Thursday 10 July 2014

7.07 a.m.

The sun was blazing in through the open doorway, casting hazy shadows across the bed. Wolf opened his eyes. He was alone in Baxter’s room, lying fully clothed on top of the covers. The rhythmic thud from the other room of footfalls springing off the treadmill had woken him.

With great effort he got up and collected his shoes from where he had kicked them off at the bottom of the bed. He walked into the sunny living room and waved listlessly at Baxter, who was dressed in her workout clothing and was still sporting the lopsided ponytail that he had given her the night before. Had he not known better, he would have said that she looked rested and revitalised. She had always been able to recover quickly. It was part of the reason she had been able to hide her debilitating problem from so many for so long.

She did not acknowledge him as he went into the open-plan kitchen and set about making a coffee.

‘Do you still keep a …’ he started.

Baxter’s skin was glistening with sweat as she maintained the demanding pace. She looked annoyed at having to remove her earphones to hear him.

‘Do you still keep a spare toothbrush around?’ asked Wolf.

They had always had an unspoken agreement by which Baxter would keep a stock of emergency toiletries in case Wolf ended up staying over at short notice. At one stage it had become a regular occurrence. As innocent as it had been, it was no wonder that Andrea had become so suspicious of their relationship.

‘Bottom drawer, bathroom,’ she said curtly before replacing her earphones.

Wolf sensed that she was looking for a fight but he was determined not to rise to the bait. This was typical of Baxter. She was embarrassed by her behaviour and would express it by being thoroughly unpleasant.

The kettle boiled and Wolf held up a mug to silently ask her whether she would like a drink. She huffed loudly and ripped the earphones back out.

‘What?!’

‘I was just asking if you wanted a coffee.’

‘Oh, I don’t drink coffee. You know that better than anyone. I only drink wine and ridiculous-looking cocktails.’

‘Is that a no then?’

‘That’s what you think of me, isn’t it? Poor drunken mess who can’t even look after herself. Admit it.’

Wolf’s resolve was weakening.

‘I don’t think that,’ he said. ‘Just going back to the coffee …’

‘I didn’t need you coming round like this, you know? But now you can go off on your merry way feeling all noble and superior. Do me a favour: don’t bother next time.’

She was getting out of breath the longer she ranted.

‘I wish I hadn’t bothered this time!’ he shouted. ‘I should have left you crawling around on that toilet floor instead of ruining my dinner.’

‘Oh yeah, your dinner with Ashley Lochlan. How sweet. I’ve got a really good feeling about that relationship. I reckon it’s going places, just so long as neither of you are brutally murdered in the next four days!’

‘I’m going to work,’ said Wolf, heading for the door. ‘You’re welcome, by the way.’

‘I don’t know why you’re doing it to yourself,’ Baxter yelled after him. ‘It’s a bit like naming a cow at an abattoir!’

The front door slammed, knocking a canvas print of the New York skyline off the living room wall. Buzzing with adrenaline, Baxter increased the speed of the treadmill, put her earphones back in and turned up the volume.

Wolf was in a foul mood by the time he reached the office and stormed over to Finlay’s desk, where his friend was eager to hear all about his date with Ashley.

‘What the hell did you go and do that for?’ Wolf snapped.

‘Come again?’

‘Telling Baxter about my dinner with Lochlan.’

‘Tried not to, but she knew I was hiding something.’

‘Then you should have made something up!’

‘Should I now?’

Wolf watched as Finlay, ever the source of joviality and positivity in the department, transformed back into the brawling Glaswegian bobby he had once been. Wolf took his hands out of his pockets in case he needed to react quickly – Finlay’s left hook was legendary.

‘It’s what a friend would do,’ said Wolf.

‘I’m Emily’s friend as well.’

‘All the more reason. Now you’ve hurt her feelings.’

‘Oh, I’ve hurt her feelings? I have?’ Finlay was talking very quietly, which was never a good sign. ‘I’ve watched you lead that poor lass on for years. Whatever’s going on between you two already cost you your marriage and yet you’re still at it now, which either means you actually do want her but are too gutless to take the plunge or you don’t and are too gutless to cut her loose. Either way, you’ve got four days left to man up.’

Wolf was speechless. Finlay had always fought his side over everything.

