by Daniel Cole
‘He’s already in.’
‘Oh! Did he hear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Arse.’
The police officer could not leave the uncomfortable situation quickly enough and rushed outside to join her colleague. Wolf could hear things scraping, spraying, and shutting behind the thin partition wall and sniffed himself self-consciously as he stood in front of the wall of photos. They were simple, genuine: a recurring beautiful woman at the beach with friends, sitting in a park with an elderly man, at Legoland with what looked to be her young son. His heart sank as he stared at the two delighted faces on what had obviously been a perfect day.
‘That’s Jordan. He’s six now,’ said a voice behind him in the attractive accent that sounded a million miles away from Finlay’s rasping tones.
Wolf turned to find the same stunning woman from the photographs towel-drying her dark blonde hair in the bathroom doorway. She had clearly just thrown on a pair of tiny denim shorts and a light grey vest top. Wolf’s gaze lingered over her glistening long legs before returning to the photograph in embarrassment.
‘Don’t be creepy,’ he whispered to himself.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said: where is he?’
‘I’m pretty sure you said: “don’t be creepy”.’
‘Nope.’ Wolf shook his head innocently.
Ashley gave him a funny look.
‘I sent him off to my mum’s after … Well, after the deranged serial killer threatened to murder us all, to be quite frank.’
Wolf was making a valiant effort not to stare at her legs.
‘Ashley,’ she said, holding her hand out to him.
He was forced to walk over to her, to smell the strawberry shampoo that she had just washed out of her hair, to notice her bright hazel eyes and spot the dark patches on her top where her damp skin had soaked through the thin material.
‘Fawkes,’ he said, after almost crushing her delicate hand in his. He stepped back as quickly as he could.
‘Not William?’
‘Not William.’
‘Then you can call me Lochlan,’ she said with a smirk, before looking him up and down.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. It’s just … you look different in person.’
‘Well, the press only photograph me if I’m standing next to a dead body, so … sad face.’
‘You’re not trying to tell me that this is your take on a happy face?’ Ashley asked, laughing.
‘This?’ said Wolf. ‘No. This is my been up for a week, misunderstood hero, possibly the only person brave and smart enough to catch a genius serial killer, face.’
Ashley laughed: ‘Is that right?’
Wolf shrugged as she stared at him, intrigued.
‘Breakfast?’ she suggested.
‘What have you got?’
‘The best café in the world just down the road.’
‘One: the best café in the world is Sid’s, round the corner from mine. And two: you’re under home protection. You can’t leave.’
‘You’ll protect me,’ she said dismissively as she started pulling windows closed.
Wolf was torn. He knew that he should not indulge her, but he was enjoying their conversation and did not want to do anything to ruin it.
‘I’ll just put some shoes on,’ she said as she headed towards the bedroom.
‘You could consider some trousers too,’ he suggested.
Ashley stopped and looked at him in mock offence. She caught him glancing back down at her legs again before looking away.
‘Why? Am I making you nervous?’
‘Far from it,’ said Wolf indifferently. ‘You just look horrible. Bleh! I can’t take you out with me looking like that.’
Ashley laughed again at his unconvincing insult. She walked over to the clothes horse, untucked her vest top so that it dropped to the top of her thighs, and then slid out of the denim shorts. Wolf was too stunned to even try to look away. She then wriggled into a pair of skintight ripped stonewash jeans before effortlessly scooping her hair up into a messy ponytail that only made her look more attractive.
‘Better?’ she asked him.
‘Not in any way,’ he answered honestly.
She smirked. She never behaved like this, but, with possibly only three days to live, she was enjoying flirting with the man who only had five days left himself. Sliding her feet into a pair of well-worn Converse All Stars, she grabbed her keys off the kitchen table.
‘How do you feel about heights?’ she asked him quietly.
‘Don’t want to fall off them,’ he replied, confused.
Ashley grinned. She tiptoed past the front door, walked out onto the balcony and then turned back to Wolf:
‘Shall we?’
Wolf felt that Ashley had overhyped the dismal little café. The contents of his fry-up seemed to have a life of its own as the various items glided across the plate over a film of grease. Ashley had not even managed to finish her toast. He suspected that she had merely wanted an excuse to get out of the flat and had never actually been inside before, doubting that anybody would make the same mistake twice.
‘No offence, Lochlan, but this café is—’
‘I work here.’
‘… good. It’s good.’
They had attracted a number of looks on their short journey down the high street, although Wolf could not be sure whether this was people recognising them or simply staring at Ashley. They had chosen a spot beside the window, as far away from the other steel-gutted patrons as possible, and talked easily about nothing in particular for over twenty minutes.
‘I’ve been worried about you,’ blurted Ashley when Wolf had believed they were still on the subject of favourite Bon Jovi albums.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘How are you … dealing with everything?’
‘Let me get this straight. You’re due to die in three days’ time and you’re worrying about me?’ asked Wolf, seizing the opportunity to put his cutlery down.
‘You’re due to die in five days’ time,’ she shrugged.
