by Daniel Cole
He cleared his throat and smiled at his applauding colleagues, finally spotting Baxter. She stood beside the desk in her office with the door closed, gesticulating wildly as she spoke to someone on the phone. He smiled again, sadly this time, while the crowd dispersed, leaving him alone to collect his things and vacate the premises one final time.
Memories slowed his progress as he took down the photographs that had inhabited his workspace for years, one image in particular, creased and discolored with age, hijacking his thoughts: an office Christmas party. A crepe-paper crown covered Finlay’s balding head, much to the amusement of his friend Benjamin Chambers, arm around Baxter, in what must be the only photograph in existence of her actually smiling. And there on the end, failing miserably to win the bet that he could lift Finlay off the ground, was Will . . . Wolf. Carefully tucking the picture into his jacket pocket, he finished packing the remainder of his things.
On his way out of the office, Finlay hesitated. He didn’t feel as though the forgotten letter he had discovered right at the back of his desk drawer belonged to him. He considered leaving it behind, considered tearing it up, but in the end he dropped it to the bottom of his box of crap and made his way over to the lifts.
He supposed it was just one more secret he would have to keep.
At 7:49 P.M., Baxter was still sat at her desk. She had sent out text messages every twenty minutes apologizing for running late and promising to get out as soon as she possibly could. Her commander had not only caused her to completely miss Finlay’s retirement speech but was now sabotaging her first social arrangement in months. She had demanded that Baxter remain where she was until her arrival.
There was no love lost between the two women. Vanita, the media-savvy face of the Metropolitan Police, had quite openly opposed Baxter’s promotion. Having worked with her on the Ragdoll murders, Vanita had advised the commissioner that Baxter was argumentative, opinionated, and had a total lack of respect for authority, not to mention that she still considered her responsible for the death of one of the victims. Baxter regarded Vanita as a PR-bowing snake who had not thought twice about throwing Simmons under the bus at the very first sign of trouble.
To make matters worse, Baxter had just opened an automated email from their records department, reminding her, for the umpteenth time, that Wolf still had several outstanding files to return. She scanned the extensive list, recognizing a couple of the cases . . .
Bennett, Sarah: the woman who had drowned her husband in their swimming pool. Baxter was reasonably confident that she’d lost that one down the back of a radiator in the meeting room.
Dubois, Léo: the straightforward stabbing that had gradually escalated into one of the most complicated multi-agency cases in years, involving drug smuggling, black-market weaponry, and human trafficking.
She and Wolf had had a great time on that one.
She spotted Vanita entering the office with two other people in tow, which did not bode well for her hopes of getting out by 8 P.M. She didn’t bother to get up as Vanita sauntered in, greeting her with such practiced pleasantness that she could almost have believed it.
“DCI Emily Baxter, Special Agent Elliot Curtis with the FBI,” Vanita announced, flicking back her dark hair.
“It’s an honor, ma’am,” said the tall black woman, holding out her hand to Baxter. She was wearing a masculine-looking suit, had tied back her hair so tight that it looked shaved, and was wearing minimal makeup. Although she looked to be in her early thirties, Baxter suspected that she was younger.
She shook Curtis’s hand without getting out of her seat while Vanita introduced her other guest, who seemed more interested in the destroyed filing cabinet than he was the introductions.
“And this is Special Agent—”
“How special can they be, I wonder,” Baxter interrupted, playing up, “when we’ve got two just in my pitiful excuse of an office?”
Vanita ignored her:
“As I was saying, this is Special Agent Damien Rouche with the CIA.”
“Rooze?” asked Baxter.
“Rouch?” tried Vanita, now doubting her own pronunciation.
“I believe it’s Rouche, like ‘whoosh,’” added Curtis helpfully, turning to Rouche for advice.
Baxter looked puzzled as the distracted man smiled politely, gave her a fleeting fist bump, and helped himself to a seat without saying a word. She placed him in his very late thirties. He was clean-shaven with pasty skin and salt-and-pepper hair styled into a slightly overgrown quiff at the front. He looked at the snaking tower of paperwork between them, then down at the bin waiting expectantly beneath, and grinned. He wore a white shirt with the top two buttons undone and a navy suit that looked tired but well fitted.
Baxter turned to Vanita and waited.
“Agents Curtis and Rouche just got in this evening from America,” said Vanita.
“That would make sense,” replied Baxter more patiently than she had intended. “I’m in a bit of a rush tonight, so . . .”
“If I may, Commander?” Curtis asked Vanita politely, before turning to Baxter. “Chief Inspector, you heard, of course, about the body that was discovered nearly a week ago. Well—”
Baxter looked blank and shrugged, stopping Curtis before she had even started.
“New York? Brooklyn Bridge?” asked Curtis, astounded. “Strung up? Worldwide news?”
Baxter had to stifle a yawn.
Rouche rummaged around in his coat pocket. Curtis waited for him to produce something useful but instead he removed a family-sized packet of Jelly Babies and ripped it open. On noticing her angry expression, he offered her one.
Ignoring him, Curtis opened her bag and produced a file. She found a series of enlarged photographs and put them down on the desk in front of Baxter.
