by Daniel Cole
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Session One
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Initiation
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Session Six
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Session Nine
Session Eleven
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
An Excerpt from Ragdoll
Author Q&A
About the Author
Also by Daniel Cole
Copyright
About the Publisher
“What if there is a God?
“What if there is a heaven?
“What if there is a hell?
“And what if . . . just what if . . . we’re all already there?”
Prologue
Wednesday, 6 January 2016
9:52 A.M.
“There is no God. Fact.”
Detective Chief Inspector Emily Baxter watched her reflection in the interview room’s mirrored window, listening for any reaction to this unpopular truth from her eavesdropping audience.
Nothing.
She looked terrible: fifty rather than thirty-five. Thick black stitches held her top lip together, pulling taut every time she spoke, reminding her of things she would rather forget, old and new. The grazed skin on her forehead was refusing to heal, tape splinted her fractured fingers together, and a dozen other injuries were concealed out of sight beneath her damp clothing.
With a deliberately bored expression, she turned to face the two men sitting across the table from her. Neither spoke. She yawned and started playing with her long brown hair, running her few functional fingers through a dusty section, matted together by three days’ worth of dry shampoo. She couldn’t have cared less that her last answer had clearly offended Special Agent Sinclair, the imposing, bald American now scribbling onto a piece of elaborately headed notepaper.
Atkins, the Metropolitan Police liaison, was an unimpressive sight beside the smartly dressed foreigner. Baxter had spent the majority of the previous fifty minutes attempting to work out what color his off-beige shirt had started out life as. His tie hung loosely around his neck, as if a philanthropic hangman had tied it, the dangling end failing to conceal a recent ketchup stain.
Atkins eventually took the silence as his cue to step in:
“That must’ve led to some pretty interesting conversations with Special Agent Rouche,” he stated.
He had sweat running down the side of his closely shaven head, courtesy of the lighting above them and the heater in the corner, which was billowing out hot air and had transformed the four sets of snowy footprints into a dirty puddle on the linoleum floor.
“Meaning?” asked Baxter.
“Meaning that according to his file—”
“Screw his file!” Sinclair interrupted. “I used to work alongside Rouche and know for a fact that he was a devout Christian.”
The American flicked through the neatly indexed folder to his left and produced a document decorated in Baxter’s own handwriting. “As are you, according to the application for your current role.”
He held Baxter’s gaze, relishing that the confrontational woman had contradicted herself, as if the balance of the world was restored now that he had proven she did indeed share his beliefs and had merely been attempting to provoke him. Baxter, however, looked as bored as ever.
“I’ve come to the realization that, in general, people are idiots,” she started, “and a great many have the misguided notion that mindless gullibility and a strong moral compass are in some way linked. Basically, I wanted the pay rise.”
Sinclair shook his head in disgust, as if he could not believe his ears.
“So you lied? Doesn’t exactly support your point about that strong moral compass, now does it?” He smiled thinly, making more notes.
Baxter shrugged: “But does say a hell of a lot about mindless gullibility.”
Sinclair’s smile dropped.
“Is there some reason you’re trying to convert me?” she asked, unable to resist jabbing at her interviewer’s temper so that he jumped to his feet and leaned over her.
“A man is dead, Chief Inspector!” he bellowed.
Baxter didn’t flinch.
“A lot of people are dead . . . after what happened,” she mumbled, before turning venomous, “and for some reason you people seem intent on wasting everybody’s time worrying about the only person out there who deserves to be!”
“We’re asking,” interjected Atkins, trying to defuse the situation, “because some evidence was found close to the body . . . of a religious nature.”
“Which could have been dropped by anyone,” said Baxter.
The two men shared a look, which she recognized as meaning that there was more they were not sharing with her.
“Do you have any information on Special Agent Rouche’s current whereabouts?” Sinclair asked her.
Baxter huffed: “To the best of my knowledge, Agent Rouche is dead.”
“Is that really how you want to play this?”
“To the best of my knowledge, Agent Rouche is dead,” repeated Baxter.
“So you saw his bo—”
Dr. Preston-Hall, the Metropolitan Police’s consultant psychiatrist and the fourth person sitting at the small metal table, cleared her throat loudly. Sinclair broke off, understanding the unspoken warning. He sat back in his chair and made a gesture toward the mirrored window. Atkins scribbled into his tatty notebook and slid it across to Dr. Preston-Hall.
The doctor was a well-presented woman in her early sixties, whose expensive perfume had been reduced to acting as a floral air freshener that failed to mask the overwhelming smell of damp shoes. She had an effortlessly authoritative air and had made it quite clear that she would end the interview at any point should she deem the line of questioning detrimental to her patient’s recovery. Slowly she picked up the coffee-stained book and read through the message with the air of a schoolteacher intercepting a secret note.
