Monday 30 June 2014

6.15 p.m.

Edmunds held the two tiny bottles up to the light. One declared itself to be ‘Shattered Pink’; the other, ‘Sherwood’. Even after three minutes of intense scrutiny, the two nail varnishes looked unequivocally identical to one another.

He was standing in the labyrinthine make-up department that dominated the ground floor of Selfridges. The haphazardly positioned stands acted like an archipelago against an ocean, a first-line defence, taking the full force of the wave of customers flooding in off Oxford Street and filtering them out across the store. He had passed several of the same disorientated faces, people who had become separated from their companions and left to wander aimlessly between the counters of eyeliners, lipsticks and Uplight Face Luminiser Gels that they had no intention whatsoever of purchasing.

‘May I help you with anything?’ asked an immaculately painted blonde, dressed all in black, whose generous layers of foundation could not cover up the judgemental sneer she wore as she took in Edmunds’ flyaway hair and purple nails.

‘I’ll take these two,’ he said happily, smearing purple glitter across her arm as he handed them over.

The woman smiled sycophantically and tottered back round to the other side of her tiny empire to charge Edmunds an extortionate amount.

‘I love Sherwood,’ she told him, ‘but I adore Shattered Pink.’

Edmunds stared down at the two indistinguishable items sitting pathetically at the bottom of the cavernous paper bag that she had handed him. He made sure to put the receipt straight in the back of his wallet, in the hope that he would be able to claim it back on expenses; if not, he had just blown half of his grocery budget on sparkly nail polish.

‘Is there anything else I can help you with today?’ the woman asked, reverting back to her former frosty self now that the transaction had been completed.

‘Yes. How do I get out of here?’

Edmunds had lost sight of the exit over twenty-five minutes earlier.

‘Aim for the escalators and you’ll see the doors right in front of you.’

Edmunds wove through to the escalator, only to find himself confronted with the equally daunting fragrance department. He nodded to a man that he had passed on three separate occasions back in make-up and then began his own futile attempt to escape the store.

This unexpectedly lengthy detour on his way home had been due to a development in the case earlier that morning. Once the field team had completed their work at the crime scene, the Ragdoll had been transported back to Forensic Services in the early hours of Sunday morning. This had been a painstaking process due to the importance of preserving the exact posture and weight distribution on each of the various body parts during transport. Ceaseless testing, examination and sample-collecting had taken place throughout the night, but finally, at 11 a.m. Monday morning, Baxter and Edmunds had been permitted access to the body.

Without the surreal haze of the nocturnal crime scene, the incoherent cadaver had been even more repugnant when lit by the unflattering fluorescent light of the crime lab: carelessly cut slabs of flesh rotting slowly in the chilly examination room. The thick stitches connecting them, which had seemed so otherworldly in the heightened atmosphere of the dimly lit apartment, were exposed as no more than violent mutilations.

‘How’s the case coming?’ Joe had asked. He was the forensic medical examiner, who Edmunds thought resembled a Buddhist monk with his all-in-one scrubs and shaved head.

‘Fantastic, just finishing up,’ replied Baxter sarcastically.

‘That well, huh?’ grinned the man, who was obviously accustomed to, and appeared to rather enjoy, Baxter’s waspish manner. ‘Perhaps this’ll help.’

He handed her a chunky ring in a clear evidence bag.

‘My answer’s a resounding no,’ she said, making Joe laugh.

‘It’s from the male left hand. Partial print, not the victim’s own.’

‘Whose then?’ asked Baxter.

‘No idea. Might be something, might not.’

Baxter’s excitement faded.

‘Anything you can tell us to get us started?’

‘He,’ Baxter’s eyebrows arched, ‘or she,’ then fell, ‘definitely had fingers.’

Edmunds let out an involuntary snort which he tried to pass off as a cough when Baxter glared at him.

‘Don’t worry, there’s more,’ said Joe.

He pointed to the black male leg, which was decorated with a large operation scar. He held an X-ray up to the light. Two long bright-white bars glowed incongruously against the faded skeleton beneath.

