Ragdoll

by Daniel Cole

  He took a sip of his coffee and almost choked on it. It tasted like something Wolf would have asked for.

  ‘Absolutely. We couldn’t keep up with the orders, especially for that white dress. We ended up turning people away.’

  ‘And yet?’ asked Finlay.

  She considered her answer carefully before continuing.

  ‘I wasn’t posing for a photo that day. I was looking for help. I never wanted to be famous, especially not because of something so … horrible. But suddenly I was “The Beautiful Blood-spattered Juror” and that’s all I was to people after that.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘With respect, I don’t think you can. The truth is that I am ashamed of the part I played that day. By then we were so influenced by the indiscretions of Detective Fawkes and the accusations being made against the police that I think we let it overshadow our decision. Most of us did anyway. Ten out of twelve of us made an irreparable mistake, and I think about the repercussions of that every single day.’

  There was no trace of self-pity in her voice, merely an acceptance of responsibility. Finlay took out a recent photograph of Ronald Everett and placed it down on the table between them.

  ‘You recognise this man?’

  ‘How could I not? I had to sit next to the horrible old pervert for forty-six days. I wouldn’t call myself a fan.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason someone would want to harm Mr Everett?’

  ‘You obviously haven’t met the man. My first guess: he probably pawed over the wrong man’s wife. Why? Has something happened to him?’

  ‘That’s confidential.’

  ‘I won’t tell.’

  ‘Neither will I,’ said Finlay, putting an end to the topic. He thought hard before asking his next question. ‘When you think back to Mr Everett, was there anything that makes him stand out from you and the rest of the jurors?’

  ‘Stand out?’ she asked. She looked blank and Finlay wondered whether it had been a wasted journey. ‘Oh, only … we never proved it.’

  ‘Never proved what?’

  ‘Me and a few other jurors were approached by journalists offering to buy information off us for silly sums of money. They wanted to know what we were discussing behind closed doors, who was going to vote which way.’

  ‘And you think Everett took them up on the offer?’

  ‘No. I’m positive he did. Some of the stuff they were printing had come directly out of our jury bundle and then poor Stanley, who had fought for a guilty verdict right from the very beginning, woke up one morning to find his face plastered across the papers, who claimed to have exposed his strong anti-Muslim views and family ties to Nazi scientists or something similarly absurd.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to avoid the news during these things?’

  ‘You remember that trial? It would have been easier to avoid air.’

  Finlay suddenly had a thought. He dug around in his file for something and then placed another photograph on the table.

  ‘By any chance, was this one of the journalists who approached you?’

  She stared down at the photograph intently.

  ‘Yes!’ she gasped. Finlay sat up attentively. ‘This is the man that died on the news, isn’t it? Jarred Garland. My God. I didn’t recognise him before. He had long greasy hair and a beard when I met him.’

  ‘You’re positive it’s the same man?’ asked Finlay. ‘Look again.’

  ‘Without question. I’d know that sly smile anywhere. You should be able to check it easily enough though if you don’t believe me. I had to call the police to come and escort him off my property when he followed me home one night and refused to leave.’

  Edmunds could not stop poking at the lump on his head where the nurse had glued the skin back together. He had spent the hours in the waiting room replaying the conversation with Wolf in his head and had transcribed it almost word for word in his notebook. He could not understand how Wolf had misinterpreted his meaning so entirely.

  He was tired. Perhaps he had unintentionally come across as disrespectful or accusing. Accusing him of what, though? Edmunds wondered whether Wolf had lied about recognising the case and knew full well that he had forgotten to include the updated forensics report. His overreaction might have been in self-defence.

  The one positive thing to have come out of his trip to A & E was that Tia had been forced to reply to his texts. She had even offered to come out of work to sit with him, but he assured her that he was fine. They had agreed that she would stay with her mother for the rest of the week as he would barely be at home and he promised that he would start making up for everything after that.

  Conscience-free, he trained it back across town to Watford and then caught a taxi out to the archives. Robotically, he went through the usual routine to gain access to the warehouse but paused outside the little office at the bottom of the stairs. He normally strode right past the door labelled ‘Administrator’, but on this occasion, he knocked politely against the glass and stepped inside.

  The small middle-aged woman behind the obsolete computer looked exactly as he had predicted: deathly white skin, oversized glasses and unkempt. She greeted him enthusiastically, like a conversation-starved elderly relative, and he wondered whether he was her first visitor in quite some time. He agreed to sit but declined the offer of a drink, suspecting that it would cost him at least an hour of his precious time.

