Ragdoll

by Daniel Cole

  Edmunds had barely been listening. Bar the few hours of involuntary sleep that his body had forced upon him in the dark archives, he had basically been up for four days straight. He was starting to suffer with the side effects of his obsession. He could barely concentrate on anything for more than a few moments and was regularly losing periods of time, five minutes here, ten there, staring blankly into space. He had developed a slight twitch in his left eye and was suffering with several painful mouth ulcers, a sign that he was feeling run-down.

  He had completed his task of sorting through every evidence box that Wolf had signed out over the years and had found something deeply troubling amongst the other routine investigations. For a period between 2012–13, Wolf had looked into seven archived files that clearly resembled their killer’s distinctive methods. One of the autopsies had even cited triflic acid as the cause of the ‘horrific internal injuries’.

  It was clear that Wolf had been hunting a serial killer, and yet there was no open case file linking the murders together and not one document relating to his investigations included in any of the boxes. He had been trailing this unnamed killer in secret, but why?

  It had occurred to Edmunds that the period in question would have been shortly after Wolf’s reinstatement. Disregarding all protocols and procedures, perhaps he had wanted to catch this killer alone to prove himself after all of the controversy and allegations that had ripped his reputation to shreds. Perhaps he had even wanted to prove it to himself.

  That still did not explain why he had not shared this invaluable information with them once the Ragdoll murders began. There was no way that he had not recognised his killer’s telltale signs.

  Edmunds desperately needed to speak to Baxter about it all.

  ‘We’re still no closer to identifying who would want all of these people dead,’ said Vanita in frustration. Her way of stating the facts sounded more like an accusation of incompetence. ‘None of the relatives of Khalid’s victims are flagging up as the vigilante type.’

  Simmons handed Edmunds the pile of articles written by Garland and he began flicking through them.

  ‘Chambers still doesn’t link to Khalid in any way,’ Baxter pointed out. She was now able to bring up her friend’s name without getting overly angry or upset.

  One of the articles caught Edmunds’ attention. Garland had interviewed Mayor Turnble and the piece was about as damning and slanderous as the newspaper could confidently print without winding up in court. The mayor had been busy promoting his new strategies and had openly invited the ‘victimised’ Naguib Khalid to assist him in finalising his new Policing and Crime Policy report. Garland had purposely asked leading questions with which to encourage the mayor’s increasingly vehement attack on the Met’s most disgraced detective.

  ‘Almost looks like Will’s hit list,’ quipped Finlay. ‘If he wasn’t on it, of course.’

  ‘Faustian, you could say,’ smiled Simmons.

  Finlay chuckled.

  Edmunds slowly lowered the article he had been reading and turned to Finlay. An incoherent thought began to form somewhere within his fatigued mind. He glanced back down at the article in his lap and then up at the flipchart in the centre of the room.

  All of a sudden, something clicked.

  It all finally made sense.

  ‘It’s Wolf!’ he gasped, dropping the articles on the floor and pressing his hands firmly against his temple, forcing his disjointed thoughts into order.

  ‘I was joking,’ said Finlay uncomfortably.

  The others shared concerned looks as Edmunds started mumbling names to himself. He leapt up out of his seat and laughed.

  ‘We’ve been so blind,’ he said. He started pacing up and down. ‘I’ve been wrong this entire time. Khalid was never the key; it’s Wolf. It was Wolf all along!’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Edmunds?’ asked Baxter. ‘Wolf’s one of us.’

  Finlay pulled a face and shook his head at her reassuringly.

  Edmunds ripped the completed list of victims off the flipchart and let it drop to the floor.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Simmons, but Vanita gestured to let Edmunds continue.

  He started scribbling excitedly.

