Saturday 28 June 2014

4.32 a.m.

Baxter had left Edmunds waiting for the juddering lift. She stormed through a fire door and into the dismal stairwell, where a seemingly endless procession of cold and irritable people had finally been permitted to return to their homes. Halfway down she put her warrant card away, realising that, if anything, it was hindering her progress against the steady flow. The initial novelty of the night’s events had worn off hours earlier, leaving the sleep-starved residents with only resentment and ill feeling towards the police.

When she eventually barged out into the foyer, Edmunds was already waiting patiently by the main doors. She marched past without acknowledging him and stepped out into the chilly morning. The sun was yet to make an appearance, but the perfect clear skies overhead suggested that the persistent heatwave was set to continue. She swore when she saw that the growing crowd of spectators and journalists had swelled around the police tape, cutting her off from her black Audi A1.

‘Not a word,’ she snapped at Edmunds, who ignored the tone of the unnecessary order with his usual good grace.

They approached the cordon to a barrage of questions and camera flashes, ducked under the tape and started pushing through the crush. Baxter gritted her teeth on hearing Edmunds apologise repeatedly behind her. Just as she turned to shoot him a glare, she collided with a heavyset man, whose bulky television camera fell to the floor with an expensive-sounding crack.

‘Shite! Sorry,’ she said, automatically producing a Met Police business card from her pocket. She had gone through hundreds over the years, handing them out like IOUs before immediately forgetting the chaos that she had left in her wake.

The large man was still on the floor, kneeling over the scattered remains of his camera as if it were a fallen loved one. A woman’s hand snatched the card from Baxter’s grip. Baxter looked up angrily to find an unfriendly face staring back at her. Despite the early hour, the woman was immaculately made-up for television; any trace of the exhaustion that had marked everybody else with heavy bags beneath their eyes had been concealed. She had long curly red hair and was wearing a smart skirt and top. The two women stood in tense silence for a moment as Edmunds watched in awe. He had never imagined that his mentor could look so ill at ease.

The red-headed woman glanced fleetingly at Edmunds:

‘I see you found someone your own age, at last,’ she said to Baxter, who scowled back at Edmunds as though he had wronged her simply by existing. ‘Has she tried to have her wicked way with you yet?’ the woman asked him sympathetically.

Edmunds froze, genuinely wondering whether he was experiencing the worst moment of his entire life.

‘No?’ she continued, checking her watch. ‘Well, the day is still young.’

‘I’m getting married,’ mumbled Edmunds, unsure why words were coming out of him.

The redhead smiled triumphantly and opened her mouth to say something.

‘We’re leaving!’ Baxter snapped at him before recovering her usual indifferent demeanour: ‘Andrea.’

‘Emily,’ the woman replied.

Baxter turned her back on her, stepped over the guts of the camera and continued with Edmunds in tow. He triple-checked his seat belt as Baxter revved the engine and reversed suddenly, bouncing up and over two kerbs before speeding off, letting the flashing blue lights shrink in the rear-view mirror.

Baxter had not said a word since leaving the crime scene and Edmunds was struggling to keep his eyes open as they raced through the almost deserted streets of the capital. The Audi’s heater was blowing a gentle warm breeze into the luxurious interior, which Baxter had littered with CDs, half-used make-up and empty fast-food packaging. As they crossed Waterloo Bridge, the sunrise burned behind the city, the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral a featureless silhouette against the golden sky.

Edmunds surrendered to his heavy eyes and headbutted the passenger window painfully. He immediately sat upright, furious with himself for showing weakness, yet again, in front of his superior officer.

‘So, that was him?’ he blurted out. He was desperate to spark a conversation to distract him from the drowsiness.

‘Who?’

‘Fawkes. The William Fawkes.’

Edmunds had, in fact, seen Wolf in passing several times before. He had noticed the way in which his colleagues treated the seasoned detective, ever conscious of the clearly unwelcome air of celebrity that surrounded him.

