The Element Of Death

I looked and saw an elderly couple, probably in their late seventies, obviously trying — and failing — to come to terms with their grief. As I approached them the woman said, “Promise you’ll find whoever did this to our Beatrix, won’t you? She was a good girl. Everything she did was for her children. She didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserves that.”

“I promise I’ll find him, Mrs O’Reilly,” I said. Mr O’Reilly didn’t speak, he just nodded. I imagined that these people were of the generation that believed that the police could always be trusted to get their man. I didn’t want to disillusion them, but I expected that they would never have a satisfactory answer as to why their daughter was targeted.

I couldn’t think of anything more to say, so I asked the sergeant to take them for a cup of tea and then send a WPC to sit with them; I knew it sounded sexist, but, in my opinion, the gentler touch was what was needed at this time.

It was the people like this, the collateral damage as somebody once said, who really got to you. Even though the victim herself might not have been greatly missed by society, you tended to forget that she was still somebody’s much-loved daughter. And, as I had just learnt, somebody’s mother.

Creswell was in his office, holding a file. “Is that the lab report?” I asked. When he nodded, I added, “Does it tell us anything new?”

“Some things. There are a lot of similarities to the first case. More DNA this time, as the garage has probably been used by a lot of people like the victim.” He didn’t go into details, but I understood what he meant by ‘used’. “The report says she died from gas inhalation, not from the scourging, although she would possibly have died from her wounds eventually.”

“Oh? What sort of gas?”

“Helium.”

“Isn’t that what people use to make their voices sound funny at parties? How can that kill anybody?”

Creswell took another look at the report. “Yes, that’s right, it’s obviously a party trick gone wrong,” he said, perhaps thinking I was being facetious. “It certainly can kill somebody. I asked the same question when the report came in. The lab says the squeaky-voice part is something to do with the speed of sound being much faster in helium than in air. ‘It causes,’” he read, “‘an increase in the resonant frequency of the vocal tract and that produces the duck-like timbre.’ It is a party trick, but a dangerous one. Helium displaces the oxygen needed for respiration, and if you breathe pure helium continuously, you die of asphyxiation within minutes.”

I whistled. “You learn something new every day.” Then I thought. “So what does that tell us? Gregory seems to be killing his victims more than once. He’s using a variety of ways, some which kill instantly, and others which would eventually kill them. Why?”

“There has to be a reason, Watson. If we can find the pattern, then we might be able to get inside his mind and then we could get ahead of him for the first time.”

I hesitated before replying, as I knew he wasn’t going to like what I said. “Boss, he’s playing with us. I don’t think we can hope to understand the pattern after only two murders. If there is one, as you suspect, then I think it will be several more along the way before we have enough information to understand it.”

Creswell looked at me, an unreadable expression on his face. “Then you’d better pray to whatever God you believe in that the murders end now and we never get to understand that pattern.”

There was a short period of reflective silence before Creswell asked, “How are you getting on with that code?”

“I’ve decoded it, boss. That’s what I came in for. But you aren’t going to like it.”

“Whatever it said, I didn’t think it would be good news. Go on then, reveal.”

“He’s used a similar coding method to last time, but this one is a forward shift rather than a backwards one. And, to make it slightly different, its forward by two letters, not one, so ‘a’ would be represented by ‘c’. Here, take a look.”

Once again, I’d written the two alphabets under each other for ease of comparison:

ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ

CDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZAB

Pqv xgta engxgt pqy, ncrfqi, ctg aqw? Aqw fkfp’v uqnxg vjg hktuv enwg, uq cpqvjgt qpg fkgu. Ocmg uwtg aqw gplqa Ejtkuvocu, dgecwug aqw’nn dg hct vqq dwua vq egngdtcvg Pgy Agct.

“So ‘dg’ is actually ‘be’. I don’t know why he did it this way — perhaps he used two letters as it’s the second murder?”