This caught him off guard. He had been so caught up with the investigation that he had not realised how quickly his own big day was approaching.
‘I’ve been watching the news a lot,’ said Ashley. ‘There’s not much else to do when you’re locked up in four rooms. It’s like watching a cat playing with a mouse, and the more destroyed you look, the more whoever’s doing this seems to tease you.’
‘I didn’t know I had a destroyed look,’ joked Wolf.
‘You do,’ Ashley said simply. ‘What happened to those people, whatever happens to me, it’s not your fault.’
Wolf let out an involuntary snort. She was wasting her time trying to make him feel better.
‘You seem weirdly OK about the whole thing,’ he said.
‘I’m a strong advocate for fate.’
‘Not to burst your bubble, but from what I’ve seen, if there is a god we have a serious problem because he is not on our side.’
‘It’s good I’m not talking about God then. Just – things have a funny way of working out.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as life bringing you here to me this morning: two people who should never have met, so that I finally have the chance to atone for something I did years ago.’
Wolf was intrigued. Instinctively, he looked around to ensure that no one was listening in. He had been so captivated by Ashley that he had almost forgotten where they were. The flawless woman looked preposterously out of place in such dour surroundings. It was the polar opposite to watching Andrew Ford squatting in the lavish embassy.
‘Promise you’ll let me finish before you … just promise.’
Wolf folded his arms defensively and leaned back in his chair. They both knew that Edmunds had found the five thousand pounds from Vijay Rana’s account.
‘Four years ago I was working in a pub in Woolwich. It was a rough period for us. Jordan was only one and I was tryin
g to separate from his father, who was not a nice man at all. I could only work part-time while my mum looked after Jordan.
‘Vijay was a regular there. He’d come in most lunchtimes and we were quite friendly. On more than one occasion he’d seen me in tears about money or the divorce. He was a kind man. He used to leave me ten-pound tips, which I’d try to give back to him, but he wanted to help. It meant a lot.’
‘Maybe he wanted something more than just to help,’ said Wolf bitterly. He had no love for Khalid’s brother.
‘He wasn’t like that. He had a family. So, one day he came to me with a proposition. He told me that a friend of his was in trouble with the police but that he knew they were innocent. He offered me five thousand pounds just to say that I had seen someone on my walk home at a specific time. That’s it.’
‘You gave the false statement?’ Wolf asked darkly.
‘I was desperate – and I’m ashamed to say that I agreed to do it. I didn’t think it could really make that much of a difference, and at the time me and Jordan had about fifteen pounds to our name.’
‘It made all the difference.’
Wolf had lost any trace of affection for Ashley and watched her with furious eyes.
‘That’s the thing. As soon as I realised it was the Cremation Killer case that I had lied about, I panicked.’ Ashley was becoming tearful. ‘I wouldn’t help someone accused of the things that man was walk free for all the money in the world. I went straight round to Vijay’s house, you’ve got to believe me, and I told him I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t mention his involvement or the money. I’d just say that I was mistaken.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He tried to talk me out of it, but I think he understood. On the way home, I called the law firm that had been present for my witness statement.’
‘Collins and Hunter.’
‘And I got put through to one of the senior lawyers.’
‘Michael Gable-Collins?’
‘Yes!’ said Ashley, surprised.
It had not yet been made public that he was dead.
‘I told him that I needed to retract my statement and he started threatening me. He began reeling off the charges that I was guilty of: contempt of court, impeding a police investigation, perhaps even an accomplice to the murders! He asked me if I wanted to go to prison, and when I told him about Jordan he said social services would be involved and that they might even take him away from me.’
Ashley was visibly shaken just from the memory of this terrifying conversation. Despite himself, Wolf handed her a napkin.
‘It was too high-profile a case for his firm to lose, no matter what the cost,’ said Wolf.
‘He told me to keep my “stupid mouth shut” and said he’d do all in his power to keep me out of the courtroom. That was the last I ever heard about it directly. Then I watched the events unfold and what you did to try to stop the man that I had helped free, and I – I am so, so sorry.’
Wolf silently got up from the table, took out his wallet and dropped a ten-pound note next to his half-full plate.
‘It’s not me you need to apologise to,’ he said.
Ashley burst into tears.
Wolf walked out of the café, leaving the endangered woman, whose safety he was responsible for, sitting in the corner alone.
CHAPTER 25
Wednesday 9 July 2014
10.20 a.m.
Edmunds felt drunk on exhaustion. He had eventually left the archives at 6 a.m. and had been sitting at his shared desk in the office less than an hour later. His hopes for a doze before the department filled up with those fortunate enough to be working the more sociable shifts had been scuppered when Simmons heaved himself into the chair beside him at 7.05 a.m. Showing a work ethic and obsessive streak only surpassed by Edmunds’ own, he had given himself a head start on the day to complete his enquiries regarding the remaining seven names on the list.
Edmunds sent Tia a text to say that he missed her and was going to do his best to get back on time that evening. He had even suggested that they go out for something to eat. He had hesitated before pressing send. The idea of committing himself to additional hours of exhaustion was unappealing, but he thought he should make the effort and was feeling guilty about his innocent, but no less reprehensible, stakeout lie.
