Steve Wilson - The Element Of Death

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.

“I’m working here,” she replied, in a voice without a trace of accent. She spoke slowly and carefully, as if she were explaining her actions to a child.

“Not today, you aren’t. The club is closed. This is official police business. I suggest you go somewhere else and do whatever it is that you do. Go on, leave, achtung ,” I added, thinking that she’d probably understand more if I used her native tongue.

I expected her to go, but she just said, “Gott im Himmel, dummkopf.”

I looked startled, and she laughed, icily . “ I thought that would get a reaction. You English think we all talk like that. I will not leave because I am on duty here.” She pulled out a card and held it close to my face. It read ‘Monika Ziegler, Polizeimeister’. “Satisfied? We are to work together on this case.” She flicked her head, sending her flowing blonde locks cascading over her face, but the look she threw at me indicated that she had no hope that ours would be a successful collaboration.

I tried to make up for the bad first impression I had made by buying Monika what I thought was an amusing present as a reminder of my misunderstanding during that meeting. It was a purple aluminium mini vibrator. Unfortunately, Monika failed to see the funny side of this, as she said, “I wouldn’t be seen dead with that inside me!” I realised that, instead of improving matters, I had made an awkward situation much worse.