‘The William Fawkes,’ Baxter scoffed under her breath.

‘I’ve heard so many stories about what happened …’ He paused, waiting for a sign that he should abandon the topic. ‘You were on his team around that time, weren’t you?’

Baxter continued driving in silence as if Edmunds had not even spoken. He felt foolish for thinking that she would ever want to discuss such a significant topic with a trainee. He was about to get his phone out for something to do when, unexpectedly, she answered.

‘Yes. I was.’

‘So, did he do all of those things that he was accused of?’ Edmunds knew that he was on dangerous ground, but his genuine interest outweighed the risk of provoking Baxter’s wrath. ‘Planting evidence, assaulting the prisoner—’

‘Some of them.’

Edmunds made an unconscious tut-tut sound, jabbing at Baxter’s temper.

‘Don’t you dare judge him! You have absolutely no idea what this job is like,’ she snapped. ‘Wolf knew Khalid was the Cremation Killer. He knew it. And he knew he would do it again.’

‘There must have been legitimate evidence.’

Baxter laughed bitterly.

‘You just wait until you’ve been in a few more years, watching these pieces of shit wriggle themselves out of trouble time and time again.’ She paused, feeling herself getting worked up. ‘Everything’s not black and white. What Wolf did was wrong, but he did it in desperation for all the right reasons.’

‘Even brutally attacking a man in front of a packed courtroom?’ Edmunds asked challengingly.

‘Especially that,’ replied Baxter. She was too distracted to pick up on his tone. ‘He cracked under the pressure. One day you will, I will – everybody does. Just pray that when you do, you have people there standing by you. No one stood by Wolf when it happened, not even me …’

Edmunds kept quiet, hearing the regret in her voice.

‘He was going to be sent down for it. They wanted blood. They were going to make such an example of their “disgraced detective” and then, one chilly February morning, guess who they find standing over the barbecued corpse of a schoolgirl? She’d still be alive today if they’d only listened to Wolf.’

‘Jesus,’ said Edmunds. ‘Do you think it’s him – the head?’

‘Naguib Khalid is a child killer. Even criminals have standards. For his own safety, he’s locked up in permanent solitary confinement in the High Security Unit of a maximum security prison. He doesn’t see anybody, let alone anyone who could walk out of there with his head. It’s ridiculous.’

Another strained silence grew between them following Baxter’s definitive conclusion that they were wasting their time. Aware that this had been by far the most successful conversation that they had shared during their sporadic three and a half months together, Edmunds reverted back to the previous unresolved topic.

‘It’s amazing Fawkes’ – sorry, Wolf’s – back at all.’

‘Never underestimate the power of public opinion and the eagerness of the people in charge to bow to it,’ said Baxter with disdain.

‘You sound like you don’t think he should be back.’

Baxter did not respond.

‘It’s not much of an advert for the police, is it?’ said Edmunds. ‘Letting him off scot-free.’

‘Scot-free?’ said Baxter in disbelief.

‘Well, he didn’t go to prison.’

‘It would’ve been better for him if he had. The lawyers, saving face, pushed for the hospital order. Easier mess to clean up, I guess. They said the stress of the case had triggered a response “completely out of character”—’

‘And how many times does someone have to do something out of character before people finally accept that it’s not?’ Edmunds interrupted.

Baxter ignored the remark.

‘They said that he needed ongoing treatment for, what his defence lawyer diagnosed as, an underlying Antipersonality – no, Antisocial Personality Disorder.’

‘Which you don’t believe he had?’

‘Not when he went in, at least. But if enough people keep telling you you’re crazy and stuff you full of enough pills, in the end, you can’t help but wonder,’ sighed Baxter. ‘So, in response to your question: one year in St Ann’s Hospital, demoted, reputation in tatters and divorce papers waiting on the doormat. Wolf most certainly did not get off “scot-free”.’

‘His wife left him even after he was proved right all along?’

