by Daniel Cole
‘This is beautiful,’ laughed Elijah excitedly as the photograph he had just purchased for two thousand pounds was projected onto the conference room wall. ‘And I mean beautiful.’
Andrea was holding her hand over her mouth and was grateful that no one else in the darkened room could see the tears rolling down her cheeks. The picture was anything but beautiful; in fact, it was probably the saddest thing that she had ever seen: a black-and-white photograph of Wolf on his knees, lit beneath a solitary streetlight, the sparkling rain and car headlights reflecting off the puddles and shop windows like stage lights. She had seen Wolf cry perhaps two or three times during their marriage and each time it had broken her heart.
This was so much worse.
He was sat in the flooded road beside the mangled body of an older woman, still gently holding her bloodied hand as he stared into space with a look of utter defeat painted across his face.
He was broken.
Andrea glanced around at the faces of her colleagues: smiling, applauding, laughing. She could feel herself shaking in anger and disgust. At that moment she despised each and every one of them and wondered whether she would have worn the same delighted look had she not once loved the man in the photograph. She was disturbed to admit that she might.
‘Who’s the roadkill?’ Elijah asked the room to a series of shrugs and shaking heads. ‘Andrea?’
Andrea focused on the image, attempting to hide her eyes from the others.
‘How would I know who that poor lady is?’
‘Your ex-husband seems keen on her,’ said Elijah.
‘A little too keen,’ the balding producer in the corner of the room shouted out to the amusement of the others.
‘Thought you might recognise her,’ finished Elijah.
‘Well, I don’t,’ said Andrea as pleasantly as she could, although, several people shared surprised looks.
‘No matter. It’s TV gold either way,’ said Elijah, unfazed by her tone. ‘We’ll open with the photograph and the counter ticking down the hours that Rana, or whatever his name is, has to live. We’ll do a bit about the ongoing search for him and then back to the photograph for speculation and fabrication.’
Everyone in the room apart from Andrea chuckled.
‘Who is this woman? Why’s the lead detective on the Ragdoll case at a traffic accident rather than searching for the next victim? Or was this somehow connected to the murders? The usual.’ Elijah waited expectantly. ‘Anything else?’
‘“Hashtag: notonthelist” is trending right now,’ said an irritating young man, who Andrea had never seen without a phone in his hand, ‘and our Death Clock app’s been downloaded over fifty thousand times already.’
‘Shit. Should’ve charged for it,’ cursed Elijah. ‘How’s the Ragdoll emoji coming?’
Another man tentatively slid a piece of paper across the table to him. Elijah picked it up and stared at it in confusion.
‘It’s hard to capture the full extent of the horror in a cartoon,’ the nervy man explained defensively.
‘It’ll do,’ Elijah told him, tossing the picture back in his direction. ‘But lose the boobs. Bit inappropriate for the kids, don’t you think?’
Apparently satisfied that he had done his good deed for the decade, Elijah adjourned the meeting. Andrea was the first to get up and leave the conference room. She was not sure herself whether she was going to head down to make-up or carry straight on out through the exit. She only knew that she desperately wanted to see Wolf.
Simmons stood staring at the enormous Ragdoll collages on the meeting room wall. He looked immaculate, wearing full dress uniform, apart from the deep scuff to his right shoe that he had not been able to polish out. He had damaged the leather while furiously kicking the metal filing cabinet in his office just minutes after seeing his friend lying charred and still on the flooded interview room floor. It seemed fitting, somehow, to wear them that afternoon, a private symbol of loss and friendship in what was sure to be an impersonally regimented and formal affair.
The service for Mayor Turnble was due to take place at St Margaret’s, in the grounds of Westminster Abbey, at 1 p.m., his family having requested a private funeral at a later date once the body was released. Before that, Simmons was scheduled to hold a press conference to confirm the deaths of Vijay Rana and Elizabeth Tate. He was struggling to keep his temper in check as the PR team bickered amongst themselves regarding the best way to put a ‘positive spin’ on the situation.
Simmons watched as Georgina Tate was led out of the interview room that he had not yet worked up the courage to return to and was not at all sure he ever would. He would never forget the sight of his friend’s blistered and peeling face, and he could still smell burning flesh whenever he revisited the unwelcome memory.
‘OK, how about this: focusing on the fact that we managed to stop this Tate woman,’ suggested a lanky young man, who looked about fifteen years old to Simmons, ‘one less killer out on our streets, isn’t it?’
Simmons slowly turned round to face the three-person team, armed with their charts and graphs, highlighted sections of the morning’s newspapers glowing like the toxic waste that it was. He went to say something, shook his head in blatant disgust, and left the room.
CHAPTER 14
Wednesday 2 July 2014
11.35 a.m.
Baxter took a District line train to Tower Hill and unenthusiastically followed Jarred Garland’s vague directions away from the station. Keeping the Tower of London on her left, she set off down the congested main road. Why they couldn’t have met either at his home (where he should have been, sheltering under police protection), or at the newspaper offices, was beyond her.