‘I’ve got a lead to follow up on. I’m heading out,’ said Finlay, getting up.

‘I’ll come with.’

‘No, you won’t.’

‘We’ve got a progress meeting at ten,’ said Wolf.

‘Cover for me,’ smiled Finlay bitterly.

He slapped Wolf sharply on the back and walked away.

At 9.05 a.m. Wolf ignored another call from Dr Preston-Hall and expected to hear the commander’s phone ring at any moment. Finlay had left in a temper and he had already heard Baxter yelling at someone from across the office.

Edmunds was oblivious to all of this. He had spent the last ten minutes preparing the documents that he wanted to discuss with Wolf and was excited to see his reaction. He gathered up the papers and ran through the opening lines that he had been practising in his head as he made his way over to Wolf’s desk.

‘Gabriel Poole Junior, 2009,’ announced Edmunds.

He thought he saw a fleeting look of recognition, but Wolf just sighed heavily and looked up at him impatiently.

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

Wolf’s lack of reaction had been disappointing, but Edmunds continued on enthusiastically.

‘I was hoping that it might,’ he said. ‘Heir to an electronics empire, vanished from a hotel suite, body never recovered. Any of this ringing any bells?’

‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, but isn’t there anyone else you could talk to about this? I’m not much company.’

Edmunds’ confidence had been shaken by Wolf’s disinterest. He realised that he had not explained himself very well.

‘Sorry, let me start again. I’ve been looking into archived cases—’

‘I thought I told you not to.’

‘You did, but I assure you, I did it all in my own time. Anyway, I found someth—’

‘No. Not “anyway”. If a superior officer instructs you not to do something, you don’t do it!’ Wolf yelled, attracting the entire office’s attention to Edmunds’ dressing down. Wolf got to his feet.

‘If you’ll just g-give me a chance to explain,’ Edmunds stammered. He could not understand how the innocent conversation had deteriorated so drastically, but he was not prepared to walk away either. He had important questions that needed answering. ‘I found something really promising.’

Wolf came round to the front of the desk. Edmunds took this as a sign that he was willing to listen and held the first document out to him. Wolf slapped the entire pile out of his hands and onto the floor. There were schoolyard jeers and laughter at the insult. Baxter was on her way over to them and Simmons, reverting back into chief mode, was on his feet.

‘I need to know why you booked out the Poole evidence,’ said Edmunds. His voice was raised, but the tremble betrayed his nerves.

‘I don’t think I like your tone,’ said Wolf, squaring up to the gangly young man.

‘I don’t think I like your answer!’ replied Edmunds, surprising everybody, including himself. ‘Why were you looking into it?’

Wolf grabbed Edmunds by the throat and slammed him back against the meeting room wall. Black cracks forked outwards through the tinted glass.

‘Hey!’ yelled Simmons.

‘Wolf!’ shouted Baxter, running over to them.

Wolf released Edmunds, who had a trickle of dark blood running down his neck. Baxter stepped between them.

‘What the hell, Wolf?’ she shouted in his face.

‘You tell your little lapdog to stay away from me!’ he bellowed.

She barely recognised the wild-eyed man in front of her.

‘He’s not mine any more. You’re losing it, Wolf,’ she told him.

‘I’m losing it?’ he screamed, red-faced and intense.

Baxter understood the unspoken threat. He was a hair’s breadth away from exposing the secret that she had concealed for years. She braced herself, actually feeling relieved that she could finally stop pretending.

But he hesitated:

‘Tell him he’d better have something concrete if he’s going to start throwing accusations around,’ said Wolf.

‘Accusations about what?’ asked Baxter.

‘I wasn’t accusing you of anything,’ snapped Edmunds. ‘I just wanted your help.’

Vanita, having missed the beginning of the disagreement, emerged from her office.

‘With what?’ Baxter barked at both of them.

‘He’s been wasting time on my old case files rather than doing his job!’

‘Oh, piss off,’ spat Edmunds uncharacteristically. Blood was running between his fingers where he held his head.

Wolf lunged forward, but Simmons blocked him. Baxter leaned in to whisper to Edmunds.

‘Is that true?’ she asked him.

‘I’ve found something.’

‘I told you to leave this alone,’ she snapped.

‘I found something,’ he repeated.

‘I can’t believe you’re taking his side,’ said Wolf.

