Hangman

by Daniel Cole

  “Hi, Maggie.” She laughed. “Is he in?”

  “He’s always in now,” she sighed. “I don’t think he knows what to do with himself. I told him this would happen if he retired, but . . . you know Fin. Anyway, come in, come in!”

  Baxter followed her inside.

  Finlay was one of her favorite people in the world, but every time she saw Maggie, she marveled at how her ugly old friend had ever managed to woo and keep hold of such an attractive, unfailingly lovely, well-bred woman. “Punching above my weight” was always his answer when quizzed on it.

  “How are you?” asked Baxter, the question carrying significantly more weight than usual when directed at someone who had been so ill for so long.

  “Having a good patch. Can’t complain.” Maggie smiled as she led her into the kitchen. She started fussing over teapots and cups while Baxter waited patiently.

  She could tell that Maggie wanted to ask her something: “What?”

  The older woman turned around with an innocent look, but dropped it almost immediately. They had known one another far too long for pretense:

  “I was just wondering whether you had heard from Will.”

  Baxter had been expecting the question: “No. Nothing. I swear.”

  Maggie looked disappointed. She and Wolf had grown incredibly close over the years, to the point where he had spent a couple of Christmases with them before the arrival of the grandchildren:

  “You know you can tell me in confidence, don’t you?”

  “I do know that. But it doesn’t change the fact that he hasn’t contacted me.”

  “He’ll come back,” Maggie told her.

  Baxter did not appreciate the reassuring way in which she said it.

  “If he does, he’ll be arrested.”

  Maggie smiled at that:

  “This is Will we’re talking about here. And it’s OK to miss him. We all do. None more than you, I’m sure.”

  She had been witness to enough interactions between Baxter and Wolf over the years to know that their relationship went far deeper than mere friends or colleagues.

  “You still haven’t met Thomas,” said Baxter, changing the subject and yet not really changing the subject at all. “I’ll bring him with me next time.”

  Maggie smiled encouragingly, which only annoyed her more.

  The drilling upstairs ceased.

  “You head up. I’ll bring the drinks.”

  Baxter climbed the stairs, following the smell of fresh paint, and found Finlay on his hands and knees securing a floorboard in place. He didn’t notice she was there until she cleared her throat, at which point he dropped what he was doing, groaning as his back and knees clicked, and got up to embrace her.

  “Emily! You didn’t tell me you were popping round.”

  “Didn’t know.”

  “Well, it’s a treat to see you. I’ve been worried with all that’s been going on. Sit down,” he insisted, before realizing that it wasn’t much of an offer. An entire corner of the sawdust-covered floor was still propped up against the wall waiting to be laid, leaving a dangerous gap to fall through. Sealant and paint cans littered what remained of the space between the ancient tools. “We can go downstairs,” he offered on second thought.

  “No, it’s fine . . . Place is looking good.”

  “Aye, well, it was either this or move,” he told her, gesturing to the room. “We want to help out with the kids a bit more now that I’m—”

  “Bored?”

  “Retired,” Finlay corrected her with a wry smile. “At least, we will if Maggie ever decides on a color.”

  “Big extension. Fancy new car on the drive,” said Baxter, sounding more questioning than impressed.

  “What can I say? Pensions were actually worth something back when I started. You’re going to get bugger all, mind.” He paused to check whether Maggie had heard him use a curse word. “So . . . should I be worried about you?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It’ll be over by lunchtime tomorrow.” Baxter smiled. “You’ll hear all about it when Vanita totters out to tell the world how she saved the day by sitting behind her desk doing arse all.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow?” Finlay asked, looking concerned.

  “Nothing you need to worry yourself about, old man. We’re basically just watching the FBI do their thing,” she lied, knowing full well that he’d insist on tagging along if he thought, even for a moment, that she might need him. She had already had to lie to Edmunds for precisely the same reason.

  He gave her a searching look.

  “So I met our new commissioner this morning,” she told him. “Asked me to pass on his regards.”

