Читать книгу: «The Element Of Death»

One – Goblins and Elves

The phone rang shortly after six p.m. and I replaced my bookmark before putting my novel down on the table. I hadn’t spoken to anybody for a couple of days, so my voice was a bit throaty as I answered. “Ben Watson speaking.”

“Watson. There’s been a…it’s a bit difficult to talk about on the phone. There’s been an incident and it involves you.”

I knew straight away who the caller was: DI Jordan Creswell, my former boss; it was rare for any of those bods to call anybody from my department. There could only be one reason. “Is it anything to do with Gregory?” I asked. “He hasn’t been seen, has he?”

“Not exactly, but there’s been a murder which fits his MO and there’s something you need to see.”

“Why me? I’m back-office now, I don’t do crime scenes. Besides, I’m…not at work at the moment.”

“I know all about your situation, Watson, and I know you’re not a front-line officer any more. Normally, I’d leave you geek-guys to your computers and puzzles, but this isn’t normally. You’ve been named, specifically. There was a message, scrawled on the wall in the victim’s blood, and it was for ‘Holmes’ lapdog’. Get down here. Now.”

I shuddered. It was beginning. “Okay, I’ll get straight over. It’ll be good to get out of here. I know that might sound odd, considering what you just said, but we’ve all been expecting something like this and nothing is worse than sitting around waiting for it to happen.” I was about to put the phone down, when I added, “Hadn’t you better tell me where ‘here’ is? I know I’m a technical guru, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

He gave me the address and I jotted it down. The murder had occurred in the Sherwood district of Fulwood, one of the more select areas of Preston, and they were waiting for me to get there.

Despite the urgency, there were things I had to do before I could leave. I was a bit like Rupert Penry-Jones’ character in television’s Whitechapel, who was sometimes unable to function as a result of his neat-freak OCD tendencies. I wasn’t as bad as he was, but I couldn’t leave without tidying up. I picked up the novel I had been reading, Conan Doyle’s The Return of Sherlock Holmes, and removed the bookmark; I would have to finish The Adventure of the Dancing Men another day. I placed it on its shelf in the ceiling-high bookcase, and also put Christie’s The ABC Murders back in its correct place, in between 4:50 from Paddington and The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding. Finally, I returned The Da Vinci Code to sit alongside Brown’s other Robert Langdon novels. Then, and only then, did I set off for the car. As I headed towards it I let my mind wander over the events of the last couple of weeks; I had thought about them a lot during those fourteen days.

*

Gregory’s escape had been headline news for most of the past fortnight. The public were aghast at the fact that such a notorious serial killer could be on the loose again, and debating continued long into the night in parliament as the coalition government tried in vain to justify their policy on private security firms being given responsibility for the country’s most evil criminals.

At a local level, Lancashire was on high alert, and all police leave was cancelled while the local constabulary set about house-to-house searches in a bid to catch him before he began a new killing spree. Everybody remembered the chilling words that he uttered from the witness box during his trial: You haven’t heard the last of me. I would have been happy if I’d finished them all, but you stopped me before the final one. When I return, I will start again, and it will be a longer sequence next time. Bear that in mind, and tell Holmes’ lapdog that I’ll arrange something special, just for him.

Holmes’ lapdog. That was what he had derisively called me throughout the trial. He maintained that his capture owed nothing to good policing methods and everything to a blundering patrolman who struck lucky. The man on the beat will be a deadbeat by the time I’m through with him was one of his more printable statements.

The force took the threat seriously enough so that as soon as news of his escape hit, they despatched a patrol to keep watch on my home; in these days of cutbacks, that was a big investment to make. Even so, had Gregory headed straight for my place once he was out, by the time the patrol was authorised and mobilised it would have been too late for them to stop him.

I remembered the exact moment I heard about his escape with crystal clarity. It was October eighteenth at three-fifteen in the afternoon. It was the same day I found out what was really happening with Monika and I had been sent to ‘work’ at home following the incident at the station. But I didn’t want to think about that right now. Instead, I let my thoughts wander to the beginning, and the time that I thwarted Morgan Gregory.

*

I was a policeman on the beat in those days, and had been for several years. As I was in my late twenties, I knew I should really be advancing in my career, but I enjoyed my job, and consequently didn’t push myself forward as much as I should have done.

Much of what I did would come under the heading of community policing — something that is sadly missing now with all of the cuts that have taken place — although there were times when it could be a harrowing role. The Gregory case had put us all on edge. Nobody knew anything about him — even his name was unknown then — and that added to the air of menace surrounding the killings. He had chosen his victims according to some bizarre ritual so that each killing had a link to the old nursery rhyme. You know, One for sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told. His first killing had taken place at a funeral home, the next at a maternity unit.

The whole country was nervously waiting for him to strike again, even though he had confined his first six murders to the North of England. Everybody was desperately trying to convince themselves that they were safe because they had nothing to do with the final line of the rhyme, the secret never to be told; but everybody had secrets, so nobody was safe.