Suddenly it dawned on her why these people had come all this way to see her. The first photo was taken from street level looking up. Silhouetted against the glow radiating off the city was a body, hanging between cables a hundred feet above. The extremities had been contorted into an unnatural pose.
“We’ve not made this public yet, but the victim’s name was William Fawkes.”
For a moment Baxter stopped breathing. She had already been feeling faint from lack of food, but now she felt as though she might actually pass out. Her hand trembled as she touched the distorted shape framed by the iconic bridge. She could feel their eyes on her, watching her, perhaps resurrecting the doubts they’d had about her vague version of events surrounding the dramatic conclusion to the Ragdoll murders.
With a curious expression, Curtis continued:
“Not that one,” she said slowly, reaching over to slide the top photograph off the pile to reveal a close-up of the naked, overweight, and unfamiliar victim.
Baxter held her hand to her mouth, still too shaken to respond.
“He worked for P. J. Henderson’s, the investment bank. Wife, two kids . . . But someone’s clearly sending us a message.”
Baxter had regained enough composure to flick through the remaining photographs, which depicted the cadaver from various angles. One complete body, no stitches. A man in his fifties, stripped naked. His left arm hung loose, the word “Bait” carved deeply into his chest. She flicked through the other photographs and then handed them back to Curtis.
“Bait?” she asked, looking between the two agents.
“Perhaps now you can see why we thought you should be aware,” said Curtis.
“Not really,” replied Baxter, who was rapidly returning to her normal self.
Curtis looked stunned and turned to Vanita:
“I had expected your department, over any other, to want to—”
“Do you know how many Ragdoll copycat crimes there have been in the UK in the past year?” Baxter interrupted. “Seven that I know about, and I actively try to avoid knowing about them.”
“And that doesn’t concern you at all?” asked Curtis.
Baxter didn’t see why she should spare this
particular horror any more time than the five that had landed on her desk that morning.
She shrugged: “Freaks be freakin’.”
Rouche almost choked on an orange Jelly Baby.
“Look, Lethaniel Masse was a highly intelligent, resourceful, and prolific serial killer. These others are no more than sickos defacing the dead before their local plod picks them up.”
Baxter shut down her computer and packed her bag in preparation to leave:
“Six weeks ago, I handed a packet of Smarties to a three-foot version of the Ragdoll trick-or-treating on my doorstep. Some beret-wearing ponce decided to stitch a bunch of dead animal bits together. That mess is now the newest addition to the Tate Modern and being enjoyed by record numbers of equally poncy and equally beret-wearing, beret-wearing ponces.”
Rouche laughed.
“Some sick bastard is even making a TV show about it. The Ragdoll is out there now, everywhere, and we’re all just going to have to learn to live with it,” she finished.
She turned to Rouche, who was staring into his bag of Jelly Babies.
“Does he not talk?” she asked Curtis.
“He prefers to listen,” Curtis said bitterly, sounding as though she had grown tired of her eccentric colleague after just one week of working together.
Baxter looked back at Rouche.
“Have they changed these?” he finally mumbled through a Technicolored mouthful when he realized that all three women were waiting for him to input to the meeting.
Baxter was surprised to find that the CIA agent spoke with an impeccable English accent.
“Changed what?” she asked, listening carefully in case he was putting it on to wind her up.
“Jelly Babies,” he said, picking his teeth. “They don’t taste like they used to.”
Curtis was rubbing her forehead in embarrassment and frustration. Baxter raised her hands and looked to Vanita impatiently.
“I’ve got somewhere to be,” she said bluntly.
“We have reason to believe that this isn’t just another meaningless copycat, Chief Inspector,” insisted Curtis, gesturing to the photographs in an attempt to steer the meeting back on track.
“You’re right,” said Baxter. “It’s not even that. Nothing’s been stitched together.”
“There’s been a second murder,” snapped Curtis loudly, before reverting to her professional tone. “Two days ago. The location was . . . favorable in the sense that we were able to quell the media leakage, at least temporarily. But realistically we don’t expect to be able to keep an incident of this”—she looked to Rouche for assistance; none came—“nature from the world for more than another day or so.”
“. . . the world?” asked Baxter skeptically.
“We have a small request of you,” said Curtis.
“And a big one,” added Rouche, even better spoken now that he had finished his mouthful.
Baxter frowned at Rouche, Curtis did the same, and then Vanita glared at Baxter before she had time to protest. Rouche glared at Vanita just to keep things even as Curtis turned back to address Baxter:
“We’d like to interview Lethaniel Masse.”
“So that’s why both the FBI and CIA are involved,” said Baxter. “Stateside murder, Blighty suspect. Well, knock yourself out.” She shrugged.
“With you present, of course.”
“Absolutely not. There’s no reason you could possibly need me there. You can read questions off a card by yourselves. I believe in you.”
Rouche smiled at the sarcastic aside.
“Of course we will be delighted to assist you in any way that we can, won’t we, Chief Inspector?” said Vanita, eyes wide with anger. “Our friendships with the FBI and CIA are both important relationships that we—”
“Christ!” blurted Baxter. “Fine. I’ll come and hold your hands. So what’s the small request?”