  1. The Cremation Killer – Wolf obsessed – already tried to kill once

  2. The defence lawyer – discredited Wolf’s evidence – got Khalid cleared

  3. The law firm boss – knew the witness statement was fake

  4. The probation officer – inexperienced – allowed Khalid to kill again

  5. The juror – leaking sensitive information to Garland

  6. Chambers –

  7. Mayor – shamelessly used Wolf before and after Khalid killed final girl

  8. Khalid’s brother – paid Lochlan for fake witness statement

  9. Journalist – printed lies about Wolf, used information to influence public/jury

  10. Security officer – saved Khalid’s life, broke Wolf’s wrist

  11. The witness – lied for money, contradicted Wolf’s evidence

  12. Wolf – the deception

  ‘This is ridiculous, right?’ said Baxter. She looked to her colleagues for support. ‘I mean, none of you is actually buying any of this crap?’

  ‘Chambers?’ Edmunds asked her. ‘What’s the missing link?’

  ‘It seems awfully convenient that Wolf roughs you up a bit yesterday and now, all of a sudden, you start accusing him of – I don’t even know what,’ she replied.

  ‘Chambers?’ Edmunds repeated.

  ‘There’s no connection,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘What’s the link?’ Edmunds shouted at her, dominating the room.

  ‘I told you, nothing!’

  Finlay cleared his throat and turned to her. Baxter scowled at him.

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it either, lass, but we need to go along with it to get it sorted out,’ he said.

  Baxter refused to talk.

  ‘Will always believed Ben sent the letter,’ said Finlay.

  ‘Which letter?’

  ‘The one to Professional Standards,’ Finlay continued, ‘saying he was obsessed and unstable and advising his reassignment.’

  Finlay glanced back at Baxter, but she would not even look at him.

  ‘It was the final nail in the coffin when it got read out in court,’ recalled Simmons, who was looking increasingly troubled. ‘That letter saved Khalid.’

  ‘These are substantial allegations, DC Edmunds,’ said Vanita, stating the obvious. ‘Substantial allegations require substantial proof.’

  Edmunds remembered something. He was already flicking through the pages of his notebook. He started paraphrasing:

  ‘28 June – guard duty outside interview room. Overheard discussion between Mayor Turnble and DS Fawkes: “I understand. You were all just doing your jobs: the press, the lawyers, the hero that shattered my wrist and pulled me off Khalid.”’

  ‘Fawkes said that?’ asked Simmons in concern.

  ‘Word for word,’ said Edmunds. ‘He named three of our victims before we had even started looking into them.’

  ‘It’s not enough,’ said Vanita. ‘Not to invite the shit storm that’s going to hit us if we go down this path.’

  Edmunds walked out of the meeting room and returned with the first of the archived evidence boxes. He handed each of his colleagues the relevant documents attributed to the case, along with the incriminating sign-out sheet.

  ‘You all remember Wolf’s reaction to me discovering this yesterday?’ asked Edmunds. ‘Well, I’ve got six more beneath my desk – our desk.’

  ‘This explains everything,’ said Baxter. ‘Wolf clearly spooked this freak and now the killer’s acting in self-defence.’

  ‘I considered that, but did Wolf tell anybody here about any of this?’ Edmunds asked the room. ‘Boxes of invaluable evidence that could have saved these people’s lives? That could save his life?’

  No one responded.

  Edmunds squatte
d down and held his hands over his eyes, rocking back and forth gently on his heels. He grimaced as though he were in pain and started whispering nonsensical snippets of information to himself:

  ‘Wolf IDs him … He approaches him … Leaks details of the case … No. No, but he doesn’t just do that because these are Wolf’s enemies – this is Wolf enlisting him.’

  ‘I’ve heard enough of this shit,’ said Baxter, getting up to leave.

  Edmunds turned back to his uncomfortable audience:

  ‘Wolf wanted revenge, justice, call it what you will, for Annabelle Adams, for her family, for himself,’ he started, still piecing it all together even as he spoke. ‘None of these people’s corruption, inaction or opportunism had been answered for, while he was serving time in a psychiatric hospital and another young girl was lying dead.

  ‘So, he gets reinstated and starts actively looking into unsolved murders. After all, an unsolved murder means an uncaptured killer. He conducts his investigation in secret, finds these seven old cases and somehow discovers the identity of the killer. Ah, but instead of arresting him, he uses him to bring retribution down upon everyone that he holds accountable.

