Saturday 12 July 2014

8.36 a.m.

‘Was it you?’ Vanita hissed at Finlay as she stormed into the meeting room. She turned to Simmons. ‘You?’

Neither of them had any idea what she was talking about. Enraged further by their blank expressions, she snatched the remote control off the stand and flicked through the channels until she found Andrea sitting behind her news desk with the Death Clock superimposed above her head. Vanita turned up the volume as an out-of-focus image filled the screen.

‘… depicts Ashley Lochlan being escorted through Dubai International by Head of Security Fahad Al Murr,’ read Andrea.

A short camera phone video played in slow motion.

‘And here, we can clearly see Detective Sergeant Fawkes and Ashley Lochlan speeding through Glasgow Airport’s Terminal One.’

‘We knew all this,’ said Finlay.

‘Wait for it,’ snapped Vanita.

Andrea reappeared on screen.

‘A source close to the investigation has exclusively revealed to us that Ms Lochlan served as a witness on the Cremation Killer trial and has links to other victims of the Ragdoll murders. The source went on to confirm Detective Fawkes’ involvement in the operation to chaperone Ms Lochlan out of the country.’

‘Clever girl,’ smiled Finlay.

‘I beg your pardon?’ spat Vanita.

‘Emily. She’s leaked nothing of importance but enough to prove that this Ashley Lochlan is the killer’s target. There’s no point in him making another attempt on the little girl now or any other Ashley Lochlans out there. She just told the world that he’s going to fail.’

‘She just told the world that the Metropolitan Police are so incompetent that this woman is better off taking her chances on her own than letting us protect her!’ said Vanita.

‘She’s saving lives.’

‘But at what cost?’

The phone in Vanita’s office started to ring. She cursed under her breath and then marched out, calling Simmons after her like a dog. Simmons hesitated and met Finlay’s eye.

‘Terrence!’ she called again, and Finlay watched in disgust as he hurried after her.

‘The subservience of leadership,’ he muttered to himself.

Edmunds stepped aside for Simmons and entered the meeting room. Quietly, he unpacked his workbag, showing no interest in the news report, having already thoroughly discussed the matter with Baxter.

‘So, it’s Will then?’ asked Finlay.

Edmunds nodded solemnly and offered him the file that he had just removed from his bag, but Finlay refused it.

‘I believe you,’ he said, before turning his attention back to the television.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem all that surprised,’ said Edmunds.

‘When you’ve been in as long as I have, nothing surprises you any more. It just makes you sad. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that if you push anyone far enough, eventually they’re going to push back.’

‘You’re not trying to justify Wolf’s actions?’

‘Of course not. But over the years I’ve seen so many otherwise “good” people doing horrible things to each other – husbands strangling cheating wives, brothers protecting sisters from abusive partners. In the end you realise …’

‘Realise what?’

‘That there are no “good” people. There are just those who haven’t been pushed far enough yet, and those that have.’

‘You don’t sound like you want Wolf caught.’

‘We have to catch him. Some of those people didn’t deserve what happened to them.’

‘And you think some did?’

‘Aye, some did. Don’t worry, lad. I want to catch him more than any of you because, more than any of you, I don’t want him getting hurt.’

Vanita and Simmons returned to the meeting room looking sheepish and took their seats. Edmunds handed them each a copy of the profile that he had created for their killer.

‘We are running out of time,’ he told them, ‘so I have gathered together everything we know about our killer, along with some educated assumptions to narrow down the search: Caucasian male, six foot to six-four, bald or closely shaven hair, scarring to right forearm and back of head, size eleven boots, standard army issue pre-2012, either is or was a soldier. Very high intelligence, which he tests on a regular basis to fuel his ego. Emotional detachment, trivialisation of the value of human life, relishes the challenge and wants to be tested. He’s bored, so it’s likely that he’s not a soldier any more. The theatre of it all tells us that he enjoys it. He’ll be a loner, an outsider, unmarried, basic accommodation. Considering London prices, my money’s on a studio flat in a bad area.

‘People who join the army solely because they like killing tend to make themselves known and wind up dishonourably discharged after either doing or being suspected of doing something appalling. As we don’t have his prints in the system, he must have only been suspected of something; although, we can’t rule out injury either, considering the scars.’

‘That’s a lot of guesswork,’ said Simmons.

‘Educated guesswork, and it’s somewhere to start,’ said Edmunds unapologetically. ‘We need to compile a list of names that fit the description and were discharged from the military in the years leading up to the first archived case in 2008.’

