Wednesday 9 July 2014

2.59 a.m.

Edmunds’ watch beeped 3 a.m. He was sitting in the centre of a puddle of light spilling from a buzzing lamp that dangled down from the high ceiling of the Central Storage Warehouse. This was his fourth visit to the archives and he realised that he had started looking forward to these solitary nights.

He found the perpetual darkness peaceful and the temperature-controlled climate pleasant: warm enough to remove his jacket yet cool enough to keep him awake and alert. As he took in another dusty breath, watching the particles spinning in the air around him, he felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of history buried there.

It was like a game without an end. Inside each of the tens of thousands of identical cardboard boxes lay a puzzle waiting to be verified, or perhaps even solved for the very first time. It was easier to focus upon the challenge that they posed to him rather than the distressing realisation that each and every one of the uniform boxes represented a life lost, lives ruined, all lined up in a tidy row and enjoying the respectful silence like graves in a catacomb.

The day’s events had confirmed his suspicions beyond any doubt. Yet again, the killer had known where to find his supposedly hidden target.

Baxter was being naive.

It was true that somebody at the embassy could have leaked Andrew Ford’s location; only, this had not been an isolated incident. This was now the fourth occasion on which they had been betrayed and, worse still, nobody but him could see it.

He had lied to Tia again, telling her that he had drawn the short straw and been roped into a stakeout, thus buying himself another precious night with which to hunt the killer into the past. He was in there, somewhere in that enormous warehouse, Edmunds was sure of it, the first tentative steps of the monster that was now running towards them at full pelt.

On Monday night he had stumbled upon an unresolved case from 2008 in which a home-grown Islamic fundamentalist had died inside a secure cell. No one had signed in or out of the building during the estimated time of death and the CCTV footage had corroborated this. The body of the otherwise healthy twenty-three-year-old had displayed signs of suffocation; however, there had been no other evidence to support this, and the death had eventually been accredited to natural causes.

His Internet searches had also turned up the suspicious death of a marine on a military base. After Joe’s promising identification of the boot print, Edmunds had made a formal written request to the military police, asking them to disclose the entire case file, but was yet to hear anything back.

He had spent the last hour sorting through the evidence of a murder that had happened back in 2009. The heir to a multinational electronics corporation had mysteriously vanished from a hotel suite despite two bodyguards sitting less than twenty feet away in the next room. Enough blood had been present at the scene to declare the young man dead, yet no body was ever discovered. There had been no useful fingerprints, DNA, or security footage for the police to even begin looking for a killer, which meant that there was nothing of use to Edmunds to link the case to the Ragdoll murders. He made a note of the date and packed the contents back inside the box.

The cool air was keeping him going. He did not feel even remotely tired, but he had promised himself that he would leave by 3 a.m. at the very latest and get home for a couple of hours of sleep before work. He flicked back to his list of the five other cases that he had hoped to get through and sighed. He got to his feet, stacked the box back on the shelf and began the long walk down the shadowy aisle.

As he neared the end of the high shelving units, he realised that the dates on the labels had reached December 2009, the month of the next murder on his list. He glanced down at his watch: 3.07 a.m.

‘One more,’ he told himself as he located the appropriate box and dragged it off the shelf.

At 8.27 a.m. Wolf entered an uninviting block of flats on a run-down side road off Plumstead high street. He had given up on sleep again, mainly because he now had the unsettling image of the wolf mask to add to his list of reasons not to close his eyes for any length of time. The killer’s overconfidence had shaken him. It had been a risk to visit the embassy at all, reckless to join the protest that he had organised, and narcissistically self-destructive to have confronted Wolf as he had.

Wolf recalled Edmunds promising them that the killer would not be able to resist coming in closer and closer as time went on, drawn by a burning desire to eventually get caught. He wondered whether the incident outside the embassy had been the killer’s plea for help, whether desperation, rather than arrogance, had driven his actions.

He climbed the muddy stairs, trying to remember whether it had rained since the storms a week earlier. On the third floor, he pulled a peeling fire door open to access the yellowed corridor. There was no sign of the two police officers that should have been stationed outside Ashley Lochlan’s door.

He approached Flat 16, which looked to have the only freshly painted front door in the building, and was about to knock when the two officers bumbled out into the corridor holding toasted sandwiches and cups of coffee. They were both startled to find the imposing detective standing there.

‘Morning,’ said the female officer through a mouthful of bacon and toast.

Wolf’s stomach grumbled.

She offered him the other half of her breakfast, which he politely declined.

‘Know when you’ll be moving her?’ asked her youthful-looking colleague.

‘Not yet,’ said Wolf a little curtly.

‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,’ said the man quickly. ‘Quite the opposite actually – she’s an absolute delight. We’re going to miss her.’

The female officer nodded in agreement. Wolf was surprised. The trusty set of stereotypes that had always served him so well had had him expecting a pyjamas-only, smoke-hazed, cat rescue on the other side of the door, yet the two officers were clearly in no hurry to leave.

‘She’s just jumped in the shower. I’ll show you in.’