  “Did he now?” asked Finlay, deciding to take a seat on the floor after all.

  “Seems very keen on you. Who is he, anyway?”

  Finlay rubbed his dirty face wearily as he considered his reply.

  “He’s Fin’s oldest friend,” Maggie answered on his behalf from the stairs as she made her way up with a tea tray and the swear jar. “Almost inseparable they were when we all first met. More like brothers.”

  “You’ve never mentioned him,” said Baxter, surprised.

  “Oh, I have, lass. The time our murder victim came back to life on us?” Finlay reminded her. “The time we made the largest drugs bust in Glasgow’s history? The time he took a bullet in the arse?”

  “They were all about him?” She had heard the stories so many times that she knew them off by heart.

  “Aye. Not that any of that makes him commissioner material in the slightest.”

  “He’s just jealous,” Maggie told Baxter as she rubbed Finlay’s balding head affectionately.

  “I’m not!” he said gruffly.

  “I think you’ll find that you are!” Maggie laughed. “They had a bit of a falling-out a long time ago,” she explained to Baxter, who raised her eyebrows, knowing the definition of a “falling-out” in Finlay’s dictionary. “Punches were thrown, as were tables and chairs. Insults were exchanged, as were broken bones.”

  “He didn’t break any of my bones,” Finlay mumbled.

  “Nose,” Maggie reminded him.

  “Doesn’t count.”

  “But they put all that behind them,” she assured Baxter, before turning back to her husband. “And it was you who got me in the end, wasn’t it?”

  Finlay squeezed her affectionately: “Aye. Aye.”

  Maggie gave him a kiss on the forehead and got up.

  “I’ll let you two talk,” she said, heading back downstairs.

  “Just because we’re old friends,” Finlay told Baxter, “it doesn’t mean you can trust him any more than any other pencil-pushing manager. Usual rules apply: stay well clear unless absolutely unavoidable. But if he does give you any hassle, you just send him to me.”

  Rouche was wide-awake. He had been staring into the darkness for hours, playing with the silver cross around his neck, thinking about the imminent operation. The din rising up off Wimbledon High Street had intensified as the weekend revelers filled the restaurants and bars, boozing away their self-restraint before making the journey from one overcrowded establishment to the next.

  He sighed and reached up to switch the bedside lamp on, illuminating the patch of Baxter’s bedroom floor that he had made his own. Giving up on his aspirations of a good night’s rest, he climbed out of the sleeping bag, dressed quickly, and headed out to find himself a drink.

  Thomas rolled over and patted the flat duvet beside him. He didn’t open his eyes right away, while his muddled thoughts struggled to remember whether Baxter had even come up in the first place. Eventually deciding that she probably had, he slid out of bed and headed downstairs to find her fast asleep in front of the television. A dated episode of QI was amusing itself, while the dregs of a Cabernet Sauvignon edged ever closer to the rim of the tilted wineglass in her hand.

  Thomas smiled down at her. She looked so peaceful. Her face had relaxed, removing
the persistent scowl from her expression, and she had curled up into a ball, taking up just one cushion of the three-seater sofa. He leaned over to scoop her up in his arms.

  A strained squeal later, she hadn’t moved an inch.

  He adjusted position and tried again.

  Perhaps it was the angle she was sitting at, perhaps the stodgy pasta bake he’d whipped up for dinner, or perhaps the fact that his biweekly games of badminton had failed to bulk him up as much as one might have hoped. In the end, he elected to leave her where she was. He draped her favorite blanket over her, turned up the heating a little, and kissed her on the forehead before going back upstairs.

  Chapter 29

  Sunday, 20 December 2015

  10:15 A.M.

  “This is bullshit!” Baxter snapped before hanging up the phone on Vanita.

  The rain had been hammering down all morning, playing havoc with the comms as she’d attempted to organize the four Armed Response Unit teams at her disposal. She was standing on the top level of a multistory car park that provided the FBI with an elevated view of the nearby hotel. She stormed over to Chase, who looked even bigger than usual, actually having reason to adorn himself in body armor for once.