She had been silent for almost an entire hour and clearly felt no need to break it now, offering Atkins only a simple shake of the head in answer to what he had written.
“What does it say?” asked Baxter.
The doctor ignored her.
“What does it say?” she asked again. She turned to Sinclair. “Ask your question.”
Sinclair looked torn.
“Ask your question,” Baxter demanded.
“Emily!” the doctor snapped. “Do not say a word, Mr. Sinclair.”
“You might as well just say it,” challenged Baxter, her voice filling the small space. “The station? You want to ask me about the station?”
“This interview is over,” announced Dr. Preston-Hall, standing up.
“Ask me!” Baxter shouted ove
r her.
Sensing his last chance for answers slipping away from him, Sinclair elected to persevere and worry about the consequences later:
“According to your statement, you believe that Special Agent Rouche was among the dead.”
Dr. Preston-Hall raised her hands in exasperation.
“That wasn’t a question,” said Baxter.
“Did you see his body?”
For the first time, Sinclair saw Baxter falter, but rather than enjoying her discomfort, he felt guilty. Her eyes glazed over as his question forced her back underground, trapping her momentarily in the past.
Her voice cracked when she finally whispered her answer:
“I wouldn’t have known if I had, would I?”
There was another strained silence, in which everyone reflected on just how disturbing that simple sentence was.
“How did he seem to you?” Atkins blurted the half-formed question when the quiet became unbearable.
“Who?”
“Rouche.”
“In what way?” asked Baxter.
“Emotional state.”
“When?”
“The last time you saw him.”
She considered her answer for a moment and then smiled genuinely:
“Relieved.”
“Relieved?”
Baxter nodded.
“You sound fond of him,” continued Atkins.
“Not particularly. He was intelligent, a competent coworker . . . despite his obvious flaws,” she added.
Her huge brown eyes, emphasized by dark makeup, were watching Sinclair for a reaction. He bit his lip and glanced again at the mirror as if cursing someone behind the glass for such a testing assignment.
Atkins took it upon himself to finish off the interview. He now had dark sweat patches underneath his arms and had failed to notice that both women had subtly scraped their chairs back a few inches to retreat from the smell.
“You had a team search Agent Rouche’s house,” he said.
“I did.”
“You didn’t trust him, then?”
“I didn’t.”
“And you feel no residual loyalty towards him now?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Do you remember what the last thing he said to you was?”
Baxter looked restless: “Are we done here?”
“Almost. Answer the question, please.” He sat, pen poised over his notebook.
“I’d like to go now,” Baxter told the doctor.
“Of course,” Dr. Preston-Hall answered sharply.
“Is there some reason that you can’t respond to this simple question first?” Sinclair’s words cut across the room like an accusation.
“All right.” Baxter looked furious. “I’ll respond.” She considered her reply and then leaned across the table to meet the American’s eye.
“There . . . is . . . no . . . God,” she smirked.
Atkins tossed his pen across the table as Sinclair got up, sending the metal chair clattering to the floor as he stormed out of the room.
“Nice job,” Atkins sighed wearily. “Thank you for your cooperation, Detective Chief Inspector. Now we’re done.”
Five weeks earlier . . .
Chapter 1
Wednesday, 2 December 2015
6:56 A.M.
The frozen river creaked and snapped as if shifting in its sleep beneath the sparkling metropolis. Various vessels, ice-trapped and forgotten, drowned gradually in the snow as the mainland was temporarily reunited with the island city.
As sunrise crept over the cluttered horizon, and the bridge basked in the orange light, it cast a stark shadow across the ice below: between the imposing archway, a framework of wires crisscrossed in the powder, a web of threads that had caught something overnight.
Tangled up and bent out of shape where it hung, like a fly that had torn itself apart in its desperation to break free, William Fawkes’s broken body eclipsed the sun.
Chapter 2
Tuesday, 8 December 2015
6:39 P.M.
Night pressed against the windows of New Scotland Yard, the lights of the city smudged behind a layer of condensation.
With the exception of two brief toilet breaks and a visit to the stationery drawer, Baxter had not left her cupboard-sized office in Homicide and Serious Crime Command since arriving that morning. She stared at the tower of paperwork on the edge of her desk, balancing precariously over the wastepaper bin, and had to fight all of her natural instincts not to give it a gentle prod in the right direction.
At thirty-four, she had become one of the youngest female chief inspectors ever appointed within the Metropolitan Police, though this rapid ascent up the ladder had been neither expected nor particularly welcomed. Both the supervisory vacancy and her subsequent overpromotion into it could be attributed solely to the Ragdoll case and her apprehension of the infamous serial killer the previous summer.
