Wednesday 2 July 2014

7.05 p.m.

Wolf was still wearing his shoes when he finally crawled onto his uninviting mattress at 8.57 a.m. He and Finlay had worked through the night at the two crime scenes, a quarter of a mile apart – preserving evidence, containing media coverage, conducting witness interviews, and compiling statements. When Finlay eventually dropped him off outside his building, just as the rest of the city was heading out to work, they were both too drained to speak. Wolf had simply patted his friend on the shoulder and climbed out of the car.

He watched Andrea’s first broadcast of the day, sitting on his hard floor with a mouthful of toast, but had switched it off when the photograph of him beside Elizabeth’s crumpled body appeared. He dragged himself into the bedroom and fell asleep within moments of closing his eyes.

He had hoped to get his arm looked at by an actual doctor but slept straight through until 6 p.m., when he received a phone call from Simmons. After a few words about Mayor Turnble’s service, Simmons had briefed him on the day’s progress and the media fallout from the night before. Following a hesitant pause, he went on to tell Wolf about Baxter’s discovery. Forensics had confirmed that hair lifted from the comb in Chambers’ desk had been an exact match to the right leg of the Ragdoll. Lastly, he reminded Wolf that he could still walk away from the case whenever he wanted.

Wolf had cooked himself a microwaveable meatball pasta, but after his conversation with Simmons, he was unable to get the image of the killer’s stained apron out of his head. He had wondered, while watching the fuzzy CCTV footage, whose blood had already dried into the dirty apron, who had died even before the killer had claimed his fêted trophy in the form of Naguib Khalid. Now it all made sense. The killer had been forced to murder Chambers before he could leave the country.

He sat down in front of the television only to discover that the nightmarish photograph had been shared around the news channels, all of whom seemed to be filling airtime by debating whether Wolf was a suitable choice to hold such a prominent role in the case. He managed just two mouthfuls of his fleshy-looking meal before giving up on it. He was about to get up to scrape it into the bin when the intercom buzzed. Frustratingly, he was still unable to open any of the windows; otherwise, he might have been able to rid himself of both an intrusive reporter and his revolting dinner in one fell swoop. Reluctantly, he pushed a button on the receiver.

‘William Fawkes: media scapegoat, male model and dead man walking,’ he answered cheerfully.

‘Emily Baxter: emotional wreck and moderately drunk. Can I come up?’

Wolf smiled, pushed another button, quickly tossed the worst of the mess through the bedroom door and closed it. He opened the front door to Baxter, who was dressed in tight jeans, black ankle boots and a lacy white top. She was wearing smoky blue make-up around her eyes and a sweet floral perfume that drifted over the threshold. She handed him a bottle of red wine as she stepped into the depressingly tatty room.

Wolf could never get used to the sight of Baxter in such casual clothing, despite knowing her for so many years. She looked younger, dainty and delicate; someone more suited to dances and dinner parties than dead bodies and serial killers.

‘Chair?’ he said.

Baxter looked around the unfurnished room.

‘Do you have one?’

‘That’s what I was asking you,’ said Wolf dryly.

He dragged the box labelled ‘Trousers & Shirts’ into the centre of the room for her and found some wine glasses in the one that he was about to sit on. He poured them each a conservative glass.

‘Well, the place is certainly looking …’ Baxter trailed off with an expression that suggested she did not want to touch anything. She then looked at Wolf, with his crumpled shirt and messy hair, in much the same way.

‘I only just got up,’ he lied. ‘I stink, and I need a shower.’

They both sipped their wine.

‘You heard?’ she asked.

‘I heard.’

‘I know you weren’t his biggest fan, but he meant a lot to me, you know?’

Wolf nodded with his eyes glued to the floor. They never talked like this.

‘So, I cried into my trainee’s arms today,’ said Baxter, utterly mortified with herself. ‘I’ll never live it down.’

‘Simmons said you were the one who figured it out.’

‘Still … my trainee! It would’ve been OK if it was you.’

There was a heavy pause, stretched further by the knowledge that they were both picturing him with his arms wrapped around her.

‘I wish you’d been there,’ mumbled Baxter, accentuating the unpropitious image, her huge smoky eyes flicking up to gauge Wolf’s reaction.

He shifted uncomfortably on his box, smashing something inside, as Baxter generously topped up their glasses and leaned in closer.

‘I really don’t want you to die.’

She slurred slightly, and Wolf wondered how much she had already had to drink before arriving at his. She reached across and took his hand.