‘I’m not! I think you’re both dicks!’ shouted Baxter.

‘Enough!’

The office went deathly silent. Vanita was livid as she marched up to the squabbling group.

‘Edmunds, get that head seen to. Baxter, go back to your own team. Fawkes, you’re suspended as of this moment.’

‘You can’t suspend me,’ he said dismissively.

‘Try me. Get out!’

‘Commander, I have to agree with Wolf,’ said Edmunds, leaping to his attacker’s defence. ‘You can’t suspend him. We need him.’

‘I will not have you tearing my department apart from the inside,’ she told Wolf. ‘Get out. You’re done.’

There was a tense moment in which everybody waited with bated breath for Wolf’s reaction. Anticlimactically, he simply laughed bitterly, pulled his arm out of Simmons’ grip and shoulder-barged Edmunds on his way out.

Only Simmons and Vanita were in attendance for the scheduled progress meeting at 10 a.m. The twelve names were listed on the flipchart, which stood proudly in the centre of the room like a completed jigsaw puzzle. Unfortunately, identifying the final victim, Ronald Everett, had not been the revelation that Simmons had hoped. They were still missing something.

‘Just us then,’ smiled Simmons.

‘Where is DS Shaw?’ she asked.

‘No idea. Finlay’s not picking up his phone. Edmunds has been taken down to A & E for stitches, and you just suspended Fawkes.’

‘Just come out and say it if you think I made a bad call, Terrence.’

‘Not bad,’ said Simmons, ‘just brave.’

‘He’s a liability. You can’t blame him, all things considered, but we’ve finally reached the stage where he’s doing more harm than good.’

‘I wholeheartedly agree, but I can’t coordinate this thing by myself,’ he said. ‘Let me have Baxter back.’

‘I can’t. Not after the Garland fiasco. I’ll assign you someone.’

‘We don’t have time for that. Ashley Lochlan dies in two days, Fawkes two days after that. Baxter knows the case. Keeping her away would be a bad call.’

Vanita shook her head and muttered something.

‘OK, but I’m documenting my objections to this. She’s your responsibility now.’

‘The Beautiful Blood-spattered Juror,’ said Samantha Boyd as she stared at the infamous photograph of her standing outside the Old Bailey. ‘Their name for me. It’s not like I’ve got that printed on my business cards or anything.’

Finlay could barely recognise the person sitting across the table from him as the same woman from the picture. There was no doubt that she was still attractive, but her long platinum-blonde hair was now dark brown and styled in a boyish fashion. She was wearing heavy make-up that distracted from her sky-blue eyes that pierced through even the black-and-white versions of the photograph, and her clearly expensive clothing was flattering but in no way attention-grabbing.

The third most famous person from the most famous court case in living memory had agreed to meet him in a fashionable Kensington coffee shop. He had thought it closed for refurbishment when he first arrived, but none of the shopping-bag-toting clientele or tattooed staff appeared the least bit concerned about the exposed piping, dangling bulbs or un-plastered walls.

Finlay’s expedition out of the office had not been prompted by his argument with Wolf. He had made the arrangement the evening before. As good as money-tracking, footprint-testing and blood-spatter analysis were, he firmly believed that the most effective way of gathering evidence was simply to ask the right people the right questions. He knew his colleagues thought him old-fashioned, a dinosaur. He would happily admit that he was stuck in his ways and had no intention of changing now, less than two years from retirement.

‘I’ve tried very hard to get away from this,’ Samantha told him.

‘Can’t have been all bad. Good for business, I’d expect.’

He took a sip of his coffee and almost choked on it. It tasted like something Wolf would have asked for.

‘Absolutely. We couldn’t keep up with the orders, especially for that white dress. We ended up turning people away.’

‘And yet?’ asked Finlay.

She considered her answer carefully before continuing.

‘I wasn’t posing for a photo that day. I was looking for help. I never wanted to be famous, especially not because of something so … horrible. But suddenly I was “The Beautiful Blood-spattered Juror” and that’s all I was to people after that.’

‘I can understand that.’

‘With respect, I don’t think you can. The truth is that I am ashamed of the part I played that day. By then we were so influenced by the indiscretions of Detective Fawkes and the accusations being made against the police that I think we let it overshadow our decision. Most of us did anyway. Ten out of twelve of us made an irreparable mistake, and I think about the repercussions of that every single day.’