‘Excellent work yet again, Edmunds,’ said Vanita.

‘With your permission, I would like to continue working through the evidence with Finlay. It would be helpful if DCI Simmons could start compiling the list of names for me.’

Simmons did not appreciate their newest recruit delegating him work and was about to say so when Vanita answered:

‘Whatever you need,’ she told him. ‘I presume that Baxter is out looking for Fawkes, then?’

‘Baxter won’t leave that girl’s side before midnight, and all the orders, threats and pleading in the world aren’t going to change her mind. I wouldn’t waste your time,’ said Edmunds.

Finlay and Simmons shared a stunned look. Was he giving the commander orders now?

‘The killer has systematically been drawn in closer and closer with each murder. He plans to finish this face to face. If we find him, we find Wolf.’

The meeting was adjourned. Vanita and Simmons headed back towards her office while Edmunds lingered behind to speak to Finlay in private. He closed the meeting room door and then hesitated, unsure how best to approach the unusual subject.

‘Finlay … weird question.’

‘OK?’ said Finlay, glancing at the closed door.

‘You and Simmons were talking about something yesterday.’

‘You’re going to have to be a wee bit more specific,’ laughed Finlay.

‘Faustian,’ said Edmunds. ‘I was wondering what you meant by that.’

‘Honestly, I barely remember what this meeting was about.’

The notebook came out.

‘We were discussing the victims and then you said: “almost looks like Will’s hit list, if he wasn’t on it” and then Simmons said: “it’s almost Faustian” or something to that effect.’

Finlay nodded as the memory returned to him.

‘It was nothing. A stupid joke,’ he said.

‘Could you explain it please?’

Finlay shrugged and took a seat.

‘A few years back we had a run of people swearing blindly to their innocence despite the piles of bodies accumulating around them.’

‘Blaming demons or the Devil?’ asked Edmunds, fascinated.

‘Aye, the Faustian alibi, as it became known,’ smirked Finlay.

‘And how would one go about arranging something like that?’

‘Come again?’

‘In practical terms, I mean.’

‘Practical terms?’ asked Finlay in confusion. ‘It’s an urban legend, lad.’

‘Humour me.’

‘What’s all this about?’

‘It might be important – please.’

Finlay looked at his watch, conscious that they had precious little time.

‘All right. Story time: there are these numbers floating about out there, just regular mobile phone numbers. No one knows who they belong to, and no one’s ever been able to trace them. They’re only ever live for one call before being disconnected. If a person comes into possession of one of these numbers, and are so inclined, they can offer up a trade.’

‘A deal with the Devil,’ said Edmunds, captivated by the story.

‘Aye, a deal with “the Devil”,’ sighed Finlay. ‘But like any story involving the Devil, there’s a catch: once he’s done doing your bidding, he will expect something in return …’

Finlay paused and gestured for Edmunds to lean in closer.

‘Your soul!’ he bellowed, making Edmunds jump.

Finlay coughed and spluttered as he laughed at his nervy colleague.

‘Do you think there could be any truth to it at all?’ asked Edmunds.

‘The Devil on Pay As You Go? No. No, I don’t,’ said Finlay, now looking serious. ‘You need to concentrate on more important things today, all right?’

Edmunds nodded.

‘All right then,’ said Finlay.

Mr and Mrs Lochlan were watching television in Edmunds’ tatty lounge. Baxter could hear Ashley playing upstairs in the bedroom from her seat at the kitchen table. She was about to get up to make something to eat when Ashley suddenly went quiet.

Baxter got to her feet, straining to listen over the blaring television in the other room, but relaxed when she heard Ashley’s thunderous footsteps running along the landing and then bounding down the stairs. She came rushing into the kitchen with an assortment of hair clips and flowers clasped haphazardly over her head.

‘Hello, Emily,’ she said happily.

‘Hello, Ashley,’ Baxter replied. She had always been terrible at speaking to children. It was as if they could smell her fear of them. ‘You look very pretty.’

‘Thank you. You do too.’

Baxter doubted that was true but smiled wearily at her.

‘I just wanted to check that you still want me to come and tell you if I see anybody outside?’

‘Yes please,’ said Baxter as enthusiastically as she could muster. ‘I’m waiting for a friend,’ she lied.

‘OK!’

Baxter had expected the little girl to run back upstairs but instead she just stood there giggling.

‘What?’

‘What?’ laughed Ashley.

‘What is this?’ Baxter’s patience was waning.

‘What you asked me to do! I’m telling you that there is somebody in the back garden!’