The last chief inspector, Terrence Simmons, had been forced to retire due to ill health, which everybody suspected had been exacerbated by the commissioner’s threat to fire him should he refuse to leave voluntarily, the customary reflex gesture for a disillusioned public, like sacrificing an innocent to appease the ever-wrathful gods.
Baxter shared the sentiment held by the rest of her colleagues: disgusted to see her predecessor being used as a scapegoat but, ultimately, relieved that it wasn’t her. She had not even considered putting in an application for the newly vacated position until the commissioner had told her that the job was hers should she want it.
She looked around her chipboard cell, with its dirty carpet and dented filing cabinet (who knew what important documents were entombed within that bottom drawer she had never been able to open?), and wondered what the hell she had been thinking.
A cheer rose up out in the main office, but the sound didn’t even register with Baxter, who had returned to a letter of complaint about a detective named Saunders. He had been accused of using a profanity to describe the complainant’s son. Baxter’s only doubt regarding the claim was the relative tameness of the word used. She started to type an official reply, lost the will to live halfway through, screwed up the complaint, and threw it in the general direction of the bin.
There was a timid knock at the door before a mousy officer scuttled in. She collected up Baxter’s near- (and not-so-near-) misses and dropped them into the bin before flaunting her world-class Jenga skills by placing another document on top of the unsteady tower of paperwork.
“I’m very sorry to disturb you,” said the woman, “but Detective Shaw is about to make his speech. I thought you might want to be there.”
Baxter swore loudly and rested her head on the desk:
“Present!” she groaned, reminding herself too late.
The nervy young lady waited awkwardly for further instructions. After a couple of moments, and unsure whether Baxter was even still awake, she quietly left the room.
Dragging herself to her feet, Baxter walked out into the main office, where a crowd had gathered around Detective Sergeant Finlay Shaw’s desk. A twenty-year-old banner, which Finlay had actually purchased himself for a long-forgotten colleague, had been Blu-tacked to the wall:
SORRY YOU’RE LEAVING!
An array of stale supermarket doughnuts sat on the desk beside him, various “reduced” stickers documenting the contents’ three-day journey from unappetizing to inedible.
Polite laughter accompanied the rasping Scottish detective’s exaggerated threat to give Saunders one final punch in the face before he retired. They were all laughing about it now, but the last incident had resulted in one reconstructed nose, two disciplinary hearings, and hours’ worth of form-filling for Baxter.
She hated these things: so awkward, so false, such an anti-climactic send-off after decades of service with so many close calls and so many horrific memories for him to take home as souvenirs. She stood at the back, smiling along in support of her friend, watching Finlay fondly. He was the
last proper ally she had in this place, the one remaining friendly face, and now he was leaving. She hadn’t even bought him a card.
Her office phone started to ring.
She ignored it, watching Finlay fail miserably to pretend that the bottle of whisky they had clubbed together to buy him was his favorite.
His favorite was Jameson—same as Wolf.
Her mind wandered. She remembered buying Finlay a drink the last time they had met up socially. Almost a year had passed since then. He had told her that he never regretted his own lack of ambition. He had warned her that the DCI role wasn’t right for her, that she would be bored, frustrated. She hadn’t listened, because what Finlay couldn’t understand was that she wasn’t looking so much for a promotion as she was a distraction, a change, an escape.
The phone in her office started to ring again and she glared back at her desk. Finlay was reading through the variations of “Sorry to see you go” that had been scrawled across a Minions card, of which somebody had mistakenly believed him to be a fan.
She checked her watch. She really needed to finish at a decent time for once.
Setting the card aside with a chuckle, Finlay began his heartfelt goodbye. He planned to keep it as short as possible, having never much enjoyed public speaking.
“. . . Seriously, though, thank you. I’ve been knocking about this place since it was Brand-Spanking-New Scotland Yard . . .” He left a pause, hoping that at least one person might laugh. His delivery had been terrible, and he had just blown his best joke. But he continued regardless, knowing that it was only downhill from here.
“This place and the people in it have become more than just a job and colleagues—you’ve become a second family to me.”
A woman standing in the front row fanned her tearful eyes. Finlay attempted to smile at her in a way that conveyed both that the feeling was mutual and that he had some idea of who she was. He looked up into his audience, searching for the one person for whom his parting message was actually intended.
“I’ve had the pleasure of watching a few of you grow up around me, transforming from cocky little trainees into”—he felt his own eyes prickling now—“strong, independent, beautiful, and brave young women . . . and men,” he added, concerned that he may have just outed himself. “I want to say what a pleasure it has been to work alongside you and how truly proud I am of you. Thank you.”