Wednesday 9 July 2014

10.20 a.m.

Edmunds felt drunk on exhaustion. He had eventually left the archives at 6 a.m. and had been sitting at his shared desk in the office less than an hour later. His hopes for a doze before the department filled up with those fortunate enough to be working the more sociable shifts had been scuppered when Simmons heaved himself into the chair beside him at 7.05 a.m. Showing a work ethic and obsessive streak only surpassed by Edmunds’ own, he had given himself a head start on the day to complete his enquiries regarding the remaining seven names on the list.

Edmunds sent Tia a text to say that he missed her and was going to do his best to get back on time that evening. He had even suggested that they go out for something to eat. He had hesitated before pressing send. The idea of committing himself to additional hours of exhaustion was unappealing, but he thought he should make the effort and was feeling guilty about his innocent, but no less reprehensible, stakeout lie.

After revealing his expertise in criminal communiqués during the initial team meeting, he had unofficially become the department’s criminal behaviourist, a role for which he was neither qualified nor being financially rewarded. The commander had requested he prepare a report on the latest note that the killer had so daringly placed on Wolf’s person.

It had not taken Joe long to ascertain that the bloody fingerprint from the note was a match to the sample taken from the barbed wire fencing. Edmunds could, therefore, confidently conclude that the message was no more than another taunt. The killer was demonstrating the insignificance of his misstep in Wales and had literally handed them a sample of his own DNA to prove just how incapable they were of stopping him. The fact that he had chosen to deliver the message in person indicated the heightened degree of his growing god complex and suggested to Edmunds that he intended it all to end spectacularly in just five days’ time.

He woke with a start. His half-typed report waited on the screen in front of him, the cursor flashing impatiently at the end of his last word. The screensaver had not even activated. He must have only closed his eyes for a moment but somehow felt even worse for it. Offering to make Simmons a drink, he went into the kitchen. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he splashed cold water on his face over the mug-filled sink.

‘You didn’t get hit again?’

Edmunds finished drying his face to catch Baxter stealing his hot water. The heavy bags beneath his eyes emphasised the bruises left by his broken nose.

‘Is Tia knocking you around?’ she asked in mock concern.

‘I told you, I tripped over the cat.’

‘OK. Did you “trip over the cat” again?’

‘No. I’ve just not slept.’

‘Because?’

He had managed to keep his visits to the archives secret until this point. He considered finally confiding in Baxter but then decided against it.

‘Sofa,’ he said, knowing that she would readily accept his relationship troubles as sufficient explanation. ‘What are you working on today?’

‘Some bloke jumped off Waterloo Bridge and drowned. Left a note and everything. Quite possibly the most straightforward suicide in history, except that some CSI-watching constable has, for no good reason, declared that it looks suspicious. After that, we’ve got to head over to Bloomsbury for a puddle of blood. The guy’s probably taken himself down to A & E: mystery solved.’

She sighed heavily, however Edmunds thought it sounded far more interesting than his day was shaping up to be.

‘Have you seen Wolf?’ she asked.

‘He’s not been in.’

Blake appeared in the kitchen doorway. He had started wearing a suit and combing his hair since being partnered with Baxter.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Gotta go,’ said Baxter, pouring away her coffee and adding the mug to the already precariously stacked pile in the sink.

Andrea had just got off the phone with Wolf when she stepped out of the taxi. It had been a decidedly unsuccessful conversation, courtesy of the car noise at her end and the background chatter of whichever busy high street he had been walking down at the time.

She had wanted to check in with him. The production team at the newsroom were already making preparations for the rapidly approaching concluding day of the Ragdoll saga. Unfortunately Wolf had been in no mood to speak to her.

He criticised her and her team for broadcasting Andrew Ford’s precise location in the embassy and, perhaps unfairly, accused her of facilitating the killer’s manipulation of an already paranoid and unhinged mind by televising the protest. She listened to his lecture without argument, even though it had been completely irrational, as every news channel in the world had done the same.

When she had suggested that she buy him dinner, he told her to leave him alone and abruptly hung up. Although she would never vocalise it, she was angry with him for being so petty and judgemental during what might well have been one of their last-ever interactions. It was obvious from the way he had been talking that the idea of not surviving to see next Tuesday had scarcely crossed his mind, making her wonder whether he had finally stepped across the blurred line between optimism and denial.

