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