by Daniel Cole
‘These effing flowers!’ bellowed Finlay. His wife had made him give up swearing when he became a grandad. ‘I’ll get you another.’
Wolf was about to tell him not to bother when an internal deliveryman emerged from the lift holding yet another impressive armful of flowers. Finlay looked as though he might hit him.
‘All right? Got flowers for a Ms Emily Baxter,’ announced the scruffy young man.
‘Terrific,’ grumbled Finlay.
‘This has gotta be the fifth or sixth lot for her. Bit of a looker is she?’ asked the oafish man, catching Wolf off-guard with the inappropriate question.
‘Ummm … She’s – well, very—’ Wolf stuttered.
‘We don’t really think about other detectives in that way,’ interrupted Finlay, seeing his friend struggling.
‘It depends on …’ Wolf looked back at Finlay.
‘I mean, of course she is,’ blurted Finlay, losing his calming hold over the conversation. ‘But—’
‘I think that everybody’s unique and beautiful in their own way,’ finished Wolf wisely.
He and Finlay nodded to each other, having flawlessly negotiated a potentially awkward question.
‘But he would never …’ Finlay assured the deliveryman.
‘No, never,’ agreed Wolf.
The man stared blankly at the two detectives: ‘OK.’
‘Wolf!’ a female officer called across the room, providing him with an excuse to leave Finlay with their visitor. She was holding a phone up at him. ‘Your wife’s on the line. Says it’s important.’
‘We’re divorced,’ Wolf corrected her.
‘Either way, she’s still on the phone.’
Wolf reached for the receiver when Simmons came out of his office and saw him still standing there.
‘Get down there, Fawkes!’
Wolf looked exasperated:
‘I’ll call her back,’ he told the officer before stepping into the idling lift, praying that his ex-wife would not be among the crowd of reporters he was about to face.
CHAPTER 3
Saturday 28 June 2014
6.09 a.m.
Baxter and Edmunds had been made to wait for over ten minutes in the QE’s main reception area. Flimsy-looking shutters blocked the entrances to both the café and the WH Smith’s and Baxter’s stomach rumbled as she glanced again at the piles of Monster Munch sitting just out of reach. At last a morbidly overweight security guard waddled over to the counter and the unfriendly woman on reception pointed in their direction.
‘Coo-ee!’ she called, waving them over as if summoning a dog. ‘Jack will take you down now.’
The security guard clearly had a chip on his shoulder. Begrudgingly, he led them painfully slowly towards the lifts.
‘We’re kind of in a hurry here,’ Baxter snapped, unable to help herself. Unfortunately this only seemed to decelerate the man further.
As they disembarked the lift at basement level, their escort spoke for the first time.
‘The “real” police didn’t trust us lowly security guards with the intricate task of sitting outside a room, so they took over. Lot of good that did ’em.’
‘Was the body guarded at all after it was brought down to the morgue?’ asked Edmunds pleasantly, in an attempt to pacify the embittered guard. He had taken out his notebook and was poised to record the response as they walked along the claustrophobic corridor.
‘I’m only guessing here,’ started the man, with exaggerated deliberation, ‘but the police may have considered the guy less of a threat after he had died. But as I said, pure guesswork.’
The guard smiled smugly at his own wit. Edmunds glanced at Baxter, expecting her to shake her head or ridicule him for asking stupid questions. Surprisingly, she jumped to his defence instead.
‘What my colleague is trying, but failing, to drag out of you is whether the morgue is secure.’
They stopped outside a set of unmarked double doors. The man arrogantly tapped his thick finger against a small ‘No Entry’ sticker in the window.
‘How’s that for ya, love?’
Baxter pushed past the obnoxious man and held the door for Edmunds.
‘Thank you, you’ve been most …’ She slammed the door in the security guard’s face. ‘Arsehole.’
In contrast to the unhelpful guard, the mortician was welcoming and efficient; a softly spoken man in his early fifties, his greying beard immaculately pruned to match his hair. Within minutes he had located both the hard copy and computer files relating to Naguib Khalid.
‘I wasn’t actually here when they performed the post-mortem, but according to this the cause of death was identified as Tetrodotoxin. There were traces found in the blood.’
‘And this Tetoxin—’
‘Tetrodotoxin,’ the mortician corrected her without a hint of condescension.
‘Yeah, that. What is it? And how is it administered?’
‘It is a naturally occurring neurotoxin.’
Baxter and Edmunds stared at him blankly.
‘It’s poison and he probably ate it. Most TTX fatalities are from ingesting blowfish, a delicacy to some, although, I’m rather partial to a Ferrero Rocher myself.’
Baxter’s stomach made another painful growl.
‘I’ve got to go back to my chief inspector and tell him that a fish killed the Cremation Killer?’ she asked, unimpressed.
‘We’ve all got to go one way or another,’ he shrugged apologetically. ‘There are of course other sources of TTX out there – some starfish, snails … I think I’m right in saying there’s a toad …’
This did not look as if it reassured Baxter.
‘You wanted to see the body?’ asked the mortician after a moment.
‘Please,’ replied Baxter. It was not a word that Edmunds had heard her use before.