‘Plates and screws supporting the tibia, fibula and femur,’ Joe explained. ‘This was a big operation. “Do we operate? Do we amputate?” kind of big. Someone’ll remember doing this.’

‘Don’t these things have serial numbers or something?’ asked Baxter.

‘I’ll certainly look; although, whether they’ll be traceable or not will depend on how long ago the op was done, and this looks like old scarring to me.’

While Baxter studied the X-rays with Joe, Edmunds knelt down to examine the female right arm, which he had noted was pointing creepily towards their reflection in the glass window, more closely. Each of the five perfectly painted nails glittered in a dark purple varnish.

‘The index finger’s different!’ he blurted suddenly.

‘Ah, you noticed,’ said Joe happily. ‘I was just coming to that. It was impossible to tell in the dark apartment, but in here you can clearly see that a different nail polish has been used on that one finger.’

‘And that’s helpful how?’ asked Baxter.

Joe collected an ultraviolet lamp from the trolley, switched it on, and ran it along the length of the graceful arm. Dark bruises appeared and then vanished again as the purple light passed over them, the greatest accumulation occurring on or around the wrist.

‘There was a struggle,’ he said. ‘Now look at these nails: not a single chip. These were painted on afterwards.’

‘After the struggle or after death?’ asked Baxter.

‘I’d say both. I couldn’t find any sign of an inflammatory response, which means she died shortly after the bruising was sustained.

‘… I think the killer is speaking to us.’

Engineering works had closed a small but important section of the Northern line. Finding the prospect of an overcrowded bus less than tantalising, Wolf took the Piccadilly line to Caledonian Road and embarked on the twenty-five minute walk back to Kentish Town. It was not a particularly picturesque route once he had passed through the park and lost sight of the handsome clock tower, its detailing ripened in a charming green rust; however, the temperature had dropped to a tolerable level and the late-evening sunshine had brought a calming air over this part of the city.

The unproductive day had been spent fruitlessly searching for Vijay Rana. Wolf and Finlay had travelled to Woolwich and found the family home in a predictably uninhabited state. The pitiful front garden looked considerably more impressive than it should have, as the long grass and opportunistic weeds encroached across the pathway that led up to the front door. A mountain of unopened post and takeaway leaflets was just visible through a small, lead-lined window.

The information that Fraud had cobbled together had barely been worth the read, and Rana’s harassed partner at the accountancy firm had openly admitted that if he had known where his missing partner was hiding, he would have killed him himself. The only promising discovery had been the distinct absence of information on Rana before 1991. For some reason he had changed his name. They hoped if either the Royal Courts of Justice or The National Archives could provide them with a previous name, a multitude of past sins would direct them towards Rana’s current whereabouts.

As Wolf approached his block of flats, he spotted a dark blue Bentley with a personalised number plate parked illegally outside the main entrance. Crossing the road in front of the car he registered the silver-haired man sitting in the driver’s seat. He reached the front door and was searching for his keys when his mobile went off. Andrea’s name flashed up. He promptly put it back in his pocket and then heard the thud of an expensively heavy car door slamming behind him.

‘You’re ignoring my calls,’ said Andrea.

Wolf sighed and turned to face her. She looked immaculate again, having probably spent the majority of the day in front of a television camera. He noticed that she was wearing the necklace that he had given her for their first wedding anniversary but decided against mentioning it.

‘I spent most of Saturday night locked up,’ she continued.

‘That’s what happens when you break the law.’

‘Give it a rest, Will. You know as well as I do that if I hadn’t reported it, someone else would.’

‘You know that for certain?’

‘You’re damn right I do. Do you think if I hadn’t broadcast it the killer would just have gone: “Oh, she didn’t read it, that’s disappointing. I’d better forget this whole chopping people up death list thing”? Of course not. He’d have contacted another news channel and probably made room for me somewhere in his busy schedule.’

‘Is that your idea of an apology?’

‘I’ve got nothing to apologise for. I want you to forgive me.’

‘You have to apologise first, in order for someone to forgive you. That’s how it works!’

‘Says who?’

‘I don’t know – the etiquette police?’

‘Because that’s a thing.’