In an unexpected turn of events, the amoral, self-publicising, rabble-rousing journalist had requested that she meet him at a church. She wondered whether Garland had turned to religion in his final days, as so many do. If she had believed in anything, she was sure that she would have found the brazen cheek of these curtain-call epiphanies mildly insulting.
The dark clouds overhead were beginning to break, allowing the sun to warm the city for a few intermittent minutes at a time. After ten minutes of walking she caught sight of a tall church tower and turned down the next side street. As she came round the corner, with bright sunshine flickering down on her, her mouth dropped open.
The pristine church tower of St Dunstan’s in the East loomed high above its own ruined walls. Thick, vibrant trees sprouted up through an imaginary roof and out through the tall arched windows, while climbing plants had tangled themselves up the stone walls only to spill back over the other side in dense formations that cast strange shadows across the intimate gardens. It looked like something plucked from a children’s story: the secret wood in the city, hidden in plain sight, invisible from the dull office buildings that stood with their backs to it.
Baxter entered through the metal gates, stepped into the ruined church and followed the gentle trickle of water beneath an enormous archway, strangled in thick vines, to a cobbled courtyard built around a small fountain. A couple were attempting to take a photograph of themselves and an overweight woman was feeding the pigeons. She walked over to the solitary figure sitting quietly in the far corner.
‘Jarred Garland?’ she asked.
The man looked up in surprise. He was a similar age to Baxter, dressed in a fitted shirt with the sleeves folded up and was moderately attractive with a clean-shaven face and overly styled hair. He looked her up and down with an arrogant smile.
‘Well, today just got a whole lot better,’ he said with a strong East End accent. ‘Have a seat.’
When he patted the space to his right, Baxter sat down to his left. Garland smiled broadly at this.
‘Why don’t you wipe that stupid grin off your face and tell me why we couldn’t meet at your office?’ Baxter snapped.
‘Newspapers don’t really like having detectives snooping around their offices if they can help it. Why couldn’t we meet at yours?’
‘Because detectives don’t really like having smug, shit-stirring, opportunistic journalists …’ She pulled a face as she sniffed the air, ‘wearing awful aftershave snooping around their offices, full stop.’
‘You’ve read my column, then?’
‘Not by choice.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘So what did you think?’
‘What’s that saying about not biting …?’ Baxter trailed off.
‘Don’t bite the hand that feeds you?’
‘No, that’s not it. Oh yeah: don’t bite the hand of the only protection you’ve got standing between you and a prolific, ruthless, genius, serial killer.’
This time, a smirk formed over Garland’s boyish features.
‘You know, I’ve already started on today’s article. I begin by congratulating the Met on yet another successful execution.’
Baxter wondered how much trouble she would land herself in were she to punch the man that she was supposed to be protecting.
‘But that’s not entirely true, is it? You outdid yourselves. Detective Fawkes scored you a two-for-one!’
Baxter did not respond and glanced around the gardens. Garland must have thought he had hit a nerve; in fact, she was actually checking for witnesses should she lose her temper.
The sun had disappeared behind a cloud while they were talking, and the secret garden had taken on a more sinister appearance in the shade. Suddenly the image of a house of God being ripped apart from the inside out felt a little discomforting, its strong walls crumbling in the hold of the snakelike vines, dragging it piece by piece down into the earth, irrefutable proof that there was nobody left in this godless city that cared enough to save it.
Having thoroughly ruined her newest picnic spot for herself, Baxter turned back to Garland and spotted the top of a thin black box poking out of his shirt.
‘Oh, you arsehole!’ said Baxter as she snatched the mini-recorder from his pocket. A red recording light was flashing.
‘Hey, you can’t—’
Baxter smashed it onto the cobbled floor and ground it beneath her heel for good measure.
‘S’pose I deserved that,’ admitted Garland with surprising good grace.
‘Look, this is how this works: you’ve got two police officers posted outside your house. Use them. Wolf will be in touch tomorrow—’
‘I don’t want him. I want you.’
‘Not an option.’
‘Look, Detective, this is how this works: I am not a prisoner. I have not been arrested. The Metropolitan Police have no hold over me, and I am under no obligation to accept their help. And, in the nicest way possible, you don’t have the best track record so far. I will be willing to work with you on this, but on my own terms. First: I want you.’
Baxter stood up, in no mood to negotiate.
‘Second: I want to fake my own death.’
Baxter rubbed her temple and winced, as though Garland’s stupidity was causing her physical pain.
‘Think about it. If I’m already dead, the killer can’t kill me. We’d have to do it realistically, though, like in front of an audience.’
‘You could be on to something,’ said Baxter.
Garland’s face lit up as she sat back down beside him.
‘We could swap your face with John Travolta’s … Oh no, wait, that was a movie. How about we teleport … no. Got it: we hire a jet fighter, I think Wolf’s got that category on his licence, and we blow a helicopter out of the—’
‘Hardy-har-har,’ said Garland, a little embarrassed. ‘I feel you’re not taking me seriously.’
‘That’s because I’m not.’
‘My life’s at stake,’ said Garland, and, for the first time, Baxter thought she could hear fear and self-pity in his voice.
‘Then go home,’ she said.