There was no trace of self-pity in her voice, merely an acceptance of responsibility. Finlay took out a recent photograph of Ronald Everett and placed it down on the table between them.

‘You recognise this man?’

‘How could I not? I had to sit next to the horrible old pervert for forty-six days. I wouldn’t call myself a fan.’

‘Can you think of any reason someone would want to harm Mr Everett?’

‘You obviously haven’t met the man. My first guess: he probably pawed over the wrong man’s wife. Why? Has something happened to him?’

‘That’s confidential.’

‘I won’t tell.’

‘Neither will I,’ said Finlay, putting an end to the topic. He thought hard before asking his next question. ‘When you think back to Mr Everett, was there anything that makes him stand out from you and the rest of the jurors?’

‘Stand out?’ she asked. She looked blank and Finlay wondered whether it had been a wasted journey. ‘Oh, only … we never proved it.’

‘Never proved what?’

‘Me and a few other jurors were approached by journalists offering to buy information off us for silly sums of money. They wanted to know what we were discussing behind closed doors, who was going to vote which way.’

‘And you think Everett took them up on the offer?’

‘No. I’m positive he did. Some of the stuff they were printing had come directly out of our jury bundle and then poor Stanley, who had fought for a guilty verdict right from the very beginning, woke up one morning to find his face plastered across the papers, who claimed to have exposed his strong anti-Muslim views and family ties to Nazi scientists or something similarly absurd.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to avoid the news during these things?’

‘You remember that trial? It would have been easier to avoid air.’

Finlay suddenly had a thought. He dug around in his file for something and then placed another photograph on the table.

‘By any chance, was this one of the journalists who approached you?’

She stared down at the photograph intently.

‘Yes!’ she gasped. Finlay sat up attentively. ‘This is the man that died on the news, isn’t it? Jarred Garland. My God. I didn’t recognise him before. He had long greasy hair and a beard when I met him.’

‘You’re positive it’s the same man?’ asked Finlay. ‘Look again.’

‘Without question. I’d know that sly smile anywhere. You should be able to check it easily enough though if you don’t believe me. I had to call the police to come and escort him off my property when he followed me home one night and refused to leave.’

Edmunds could not stop poking at the lump on his head where the nurse had glued the skin back together. He had spent the hours in the waiting room replaying the conversation with Wolf in his head and had transcribed it almost word for word in his notebook. He could not understand how Wolf had misinterpreted his meaning so entirely.

He was tired. Perhaps he had unintentionally come across as disrespectful or accusing. Accusing him of what, though? Edmunds wondered whether Wolf had lied about recognising the case and knew full well that he had forgotten to include the updated forensics report. His overreaction might have been in self-defence.

The one positive thing to have come out of his trip to A & E was that Tia had been forced to reply to his texts. She had even offered to come out of work to sit with him, but he assured her that he was fine. They had agreed that she would stay with her mother for the rest of the week as he would barely be at home and he promised that he would start making up for everything after that.

Conscience-free, he trained it back across town to Watford and then caught a taxi out to the archives. Robotically, he went through the usual routine to gain access to the warehouse but paused outside the little office at the bottom of the stairs. He normally strode right past the door labelled ‘Administrator’, but on this occasion, he knocked politely against the glass and stepped inside.

The small middle-aged woman behind the obsolete computer looked exactly as he had predicted: deathly white skin, oversized glasses and unkempt. She greeted him enthusiastically, like a conversation-starved elderly relative, and he wondered whether he was her first visitor in quite some time. He agreed to sit but declined the offer of a drink, suspecting that it would cost him at least an hour of his precious time.

After she had told him all about her deceased husband, Jim, and the friendly ghost that she swore haunted the subterranean mausoleum, Edmunds gently guided the conversation back on track.

‘So everything has to go through this office?’ he asked.

‘Everything. We scan the barcodes in and out. If you take one step through that door without a validated code, every alarm in the place goes off!’

‘Which means that you can tell me who has been looking at what,’ said Edmunds.

‘Of course.’

‘Then I’m going to need to see any box that DS William Fawkes has ever booked out.’

‘All of them?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Are you sure? Will used to come here a lot.’

‘Every single one.’

Отправить