Elijah was pressuring her for an answer regarding the promotion and it had occupied the majority of her thoughts ever since their meeting. She felt frustrated with herself for the disparity of her indecision. At any given moment she could either be determined to hand in her notice and walk away with what little remained of her moral integrity, or resolute on accepting the position that would be filled with or without her.

She and Geoffrey had discussed it the night before, sitting in the late-evening sun on the patio of their small but beautifully landscaped, garden. As with all things in their relationship, he had made no attempt to influence her decision. It was what made them work so well together. He respected Andrea’s independence, that she had grown so accustomed to during her marriage to Wolf. She and Geoffrey chose to spend time together, but they never needed to.

Geoffrey had been watching the Ragdoll story unfold with the rest of the world and had never so much as raised an eyebrow at Andrea’s sensationalist reporting style, her groundless conjecture, or even the Death Clock, which even she considered a grotesquely shameful gimmick. He had only ever asked that she be careful. His shelves full of war books had taught him that, throughout history, messengers were chosen for their ability to communicate, the speed with which they could reach the intended ear and, more troublingly, their expendability.

Geoffrey listened patiently as the temperature dropped and the strategically positioned garden lights were activated one by one in the falling darkness. He had made the argument that, if she were to take the promotion, her decision would be purely driven by ambition. They did not need the money and she had already established herself as a credible and talented reporter. As perceptive as ever, he had suggested that she speak to Wolf, realising that his opinion was the only one that truly mattered to her on the subject.

Their brusque conversation that morning had made Wolf’s position quite clear.

Finlay was keeping one eye on the commander’s office as he walked across the room to Simmons and Edmunds’ desk. He could see that the tiny but terrifying woman was agitated as she gesticulated wildly while speaking to somebody on the phone. He perched on the corner of the desk, sitting firmly on top of Edmunds’ work.

‘She’s not a happy bunny,’ Finlay told them.

‘Why’s that?’ asked Simmons.

It was strange for him, begging for scraps of information from the office gossip when he was so accustomed to being the first to know.

‘Will,’ said Finlay. ‘What else? Apparently he took Ashley Lochlan away from her protected flat.’

‘What for?’

‘Breakfast. And then stormed off and left her in a café. Her protection team put in a formal complaint. She wants him suspended.’

‘On her head be it,’ said Simmons. ‘What’s he playing at?’

Finlay shrugged.

‘It’s Will, so who knows? He’s staying well clear of the office today. I’m off out to meet him now.’

Simmons was rather enjoying the school-like clandestinity taking place right under the boss’ nose.

‘If she asks, I’m making arrangements for Ashley Lochlan’s safe house, which is actually true,’ said Finlay.

‘We’re heading out too,’ said Simmons.

‘We are?’ asked Edmunds. ‘Where?’

‘I’ve still got four people on this list unaccounted for,’ said Simmons. ‘One of them is dead. We’re going to find out which one.’

Simmons and Edmunds had treated themselves to Greggs’ sausage rolls, as evidenced by the trail of pastry running along the pavement behind them as they neared the third address on the list. They had already visited the home of the court stenographer and discovered that she had died of cancer back in 2012. They had then learned that His Honour Judge Timothy Harrogate and his wife had emigrated to New Zealand. Fortunately, a neighbour had had contact details for their son, who woke them up in the middle of the night to confirm that they were both alive and well.

The sun emerged from behind a cloud as they strolled past Brunswick Square Gardens and approached the identical brick town houses on Lansdowne Terrace. They located the correct black door and found it ajar. Edmunds knocked loudly, and they stepped into an intricately tiled communal hallway. An engraved plaque directed them upstairs to ‘The Penthouse’, which struck them both as being rather pretentious in a four-storey building.

They climbed the echoic staircase and reached the corridor that serviced the top-floor apartment. Faded photographs adorned the wall, most depicting an aged gentleman in the company of far younger, and considerably more attractive, women in exotic places. The blonde that the man had his arm around on a yacht appeared not to have made it to shore, where the next picture showed a bikini-clad redhead relaxing beside him on the beach.

There was a loud smash from inside the apartment and, as they drew closer, they could see that this door had also been left unlocked. Sharing a concerned look, they quietly pushed it open. The gloomy hallway boasted the same original tiles as the entrance hall below. They crept past closed doors towards the light at the end of the corridor and the sound of footsteps against a hard floor.

‘You tit! I told you not to touch it.’

Edmunds paused. He and Simmons recognised the snide, condescending tone instantly.

