by Daniel Cole
Their brusque conversation that morning had made Wolf’s position quite clear.
Finlay was keeping one eye on the commander’s office as he walked across the room to Simmons and Edmunds’ desk. He could see that the tiny but terrifying woman was agitated as she gesticulated wildly while speaking to somebody on the phone. He perched on the corner of the desk, sitting firmly on top of Edmunds’ work.
‘She’s not a happy bunny,’ Finlay told them.
‘Why’s that?’ asked Simmons.
It was strange for him, begging for scraps of information from the office gossip when he was so accustomed to being the first to know.
‘Will,’ said Finlay. ‘What else? Apparently he took Ashley Lochlan away from her protected flat.’
‘What for?’
‘Breakfast. And then stormed off and left her in a café. Her protection team put in a formal complaint. She wants him suspended.’
‘On her head be it,’ said Simmons. ‘What’s he playing at?’
Finlay shrugged.
‘It’s Will, so who knows? He’s staying well clear of the office today. I’m off out to meet him now.’
Simmons was rather enjoying the school-like clandestinity taking place right under the boss’ nose.
‘If she asks, I’m making arrangements for Ashley Lochlan’s safe house, which is actually true,’ said Finlay.
‘We’re heading out too,’ said Simmons.
‘We are?’ asked Edmunds. ‘Where?’
‘I’ve still got four people on this list unaccounted for,’ said Simmons. ‘One of them is dead. We’re going to find out which one.’
Simmons and Edmunds had treated themselves to Greggs’ sausage rolls, as evidenced by the trail of pastry running along the pavement behind them as they neared the third address on the list. They had already visited the home of the court stenographer and discovered that she had died of cancer back in 2012. They had then learned that His Honour Judge Timothy Harrogate and his wife had emigrated to New Zealand. Fortunately, a neighbour had had contact details for their son, who woke them up in the middle of the night to confirm that they were both alive and well.
The sun emerged from behind a cloud as they strolled past Brunswick Square Gardens and approached the identical brick town houses on Lansdowne Terrace. They located the correct black door and found it ajar. Edmunds knocked loudly, and they stepped into an intricately tiled communal hallway. An engraved plaque directed them upstairs to ‘The Penthouse’, which struck them both as being rather pretentious in a four-storey building.
They climbed the echoic staircase and reached the corridor that serviced the top-floor apartment. Faded photographs adorned the wall, most depicting an aged gentleman in the company of far younger, and considerably more attractive, women in exotic places. The blonde that the man had his arm around on a yacht appeared not to have made it to shore, where the next picture showed a bikini-clad redhead relaxing beside him on the beach.
There was a loud smash from inside the apartment and, as they drew closer, they could see that this door had also been left unlocked. Sharing a concerned look, they quietly pushed it open. The gloomy hallway boasted the same original tiles as the entrance hall below. They crept past closed doors towards the light at the end of the corridor and the sound of footsteps against a hard floor.
‘You tit! I told you not to touch it.’
Edmunds paused. He and Simmons recognised the snide, condescending tone instantly.
‘Baxter?’ Edmunds called out.
Straightening up, he walked out into the main room, where Blake was on his hands and knees collecting up pieces of the, presumably expensive, vase he had just dropped.
They both looked bewildered as Edmunds and Simmons joined them.
‘What the hell are you two doing here?’ she asked.
‘Ronald Everett, missing juror from the Khalid trial,’ said Edmunds.
‘Oh.’
‘You?’
‘I told you earlier: puddle of blood, no body.’
‘Where?’ asked Simmons.
‘Everywhere.’
She gestured to the floor behind the large sofa. There, a halo of dark, dried blood covered the white tiles that surrounded the saturated rug.
‘Jesus,’ said Edmunds.
‘I think we can safely assume that your Mr Everett is no more,’ said Baxter callously.
On seeing the bloodbath at his feet, Edmunds was reminded of one of the archived case files he had been reviewing overnight: puddle of blood, no body ever discovered. There was no way that it was simply a coincidence.
‘What’s wrong?’ Baxter asked him.
He could not tell anyone about his private investigation until he was certain that he had found something concrete.
‘Nothing.’
He glanced at his watch. He had promised to take Tia out for dinner but could still get to the archives, spend an hour there, and get back again in time if he left straight away.
‘This mess doesn’t really fit with our killer’s meticulous, exacting standards,’ said Simmons. ‘Not a drop was found at any of the other victims’ homes.’
‘Perhaps he’s not quite as infallible as we’ve built him up to be,’ suggested Edmunds, crouching down to look at the flecks of blood running up the side of the sofa. ‘Maybe this was just the only victim he murdered and carved up in their own home and there are other puddles of evidence still scattered elsewhere around the city.’
At that moment the forensics team arrived and Edmunds seized his chance to escape. He made his excuses to Simmons, telling him that he needed to finish up some paperwork back at the office, and then ran downstairs and jogged back towards the Tube station.
Wolf’s phone beeped. He glanced at the short text message:
I DESERVED THAT EARLIER. DINNER? L X
‘What are you grinning about?’ Finlay asked him as they walked back to New Scotland Yard.