‘I’m not getting into this with you,’ said Wolf, amazed at how effortlessly they could fall into old habits, even now. He looked past Andrea to the elegant car idling at the kerbside. ‘When did your dad get a Bentley?’

‘Oh, piss off!’ she snapped, taking him by surprise.

Slowly it dawned on him why this had offended her.

‘Oh my God. That’s him, isn’t it? Your new squeeze,’ he said, wide-eyed as he strained to see through the tinted window.

‘That is Geoffrey, yes.’

‘Oh, Geoffrey is it? Well he certainly seems very … rich. What is he, like sixty?’

‘Stop looking at him.’

‘I can look at what I want.’

‘You are so immature.’

‘On second thoughts, you probably shouldn’t squeeze him too hard: you might break something.’

Despite herself, the corners of Andrea’s mouth curled up.

‘Seriously though,’ said Wolf quietly, ‘is he really the reason you left me?’

‘You were the reason I left you.’

‘Oh.’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘We wanted to invite you out for dinner. We’ve been sitting out here for almost an hour and I’m starving.’

Wolf made an unconvincing groan of disappointment.

‘I’d love to, but I’m actually just heading out.’

‘You have literally just got back.’

‘Look, I appreciate the gesture, but do you mind if I pass tonight? I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do and only one day left to find Rana and—’ Wolf realised his slip of the tongue as Andrea’s eyes widened in interest.

‘You don’t have him?’ she asked in astonishment.

‘Andie, I’m tired. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ve gotta go.’

Wolf left her on the doorstep and entered his building. Andrea climbed back into the passenger seat of the Bentley and closed the door.

‘Waste of time,’ said Geoffrey knowingly.

‘Far from it,’ replied Andrea.

‘If you say so. Dinner at the Greenhouse then?’

‘You can cope without me tonight, can’t you?’

Geoffrey huffed: ‘Office, then?’

‘Yes, please.’

Wolf unlocked the door to his tatty flat and switched on the television to drown out the sound of the nightly shouting match between the clearly incompatible couple upstairs. The presenter of a property programme was showing some newly-weds around a three-bedroom detached home on the outskirts of an idyllic park in a far more pleasant part of the country. It was simultaneously comical and soul-destroying to listen to them deliberate over the minuscule asking price, which would not have even afforded them the hovel that he was currently occupying in the capital.

Wolf walked to the kitchen window and stared into the blackness of the crime scene opposite. He paused, almost expecting to see the Ragdoll still hanging there, waiting for him. The property show came to an end (the couple decided that they could get more for their money) and a weatherman energetically predicted that the heatwave would come to a spectacular end the following night, with thunderstorms and extremely heavy rain anticipated.

He switched off the television, pulled the blinds and climbed onto the mattress on the bedroom floor with the book that he had been reading for over four months. He made it through another page and a half before drifting off into a disrupted sleep.

Wolf was woken by his mobile phone buzzing on top of his folded clothes from the day before. He was instantly struck by the pain in his left arm and glanced down to find that the wound had wept through his bandages during the night. The room looked strange in the weak morning light, grey rather than the familiar orange that he had grown accustomed to over the previous two weeks. He rolled over and reached for the vibrating phone.

‘Boss?’

‘What have you done now?’ Simmons snapped angrily.

‘I don’t know. What have I done now?’

‘Your wife—’

‘Ex-wife.’

‘… has plastered Vijay Rana’s face all over the morning news and announced to the world that we are ill-equipped to find him. Are you trying to get me fired?’

‘Not on purpose, no.’

‘Handle it.’

‘Will do.’

Wolf stumbled unsteadily out into the main room. He took two painkillers for his arm and then switched the television back on. Andrea materialised on screen, looking as flawless as ever, but still wearing the same clothes that he recognised from the evening before. With her usual flair for the dramatic, she was reading an undoubtedly fictitious quote from a ‘police spokesperson’, who implored friends and family of Rana to come forward for his own well-being.

In the top right-hand corner of the screen, a timer counted down the hours and minutes to Wednesday morning. Disconcertingly, with no idea where to even begin the search for Rana, they had only another 19 hours and 23 minutes to wait before the killer could claim his next victim.

Отправить