‘Baxter?’ Edmunds called out.

Straightening up, he walked out into the main room, where Blake was on his hands and knees collecting up pieces of the, presumably expensive, vase he had just dropped.

They both looked bewildered as Edmunds and Simmons joined them.

‘What the hell are you two doing here?’ she asked.

‘Ronald Everett, missing juror from the Khalid trial,’ said Edmunds.

‘Oh.’

‘You?’

‘I told you earlier: puddle of blood, no body.’

‘Where?’ asked Simmons.

‘Everywhere.’

She gestured to the floor behind the large sofa. There, a halo of dark, dried blood covered the white tiles that surrounded the saturated rug.

‘Jesus,’ said Edmunds.

‘I think we can safely assume that your Mr Everett is no more,’ said Baxter callously.

On seeing the bloodbath at his feet, Edmunds was reminded of one of the archived case files he had been reviewing overnight: puddle of blood, no body ever discovered. There was no way that it was simply a coincidence.

‘What’s wrong?’ Baxter asked him.

He could not tell anyone about his private investigation until he was certain that he had found something concrete.

‘Nothing.’

He glanced at his watch. He had promised to take Tia out for dinner but could still get to the archives, spend an hour there, and get back again in time if he left straight away.

‘This mess doesn’t really fit with our killer’s meticulous, exacting standards,’ said Simmons. ‘Not a drop was found at any of the other victims’ homes.’

‘Perhaps he’s not quite as infallible as we’ve built him up to be,’ suggested Edmunds, crouching down to look at the flecks of blood running up the side of the sofa. ‘Maybe this was just the only victim he murdered and carved up in their own home and there are other puddles of evidence still scattered elsewhere around the city.’

At that moment the forensics team arrived and Edmunds seized his chance to escape. He made his excuses to Simmons, telling him that he needed to finish up some paperwork back at the office, and then ran downstairs and jogged back towards the Tube station.

Wolf’s phone beeped. He glanced at the short text message:

I DESERVED THAT EARLIER. DINNER? L X

‘What are you grinning about?’ Finlay asked him as they walked back to New Scotland Yard.

Wolf ignored him and dialled the number on the text.

‘Hello, Detective Fawkes.’

‘Hello, Ms Lochlan.’

Finlay looked at him in surprise.

‘How did you get this number?’

‘Remember Jodie, who you met earlier?’

‘Who put in a complaint about me?’

‘That’s the one. She phoned a friend, who phoned a friend who knows you.’

‘I’m surprised you want to have dinner,’ said Wolf.

Finlay shot him another strange look.

‘Well, lord knows neither of us ate much at breakfast,’ she laughed.

‘I mean, I think I owe you an apology.’

‘I won’t hold it against you; you haven’t got long left. Seven?’

‘At yours, I presume?’

‘I’m afraid so. It would appear that you got me grounded.’

‘I’ll have a “good scrub” beforehand.’

Finlay did not even bother to react this time.

‘You do that. Later, Fawkes.’

She hung up before he could respond. Wolf stopped walking.

‘I take it I’m to cover for you, as per?’ said Finlay.

‘I have somewhere to be.’

‘Wear that nice aftershave we got you for your birthday, but don’t wear that awful blue shirt you always put on.’

‘I love that shirt.’

‘It makes you look pregnant. Maggie’s words, not mine.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Have fun,’ said Finlay with a sly grin.

‘I can always tell when you’re lying, old man,’ said Baxter.

She had bumped into Finlay in the kitchen and casually asked about Wolf. After he had fumbled through his first answer, she had subjected him to five solid minutes of questioning. He was beginning to break and she knew it.

‘He wasn’t feeling well.’

‘Because of the headache?’

‘Aye.’

‘But you said stomach ache before.’

‘That’s what I meant, stomach ache.’

‘Wait, no. You did say headache.’

She was quite enjoying torturing her friend.

‘OK. You win. He went back to Ashley Lochlan’s.’

‘Simmons said they’d argued.’

‘They made up.’

‘So, why aren’t you going?’

Finlay clearly did not want to answer the question, but he knew that Baxter was not going to let it go.

‘I wasn’t invited.’

‘Invited?’

‘To dinner.’

‘Dinner?’

Baxter’s jovial mood suddenly soured and she went very quiet. Finlay was not sure what to say next, so busied himself by making a coffee. When he turned back round to offer Baxter one, she was gone.

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