She got back up and walked away.
‘Thank you so much, I really appreciate it. You too. Bye.’
Edmunds put down the receiver just as Baxter returned to the office following her meeting with Garland. He pinched his leg painfully beneath the desk to ensure that he was not smiling when she came over.
She hated it when he smiled.
She sat down at her computer, huffed loudly, and began sweeping crumbs off her keyboard and into her hand.
‘Did you actually eat any of whatever this was?’ she snapped.
He decided not to mention that he had been far too busy to take lunch and that she was holding the remnants of her own breakfast granola bar. Baxter glanced up to find him watching her patiently with a strained look on his face. He looked as though he might explode with excitement.
‘OK, let’s hear it,’ she sighed.
‘Collins and Hunter. It’s a family-run law firm based in Surrey with several specialist branches and partnerships scattered across the country. They have a long-standing tradition of presenting their employees with a ring …’ Edmunds held up the evidence bag containing the thick platinum ring. ‘This precise ring, in fact, after five years of service.’
‘You’re sure?’ asked Baxter.
‘Yes.’
‘That can’t leave us a big list to choose from.’
‘Twenty to thirty at the most, according to the lady I spoke to. She’s sending me the complete list, including contact details, this afternoon.’
‘It’s about time we caught a break,’ Baxter smiled.
Edmunds was amazed how different she looked when she was happy.
‘How did it go with Garland?’
‘He wants us to kill him. Drink?’
Baxter’s shocking response was only eclipsed by her offer to make him a drink. It had never happened before and Edmunds panicked.
‘Tea,’ he blurted out.
He hated tea.
Five minutes later Baxter returned to their shared desk and set a milky tea down in front of him. She had evidently forgotten (or never listened in the first place) that Edmunds was lactose intolerant. He pretended to sip it with exaggerated delight.
‘What time’s Simmons due back?’ she asked. ‘I need to talk to him about this Garland situation.’
‘Three, I think.’
‘Did they get anything out of Georgina Tate?’ Baxter asked him.
‘Not much,’ replied Edmunds, consulting his notebook. ‘Caucasian. But we knew that already. Scars covering his right forearm.’ It took him a moment to decipher his own scribble at the bottom of the page. ‘Oh yeah. You had a call while you were out: Eve Chambers. She said you had the number.’
‘Eve phoned?’ asked Baxter, puzzled that Chambers’ wife had returned her call.
‘She sounded quite distressed.’
Baxter immediately took out her mobile phone. Unable to speak in private with Edmunds sitting two feet away, she got up and moved on to Chambers’ vacant desk. The phone was answered on the second ring.
‘Emily,’ said a relieved voice.
‘Eve? Is everything all right?’
‘Oh yes, I’m sure it is, my love. Just me fretting like the silly old bugger I am. It’s just … I got your answerphone message yesterday.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ said Baxter awkwardly.
‘Oh, not to worry. I presumed it was just a mix-up at your end, but then Ben never came home last night.’
Baxter was confused: ‘Never came home from where, Eve?’
‘Well, from work, dear.’
Baxter sat up a little straighter, suddenly alert, and carefully considered her reply so not to unduly worry the kind-hearted woman on the other end of the phone.
‘When did you get back from holiday?’ Baxter asked conversationally.
‘Yesterday morning, and Ben had already left for work by the time I got home. No food in the fridge, no note to say welcome home … That man!’
Eve let out a strained laugh. Baxter rubbed her head. She was getting more confused every time Eve opened her mouth and was trying not to get stroppy with her.
/> ‘OK, why did you get back home later than Chamb— … than Ben?’
‘I’m sorry, my love. I don’t understand.’
‘When did Ben get back from holiday?’ Baxter almost yelled.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line before Eve’s angst-ridden voice replied in a hoarse whisper:
‘He didn’t come on holiday.’
During the stunned silence, in which Baxter struggled to form any useful thoughts, Eve started to weep down the phone. Chambers had already been missing for over two weeks without a single person realising. Baxter could feel her heart racing, her throat drying up.
‘Do you think something’s happened to him?’
‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ said Baxter unconvincingly. ‘Eve?’
Only distant crying answered her.
‘Eve, I need to know why Ben didn’t come on holiday with you … Eve?’
She was losing her.
‘Because he wouldn’t shut up about it to me,’ continued Baxter in the most light-hearted tone she could muster. ‘He was showing me pictures of your sister’s house on the beach and the restaurant on stilts. He was really looking forward to it, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes dear, he was. But he rang me at the house on the morning we were due to fly out. I was all packed up and waiting for him. He’d been in to see Dr Sami first thing to collect his medication and ended up getting himself admitted to hospital for “observations”. He sent me a message the following day to say he’d been given the all-clear and was heading back into work.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘He said he loved me and that he’d been having some problems with his leg of late. Hadn’t wanted to worry me. I said I’d stay, of course, but he was absolutely adamant that I go rather than waste the money. We had an argument about it.’
Eve began to cry again.
‘His leg, Eve?’
Baxter recalled Chambers walking with a slight limp at times, but she had never seen it severe enough to cause a problem or heard him complain about it.