  “You stood my officer down?” she yelled over the rain.

  Chase turned to her with a bored expression:

  “I did. We no longer require him,” he said dismissively as he headed back toward the surveillance unit. “It’s all in hand.”

  “Hey, I’m talking to you!” shouted Baxter, following him.

  “Look, I appreciate the Met lending us use of their men and resources, but this is an FBI operation, and unless I misunderstood your superior, there really is no reason for you to still be here.”

  Baxter opened her mouth to argue when Chase continued:

  “Rest assured, if we get anything of relevance out of Green, we will, of course, send it over to you.”

  “Send it over?” asked Baxter.

  They had reached the van. The rain was falling harder, creating a mist above the roof of the vehicle as the drops exploded against the metal. Chase pulled on the handle and slid the side door open to climb in, revealing a rack of monitors that showed three separate feeds from inside the conference hall.

  Baxter suddenly understood why her undercover officer was no longer required: Chase and his team had disregarded her order to stay away.

  “Oh, you arseholes!”

  “As I said, it’s all in hand,” said Chase unapologetically as Baxter stormed off.

  “Baxter!” he called after her. “If I see you or Agent Rouche trying to interfere with my operation, I will order my men to intercept and detain you!”

  Baxter emerged from the car park and jogged to her Audi out on the street. She climbed in and let out an angry scream of frustration.

  Rouche, bone-dry and halfway through a bag of Cadbury Crunchie Rocks, waited politely for her to finish.

  “Vanita has let Chase take charge of the operation. The whole place is rigged with cameras. They’ve stood Mitchell down. In fact, we’ve all been stood down,” was her abridged version of events.

  “She knows I don’t work for her, right?” asked Rouche, offering Baxter a chocolate to cheer her up.

  “Makes no odds. Chase’s threatened to ‘intercept’ and ‘detain’ us if we interfere, and I reckon he’s enough of a dick to make good on that promise too.”

  “And there was me thinking we were all on the same side.”

  “Where did you get that idea?” asked Baxter, exasperated. “Something Chase said didn’t sit quite right with me. I’m starting to get the distinct impression that the FBI are just going to grab Green and piss off straight back to the States, leaving us to clean up the rest of this mess.”

  Rouche nodded. He’d suspected much the same thing.

  They both stared out at the gloomy scene before them.

  “Twenty-eight minutes to go,” sighed Rouche.

  There was a knock against the driver’s window.

  Startled, Baxter turned to find Edmunds smiling back at her.

  “What the . . . ?”

  He jogged around the front of the car and opened the passenger door to find Rouche staring back at him.

  “Edmunds,” said Edmunds, holding out his wet hand.

  “Rouche,” said Rouche, shaking it. “I’ll just . . .” he suggested, pointing into the back.

  Rouche swapped seats, allowing Edmunds to climb in out of the rain. He moved a pair of ancient trainers, some oily Chinese takeaway packaging, and a novelty meter-long Jaffa Cake box onto the seat next to him.

  “What are you doing here?” Baxter asked her friend.

  “Helping.” Edmunds smiled. “Figured you could use it.”

  “Do you remember the part where I told you I didn’t need any help?”

  “Do you remember the part where you used both the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’?”

  “Ah.” Rouche nodded.

  She turned her angry gaze on him: “Ahhhhhhhh, what?” she demanded.

  “Well, you only use pleasantries when you’re lying,” he replied, looking to Edmunds for support.

  “Exactly,” agreed Edmunds. “Also, have you noticed the way that when she gives you a really good insult, she kind of nods to herself afterwards, as if to say, ‘Yeah, good one, me’?”

  Rouche laughed out loud: “She does do that.”

  They both fell silent as they interpreted the new expression that had formed on her face.

  “How did you find us?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “I’ve still got a few friends in Homicide,” said Edmunds.

