The Element Of Death. Steve Wilson

buy nice Christmas presents for Ciaran and Eilidh.

      She hears footsteps and turns to face the direction they are approaching from. Yes, this will be him. He’s carrying a large bag in one hand and holds something under what looks like a rug with the other. What sort of kinkiness is this guy into? She smiles. The kinkier the better, as far as she’s concerned, as she runs through her fetish charge rates in her mind.

      *

      He doesn’t say a word as he follows her into the garage, but he makes certain that the door is firmly closed behind them. She shines a torch in his face and begins her spiel. “It’s a tenner for straight sex, anything other than that is extra. There aren’t any limits as long as you’re prepared to pay. What’s your perversion, then?”

      He pulls some lengths of rope out of the bag. She smiles. “Bondage, eh? Normally that would be another twenty, but I like being tied up, so let’s call it another fifteen, eh? Money first,” she demands, holding out a dirty hand.

      He lets her have it, a backhanded slap across the face that sends her flying backwards. Even though his gloves have tempered the blow a little, she is still knocked senseless. He picks up the torch that fell as she landed and shines it on her. He can see the tears welling up in her eyes and the look of disbelief on her face. What a stupid woman. In her profession, doesn’t she realise that every john could be the one who kills her? If she hasn’t before, then she will now. He shines the torch on his watch to check the time: 01:01. Perfect.

      He takes the rug off the object it is concealing, and watches her eyes widen in terror as she sees what he has brought with him. Before she can react, he pounces, grabbing her scrawny left wrist, and with practised ease he secures it with the rope to the top-left corner of the huge wooden X. Then, in turn, he secures her remaining wrist and her ankles to the other three corners.

      She screams repeatedly as she tries to prevent him, but she is no match for him. He doesn’t mind the noise, for there is nobody around to hear her. Besides, he is looking forward to hearing her later on.

      Before that can happen, though, she has to be prepared.

      He makes sure that the ropes are tight, then he hauls the cross up and leans it against the wall so she resembles a Catherine wheel on Bonfire Night. Taking out his knife, he deftly removes all of her clothing. He takes the whip from his bag. It has a wooden handle and a series of three leather thongs, each containing embedded sharp stones. He holds it in his right hand for her to see, then flails it and brings it down on her naked flesh. And again. And again.

      He reaches into his bag and removes the gas cylinder. He affixes a tube to the end and then forces it through her clenched teeth. He turns on the nozzle and allows the gas to enter her mouth.

      After a couple of seconds, he stops the flow and removes the tube. She shouts at him, asking why he is doing this to her, but her voice is high-pitched, as if it came from an old vinyl record that has been played at seventy-eight rpm instead of forty-five, and he laughs.

      Then he reinserts the tube, turns the nozzle on and this time he doesn’t turn it off until the cylinder is empty. While he waits, he takes a brush from his bag and, holding it in his left hand, begins to cover the bristles with her blood, which appears in new locations on her body with each additional flail of the scourging whip.

      *

      The lifeless body of the prostitute slumps as much as it is able to, given the constraints of the ropes. He no longer notices her. All of his attention is on the message that he has painstakingly painted on the wall. The blood had dried, but the words are clearly visible.

      He packs away all of his tools, makes sure that he has left nothing behind, and exits the garage, this time leaving the door open to ensure that she is found.

      Two – A New Partner

      Creswell was desolate. I felt sorry for him. I understood what he must be going through, and I could empathise with his reasoning when he had tried to convince himself that there wouldn’t be any more murders. Anybody could have reacted in the same way, as the fantasy was infinitely preferable to facing up to the grisly truth.

      We were at the crime scene in Preston’s Deepdale district and he was constantly pacing up and down, muttering to himself. “I was so certain that it wasn’t going to happen. I allowed myself to believe it because I wanted to believe it. He’s changed to the end of the month, that’s what he’s done. One at the end of October and now the second at the end of November. I’ve already cancelled all leave for New Year’s Eve.” He took a long look at me. “I hadn’t realised how badly you were affected by crime scenes. Were you always like that?”

      “No,” I said, wiping my nose on my sleeve. “Only recently. It’s the smell, I think. Or perhaps it’s just psychological?”

      “Hmphh,” he exclaimed. I think any talk of psychology was beyond his capacity for understanding. He was a good detective, but limited in other areas. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you here. A photograph of the message would be just as effective.”

      “No, you were right to call me. There’s something about the scene that you can’t replicate in a lab. I might see — or even smell — something that could possibly help solve this whole mystery.”

      “And put that bastard Gregory behind bars, where he should have been all along.”

      I echoed his sentiments. “So, what is the story here, then?” I asked.

      Creswell called for one of the other officers on duty, and he opened his notebook and began to read. “At half-past six this morning, Mr Benjamin Crowley was taking his dogs for a walk across the waste ground when one of them began barking intensely and ran off towards these garages. Mr Crowley followed the dog into the garage, and came upon the scene here. The woman—” he pointed at the body, which was spreadeagled immodestly “—was well known to us at the local station. She goes by the name of Trixie Lahore. Originally from Dublin, she moved to Preston twenty years ago and has been on the game ever since.”

      “Trixie Lahore?” said Parkinson, laughing unsympathetically. “A bit like Ronseal, I take it? ‘Does exactly what it says on the tin.’”

      “They all do it,” replied Creswell. “I suppose they think it makes them sound more exotic to the punters — a little bit of Paris in Preston.”

      “Paris? Her only link with the garlic-eaters would be having French fries with her battered cod of an evening.”

      “That’s as maybe, Eddie, but, like I said, she isn’t the only one. She’s had countless cautions and prosecutions, but this is just what these people do. Without their clients, they probably wouldn’t have the money for their daily fixes. It seems that this time, her luck was out.”

      “It seems that she ran into our serial killer,” I interjected. “I don’t think luck had anything to do with it, though. He would have planned this. It’s an isolated spot, so he would have been able to work away undisturbed. Any idea what time it occurred?”

      “We’re waiting for the pathologist’s report for specific details, but he reckons it would have taken place shortly after midnight,” answered Creswell.

      “What about the way she died?”

      “Again, we’re awaiting the report, but he says the flaying probably wasn’t enough to kill her. That’s all I could get him to confirm, though. We’ll have to wait till tomorrow to get the full details.”

      I walked over to take a look at the message on the wall:

       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.

      “Any ideas?” asked Creswell.

      “Not yet. It doesn’t look like it’s the same as last time, that’s all I can say for now.”

      “You wouldn’t