After revealing his expertise in criminal communiqués during the initial team meeting, he had unofficially become the department’s criminal behaviourist, a role for which he was neither qualified nor being financially rewarded. The commander had requested he prepare a report on the latest note that the killer had so daringly placed on Wolf’s person.
It had not taken Joe long to ascertain that the bloody fingerprint from the note was a match to the sample taken from the barbed wire fencing. Edmunds could, therefore, confidently conclude that the message was no more than another taunt. The killer was demonstrating the insignificance of his misstep in Wales and had literally handed them a sample of his own DNA to prove just how incapable they were of stopping him. The fact that he had chosen to deliver the message in person indicated the heightened degree of his growing god complex and suggested to Edmunds that he intended it all to end spectacularly in just five days’ time.
He woke with a start. His half-typed report waited on the screen in front of him, the cursor flashing impatiently at the end of his last word. The screensaver had not even activated. He must have only closed his eyes for a moment but somehow felt even worse for it. Offering to make Simmons a drink, he went into the kitchen. While he waited for the kettle to boil, he splashed cold water on his face over the mug-filled sink.
‘You didn’t get hit again?’
Edmunds finished drying his face to catch Baxter stealing his hot water. The heavy bags beneath his eyes emphasised the bruises left by his broken nose.
‘Is Tia knocking you around?’ she asked in mock concern.
‘I told you, I tripped over the cat.’
‘OK. Did you “trip over the cat” again?’
‘No. I’ve just not slept.’
‘Because?’
He had managed to keep his visits to the archives secret until this point. He considered finally confiding in Baxter but then decided against it.
‘Sofa,’ he said, knowing that she would readily accept his relationship troubles as sufficient explanation. ‘What are you working on today?’
‘Some bloke jumped off Waterloo Bridge and drowned. Left a note and everything. Quite possibly the most straightforward suicide in history, except that some CSI-watching constable has, for no good reason, declared that it looks suspicious. After that, we’ve got to head over to Bloomsbury for a puddle of blood. The guy’s probably taken himself down to A & E: mystery solved.’
She sighed heavily, however Edmunds thought it sounded far more interesting than his day was shaping up to be.
‘Have you seen Wolf?’ she asked.
‘He’s not been in.’
Blake appeared in the kitchen doorway. He had started wearing a suit and combing his hair since being partnered with Baxter.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Gotta go,’ said Baxter, pouring away her coffee and adding the mug to the already precariously stacked pile in the sink.
Andrea had just got off the phone with Wolf when she stepped out of the taxi. It had been a decidedly unsuccessful conversation, courtesy of the car noise at her end and the background chatter of whichever busy high street he had been walking down at the time.
She had wanted to check in with him. The production team at the newsroom were already making preparations for the rapidly approaching concluding day of the Ragdoll saga. Unfortunately Wolf had been in no mood to speak to her.
He criticised her and her team for broadcasting Andrew Ford’s precise location in the embassy and, perhaps unfairly, accused her of facilitating the killer’s manipulation of an already paranoid and unhinged mind by televising the protest. She listened to his lecture without argument, even though it had been
completely irrational, as every news channel in the world had done the same.
When she had suggested that she buy him dinner, he told her to leave him alone and abruptly hung up. Although she would never vocalise it, she was angry with him for being so petty and judgemental during what might well have been one of their last-ever interactions. It was obvious from the way he had been talking that the idea of not surviving to see next Tuesday had scarcely crossed his mind, making her wonder whether he had finally stepped across the blurred line between optimism and denial.
Elijah was pressuring her for an answer regarding the promotion and it had occupied the majority of her thoughts ever since their meeting. She felt frustrated with herself for the disparity of her indecision. At any given moment she could either be determined to hand in her notice and walk away with what little remained of her moral integrity, or resolute on accepting the position that would be filled with or without her.
She and Geoffrey had discussed it the night before, sitting in the late-evening sun on the patio of their small but beautifully landscaped, garden. As with all things in their relationship, he had made no attempt to influence her decision. It was what made them work so well together. He respected Andrea’s independence, that she had grown so accustomed to during her marriage to Wolf. She and Geoffrey chose to spend time together, but they never needed to.
Geoffrey had been watching the Ragdoll story unfold with the rest of the world and had never so much as raised an eyebrow at Andrea’s sensationalist reporting style, her groundless conjecture, or even the Death Clock, which even she considered a grotesquely shameful gimmick. He had only ever asked that she be careful. His shelves full of war books had taught him that, throughout history, messengers were chosen for their ability to communicate, the speed with which they could reach the intended ear and, more troublingly, their expendability.
Geoffrey listened patiently as the temperature dropped and the strategically positioned garden lights were activated one by one in the falling darkness. He had made the argument that, if she were to take the promotion, her decision would be purely driven by ambition. They did not need the money and she had already established herself as a credible and talented reporter. As perceptive as ever, he had suggested that she speak to Wolf, realising that his opinion was the only one that truly mattered to her on the subject.