Rouche and Curtis glanced at one another, and even Vanita shuffled uncomfortably before anyone dared speak.
“That . . . was the small request,” said Curtis softly.
Baxter looked about to blow.
“We would like you to look over the crime scene with us,” Curtis continued.
“Photographs?” asked Baxter in a strained whisper.
Rouche stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head.
“I have already agreed to the temporary secondment to New York with the commissioner and will be stepping into your shoes while you’re away,” Vanita informed her.
“They’re big shoes to fill,” replied Baxter snippily.
“I’ll cope . . . somehow,” said Vanita, her professional facade slipping for a rare moment.
“This is ridiculous! What the hell do you people think I could possibly contribute to a completely unrelated case on the other side of the world?”
“Nothing at all,” Rouche answered honestly, disarming Baxter. “It is a complete waste of all our time . . . Times? Time?”
Curtis took over the conversation:
“I think what my colleague is trying to say is that the American public won’t see this case as we do. They’ll see Ragdoll murders here, Ragdoll-esque murders there, and they’ll want to see the person who captured the Ragdoll Killer hunting these new monsters.”
“Monsters?” asked Baxter.
It was Rouche’s turn to roll his eyes at his colleague. She had clearly said more than she had meant to at this early stage; however, the resulting silence told Baxter that the woman had raised her guard once more.
“So this is all just a PR exercise, then?” asked Baxter.
“And yet,” said Rouche with a smile, “isn’t everything we do, Chief Inspector?”
Chapter 3
Tuesday, 8 December 2015
8:53 P.M.
“Hello? Sorry I’m so late,” called Baxter from the hallway as she kicked off her boots and entered the living room. A variety of delicious smells drifted in on the cold breeze coming from the kitchen doorway, and the inoffensive sound of whichever singer-songwriter Starbucks had been promoting that week crooned out of the iPod speaker in the corner.
Four places had been set at the table, the flickering tea lights lending the room an orangey glow that emphasized Alex Edmunds’s flyaway ginger hair. Her gangly ex-colleague loitered awkwardly, empty beer bottle in hand.
Although tall herself, Baxter had to stand on tiptoes to embrace him.
“Where’s Tia?” she asked her friend.
“On the phone to the babysitter . . . again,” he replied.
“Em? That you?” called a well-spoken voice from the kitchen.
Baxter remained quiet. She was far too exhausted to get dragged into helping with dinner.
“I’ve got wine in here!” the voice added playfully.
That tempted her into the showroom-perfect kitchen, where several top-of-the-range pans were bubbling away under the muted light. A man wearing a smart shirt beneath a long apron presided over them, giving them an occasional stir or burst of heat. She walked over and planted a quick kiss on his lips.
“I missed you,” said Thomas.
“You mentioned something about wine?” she reminded him.
He laughed and poured her a glass from an open bottle.
“Thanks. I need this,” said Baxter.
“Don’t thank me. Courtesy of Alex and Tia.”
They both raised their glasses to Edmunds, standing in the doorway, and then Baxter jumped up onto the work surface to watch Thomas cook.
They had met at rush hour, eight months earlier, during one of London’s recurrent, but unfailingly crippling, Tube strikes. Thomas had intervened when an enraged Baxter had unreasonably attempted to arrest one of the workers picketing for better pay and safer working conditions. He had pointed out that by restraining the hi-vis-clad gentleman and following through on her threat to force him, against his will, to walk the six miles back to Wimbledon with her, she would technically be guilty of kidnap. At which point she had arrested Thomas instead.
The smart town house serving as the venue for the dinner party belonged to Thomas. He had asked Baxter several times over the previous couple of months to move in with him. Although she had slowly started to keep some of her possessions there, and they had even redecorated the master bedroom together, she had point-blank refused to give up her flat over Wimbledon High Street and had kept her cat, Echo, there as a constant excuse to return home.
The four friends sat down to enjoy dinner together, exchanging stories that had grown less accurate but more amusing with age and expressing intense interest in the answers to the most mundane questions regarding work, the correct way to cook salmon, and parenthood. With Tia’s hand in his, Edmunds had spoken animatedly about his promotion at Fraud and reiterated several times how much more time he could now spend with his growing family. When asked about work, Baxter neglected to mention the visit from her overseas colleagues and the unenviable task that awaited her in the morning.
By 10:17 P.M. Tia had fallen asleep on the sofa, and Thomas had left Baxter and Edmunds to talk while he cleared up in the kitchen. Edmunds had swapped to wine and topped up their glasses as they chatted over the dying flickers of the tea lights.
“So how are things at Fraud?” she asked quietly, glancing back over to the sofa to ensure that Tia was definitely asleep.
“I told you . . . great,” said Edmunds.
Baxter waited patiently.
“What? Things are good,” he said, crossing his arms defensively.
Baxter remained silent.
“They’re OK. What do you want me to say?”
When she still refused to accept his answer, he finally smiled.
She knew him far too well.