  “Have you ever noticed the way that when you tell a lie, really stupid, unbelievable shit comes out of your mouth?” Baxter asked him, nodding subtly to herself. “You haven’t got any friends in Homicide. Everyone hates you.”

  “Harsh,” said Edmunds. “Fine—I might not have any friends there, but Finlay still does. He knew there was something up as well.”

  “Please God tell me you haven’t dragged Finlay into all this?”

  Edmunds looked a little guilty: “He’s parking the car.”

  “For Christ’s sake!”

  “So,” he said cheerfully, “why are we just sitting around?”

  There was a rustling sound from the backseat.

  “The FBI have shut us out,” Rouche told him through a mouthful of Jaffa Cake. “We need to know what’s going on in there, but they’ve stood down Baxter’s man and will arrest us if we interfere.”

  “Oh,” said Edmunds, absorbing half an hour’s worth of drama in just a few seconds. “OK. Keep your phone on, then,” he told them, before climbing back out into the rain.

  “Edmunds! Where are you going? Wait!”

  The car door slammed and they watched him walk away toward the entrance of the hotel.

  Rouche was impressed. He hadn’t believed anyone capable of handling Baxter so well.

  “You know, I quite like your ex-boss,” he told her, oblivious to his faux pas.

  “My . . . what?” she asked, turning on him.

  He cleared his throat. “Twenty-three minutes to go.”

  Edmunds was relieved to get out of the rain, until he remembered that by doing so, he had entered a building populated with murderous, self-mutilating cult members. With checkout time fast approaching, a seemingly endless stream of people was passing in and out of the hotel. He walked through the lobby, dirty footprints stalking him across the floor as he followed the modest signage. At the end of the corridor, a set of double doors stood open, leading to an apparently empty hall.

  Edmunds took out his phone and dialed Baxter, pretending to be searching his pockets for his key card should anyone be watching.

  “Is there another conference room?” he whispered in greeting.

  “No. Why?” asked Baxter.

  “It looks completely empty from where I’m standing.”

  “And where are you standing?”

 
“Down the corridor. Ten meters away.”

  “There’s still twenty minutes before it’s due to start.”

  “And not one person has showed?”

  “You don’t know that for sure. How much of the room can you see?”

  Edmunds took a few steps forward, glancing behind him to ensure he was alone.

  “Not much . . . I’m going to take a closer look.”

  “No! Don’t do that!” panicked Baxter. “If you’re wrong . . . if anybody’s in there, you could blow the whole thing.”

  Edmunds ignored her and continued toward the silent room. More of the vacant seating came into view.

  “Still no one,” he reported under his breath.

  “Edmunds!”

  “I’m going in.”

  “Don’t!”

  He passed through the double doors and stepped into the completely empty conference hall. He looked around in confusion.

  “There’s no one here,” he told Baxter, equal parts relieved and concerned.

  He spotted a piece of white paper taped up to the inside of the door and walked over to read it, only then noticing the mobile phone placed subtly against the frame—one beady eye, a camera, facing toward him, no doubt streaming his image elsewhere. Yet another set of eyes watching the empty room.

  “Oh shit,” he said.

  “What?” asked Baxter down the phone. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’ve moved it.”

  “What?”

  “They’ve moved the meeting . . . to the City Oasis, across the road,” said Edmunds, already running back out. “We’re in the wrong building!”

  Chapter 30

  Sunday, 20 December 2015

  10:41 A.M.

  Edmunds burst from the Sycamore’s lobby, afraid that he might have just blown the entire operation. At least whoever was watching would have seen only a lone civilian entering the hall, which had to be preferable to an armed tactical team.

  Before being drowned out by the weather, he had heard Baxter relaying his discovery to the FBI. He held his phone in his hand, the call still connected, as he rushed across the busy road and entered through the revolving glass doors of the City Oasis Hotel.

  Marble pillars lined the grand reception area, a coachless coach-load of people scattered across the space as they sheltered from the rain.