The female officer unlocked the front door and led him into the immaculate flat that smelled of fresh coffee and bacon. A warm breeze was blowing the net curtains across the colourful flowers on the living room table. The airy space had been tastefully decorated in pastel paints and real wood floors with matching work surfaces. Photographs covered an entire wall and baking apparatus had been left to dry beside the kitchen sink. He could hear water running in the next room.

‘Ashley!’ shouted the officer.

The water stopped.

‘Detective Sergeant Fawkes is here to see you.’

‘Is he as handsome as he looks on the television?’ a soft Edinburgh accent called back.

The officer looked awkward and then, to her horror, Ashley continued: ‘I agree he looks like he needs a good scrub before you could take him anywhere, but—’

‘He actually looks like he might fall asleep at any moment,’ the officer shouted over her.

‘Let him know there’s coffee in the kitchen when you show him in.’

‘Ashley …’

‘Yeah?’

‘He’s already in.’

‘Oh! Did he hear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Arse.’

The police officer could not leave the uncomfortable situation quickly enough and rushed outside to join her colleague. Wolf could hear things scraping, spraying, and shutting behind the thin partition wall and sniffed himself self-consciously as he stood in front of the wall of photos. They were simple, genuine: a recurring beautiful woman at the beach with friends, sitting in a park with an elderly man, at Legoland with what looked to be her young son. His heart sank as he stared at the two delighted faces on what had obviously been a perfect day.

‘That’s Jordan. He’s six now,’ said a voice behind him in the attractive accent that sounded a million miles away from Finlay’s rasping tones.

Wolf turned to find the same stunning woman from the photographs towel-drying her dark blonde hair in the bathroom doorway. She had clearly just thrown on a pair of tiny denim shorts and a light grey vest top. Wolf’s gaze lingered over her glistening long legs before returning to the photograph in embarrassment.

‘Don’t be creepy,’ he whispered to himself.

‘Sorry?’

‘I said: where is he?’

‘I’m pretty sure you said: “don’t be creepy”.’

‘Nope.’ Wolf shook his head innocently.

Ashley gave him a funny look.

‘I sent him off to my mum’s after … Well, after the deranged serial killer threatened to murder us all, to be quite frank.’

Wolf was making a valiant effort not to stare at her legs.

‘Ashley,’ she said, holding her hand out to him.

He was forced to walk over to her, to smell the strawberry shampoo that she had just washed out of her hair, to notice her bright hazel eyes and spot the dark patches on her top where her damp skin had soaked through the thin material.

‘Fawkes,’ he said, after almost crushing her delicate hand in his. He stepped back as quickly as he could.

‘Not William?’

‘Not William.’

‘Then you can call me Lochlan,’ she said with a smirk, before looking him up and down.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. It’s just … you look different in person.’

‘Well, the press only photograph me if I’m standing next to a dead body, so … sad face.’

‘You’re not trying to tell me that this is your take on a happy face?’ Ashley asked, laughing.

‘This?’ said Wolf. ‘No. This is my been up for a week, misunderstood hero, possibly the only person brave and smart enough to catch a genius serial killer, face.’

Ashley laughed: ‘Is that right?’

Wolf shrugged as she stared at him, intrigued.

‘Breakfast?’ she suggested.

‘What have you got?’

‘The best café in the world just down the road.’

‘One: the best café in the world is Sid’s, round the corner from mine. And two: you’re under home protection. You can’t leave.’

‘You’ll protect me,’ she said dismissively as she started pulling windows closed.

Wolf was torn. He knew that he should not indulge her, but he was enjoying their conversation and did not want to do anything to ruin it.

‘I’ll just put some shoes on,’ she said as she headed towards the bedroom.

‘You could consider some trousers too,’ he suggested.

Ashley stopped and looked at him in mock offence. She caught him glancing back down at her legs again before looking away.

‘Why? Am I making you nervous?’

‘Far from it,’ said Wolf indifferently. ‘You just look horrible. Bleh! I can’t take you out with me looking like that.’

Ashley laughed again at his unconvincing insult. She walked over to the clothes horse, untucked her vest top so that it dropped to the top of her thighs, and then slid out of the denim shorts. Wolf was too stunned to even try to look away. She then wriggled into a pair of skintight ripped stonewash jeans before effortlessly scooping her hair up into a messy ponytail that only made her look more attractive.

‘Better?’ she asked him.

‘Not in any way,’ he answered honestly.

She smirked. She never behaved like this, but, with possibly only three days to live, she was enjoying flirting with the man who only had five days left himself. Sliding her feet into a pair of well-worn Converse All Stars, she grabbed her keys off the kitchen table.

‘How do you feel about heights?’ she asked him quietly.

‘Don’t want to fall off them,’ he replied, confused.

Ashley grinned. She tiptoed past the front door, walked out onto the balcony and then turned back to Wolf:

‘Shall we?’

Wolf felt that Ashley had overhyped the dismal little café. The contents of his fry-up seemed to have a life of its own as the various items glided across the plate over a film of grease. Ashley had not even managed to finish her toast. He suspected that she had merely wanted an excuse to get out of the flat and had never actually been inside before, doubting that anybody would make the same mistake twice.