“I don’t care what the reasons were,” spat Creswell. “What is the message?”

“Sorry, boss. I latched onto it when I saw ‘aqw’nn’. It’s a good job that this guy uses punctuation. A double letter after an apostrophe made me think of common contractions, like ‘she’ll’ or ‘you’ll’. If the ‘nn’ represents ‘ll’, then that would make it two letters on from the actual letter, making the ‘aqw’ part ‘you’. It was straightforward then to reverse engineer the code.” I could see that the DI wasn’t interested in how I had cracked the code, so I decided to go straight to the end. “It says: ‘Not very clever now, lapdog, are you? You didn’t solve the first clue, so another one dies. Make sure you enjoy Christmas, because you’ll be far too busy to celebrate New Year.’”

“I told you, didn’t I?” spluttered Creswell. “He’s going to kill at the end of every month.”

“That isn’t exactly what he said, is it? It could be any time—”

“Nonsense. We all know Gregory is a man with an obsessive nature. He has to do things in a precise way. He’s shown us the pattern and he’ll stick to it.”

“Boss,” I said, trying hard to think how to phrase my request. “You know we’re really under strain here. In the circumstances, should we really be sending our senior detectives on secondment to Germany? I mean, Monika would be much more use over here with us, wouldn’t she?”

“I don’t think they’d agree with you there. There’s a resurgence of Nazism in some districts, and Monika is working undercover in Dortmund, where the situation is particularly worrying. She’s from that region, and has worked undercover before, so she’s invaluable to them. Atkins should be fit to return to duty in a couple of weeks, so I could request his return if you think we need him.”

My mind was in turmoil, and I vaguely remember saying that he was better off staying out there. I recovered sufficiently enough to ask, “How long will this undercover operation take?”

“You know as well as I do that these things take as long as necessary. It could potentially be years before they gather enough information to convict.”

“But she is coming back next October?”

“That was the plan originally. Whether she does or not depends on how the case goes.” Then he added, “I’ve told you, forget her, Ben. It’s time to move on.”

“Easier said than done,” I muttered under my breath, frantically trying to think what I could do about it. When I saw Creswell was expecting a reply, I said, “It isn’t about me. She’s a damned good detective and I think she’d be invaluable over here, working on this case.”

“I know, but it’s for the best. You know how she found your compulsiveness challenging, so…”

“That was then. I admit, I had a problem. But I’ve mastered it now, and she needs to see how I’ve changed by working with me again,” I said as I walked out of his office, slamming the door theatrically behind me.

*

Over the next few weeks, the team tried in vain to find Gregory. As Christmas approached Creswell became increasingly irritable, for he knew that the holiday season was unlikely to remain festive for long. I still hadn’t given him a solution to the goblin part of the first message, and he took his frustrations out on me, almost blaming me for the entire affair.

The public didn’t help matters at all. Hundreds of sightings of Gregory were reported, and all had to be followed up. Naturally, not a single one of them produced even the tiniest portion of a result.

To make matters worse, we also had half a dozen separate instances of people giving themselves up, claiming to be responsible for the murders, and wasting more valuable police time.

On a more chilling level, several phone calls and messages were left, purporting to be from Gregory, telling us graphically what he was going to do next. We knew that they were phony, as the callers exhibited no knowledge of the two murders so far — our news blackout, thankfully, was still working — but it meant that we had to remain aware of the possibility of having to deal with copycat killers.

It was Christmas Eve, the most unseasonal occasion that you could imagine, and I returned home after another weary day in the office. Everybody was on edge, as we all knew that we could very soon have another killing on our hands. I hadn’t been inside for five minutes when I was on the phone to Creswell. “Somebody has been in my house, boss. I’m pretty sure it was him.”

“Is he there now? Don’t try and tackle him on your own, whatever you do.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m perfectly safe. He’s been here, but I’m sure I’m not in any danger now. I guess he wanted to let me know he hasn’t forgotten about me.”