Baxter’s forced smile dropped. She grabbed Ashley and rushed her into the lounge while gesturing to her alarmed parents.

‘Go upstairs and lock the door,’ she whispered, thrusting their daughter into their arms.

As the three of them thudded overhead, Baxter ran back into the kitchen and removed the gun from her bag. She froze when there was a scraping noise from the side of the property. She crept over to the back windows but could not see anything out there.

There was a thump against the front door.

Baxter darted into the hallway and stepped into the bathroom. She raised the gun as she heard metal against the door lock. The front door creaked open and she saw a large shadow spill across the threshold. She held her breath and waited for the figure to pass the bathroom doorway before stepping out and pushing the end of the gun’s metal slide against the hooded head, causing the intruder to drop a bag full of razorblades, sharp scissors and disposable gloves over the floor.

‘Police,’ said Baxter, glancing down at the assortment of ominous implements at her feet. ‘Who are you?’

‘Tia. Alex’s fiancée. I live here.’

Baxter leaned round to see the obvious bump beneath the pregnant woman’s top.

‘Jesus! I am so sorry,’ she said, lowering the weapon. ‘I’m Emily – Emily Baxter. Nice to finally meet you.’

The head of security at Dubai International had already spoken to Wolf by the time Ashley disembarked the plane. He was a terrifying man, who barked orders at anyone and everyone in his vicinity, so it should have come as no surprise to learn that he had forced the airline to rearrange the seating for her flight to Melbourne.

Ashley felt terrible. She could see her fellow passengers crammed into every last available seat further down the cabin while she was surrounded by four empty rows. The clock on the entertainment system had adjusted to reflect the changing time zones. It was now officially Sunday morning, but she was not safe yet. She checked her unadjusted watch, knowing that she could not let her guard down until it was midnight back in England.

Ever since Wolf first told her his plan she had had reservations about boarding a plane full of innocent people. The seemingly ubiquitous killer appeared to have no bounds, and she could not help but wonder whether crashing a passenger jet might still fall within the realm of his extensive capabilities. She had been gripping the armrest for hours, expecting to fall out of the sky. She had refused all food and drink on Wolf’s orders and watched warily every time that anybody got out of their seat to visit the facilities.

The dimmed lights flickered all around her and Ashley looked up alertly. The cabin crew appeared oblivious as they tiptoed between the sleeping passengers. The armrest started to tremble and then to shake beneath her hand, and an unfittingly cheery ping accompanied the illuminated seat-belt signs.

He had found her.

The entire plane began to vibrate violently, waking people from their sleep. Ashley saw the concerned expressions on the cabin crew’s faces as they dished out reassurances while scurrying back to the safety of their seats. The lights went out. Ashley felt for the window beside her but could see only darkness. It was as though she was already dead …

The shaking gradually subsided and then the lights returned at full brightness. Nervous laughter filled the cabin and, shortly after, the seat-belt signs went dark once more. The captain’s voice buzzed over the intercom, apologising for the turbulence and making a joke about everyone getting a massage chair on his airline, not just first class.

As people started dropping back off to sleep, Ashley counted the seconds in her head, ticking off the minutes until they landed.

Andrea gave her now signature sign-off. The Death Clock read: +16:59:56 as the ‘On Air’ light went out. She had enjoyed the day, full of positivity and people wishing Ashley Lochlan well or bestowing advice as she attempted to outrun the previously infallible killer. The vile countdown, having passed midnight and now into positive numbers, had been renamed the ‘Life Clock’ by one caller and, for the first time, symbolised hope rather than despair, counting up the hours to the killer’s failure.

But Andrea’s mood quickly dampened when she walked back into the newsroom and spotted Elijah waiting for her up on his narrow walkway. With a gesture dripping with arrogance he summoned her up and then strode into his office.

Andrea refused to rush. She stopped at her desk and took a moment to steady her nerves, trying not to think about the gravity of the decision that she was about to make, that she had already made. She crossed the chaotic room, took a deep breath and climbed the metal staircase.

Wolf was watching the news in the cheap bed and breakfast that he had paid for in cash. He had been on edge for hours and dived across the dirty room when his Pay As You Go phone went off shortly after midnight. He opened the text from the unfamiliar number and slumped back against the bed in relief as he read:

STILL HERE! L X

She was safe.

He removed the sim card from the phone and snapped it in half then crawled over to switch off the television, pausing when he realised that Andrea’s news channel had already reset the Death Clock. He watched three minutes of his life disappear as though they were seconds before pushing the power button:

-23:54:23

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