‘What can I say? She’s a bitch.’

‘You knew her then?’

‘That red-headed reporter back at the crime scene?’

‘That was her?’

‘Andrea. She got some stupid ideas into her head about us.’

‘Sleeping together?’

‘What else?’

‘So … you weren’t?’

Edmunds held his breath. He knew he had just blundered right over the delicate line that he had been treading and the conversation was over. Baxter ignored the intrusive question and the engine growled as she accelerated along the tree-lined dual carriageway that led up to the prison.

‘What the hell do you mean he’s dead?’ Baxter yelled at Prison Governor Davies.

She was back on her feet while Edmunds and the governor remained seated at the large desk that dominated his bland office. The man winced as he sipped his scalding coffee. He tended to arrive early for work, but the lost half-hour had completely disrupted his day.

‘Sergeant Baxter, the local authorities are responsible for relaying information such as this to your department. We do not routinely—’

‘But—’ Baxter tried to interject.

The governor continued more firmly:

‘Inmate Khalid was taken ill in his solitary cell and moved to the medical room. He was then transferred to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital.’

‘Ill how?’

The governor took out a pair of reading glasses and opened up the file on his desk.

‘The report states: “shortness of breath and nausea”. He was moved to the QE’s Intensive Care Unit at approximately 8 p.m. due to “becoming unresponsive and oxygen saturation falling despite O₂ therapy”, if that means anything to either of you?’

The governor glanced up to see Baxter and Edmunds nodding along knowingly. The moment his eyes dropped back to the report, they shared a bemused shrug.

‘Local police were on twenty-four-hour guard outside his room, which turned out to be twenty-one hours overly optimistic, seeing as he was dead by 11 p.m.’ The governor closed the report and removed his glasses. ‘That, I’m afraid, is all that I have for you. You will have to speak to the hospital directly should you require anything further. Now, if there is nothing else?’

He took another painful sip of boiling coffee and then pushed it out of reach before he could hurt himself. Baxter and Edmunds got up to leave. Edmunds smiled and held his hand out to the governor.

‘Thank you for taking the time to—’ he started.

‘That’ll do for now,’ Baxter snapped as she left the room.

Edmunds awkwardly took back his hand and followed her out, letting the door swing closed behind him. Just before it clicked shut, Baxter burst back into the room with one final question.

‘Shit. I almost forgot. When Khalid left the prison, we’re absolutely positive he still had a head?’

The governor gave a bewildered nod.

‘Ta.’

The Homicide and Serious Crime meeting room was filled with the sound of ‘Good Vibrations’ by the Beach Boys. Wolf had always found it easier to work with music on, and it was still early enough to get away with it without disturbing too many other people.

He was now dressed in a crumpled white shirt, dark blue chinos and his only pair of shoes. The handmade Loake oxfords had been both an uncharacteristically extravagant purchase and the most sensible that he had ever made. He vaguely remembered the times before them, almost crippled by the end of a nineteen-hour shift, only to slide his feet back into the same ill-fitting footwear after a few hours’ sleep.

He turned up the volume, failing to notice his mobile phone lighting up on the table beside him. He was alone in the room that could comfortably seat thirty people and was so infrequently used that it still smelled of new carpet over a year after being refitted. A frosted-glass window ran the length of the wall, obscuring the main office behind.

He picked another photograph up off the desk, tunelessly singing along to the music and danced over to the large board at the front of the room. Once he had pinned the final picture in place, he stood back to admire his work: enlarged photographs of the various body parts overlapped to create two enormous versions of the terrifying figure, one the front view, one rear. He stared again at the waxy face, hoping that he was right, that he could sleep a little easier in the knowledge that Khalid was finally dead. Unfortunately Baxter still hadn’t phoned in to confirm his suspicions.

‘Morning,’ said a familiar voice behind him in a coarse Scottish accent.