  ‘The ingenious twist was to add his own name to the list, making the entire thing about him. Wolf knew that no one would suspect him if his life was under threat. I mean, think about it: if Wolf’s name wasn’t on there, he would have flagged up as a suspect from the get-go.’

  There was a knock at the glass door.

  ‘Not now!’ all five of them bellowed in unison at the mousy woman, who scurried away back to her desk.

  ‘If, and that’s a big if, Fawkes did discover the identity of the killer,’ said Simmons, ignoring Baxter’s glare, ‘that would mean the answer is somewhere inside these seven boxes.’

  ‘It would,’ nodded Edmunds.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ hissed Baxter.

  ‘If you’re right, we should assume that Fawkes was passing information to the killer the entire time,’ said Vanita.

  ‘That would certainly explain a lot,’ said Edmunds. ‘I’ve been concerned about the possibility that we might have a leak for a good few days now.’

  Edmunds looked to Baxter for confirmation, but she purposely ignored him. Vanita sighed.

  ‘Then we have a real shot at saving Ashley Lochlan,’ she said, ‘as Fawkes won’t be involved.’

  Finlay and Baxter glanced at one another.

  ‘Am I missing something?’ asked Vanita.

  ‘Wolf was with her this morning,’ said Baxter impassively. ‘It looked like he’d stayed the night.’

  ‘Is there a rule left that man hasn’t broken?!’ exclaimed Vanita, glaring accusingly at Simmons. ‘We’ll need to make Ms Lochlan aware of the situation. DC Edmunds, assuming you are right about this, do you believe the killer is aware that Fawkes is behind it all?’

  ‘That’s tricky to answer.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘I can only speculate.’

  ‘Then speculate.’

  ‘No. Wolf clearly considers himself far cleverer than all of us, including the killer. I can’t see that he would want to leave any loose ends. I also don’t believe for a moment that this killer would willingly allow one of his victims to survive after promising the world his murder. It’s a point of pride for him. To fail would be an embarrassment.’

  ‘Which can only mean that Fawkes intends to get to him first,’ said Vanita.

  Baxter threw a handful of paperwork against the cracked glass wall and stood up again.

  ‘This is complete bullshit! This is Wolf we’re talking about here!’ She turned to Finlay. ‘Your friend, remember?’

  ‘Aye, but look at the facts, Emily,’ he replied, looking ill.

  Baxter turned on Edmunds.

  ‘You’ve had a thing about a mole on the team for days and this convenient little story just so happens to fit in perfectly for you, doesn’t it? If anyone thinks they’re cleverer than everyone else, it’s you!’ She looked pleadingly at her colleagues. ‘What if Wolf’s being set up? Has anyone thought about that, huh?’

  ‘Maybe he is,’ said Simmons soothingly, ‘but we need to bring him in either way.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Vanita, picking up the meeting room phone. ‘This is Commander Vanita. I need an Armed Response Unit to attend William Fawkes’ home address immediately.’

  Baxter was shaking her head in disbelief. She slid her mobile phone out of her pocket.

  Finlay was watching her closely. ‘Emily,’ he said firmly.

  She grudgingly put it away.

  ‘Be aware, suspect may be dangerous,’ Vanita continued on the phone. ‘… That’s correct: suspect … that’s affirmative. I am ordering you to arrest DS Fawkes.’

  CHAPTER 29

  Friday 11 July 2014

  12.52 p.m.

  Baxter glanced in the rear-view mirror. Ashley sat nervously in the back seat, staring out at the heaving streets they were crawling through at an agonisingly slow pace.

  Baxter had asked Finlay to drive, which appeared to have shocked him more than anything else he had heard on what had already been, by anyone’s standards, an unusually shocking day. He had taken them on the most absurd route across the city and it was taking all of her self-restraint not to comment on it as the set of temporary traffic lights up ahead allowed another two cars to pass by the crater that had been dug out of the city centre.