‘May I enquire why?’
They walked over to the wall of large, brushed-metal freezer drawers.
‘To check if he still has a head,’ said Edmunds, who was still scribbling notes in his book.
The mortician looked to Baxter. He expected her to smile or perhaps apologise for her colleague’s dark sense of humour, but she nodded back sincerely. A little disconcerted, the man located the appropriate drawer, on the bottom row, and gently pulled it out from the wall. All three of them held their breath as the infamous serial killer materialised before them.
The dark-skinned feet and legs were covered in old scars and burns. Next, the arms and groin came into view. Baxter glanced uncomfortably at the two misshapen fingers on the left hand, remembering the night that Wolf had emerged from the holding cell covered in blood. She denied all knowledge of the incident when questioned by her superiors the following day.
As the chest slid into the light, they all stared at the substantial scarring left by the numerous operations to repair the damage sustained during Wolf’s attack. Finally the drawer clicked fully open and they gazed down at their own distorted reflections in the metal tray, occupying the space where a head should have rested.
‘Shit.’
Wolf was loitering outside the main entrance to New Scotland Yard, looking nervously at the huge crowd that had amassed in the shadow of the towering glass building that occupied almost two acres in the heart of Westminster. The finishing touches were being completed to the makeshift podium, erected in the usual media-friendly spot, which incorporated the famous revolving sign as a backdrop.
Someone had once told him that the rotating sign’s reflective lettering was intended to symbolise the Met’s constant vigilance, the observer’s image mirrored back at them, always watching. The same could be said for the rest of the huge building which, on clear days, almost vanished as the mirrored windows adopted the form of the Victorian red-brick hotel opposite and the looming clock tower of 55 Broadway behind.
Wolf’s phone started buzzing in his pocket and he cursed himself for not remembering to switch it off. He saw that it was Simmons calling and swiftly answered it.
‘Baxter’s just confirmed it: it’s Khalid.’
‘I knew it. How?’
‘Fish.’
‘What?’
‘Poison. Ingested.’
‘It’s better than he deserved,’ spat Wolf.
‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’
Someone in cargo trousers was gesturing at Wolf.
‘It looks like they’re ready for me.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Cheers,’ replied Wolf insincerely.
‘Try not to mess it up.’
‘Right.’
Wolf hung up and checked his reflection, ensuring that his fly was done up and that he did not look any more exhausted and downtrodden than usual. He marched out towards the podium with the intention of getting it over with as quickly as possible; however, his confidence drained as the noise intensified and he saw the black lenses of the television cameras tracing his every step, like cannons taking aim. For a moment he was back outside the Old Bailey, ineffectively shielding his face as he was bundled into the back of a police van to the unnerving jeers of the unsatisfied press and the violent thudding against the vehicle’s metal sides, which would forever infect his sleep.
Apprehensively, he stepped up onto the podium and began his briefly practised statement.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant William Fawkes with the—’
‘What? Speak up!’ he was heckled from the crowd.
One of the men who had assembled the tiny stage ran up and switched on the microphone with a booming static click. Wolf tried not to hear the spiteful laughter emanating from the sea of faces.
‘Thank you. As I was saying, I’m Detective Sergeant William Fawkes with the Metropolitan Police and part of the team investigating today’s multiple homicides.’ So far so good, he thought to himself. His audience started shouting questions at him, but Wolf ignored them and continued, ‘We can confirm that the remains of six victims were recovered from an address in Kentish Town in the early hours of this—’
Wolf made the mistake of looking up from his notes and instantly recognised Andrea’s striking red hair. He thought she looked distraught, which further distracted him. He knocked his cue cards across the floor and stooped down to collect them back up, conscious that he had scribbled a list of details he was not to mention all over one of them. He found the incriminating card and climbed back up to the microphone.
‘… this a.m. In the morning.’ He could feel his throat drying up and knew that he would be blushing bright red like he always did when he was embarrassed, so he speed-read the final card: ‘We are in the process of identifying the victims and will be contacting the families concerned prior to releasing any names. Being an ongoing investigation, that is all I can disclose at this time. Thank you.’
He paused for a few seconds, waiting for applause, before realising that it would have been highly inappropriate and that his performance probably would not have warranted it anyway. He climbed back down and retreated from the voices shouting his name.
‘Will! Will!’
Wolf turned to see Andrea running over to him. She had managed to dodge the first officer but had been blocked by two others. He was overcome with the same confused anger that had overshadowed their few encounters since the divorce and was almost tempted to let the officers drag her away but decided to intervene when a member of the Diplomatic Protection Group, armed with a Heckler & Koch G36C assault rifle, approached her.
‘It’s OK. It’s OK. Let her through please,’ he called grudgingly.
Their last meeting, to discuss further complications regarding the sale of the house, had been an especially frosty affair, so he was taken aback when she rushed over and held him in a firm embrace. He breathed through his mouth, desperate not to smell her hair, knowing that it would be laced with her favourite perfume that he loved so much. When she finally released him, he could see that she was close to tears.
‘I can’t tell you anything else, Andie—’
‘Don’t you ever pick up your phone? I’ve been trying to call you for nearly two hours!’