‘Can you believe she thought there was something going on between us?’

Wolf took a moment to catch up with the non sequitur: ‘Andrea?’

‘I know! Crazy, right? I mean, if you think about it, we basically suffered all the negatives of having an affair but got to enjoy none of the … positives.’

Her wide eyes were watching him again. Wolf let go of her hand and got to his feet. Baxter sat back and sipped her wine.

‘Let’s go out and find something to eat,’ he suggested enthusiastically.

‘I’m not really—’

‘Sure you are! There’s a noodle place just down the road. Let me jump in the shower. Five minutes and we’ll go.’

Wolf almost ran into the bathroom. He had to wedge a towel beneath the ill-fitting door to keep it closed and got undressed as quickly as possible.

Baxter felt light-headed as she got to her feet. She wobbled over to the kitchenette, downed the rest of her glass, then filled it up with tap water. She refilled it and drank three more while staring into the empty apartment opposite, where the mastermind behind all of this misery and death had proudly displayed his monster.

She thought of Chambers making that phone call to Eve, presumably under duress, in a desperate attempt to protect her.

The muffled sound of running water permeated the paper-thin bathroom wall.

She pictured Elizabeth Tate lying broken in the rain, that black-and-white photograph of Wolf holding her hand.

Wolf was humming tunelessly in the echoic shower.

She thought about Wolf and how she knew she could not save him.

Baxter placed her glass in the sink, checked her reflection in the microwave, and walked over to the bathroom door. For the second time that day, her heart was racing in her chest. A crack of light between the door and the frame told her that either Wolf could not, or purposely had not, locked it. She put her hand on the rusty handle, took a deep breath …

There was a knock at the front door.

Baxter froze, still clutching the wobbly piece of metal. Wolf was still humming in the shower, unaware. There was another, more urgent, knock. She swore under her breath, stormed over to the front door and swung it open.

‘Emily!’

‘Andrea!’

The two women stood in uncomfortable silence, neither sure what to say next. Wolf emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He was halfway to the bedroom before he noticed them both watching him accusingly. He stopped, stared at the unenviable situation developing in the doorway, shook his head and shut himself in the bedroom.

‘This all looks very cosy,’ said Andrea with equal measures of relish at being right all along, and indignation.

‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ said Baxter, stepping aside and folding her arms defensively. ‘Box?’

‘I’ll stand.’

Baxter watched Andrea as she inspected Wolf’s shabby flat. She looked as boringly perfect as usual and her designer heels made an irritating clicking sound as she tottered about.

‘This place is …’ Andrea started.

‘Isn’t it, though?’ said Baxter, keen to make clear to the wealthy woman that her middle-class apartment bore no resemblance to this hovel.

‘Why does he live here?’ whispered Andrea.

‘Well, I’m guessing because you royally screwed him in the divorce,’ said Baxter angrily.

‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ whispered Andrea, ‘but we are going to split the house fifty-fifty.’

They both glanced around the small room in awkward silence.

‘And for your information,’ Andrea continued, ‘Geoffrey and I helped Will financially when he first came out of hospital.’

Baxter picked up the half-empty bottle of red wine.

‘Wine?’ she offered pleasantly.

‘Depends, what kind is it?’

‘Red.’

‘I can see that. I meant: where is it from?’

‘Morrisons.’

‘No, I mean … I’ll pass.’

Baxter shrugged and returned to her box.

Wolf had been dressed for well over five minutes but was still standing in his dreary bedroom waiting for the shouting in the next room to subside. Baxter had accused Andrea of profiting from the misery of others, which Andrea had taken offence to, even though, without question, she had. Andrea had then accused Baxter of being drunk, which she had taken offence to, even though, without question, she was.

When the argument turned to Wolf’s relationship with Baxter, he finally came out of hiding.

‘So how long has this been going on?’ Andrea snapped at them both.

‘Me and Baxter?’ Wolf asked innocently. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Ridiculous?’ shouted Baxter, affronted, not helping the situation. ‘Just what is so ridiculous about maybe, perhaps, sort of liking me?’

Wolf winced, fully aware that whatever he said next would be wrong.

‘Nothing, I didn’t mean it like that. You know I think you’re beautiful and smart and amazing.’

Baxter smiled smugly at Andrea.

‘Amazing?’ Andrea shouted. ‘And you’re still seriously trying to deny it?’ She turned on Baxter. ‘Do you live here with him then?’