Wolf instantly stopped dancing and turned the radio down as Detective Sergeant Finlay Shaw, the unit’s longest-serving officer, entered the room. He was a quiet yet intimidating man who smelled persistently of cigarette smoke. He was fifty-nine years old with a weather-beaten face and a nose that had been broken on more than one occasion and never set quite right.

Much like Baxter had inherited Edmunds, babysitting Wolf since his return to the service had become Finlay’s primary duty. They had an unspoken agreement that Finlay, who was on the gentle wind-down to retirement, would let the younger man take the lead on the majority of the work, as long as he signed off Wolf’s monitoring paperwork each week.

‘You’ve got two left feet lad,’ rasped Finlay.

‘Well, I’m more of a singer,’ said Wolf defensively, ‘you know that.’

‘No, you’re not. But what I meant is …’ Finlay walked up to the wall and tapped the photograph that Wolf had just pinned up, ‘… you’ve got two left feet.’

‘Huh.’ Wolf flicked through the pile of photos from the crime scene and eventually found the correct one. ‘You know, I do stuff like this from time to time, just to make you feel like I still need you.’

Finlay smiled: ‘Sure you do.’

Wolf swapped the photographs over and the two men stared up at the horrific collage.

‘Back in the seventies I worked on a case a wee bit like this: Charles Tenyson,’ said Finlay.

Wolf shrugged.

‘He’d leave us bits of bodies: a leg here, a hand there. To start with, it seemed random but it wasn’t. Each of the parts had an identifying feature. He wanted us to know who he’d killed.’

Wolf stepped closer to point up at the wall.

‘We’ve got a ring on the left hand and an operation scar on the right leg. It’s not a lot to go off.’

‘There’ll be more,’ said Finlay matter-of-factly. ‘Someone who doesn’t leave a single drop of blood at a massacre doesn’t leave a ring behind by accident.’

Wolf rewarded Finlay for his thought-provoking insights by yawning loudly in his face.

‘Coffee run? I need a smoke anyway,’ said Finlay. ‘White and two?’

‘How have you still not learnt this?’ asked Wolf as Finlay hurried to the door. ‘An extra-hot, double-shot skinny macchiato with sugar-free caramel syrup.’

‘White and two,’ shouted Finlay as he left the meeting room, almost colliding with Commander Vanita on his way out.

Wolf recognised the diminutive Indian woman from her regular appearances on television. She had also attended one of the countless interviews and evaluations that he’d had to endure to secure his reinstatement. From what he remembered, she had been against the idea.

He really should have spotted her approaching, seeing as she perpetually looked to have stepped out of a cartoon, that morning’s ensemble consisting of a vivid purple blazer inexplicably matched with garish orange trousers.

He retreated behind the flip chart too late and she paused in the doorway to speak with him.

‘Good morning, Detective Sergeant.’

‘Morning.’

‘It looks like a florist in here,’ she said.

Wolf glanced at the hideous montages dominating the wall behind him in confusion. When he looked back, he realised that she was gesturing into the main office, where dozens of extravagant bouquets were scattered over desks and filing cabinets.

‘Oh. They’ve been arriving all week. I think they’re from the Muniz case. Pretty much the entire community sent flowers in from the looks of it,’ he explained.

‘Nice to be appreciated for a change,’ said Vanita. ‘I’m looking for your boss. He isn’t in his office.’

Wolf’s phone started buzzing loudly on the table. He glanced at the caller ID and hung up.

‘Anything I can help you with?’ he asked half-heartedly.

Vanita smiled weakly.

‘I’m afraid not. The press are tearing us apart out there. The commissioner wants it handled.’

‘I thought that was your job,’ said Wolf.

Vanita laughed: ‘I’m not going out there today.’

They both spotted Simmons heading back towards his office.

‘Shit rolls downhill, Fawkes – you know that.’

‘As you can see, I’m completely tied up here. I need you to go out there and speak to the vultures for me,’ said Simmons with almost believable sincerity.