Wolf could not keep up with her mood swings. Now she seemed genuinely furious with him.
‘I’m very sorry. I’ve actually been a bit busy today,’ he said before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. ‘Apparently there was a murder or something.’
‘Next to your flat!’
‘Yeah,’ said Wolf thoughtfully. ‘It’s a shitty neighbourhood.’
‘I’ve got something to ask you and I need you to tell me the truth, OK?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘There’s more, isn’t there? The body was stitched together – like a puppet.’
Wolf started babbling uncomfortably:
‘How do you …? Where did you …? Speaking on behalf of the Metropolitan Police, I—’
‘It’s Khalid, isn’t it? The head?’
Wolf grabbed Andrea by the arm and pulled her to one side, as far from the other officers as possible. She produced a thick brown envelope from her bag.
‘Believe me, I’m the last person who wants to mention that awful man’s name. As far as I’m concerned he destroyed our marriage. But I recognised him from the photos.’
‘Photos?’ asked Wolf warily.
‘Oh my God! I knew they were real,’ she said, shell-shocked. ‘Someone sent me pictures of the puppet thing. I’ve already sat on this for hours. I need to get back to work.’
Andrea fell silent as somebody walked past.
‘Will, whoever sent me these included a list. That’s what I’ve been trying to call you about because I don’t know what it means: six names with a date next to each.’
Wolf snatched the envelope out of her hand and tore it open.
‘The first name’s Mayor Turnble next to today’s date,’ said Andrea.
‘Mayor Turnble?’ asked Wolf. He looked as though the bottom had just dropped out of his world.
Without another word he turned and sprinted back through the main doors. He heard Andrea shout something after him, but the words were indecipherable as they disintegrated against the thick glass.
Simmons was on the phone to the commissioner, who had resorted to unsubtle threats regarding his replaceability as he apologised repeatedly for his team’s distinct lack of progress. Simmons was midway through proposing his plan of action when Wolf burst into the office unannounced.
‘Fawkes! Get out!’ yelled Simmons.
Wolf leant over the desk and held down a button to end the call.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ asked Simmons, incensed.
Wolf opened his mouth to answer when a distorted voice interrupted from the speakerphone: ‘Are you speaking to me, Simmons?’
‘Shit.’ Wolf jabbed another button.
‘You have reached the voicemail of—’ started a robotic voice.
Simmons looked horrified and held his head in his hands as Wolf frantically pushed every other button on the phone.
‘How do you hang this thing up?’ shouted Wolf in frustration.
‘It’s a big red button with a cro—’ the commissioner advised helpfully before a sharp click, followed by silence, confirmed that he had, indeed, been correct.
Wolf scattered the Polaroid photographs of the grotesque body across the desk.
‘Our killer’s gone to the press with pictures and a hit list.’
Simmons rubbed his face and looked down at the photographs depicting the collective cadaver at various stages of assembly.
‘First one’s Mayor Turnble – today,’ said Wolf.
It took a moment for his words to sink in.
Simmons suddenly snapped into action and took out his mobile phone.
‘Terrence!’ the mayor answered enthusiastically. It sounded as though he was outside. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
‘Ray, where are you?’ asked Simmons.
‘Just walking back up to Ham Gate in Richmond Park – our old st
amping ground. After that, I have a fundraiser to get to over in …’
Simmons whispered the location to Wolf, who was already on the phone to the control room.
‘Ray, we’ve got a situation: a legitimate threat against your life.’
The mayor took the news surprisingly well:
‘Business as usual then,’ he laughed.
‘Stay where you are. We’ve got cars on their way to escort you back here until we know more,’ Simmons told him.
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I’ll explain everything when you get here.’
Simmons hung up and turned to Wolf.
‘Three vehicles en route. Closest is four minutes out. One’s an Armed Response Unit.’
‘Good,’ said Simmons. ‘Get Baxter and what’s-his-name back here. Then I want this floor locked down, no one in or out. Make security aware that we’ll be bringing the mayor in through the garage entrance. Go!’
Mayor Turnble sat patiently in the back seat of his chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benz E-Class. He had asked his assistant to excuse him from his busy schedule of commitments on the way back to the car, sensing that it was going to be a long and tedious day.
Only two months earlier he had received a threatening email and been forced to hide inside his Richmond home for an entire afternoon. That was until they discovered that it had been sent by an eleven-year-old boy whose school he had visited earlier in the week. He wondered whether this would prove to be an equally monumental waste of time.
The queuing traffic, already heading into the park to make the most of another glorious weekend, had forced them to move the car. They were now parked outside the recently unoccupied Royal Star and Garter Home. The mayor gazed out at the magnificent building sat atop Richmond Hill and wondered how long it would be before another of London’s long, rich histories ended in the anticlimactic dishonour of being converted into apartments for wealthy bankers.
He opened his briefcase, found his brown preventative inhaler and took a deep breath. The endless heatwave had brought with it the soaring pollen counts that played havoc with his breathing and he was determined not to wind up back in hospital for a third time that year. His closest rival was already biting at his heels and he was confident that the day’s missed engagements would not go unnoticed.