“What has he done?”

“Nothing major. But you know how pernickety I am about the way things are — yes, I know, my OCD. Somebody — he — has been in my room and moved things.”

Creswell didn’t seem convinced, so I said, “Look, boss. I’m not your average Joe Public who calls wolf every five minutes. I’m a highly trained police officer, and part of our role is to develop that sixth sense when things aren’t right. I know that somebody has been in here, and that sixth sense tells me it was Gregory. But if you don’t want to believe me…”

“Wait a minute. I didn’t say that. I just needed to be sure, that was all. I’ll send a car round.”

*

He arrived, along with three other officers, half an hour later. “Sorry for spoiling your Christmas Eve,” I said.

“Don’t mention it. Just tell me what put you onto him, and we’ll start the checks. I’ve already despatched another car to check round the neighbourhood, and when they’ve finished here these two will begin on door-to-door questioning.” He pointed towards the two uniformed officers who had accompanied him. He didn’t refer to the third officer, a female detective of around thirty, with long black hair, tied in a ponytail. I noticed that she had sparkling blue eyes when she glanced in my direction.

As Creswell seemed disinclined to introduce her I walked over to the other two officers and explained what had made me suspicious. “I’m very particular about my books,” I said, waving an expansive hand towards the bookcase. “I have practically every crime novel that matters in there, including all the books by Conan Doyle, Christie, Dexter and Rendell. You name them, I have them. Each and every one is kept in its correct sequence. Now, take a look at that.” I pointed to the third shelf, but the two officers didn’t notice what I was referring to. “There,” I said, “in between The Dead of Jericho and The Riddle of the Third Mile. Since when has Sherlock Holmes worked alongside Inspector Morse?”

One of the officers reached out a hand to grab the copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles that I was pointing at. “Don’t touch it,” I yelled, and then, when he looked at me as if my obsession was taking over, I added, “Fingerprints.”

Once the book had been bagged away and sent to the lab to be checked, Creswell turned to me. “Sorry,” he said, “but you know how we’re struggling for bodies on this case—” I made no comment about his somewhat tasteless reference, as I figured it was completely unintentional “—so we have to make do with what we can. The plods mean well, and they have given up their Christmas voluntarily to try and help out. It puzzles me, though,” he added, “as to why you thought there was something awry. The place looks immaculate. What makes you so sure this was Gregory’s doing?”

“Instinct,” I replied. “I know those books like the back of my hand. Even an inch out of place and it would stand out to me. As for why I know it was him — it was the book. Do you remember it?”

“Vaguely, but I don’t know how that would make you think Gregory was involved.”

I couldn’t resist. “Elementary, my dear Creswell. In that book, Holmes tells Watson he has to return to London, leaving Watson to keep an eye on things at Baskerville Hall, reporting back to Holmes as to his findings. In actual fact, Holmes didn’t go back but hid out on the moors, so he could continue his investigations without interruption. Watson duly sent reports back to Holmes ‘in London’, so he acted as the perfect lapdog, in my opinion. And we all know how Gregory has referred to me over the last decade.”

Creswell nodded. “You could be right, there. That would fit his persona to a T.”

All of this time, the female detective had stood patiently behind Creswell, but now she stepped forward to look at the bookcase. “An impressive collection,” she said, in a voice with a slight Scouse accent. “And so orderly. In my place, books are everywhere. I guess that would drive you nuts, eh?”

“This is Detective Sergeant Angela Clarke,” explained Creswell. “She’s transferred to us from Liverpool — I did listen, Watson, when you told me we needed more bod— err people on this case. In light of what has happened tonight, I want you two to work together to try and solve it. She’s a firearms expert,” he added to my questioning glance. “Now, it’s Christmas Eve, but there’s nothing to celebrate. I suggest we spend the remainder of the night bringing Angela up to speed.”