Wolf ignored him and dialled the number on the text.
‘Hello, Detective Fawkes.’
‘Hello, Ms Lochlan.’
Finlay looked at him in surprise.
‘How did you get this number?’
‘Remember Jodie, who you met earlier?’
‘Who put in a complaint about me?’
‘That’s the one. She phoned a friend, who phoned a friend who knows you.’
‘I’m surprised you want to have dinner,’ said Wolf.
Finlay shot him another strange look.
‘Well, lord knows neither of us ate much at breakfast,’ she laughed.
‘I mean, I think I owe you an apology.’
‘I won’t hold it against you; you haven’t got long left. Seven?’
‘At yours, I presume?’
‘I’m afraid so. It would appear that you got me grounded.’
‘I’ll have a “good scrub” beforehand.’
Finlay did not even bother to react this time.
‘You do that. Later, Fawkes.’
She hung up before he could respond. Wolf stopped walking.
‘I take it I’m to cover for you, as per?’ said Finlay.
‘I have somewhere to be.’
‘Wear that nice aftershave we got you for your birthday, but don’t wear that awful blue shirt you always put on.’
‘I love that shirt.’
‘It makes you look pregnant. Maggie’s words, not mine.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Have fun,’ said Finlay with a sly grin.
‘I can always tell when you’re lying, old man,’ said Baxter.
She had bumped into Finlay in the kitchen and casually asked about Wolf. After he had fumbled through his first answer, she had subjected him to five solid minutes of questioning. He was beginning to break and she knew it.
‘He wasn’t feeling well.’
‘Because of the headache?’
‘Aye.’
‘But you said stomach ache before.’
‘That’s what I meant, stomach ach
e.’
‘Wait, no. You did say headache.’
She was quite enjoying torturing her friend.
‘OK. You win. He went back to Ashley Lochlan’s.’
‘Simmons said they’d argued.’
‘They made up.’
‘So, why aren’t you going?’
Finlay clearly did not want to answer the question, but he knew that Baxter was not going to let it go.
‘I wasn’t invited.’
‘Invited?’
‘To dinner.’
‘Dinner?’
Baxter’s jovial mood suddenly soured and she went very quiet. Finlay was not sure what to say next, so busied himself by making a coffee. When he turned back round to offer Baxter one, she was gone.
CHAPTER 26
Wednesday 9 July 2014
7.05 p.m.
Wolf hoped that his walk in the rain down Plumstead high street had watered down the potency of his new aftershave. After befouling himself with the well-intentioned gift, he had sprayed some along the walls of his flat in the hope that it might keep whatever was scratching behind the plasterboard at bay. He had spent a rare half-hour selecting the perfect outfit and combing his hair in nervous preparation for his first date in a decade, only to come out the other end looking exactly the same as he did every other day.
He stopped at an off-licence on the way and picked out the only two bottles of red and white that he recognised (Baxter’s favourites) before purchasing the last remaining bouquet from the garage next door. The limp flowers looked so pathetic that he was seriously questioning whether he had just paid good money for something that had grown naturally out of the old bucket from which he had plucked them.
He made his way up the spine of the run-down tower block and greeted the two police officers standing guard. Neither looked particularly happy to see him.
‘We’ve put in a complaint about you,’ the female officer challenged him.
‘You’ll feel bad about that if I’m dead in a week,’ said Wolf.
He smiled; she did not. He squeezed between them and knocked on Ashley’s door.
‘Try not to leave her crying this time – mate,’ said the male officer, who was obviously jealous of their dinner date.
Wolf ignored the comment but started to wish that he had responded with something just to fill the awkward silence when Ashley still had not answered the door twenty seconds later. When she did finally unbolt the new security features that had been added to her front door, she looked stunning. Wolf thought he heard the other man audibly gasp behind him. She was wearing a lacy pale pink dress and had pinned her hair up in loose curls. She looked ridiculously overdressed for a quiet meal at home.
‘You’re late,’ she said abruptly before striding back into the flat.
Wolf uncertainly followed her inside and slammed the door on the miserable gargoyles standing watch.
‘You look amazing,’ he said, wishing that he had worn/owned a tie.
He handed her the wine and the bouquet, which she politely placed in a vase of water in a token attempt to resuscitate them.
‘I know it’s a bit much, but I might not have another chance to get dressed up so I sort of went all out.’
Ashley opened the red for herself and the white for Wolf. They talked in the kitchen while she occasionally stirred the food. They covered all of the cliché first date topics: family, hobbies, aspirations, using the most tenuous of links to bridge the gap between the subject of the conversation and one of their funniest tried and tested stories. Wolf was suddenly reminded of his dad. And for the first time since this had all begun, they both felt normal, as if there was an indefinite future ahead of them, as if this first evening together could still blossom into something special.
The dinner that Ashley had cooked for them was delicious. She repeatedly apologised for the ‘burnt bits’ nonetheless, not that Wolf could find any. She poured the dregs of each bottle into their glasses as she served dessert, and the conversation became more melancholy but no less enthralling.