‘I wouldn’t live in this shithole if my life depended on it,’ retorted drunk Baxter.

‘Hey!’ yelled Wolf. ‘Granted, it’s a doer-upper.’

‘Doer-upper? It’s a knock-downer!’ laughed Andrea, who had just trodden in something sticky. ‘All I’m asking is for you to be honest. What does it matter now?’

She walked over to speak to Wolf face to face.

‘Will …’

‘Andie …’

‘Were you having an affair?’ she asked calmly.

‘No!’ he bellowed in frustration. ‘You threw away our marriage over nothing!’

‘You two practically lived together for months on end. Do you really expect me to believe that you weren’t having sex?’

‘Well we managed it just fine!’ he shouted in her face.

Wolf grabbed his coat and left the flat, slamming the door, leaving Andrea alone with Baxter. There was a long silence before either of them spoke.

‘Andrea,’ said Baxter softly, ‘you know that nothing in the world would give me more pleasure than to give you bad news, but nothing ever happened.’

The argument was over, years of suspicion and accusation obliterated with a single sincere sentence. Andrea sat down on a box, stunned that something she had believed so entirely had never actually happened.

‘Wolf and I are friends, nothing more,’ murmured Baxter, more for her own sake than Andrea’s.

She had made a complete fool of herself in her confusion over their undeniably complicated relationship, her own need for comfort and reassurance in light of Chambers’ death, and in her panic at the prospect of losing her best friend.

She shrugged. She would just have to blame it on the booze.

‘Who was the woman in the photograph with Will?’ asked Andrea.

Baxter rolled her eyes at her.

‘I don’t want her name,’ she said defensively. ‘Just … did he know her well?’

‘Well enough. She didn’t deserve …’ Baxter had to tread carefully, so as not to disclose any of the details surrounding Vijay Rana’s murder. ‘She didn’t deserve any of it.’

‘How’s he holding up?’

‘Truthfully? It reminds me of before.’

Andrea nodded in understanding, remembering all too well the closing act of their marriage.

‘It’s all too personal, too much pressure. It’s consuming him again,’ said Baxter, struggling to articulate the change in Wolf that only she had noticed.

‘You have to wonder if that’s the intention,’ said Andrea. ‘Pushing his buttons, ensuring Will is so fixated on catching them that he can’t even contemplate saving himself.’

‘Aren’t catching the killer and saving himself the same thing?’

‘Not necessarily. He could run – but he won’t.’

Baxter smiled weakly: ‘No, he won’t.’

‘You know, we’ve had almost this exact conversation before,’ said Andrea.

Baxter looked wary.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve never told a soul, and I never will. My point is that we’ve already made the decision what to do.’

‘One word to Simmons and he’d be taken off the case, but I can’t do it to him,’ said Baxter. ‘I’d rather he was out there self-destructing than just sitting in here waiting to die.’

‘Decision made then. Keep quiet. Just help him as much as you can.’

‘If we could just save one of them, prove the killer isn’t infallible, it wouldn’t all seem so hopeless.’

‘What can I do to help?’ asked Andrea, genuinely.

Baxter was suddenly struck with an idea; however, it was a huge risk discussing something of such importance with a woman who had already been arrested for distributing sensitive material across worldwide media. She had absolutely no intention of even contemplating Garland’s idiotic suggestion of faking his own death, but if she had an opportunity to use the press as an ally rather than a hindrance, for once, there might be another way to stack the odds in their favour.

Andrea appeared sincere and was clearly deeply concerned about Wolf. She was also Baxter’s best hope of successfully accomplishing her plan.

‘I need you to help me save Jarred Garland.’

‘You want me involved?’ Andrea asked.

‘And your cameraman.’

‘I see.’

Andrea read between the lines of Baxter’s outlandish request. She could picture Elijah’s triumphant face at exposing the Metropolitan Police’s troubling level of desperation. He would probably suggest that she play along for a while before breaking the story the evening before the murder.

It would be career suicide for a news reporter to deliberately mislead the public, no matter how honourable the intentions; how could they ever trust her again?

She remembered the smiling faces of her delighted colleagues in the conference room, grateful to Elizabeth Tate for dying so violently, as if she had stepped out in front of that bus for their benefit. She clenched her fists as she imagined them rejoicing over Wolf’s lifeless body, expecting her to ‘add some drama’ to what would already be the worst day of her life.

She could not be there for that. They all repulsed her.

‘I’ll do it.’

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