‘No offence, Lochlan, but this café is—’

‘I work here.’

‘… good. It’s good.’

They had attracted a number of looks on their short journey down the high street, although Wolf could not be sure whether this was people recognising them or simply staring at Ashley. They had chosen a spot beside the window, as far away from the other steel-gutted patrons as possible, and talked easily about nothing in particular for over twenty minutes.

‘I’ve been worried about you,’ blurted Ashley when Wolf had believed they were still on the subject of favourite Bon Jovi albums.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘How are you … dealing with everything?’

‘Let me get this straight. You’re due to die in three days’ time and you’re worrying about me?’ asked Wolf, seizing the opportunity to put his cutlery down.

‘You’re due to die in five days’ time,’ she shrugged.

This caught him off guard. He had been so caught up with the investigation that he had not realised how quickly his own big day was approaching.

‘I’ve been watching the news a lot,’ said Ashley. ‘There’s not much else to do when you’re locked up in four rooms. It’s like watching a cat playing with a mouse, and the more destroyed you look, the more whoever’s doing this seems to tease you.’

‘I didn’t know I had a destroyed look,’ joked Wolf.

‘You do,’ Ashley said simply. ‘What happened to those people, whatever happens to me, it’s not your fault.’

Wolf let out an involuntary snort. She was wasting her time trying to make him feel better.

‘You seem weirdly OK about the whole thing,’ he said.

‘I’m a strong advocate for fate.’

‘Not to burst your bubble, but from what I’ve seen, if there is a god we have a serious problem because he is not on our side.’

‘It’s good I’m not talking about God then. Just – things have a funny way of working out.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as life bringing you here to me this morning: two people who should never have met, so that I finally have the chance to atone for something I did years ago.’

Wolf was intrigued. Instinctively, he looked around to ensure that no one was listening in. He had been so captivated by Ashley that he had almost forgotten where they were. The flawless woman looked preposterously out of place in such dour surroundings. It was the polar opposite to watching Andrew Ford squatting in the lavish embassy.

‘Promise you’ll let me finish before you … just promise.’

Wolf folded his arms defensively and leaned back in his chair. They both knew that Edmunds had found the five thousand pounds from Vijay Rana’s account.

‘Four years ago I was working in a pub in Woolwich. It was a rough period for us. Jordan was only one and I was trying to separate from his father, who was not a nice man at all. I could only work part-time while my mum looked after Jordan.

‘Vijay was a regular there. He’d come in most lunchtimes and we were quite friendly. On more than one occasion he’d seen me in tears about money or the divorce. He was a kind man. He used to leave me ten-pound tips, which I’d try to give back to him, but he wanted to help. It meant a lot.’

‘Maybe he wanted something more than just to help,’ said Wolf bitterly. He had no love for Khalid’s brother.

‘He wasn’t like that. He had a family. So, one day he came to me with a proposition. He told me that a friend of his was in trouble with the police but that he knew they were innocent. He offered me five thousand pounds just to say that I had seen someone on my walk home at a specific time. That’s it.’

‘You gave the false statement?’ Wolf asked darkly.

‘I was desperate – and I’m ashamed to say that I agreed to do it. I didn’t think it could really make that much of a difference, and at the time me and Jordan had about fifteen pounds to our name.’

‘It made all the difference.’

Wolf had lost any trace of affection for Ashley and watched her with furious eyes.

‘That’s the thing. As soon as I realised it was the Cremation Killer case that I had lied about, I panicked.’ Ashley was becoming tearful. ‘I wouldn’t help someone accused of the things that man was walk free for all the money in the world. I went straight round to Vijay’s house, you’ve got to believe me, and I told him I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t mention his involvement or the money. I’d just say that I was mistaken.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He tried to talk me out of it, but I think he understood. On the way home, I called the law firm that had been present for my witness statement.’

‘Collins and Hunter.’

‘And I got put through to one of the senior lawyers.’

‘Michael Gable-Collins?’

‘Yes!’ said Ashley, surprised.

It had not yet been made public that he was dead.

‘I told him that I needed to retract my statement and he started threatening me. He began reeling off the charges that I was guilty of: contempt of court, impeding a police investigation, perhaps even an accomplice to the murders! He asked me if I wanted to go to prison, and when I told him about Jordan he said social services would be involved and that they might even take him away from me.’

Ashley was visibly shaken just from the memory of this terrifying conversation. Despite himself, Wolf handed her a napkin.

‘It was too high-profile a case for his firm to lose, no matter what the cost,’ said Wolf.

‘He told me to keep my “stupid mouth shut” and said he’d do all in his power to keep me out of the courtroom. That was the last I ever heard about it directly. Then I watched the events unfold and what you did to try to stop the man that I had helped free, and I – I am so, so sorry.’

Wolf silently got up from the table, took out his wallet and dropped a ten-pound note next to his half-full plate.

‘It’s not me you need to apologise to,’ he said.

Ashley burst into tears.

Wolf walked out of the café, leaving the endangered woman, whose safety he was responsible for, sitting in the corner alone.

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