Ashley had warned him that the flat became unbearably hot after cooking. When he self-consciously rolled up his shirtsleeves, she had been intrigued rather than repulsed by the burn covering his left arm. She dragged her chair over to look at it more closely, gently running her fingers over the sensitive, scarred skin in fascination.
Wolf could smell the strawberry in her hair again and the sweet scent of wine on her breath as she turned to look up at him, inches from his face, sharing the air between them …
… The wolf mask.
Wolf flinched and Ashley pulled away. The image disintegrated instantly, but it was too late. He had completely ruined the moment and could see the rejection painted on her face. He desperately wanted to save what had already been one of the most enjoyable nights he could remember.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Can we try that again? You know, your hand on my arm, you looking up at me, etcetera.’
‘Why did you pull away from me?’
‘I pulled away, but not from you. The last person who got that close to me was the man who’s trying to kill us … Yesterday.’
‘You saw him?’ Ashley’s eyes were wide.
‘He was wearing a mask.’
Wolf explained what had happened outside the embassy. Something about him facing down the masked man, the wolf, meeting its eye and refusing to look away, sparked something in Ashley, and she gradually came in closer once more. Her hand was back on his arm. He could smell the subtle hint of wine on her breath. She breathed in heavily and parted her lips …
Wolf’s phone went off.
‘Bollocks!’ He looked at the screen and almost hung up but then smiled apologetically and stood up to take the call. ‘Baxter? … Who? … No, don’t do that … Where? … I’ll be an hour.’
Ashley looked annoyed and started clearing the table.
‘You’re going then?’
Wolf was in love with that accent and very nearly changed his mind on hearing the disappointment in it.
‘A friend’s in trouble.’
‘Shouldn’t they call the police?’
‘Not that kind of trouble. Believe me, if it was anybody else I’d tell them where to go.’
‘They must be very special to you.’
‘Irritatingly … yes.’
Edmunds opened his eyes and had no idea where he was for a few seconds. He had drooled all over his own arm and was lying on a mattress of paperwork, staring up at the canyon of shelving units running in either direction. He had been so exhausted, and the combination of the darkness and quiet had been too much for him. Bracing himself, he looked down at his wrist: 9.20 p.m.
‘Bugger!’
He threw everything littered across the floor back into the evidence box, slid it onto a shelf and started running towards the exit.
Wolf barely had enough money on him to pay the extortionate taxi fare before climbing out in front of Hemmingway’s on Wimbledon high street. He fought his way through the alfresco drinkers and flashed his identification at the bar.
‘She’s passed out in the toilets,’ the girl pulling pints told him. ‘Someone’s with her. We were gonna call an ambulance, but she insisted we try you first. Wait, you’re that detective … Wolf. The Wolf!’
Wolf was already well on his way to the toilets by the time she reached for the camera phone in her pocket. He thanked and dismissed the waitress who had been good enough to sit with Baxter until he arrived. He knelt down beside her. She was still conscious but only responded if he pinched her or shouted her name.
‘Just like old times,’ he said.
He draped her jacket over her head to hide her face, predicting that the girl behind the bar would have told every one of the amateur photographers out there that the man from the news was in the ladies’ toilets then he scooped Baxter up in his arms and carried her out.
The doorman had cleared a path through the crowd for him. Wo
lf suspected it was more to get the intoxicated woman outside before she vomited again than out of concern for her welfare, but the assistance was appreciated all the same. He carried her along the street and almost dropped her down the narrow staircase up to her apartment. He somehow managed to unlock the front door and was met by the sound of the radio blaring. Stumbling through to the bedroom, he dropped her onto the bed.
He pulled her boots off and tied her hair back like he had countless times before, albeit not for a long time. Then, he went into the kitchen to fetch the washing-up bowl and switched off the music before feeding Echo. There were two empty wine bottles in the sink and he cursed himself for not asking the bar staff how much extra they had served her.
He filled two glasses with water, gulped his down, and went back through to the bedroom where he placed the bowl beside the bed and the glass of water on the bedside table, then he kicked off his shoes and climbed up next to her. Baxter was already snoring.
He turned off the lamp and stared up at the dark ceiling, listening to the first patters of rain against the window. He hoped that Baxter’s recent relapses had been solely due to the stress that they were all under, and that she still had some control over the vice that had never fully relinquished its grip on her. He had helped her hide it from everybody for so long, too long. As he settled in for another sleepless night, periodically checking that she was still breathing and cleaning up after her, he wondered whether he was really helping at all.
Edmunds was soaked through by the time he arrived home to find all of the lights out. He stumbled through the dark hallway as quietly as he could, presuming that Tia was already asleep; however, when he reached the open bedroom door, he saw that the bed was still made.
‘T?’ he called.
He went from room to room, switching on lights and noticing the things that were missing: Tia’s work bag, her favourite jeans, the walking trip-hazard of a cat. She had not left a note; there was no need. She was at her mother’s. He had let her down one time too many, not just during the Ragdoll case but ever since the transfer.
