in on your secret,’ she said.

‘I just argue with him less,’ Mitch replied, falling into step beside her.

‘Ah, I’m stuffed then,’ she said as they reached him.

‘Sally-Ann Davis,’ Keats told them. ‘Fifty years of age and walks her dog here every morning.’

Keats stepped aside to reveal the body of a petite woman with short brown hair. She wore jeans, trainers and a short raincoat over a sweatshirt.

The first thing that struck Kim was the absence of knife wounds.

‘Two,’ Keats offered. ‘In the back.’

He pointed to one between the shoulder blades and one lower, around the right kidney.

She surveyed the body again, taking a good look round. Nothing under the fingernails, clothing not in disarray. This was definitely a stealth attack from behind.

She looked closer at the face and frowned.

Unlike in the movies, dead people rarely maintained their last expressions on their faces; fear, horror, joy were all erased as the facial muscles relaxed for the final time. And yet there was something about this attack that had lingered.

‘Her eyes are red,’ Kim said, realising what looked out of place.

‘Well spotted, Inspector. Neither of the stab wounds killed her. She choked to death.’

‘Wh-What?’

‘Given long enough without medical attention, she likely would have bled out from the knife wounds, but she didn’t get the chance.’

‘Foreign object?’ she asked, remembering the flipper and the eyelashes.

‘Yes, but I can’t tell what yet. It’s been pushed pretty far down.’

Kim was pondering whether she’d prefer the choking or bleeding-out option. Both probably brought unconsciousness first. At least for this woman’s sake she hoped so.

‘Guy on the bike found her. Sees her most mornings on his way to work,’ Bryant offered, appearing beside her.

‘Anything Keats hasn’t already told me?’

‘The dog’s name is Banger.’

‘I’ll rephrase. Anything useful?’

‘Nope.’

‘Got an address for me?’

‘Already on Bryant’s phone,’ Keats said.

Kim turned to leave the scene but paused to reflect. The first murder had been more brutal, the rage fully expended in multiple stab wounds. The killer had taken their time in the privacy of Sheryl’s home. The second had taken place in Andrea’s home. More violent stab wounds.

The third victim was out in the open and exposed. It was more risky, and yet the killer hadn’t used the reduced time available to stab the woman to death. They’d used it to make sure they forced something down the victim’s throat. What the hell was that about? And who was it for? Was the killer trying to tell the victim something, or the police? Was it a literal representation of forcing something down someone’s throat, or was it more subtle? Did it mean anything if this particular victim had still been alive when it had been inserted?

Kim didn’t yet know its purpose, but she was starting to wonder if the message was more important than the crime.