The Element Of Death. Steve Wilson

things would find their way back to how they used to be.”

      “It’s time to move on. You’re how old — thirty-eight, thirty-nine? There are plenty more women out there. Forget her.”

      “I’ll try, boss.” As if that were possible. “Anyway, it looks like we might have our hands full trying to catch a psychopath. Next October will be here before you know it.”

      Just then, a junior officer came in. “I’ve brought the lab report on the Norris death, sir,” he said, handing a manila folder to the DI.

      Creswell opened it and read the two A4 sheets thoroughly. “Not a great deal to surprise us here. DNA shows traces of the victim and her boyfriend, naturally, and also Gregory. The only surprise, I suppose, is that there isn’t much of Gregory’s DNA at the scene.”

      “I see what you mean,” I said. “He isn’t making any attempt to hide the fact that he’s behind this, so why wasn’t there more to find?”

      “Unless,” he added, “he was covering himself up to avoid getting soaked in her blood? He knew what was going to happen, so maybe he wore gloves, or a face mask. Whatever he wore, he took it off when he left so nobody seeing him would suspect a thing.”

      I thought about what I’d heard. “Yes, I can see that. He might even have put overalls on. Whatever he used, perhaps he ditched them somewhere nearby.”

      “We haven’t found anything, but I’ll order another search. Somebody might have seen some in the bins without taking notice of them.” Creswell called one of the junior officers over and gave him the new search instructions.

      “What about the murder weapon? Any clues as to its whereabouts?”

      “They found it. It was one of the victim’s own knives and he’d replaced it on the rack after cleaning it. There were clear traces of blood at a microscopic level, and the pattern of some of the cuts she had received matched exactly to the knife’s serrated edge.”

      “I’m beginning to get an idea of his thought processes,” I said. “He isn’t trying to hide who he is, but he still isn’t going to take the risk of bringing his own knife, and then potentially being found with it? Much better to travel light. Even though he has such a high profile, he has one of those ordinary faces that means he could almost be in this room right now and we’d never spot him.”

      “Not quite,” said Creswell. “I’d know him anywhere, and, I’m certain, so would you. If not,” he added, “you’d better study those pictures long and hard. If we don’t get him first, at some stage he’ll come after you.”

      “Thanks. It’s a sobering thought.”

      “I know, but it’s true. Don’t underestimate him just because he hasn’t tried to get you yet.” Creswell skimmed through the report once more. “There are details about the liquid that the body was covered in. It was something called hydrazine or diazane. Have you ever heard of it?”

      “Can’t say that I have,” I replied. “Was that what caused the ammonia smell?”

      Creswell read some more. “Seems like it. The report says it’s a colourless flammable liquid with an ammonia-like smell. It’s highly toxic and dangerously unstable unless it’s in solution. They use it in rocket fuel. Acute exposure can damage the liver and kidneys and it’s also corrosive. They say it can be a carcinogen.”

      I let out a low whistle. “Rocket fuel? How could he get hold of that?”

      “It isn’t just rocket fuel. It’s in some pesticides as well, and in chemicals used in photography. So I guess you could get hold of it easily enough.”

      I thought for a few moments. “This doesn’t make any sense. From what you’ve said, hydrazine is pretty unpleasant, but surely that amount isn’t going to kill anybody. At least, not straight away. Why bother when he’d all but gutted her already?”

      “It wasn’t used to try and kill her. The report clearly states that it was added after she was dead. They could tell by the level of seepage into her open chest cavity and the fact that there was no blood flow at the time.”

      “I repeat, then. Why bother?”

      “That,” said Creswell, “might be the key question.”

      *

      The next few weeks passed far too quickly for the investigating team, although, with Monika never far from my thoughts, time dragged for me. Despite conducting house-to-house searches across the county, there was nothing to indicate that Gregory existed. I was tasked with trying to solve the puzzle that had been left for me, but, as I repeatedly told Creswell, out of context it made no sense. He was seriously unimpressed.

      Everybody called Andy on the criminal database was checked and investigated, but nothing of any significance was found. As the month drew to a close I was called into Creswell’s office. It was just after midnight, and I was about to leave for home after another frustrating evening. I was unprepared for what came next.

      In contrast to the haggard appearance that had been his constant companion for the last four weeks, he looked positively relieved. “Do you know what today is, Watson?”

      “No, sir. What do you mean?”

      “The date. It’s the thirtieth. We’ve just ticked over to a new dawn.”

      I looked at him as if he’d lost his marbles. “Yes, it is. And tomorrow will be the first.”

      “You don’t get it, do you? The Norris killing took place on the night of October thirty-first, November first. That’s twenty-nine or thirty days ago now, depending which date you take. All of Gregory’s murders last time took place at four-weekly intervals. Exactly four weeks, almost to the minute. I was dreading getting a call yesterday to say he’d struck again, but he hasn’t. I think we might be all right.”

      I didn’t want to disagree with my boss when he was so obviously filled with relief, but I felt I had to. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Remember the code I cracked? It told us it was the first of many. He left a cryptic message that we haven’t been able to decipher yet. He must be planning more.”

      “I didn’t say he wasn’t. But what if something has happened to him? There hasn’t been a single sighting of him since the murder. What if he was the victim of a hit and run or something like that?”

      “You’re grasping at straws, boss. There’d been no sign of him before the last one, but it still happened.”

      “Yes, but that was only a fortnight. This has been almost a month. A month! Surely there would have been something in that time if he was still alive, if only something to taunt you — us — for our lack of progress. I can feel it in my gut, Watson. Everything is going to be okay.”

      I looked at him, reading the desperate hope in his eyes, eyes that begged please let me be right, but I couldn’t find the words to reply; I knew that we hadn’t heard the last of Gregory.

      November 30^th

      Trixie looks at her watch. It has been a slow night. Business is always bad once the cold sets in. It might be okay for those who have a nice warm bed to go to, but for her, out here by the garages on the industrial estate, finding punters hasn’t been easy.

      The guy who said he’d be here doesn’t even have a car. That’s his problem, she thinks. He’s the one who’ll be exposing himself to the biting wind. She has only come here because there are far too many other women on her patch. Some of them aren’t even from the town; no, the city, she corrects herself. She detests them, coming over here and taking her business. Who do they think they are? She knows, though. They think they are younger than her, and they are right.

      She takes another look at the time. Almost one in the morning. She’ll give him another five minutes, then she’ll go. She isn’t that desperate