  Baxter had point-blank refused to even speak to Edmunds, let alone sit in a car with him for a two-hour round trip. She pictured him back at the office, barely able to conceal the stupid grin on his face as he trespassed into Wolf’s affairs, collating his evidence to use against him.

  Apparently, Wolf had not been at home when the Armed Response Unit arrived at his building and kicked down the door to his unimpressive apartment. As they sat there in the queue that Finlay had found for them, a team of their colleagues were ransacking the tiny flat, finally unpacking the piles of boxes that Wolf had left collecting dust since moving in.

  The bare bones of the situation had been explained to Ashley. She said she had no idea about Wolf’s current whereabouts and had not known anything about the suspension. As the last person to have seen Wolf, Baxter had had no choice but to elaborate on their parting conversation; however, she decided to omit the punch in the face, knowing that the irrelevant detail would only provoke further questions that she was in no mood to answer.

  They had collected Ashley at 12.15 p.m. and were due to rendezvous with Simmons at 1.30 p.m. in the car park of Wembley Stadium. She had already called to warn him that they were running late. Neither of the women had spoken a single word to one another and even Finlay had struggled to maintain his trademark buoyancy and prevent the car from sinking into a lasting silence.

  Baxter felt very exposed. They had been sitting on the same road for almost ten minutes, while pedestrians weaved in and out of the stationary traffic, some passing mere inches away from their endangered passenger. When three cars (two legally and one BMW) made it through the lights, Baxter realised exactly where they were.

  ‘What the hell are we doing in Soho?’ she asked.

  ‘You asked me to drive.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought “in the right direction” was implied.’

  ‘Which way would you have gone then?’

  ‘Shoreditch, Pentonville, Regent’s Park.’

  ‘There are roadworks all around King’s Cross.’

  ‘Good thing we didn’t get stuck in any of those.’

  There was the ping of an incoming text message and Ashley slyly looked at her phone.

  ‘What the hell?’ said Baxter. ‘They were supposed to take that off you.’

  She held out her hand impatiently while Ashley typed a hurried reply.

  ‘Now!’ snapped Baxter.

  Ashley switched the phone off and handed it over. Baxter pulled out the battery and the sim card before dropping it into the glove compartment.

  ‘Tell me, why are we all risking
our arses trying to keep you hidden when you’re sat there pissing around on your phone?’

  ‘She gets the message,’ said Finlay.

  ‘Perhaps you could Facebook a nice selfie outside the safe house when you get there.’

  ‘She gets it, Emily!’ snapped Finlay.

  The car behind honked its horn and Finlay looked back up to find that the two cars in front were gone. He pulled up to the red light, where the imposing Palace Theatre dominated the crossroads.

  ‘Is that Shaftesbury Avenue?’ asked Baxter, appalled. ‘On what planet was this ever going to be the quickest—’

  The car door slammed.

  Baxter and Finlay both whipped round to stare at the empty back seat. Baxter threw the passenger door open and climbed out. She spotted Ashley pushing her way through a group of tourists in matching backpacks before disappearing around the corner onto Shaftesbury Avenue. Baxter took off after her on foot. Finlay jumped the red light, only to narrowly avoid a head-on collision with a car coming from the other direction. He swore for the first time in years and was forced to reverse back.

  Ashley took the first road on the left. By the time Baxter reached the corner, she had swung right and passed beneath the ornate Paifang archway that marked the entrance to Chinatown. Baxter arrived at the gateway. Red and dirty-gold pillars held a decorative green roof high above the street below. She had lost sight of Ashley, who had slowed her pace to a brisk walk, knowing that she would blend seamlessly into the endless crowds filtering through the narrow corridor of shops and restaurants.

  ‘Police!’ Baxter shouted, holding her ID out in front of her.

  She started fighting through the continual flow of distracted tourists passing beneath the strings of red lanterns that criss-crossed into the distance. Shop owners laughed and shouted to one another incomprehensibly, music clashed discordantly as it escaped the open windows of the street-side eateries, and unfamiliar smells infused the polluted London air as she snaked between the street vendors. If she did not get a visual on Ashley in the next few seconds, she knew she would lose her altogether.