*

It was after midnight when they left, and all three of us were back in the office at eight a.m. on Christmas morning. The lab boys had found Gregory’s fingerprints on the book, which they only returned to me when Creswell intervened. “He’s very particular about his possessions. We have what we need — the knowledge that Gregory was in his home. We don’t need to keep the book for evidence because we’re hardly going to charge Gregory with breaking and entering and moving books around, are we?”

There was little point in us being there, but neither did any of us think of going home. We whiled away Christmas Day playing cards, with Angela seemingly the only one who was bothered about winning. Despite Creswell’s insistence that the murderer was targeting the end of each month, I think we all suspected that, after the relative calm of today, everything was about to change.

December 26th

Catherine wipes away a tear as she leaves the graveside. Even though it has been more than twenty years since Alfred passed away, the pain still feels as raw as if it has only just happened. Christmas is always the worst time, as she finds it difficult to get by when everybody else is celebrating so much. She has nothing to celebrate; the season for her will forever be tainted by the memory of finding her husband dead in bed beside her when she woke up that Christmas morn.

She can understand the grandchildren not knowing how she feels, for they were barely born when it happened; but for her own children to so cavalierly blank it from their minds? That is what she finds hardest to forgive.

She knows exactly how Queen Victoria must have felt after the loss of her dear Albert. She mourned for the remainder of her life. Almost forty years, double her own period of grief. Catherine prays that her own suffering will not last that long.

It is quiet in the crematorium; in fact, she realises, she is the only visitor. On reflection, she doesn’t remember seeing the area this quiet before. No doubt everybody else is at home having gorged themselves to the limit yesterday. No, she is wrong. There is somebody else here. A rather smart young man carrying a bag. How nice of him to tear himself away from the pleasures of life to pay his respects to the departed, she thinks.

He seems to be waving to her, and she walks towards him to see what he wants. He is gesturing towards a line of gravestones furthest from the road. Perhaps he needs her help in deciphering the ancient lettering? Tcch, these young people. She sighs.

She decides to help, as the alternative is to return to her cold, unwelcoming flat and await the visit of her daughter’s family for the annual post-Christmas ritual. Every year she dreads it; every year she promises herself that she won’t put herself through it again; every year she says nothing and endures the ordeal. At least this time, she thinks, I’ll have spent my morning helping somebody else.

She has almost reached the man now, but when she sees him, she pauses. She cannot see his face. In fact, she cannot see any part of him. Even though it is so cold, she would have expected to see at least a modicum of skin. He carries a black bag, as a doctor would, and she watches him reach inside it.

Then, in a sudden increase in pace, he pulls his hand out and launches something large towards her. She watches, unable to move, as the rock comes straight towards her face.

*

He walks across to where the old woman has fallen. He knows he is taking something of a risk this time, as it is morning and he is out in the open. But he has figured that it will be quiet today, after the excesses that most people would have subjected their bodies to on Christmas Day, and he is right. Perhaps it will get busier as the morning wears on, but, by then, he will have completed his third task. He checks his watch to make sure of the time; it reads 08:08.

He has carefully researched his victim, watching her visit her husband’s grave on this day at the same time each week. He knew that she would come today, but he had made contingency plans anyway in the unlikely event of her not turning up; they will not be needed now.

He drags her unconscious form behind the line of gravestones. Even if anybody were to pass by, they would not be able to see him. He decides against humiliating the woman; he almost feels sympathy for her. “Tonight, you will be with your husband,” he whispers as he picks up the rock and repeatedly smashes it into her face.

He takes a brush from his bag, smears it in her fresh blood, and begins to scribe his message on the back of the nearest gravestone.

He reaches into the bag and takes out four small devices. He opens her coat and cardigan and unbuttons her blouse and places them inside, one by her left collarbone, one by her right collarbone, one over her left kidney and the final one over her right kidney. He switches all four devices on, buttons up her blouse, cardigan and coat, and departs the scene.

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