I was on patrol in Garstang and had been called to deal with a domestic disturbance. The woman, Beverley Evans, had thrown her boyfriend out after she had found out he had been cheating on her and the man hadn’t taken too kindly to it, hence the reason I had been sent for. I made it abundantly clear to the man that he was no longer welcome in her home, and returned to Ms Evans’ address to let her know that we had taken the appropriate action. As I was about to leave, I saw a box full of lingerie on a chair in the front room, and she saw me looking at it.

“It isn’t what you’re thinking,” she said.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“I know. Believe, me, I know.”

“Enlighten me, then, Ms Evans.”

“You’re thinking, ‘Where have they come from?’ and ‘What sort of establishment is this woman running?’ Admit it.”

“I’ll admit to being curious as to what they are doing here. Since you’ve brought the subject up, what are they doing there?”

“They’re samples from work. I’m a bra specialist — I work for Seductively Secret as a demonstrator. I’ve a party tonight, that’s why I’ve all these,” she said, flinging her arms wide to show another two boxes on the other side of the room.

“Well, each to their own. I’ll say goodnight, Ms…” And then it hit me. The entire force had been puzzling over where the killer the tabloids had nicknamed The Magpie Murderer would strike next. It had been four weeks since his previous killing, and, as they had all taken place at four-weekly intervals, we expected that the final one would occur some time during that day. We just had no idea where, that was the problem. All we had to go on was that the victim would somehow be linked to a secret.

“About this party. Is it something your company organised?”

“After an invite, are you? Sorry, men aren’t allowed in. We don’t do those sorts of functions.”

“No, that isn’t it at all. This is an official enquiry.”

“Oh,” she replied, clearly taken aback. “No, this is something I’ve organised. We do freelance work as well as what the company arranges for us. This job came from…” She paused a while as she sorted through her bag, looking for her diary. “Here it is, look. Mr Pica rang me four weeks ago. He was very specific about it being tonight, and at exactly twenty past eight. I had to decide whether or not to rearrange a couple of things to accommodate. But, as you can see from the stock, he’s bringing hundreds of women along to the warehouse and I could make more money tonight than I normally do in a month, so it was an easy decision to make.”

I thought for a moment before replying. Gregory’s obsession with detail, especially as far as timings were concerned, was something that I was acutely aware of, having similar compulsions myself. Another officer might not have even noticed, but the time resonated with me. I could visualise the symmetry of the numbers, and, allied to the name of her employer, I was now convinced that I had made a key breakthrough in the case.

Ms Evans was looking at me, expecting a response to her answer, so I asked, “And does this sort of thing normally happen?”

“No, not normally. But it does on occasion, so it’s not totally unheard of. Why? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know. Leave it with me.”

I rang the station and told the desk sergeant what had just taken place. “It was when I heard she worked for Seductively Secret that I wondered. And then, when she told me the time of the meeting, it seemed to confirm it. Do you think there’s anything in it?”

“Maybe, maybe not. What was the man’s name again?”

“Pica.”

“Peeker? Sounds like we’ve a peeping Tom on our hands, not a serial killer.”

“No, it’s not spelt like that.”

“How do you spell it, then?”

“P-I-C-A.”

“That’s a strange name… What was that? Just a minute, Eddie Parkinson is talking to me.”

Parkinson was one of the senior officers, and he was often the victim of ribaldry because of his love for birds — the feathered kind, I must add. On this occasion, his ornithological knowledge was to prove invaluable. I could vaguely hear the discussion taking place, and then the sergeant spoke to me, very slowly. “Eddie has just informed me that the scientific name for the magpie is the Pica Pica. I think you might have found our killer.”

And so it turned out. Instead of Ms Evans, an undercover police detective went to the warehouse, where she found nobody in attendance but Morgan Gregory. He wasn’t, though, expecting the back-up that broke into the building moments later, and the killer was apprehended before he could complete his ‘rhyme’ killings. Everybody was surprised when we discovered that he was a young, baby-faced, clean-cut man who was a few months short of his thirtieth birthday. He was barely older than me, and what I would have described as 'eminently suitable; if your daughter had brought him home to meet the family, most parents would have been delightedly making wedding plans.

The evidence against him was overwhelming. Gregory didn’t even deny his part in the ritualistic slaughtering, but he claimed that it wasn’t murder, as he was obeying orders from a voice only he could hear; it was a convenient defence, and experts lined up to confirm his insanity. His conviction was never in question, but instead of spending the rest of his life in a maximum-security prison — which could easily have been sixty years of incarceration — he was sent to the mental health institution that ultimately allowed his escape; the system had failed the British public once again.

As for my own career, it changed markedly after that night. Any officer might have made the connection had they been in my situation, but I liked to think my peculiar talents had come to the fore that evening. I had always been fascinated by words, numbers and patterns, and, because of the nature of the Magpie rhyme, had possibly put more thought into it than most. As soon as Beverley Evans mentioned who she worked for, my subconscious picked up on the name and made the link. Gregory might well have derided me for being lucky; I liked to think that it was good policing, hearing a seemingly innocuous word and understanding its relevance.