Within two minutes of the commander leaving, Wolf had been summoned to the chief inspector’s poky office. The room was barely four square metres. It contained a desk, a tiny television, a rusty filing cabinet, two swivel chairs and a plastic stool (in case of a crowd piling into the tiny space). Wolf found it a depressing incentive to flaunt before the workforce; the dead end at the top of the ladder.

‘Me?’ asked Wolf dubiously.

‘Sure. The press love you. You’re William Fawkes!’

Wolf sighed: ‘Anyone lower on the food chain I can hand this down to?’

‘I think I saw the cleaner in the men’s loos, but I think it would be better coming from you.’

‘Right,’ mumbled Wolf.

The phone on the desk started to ring. Wolf went to stand as Simmons answered it, but paused when he held up a hand.

‘I’ve got Fawkes with me. I’ll put you on speaker.’

Edmunds’ voice was barely audible over the revving engine. Wolf had to sympathise. He knew from experience that Baxter was an appalling driver.

‘We’re en route to Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Khalid was transferred to their ICU a week ago.’

‘Alive?’ barked Simmons irritably.

‘Was,’ replied Edmunds.

‘But now?’

‘Dead.’

‘Head?’ Simmons yelled in frustration.

‘We’ll let you know.’

‘Fantastic.’ Simmons ended the call and shook his head. He looked up at Wolf. ‘They’re expecting you outside. Tell them we have six victims. They already know that anyway. Assure them that we are currently in the process of identification and will be contacting the families before making any names public. Don’t mention anything about stitching bits together – or your flat.’

Wolf gave a sarcastic salute and left the room. He closed the door behind him and spotted Finlay approaching with two takeaway cups.

‘Just in time,’ Wolf called across the office, which was now filling up with people beginning their day shifts. It was easy to forget that, while the high-profile cases eclipsed the lives of those involved, the rest of the world continued on as normal: people killing people, rapists and thieves running free.

As Finlay passed a desk covered with five huge bouquets, he started to sniff. Wolf could see his eyes watering as he drew nearer. Just as he reached Wolf he sneezed violently, throwing both coffees across the grubby carpeted floor. Wolf looked crushed.

‘These effing flowers!’ bellowed Finlay. His wife had made him give up swearing when he became a grandad. ‘I’ll get you another.’

Wolf was about to tell him not to bother when an internal deliveryman emerged from the lift holding yet another impressive armful of flowers. Finlay looked as though he might hit him.

‘All right? Got flowers for a Ms Emily Baxter,’ announced the scruffy young man.

‘Terrific,’ grumbled Finlay.

‘This has gotta be the fifth or sixth lot for her. Bit of a looker is she?’ asked the oafish man, catching Wolf off-guard with the inappropriate question.

‘Ummm … She’s – well, very—’ Wolf stuttered.

‘We don’t really think about other detectives in that way,’ interrupted Finlay, seeing his friend struggling.

‘It depends on …’ Wolf looked back at Finlay.

‘I mean, of course she is,’ blurted Finlay, losing his calming hold over the conversation. ‘But—’

‘I think that everybody’s unique and beautiful in their own way,’ finished Wolf wisely.

He and Finlay nodded to each other, having flawlessly negotiated a potentially awkward question.

‘But he would never …’ Finlay assured the deliveryman.

‘No, never,’ agreed Wolf.

The man stared blankly at the two detectives: ‘OK.’

‘Wolf!’ a female officer called across the room, providing him with an excuse to leave Finlay with their visitor. She was holding a phone up at him. ‘Your wife’s on the line. Says it’s important.’

‘We’re divorced,’ Wolf corrected her.

‘Either way, she’s still on the phone.’

Wolf reached for the receiver when Simmons came out of his office and saw him still standing there.

‘Get down there, Fawkes!’

Wolf looked exasperated:

‘I’ll call her back,’ he told the officer before stepping into the idling lift, praying that his ex-wife would not be among the crowd of reporters he was about to face.

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