Buoyed by the headlines the case generated, I found myself moved away from the front line and thrust into the plain-clothes role that I had never previously considered. Only Eddie Parkinson seemed to resent my success, claiming that if it hadn’t been for his specialist knowledge, we wouldn’t have known it was Gregory. I ignored his cheap jibes, though, and threw myself into my new job with gusto, yet I didn’t forget the chance encounter that had put me in that position. I used my spare moments to research thoroughly into the Magpie Murders, to try and get into the killer’s mind in the hope that it might prepare me for my new career.

It worked, perhaps too well in one respect. I became obsessed with my attempts to understand him, to the extent that, like Gregory, I became a slave to the clock. At first, it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience, though I found myself unable to make a move into or out of a building unless the second hand had reached the sixty-second mark. Nobody else was aware of my new-found foibles, fortunately, and my work didn’t suffer to any noticeable extent.

I didn’t find my new position as easy as I had thought it would be. I had to try and get used to the fact that a detective’s life was nowhere near as precise as a beat constable’s. In my old role, I had a defined set of rules to work to, and kept meticulous notes detailing exact times, locations and actions. All of that seemed anathema now, and I began to realise that the ‘maverick’ detectives portrayed on screen were not as far from reality as I’d believed. Nevertheless, I tried my best to adapt to the expected persona of my new role, and, although I didn’t know it at the time, the Gregory incident would eventually change my life.

*

I felt as if I’d been released from captivity as I drove through the Preston streets. I’d no idea how long my ‘working’ from home would have continued, but the phone call from Creswell altered the dynamic. Now, I was on the case once more. I knew I would have to face blood and gore once again, but it still felt good to be back in action following my enforced sabbatical.

I arrived in Fulwood and parked the Jaguar in a leafy suburb close to the newspaper buildings. I wondered if the press were already onto this case. It was easy to see where the crime had taken place, as dozens of police cars were on the scene. I walked over to the Do Not Cross line, flashed my warrant card and ducked under the tape. The house was a fairly modern detached two-bedroomed affair, and looked to be in immaculate condition. I stepped onto the plush white carpets, my feet sinking a couple of inches into the deep pile. The living room was tastefully decorated and a white three-piece suite took centre stage; or, it would have done under normal circumstances. Now, though, it was heavily blood-stained, as was everything else within the room.

My immediate reaction on entering the room was to gag at the stench. “What is that?” I asked.

A PC, from the local nick, no doubt, answered. “It smells a bit like ammonia, sir.”

“Where’s it coming from?”

“It appears that the body was doused in it for some reason.”

I walked towards it, and the smell intensified. The combination of ammonia and the stink of death was overpowering. I sneezed and reached for a tissue.

“Careful, sir. You’ll contaminate the crime scene.”

“I probably already have,” I muttered, reminding him that I hadn’t been given any protective clothing to wear when I entered the building. I leant over the body, looking at all of the disfigurations. “Were these made before or after death?” I asked.

“The pathologist hasn’t said yet, sir.”

“Where’s the message? The one I’ve been called here to see.”

The officer pointed towards the far wall. I looked across, at the dried maroon lettering that stood out sharply against the bright white wall-covering; the woman really had loved that shade. The letters covered three quarters of the wall space. “That must have taken a lot of writing. Who would have thought a body could contain that much blood?” I looked at the officer, who shrugged his shoulders.

DI Creswell saw that I had arrived and he walked towards me. “How are things, Ben? Have you got over…? I mean, how are you dealing with the Monika situation?”

“Monika?” I laughed. “She’s not a problem, I assure you.”

Creswell looked relieved, and I could understand why; especially if he knew how I really felt about her.

*

Monika. I certainly wasn’t ‘over’ her, and I wasn’t dealing with the situation well at all. My time at home hadn’t helped me come to terms with what had happened; in fact, now, it was all about Monika.

I hadn’t been a detective long when our paths crossed. I was working on a joint venture with the German Bundespolizei in Düsseldorf. Our remit was to investigate a sex club that was believed to be a front for a large drug importing and exporting operation. That was where I met her. It was exactly seven years ago to the day. Just to make it clear, she, too, was working undercover, and I was assigned to work alongside her. Our first meeting, though, didn’t augur well for the future. I remembered in great detail how she sashayed in at quarter past three in the afternoon as if she owned the place. She reminded me of the oval-faced actress Naomi Archer, star of one of my favourite television shows from my youth, All Saints and Sinners, but I tried to ignore that image. I disapproved of women who willingly worked in the sex trade and didn’t want to associate the person standing in front of me with the woman I had a crush on during my teenage years.

“You can’t come in here,” I said as she tried to enter the club.

From the look of disdain on my face, she obviously knew what I was thinking.