  After she had told him all about her deceased husband, Jim, and the friendly ghost that she swore haunted the subterranean mausoleum, Edmunds gently guided the conversation back on track.

  ‘So everything has to go through this office?’ he asked.

  ‘Everything. We scan the barcodes in and out. If you take one step through that door without a validated code, every alarm in the place goes off!’

  ‘Which means that you can tell me who has been looking at what,’ said Edmunds.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I’m going to need to see any box that DS William Fawkes has ever booked out.’

  ‘All of them?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Are you sure? Will used to come here a lot.’

  ‘Every single one.’

  ST ANN’S HOSPITAL

  Sunday 17 October 2010

  9.49 p.m.

  Wolf shuffled languidly back towards his room in preparation for the night staff’s rounds at 10 p.m. The tired corridor was filled with artificial light and the smell from the hot chocolate trolley, a misleading name, as the tepid drink reduced in temperature every time a patient threw a cup of it in a member of staff’s face.

  He rolled a small ball of plasticine around in his fingers, stolen off the Pink Ladies a week earlier, which he fashioned each night into makeshift earplugs. Although nothing could silence the perpetual screaming, these at least made it only a distant horror.

  He passed several open doors leading to vacant rooms as their occupiers squeezed every last second of television out of the evening before their enforced curfew came into effect. As he turned the corner into another deserted corridor, he heard whispering from one of the darkened rooms. He gave the doorway a wide berth as he passed, overhearing the muted prayers recited at speed under the speaker’s breath.

  ‘Detective,’ called the whispered voice before continuing with the remaining lines.

  Wolf paused, wondering whether he had imagined it, the medication playing tricks on him again. He peered into the blackness. The door was slightly ajar. The shard of light penetrating the darkness revealed only the hard floor and part of a black torso bent over a bare leg in prayer. Wolf went to move away when the whispering stopped once more.

  ‘Detective,’ it repeated before beginning a new verse.

  Wolf cautiously approached the heavy door and pushed. It swung stiffly on its old hinges with a weary creak. From the relative safety of the doorway, he reached blindly for the light switch that he knew was situated somewhere to the right of the door. The recessed fluorescent strip buzzed to life but had been
smeared with either food or dried blood, its brightness reduced to an imitation candlelight that threw dark shadows across the walls. The small space reeked of infection and whatever it was that had burnt onto the plastic casing.

  Joel faltered in his prayer to shield his eyes from the polluted light. He was only wearing frayed underwear, leaving the substantial scarring to the rest of his body exposed; however, these were not souvenirs from a past accident or violent attack but self-inflicted mutilations. Crosses of various sizes littered the dark canvas, many scars aged white with time, others still red-raw and inflamed.

  The rest of the small room matched its guest: a Bible lay haemorrhaging pages on the yellow-stained bed, individual verses torn crudely from their gospels and glued with saliva to every available surface, overlapping where God’s message overwhelmed the room’s insufficient size.

  As if emerging from a trance, Joel slowly looked up at Wolf and smiled.

  ‘Detective,’ he said softly before gesturing around the room. ‘I wanted to show you this.’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t,’ replied Wolf, his own voice barely louder than a whisper, as he tried to cover his nose in the politest way possible.

  ‘I been thinking a lot about you … about your situation. I can help you,’ said Joel. He ran his hand across his disfigured chest. ‘And this – this is what’s gonna save you.’

  ‘Self-harm?’

  ‘God.’

  Wolf suspected that the self-harm route might have produced more tangible results.

  ‘Save me from what, Joel?’ he asked wearily.

  Joel burst out laughing. Wolf had had enough and turned to leave.

  ‘Three years back, my little sister was killed – murdered. Drugs debt,’ said Joel. ‘Owed some pretty bad people a hundred and fifty quid – so they cut her face off.’

  Wolf turned back to look at Joel.

  ‘I-I mean, I ain’t gotta tell you. You know. You know what I wanted to do to them. Woulda made it real slow. Woulda made them feel it.’ Joel stared into space as he pictured enacting his revenge with a cruel smirk. ‘I tooled up. Went looking. But these ain’t the kinda people you get close to. I felt helpless. Know what I’m saying?’

  Wolf nodded.

  ‘Desperate times, right? So, I took the only option I had left, the only way to make things right. I made a trade.’

  ‘A trade?’ asked Wolf, transfixed by the story.

  ‘My soul for theirs.’

  ‘Your soul?’

  Wolf glanced around at the Bible that surrounded them and sighed. He felt foolish for indulging his fanatical host for as long as he had. He could hear a member of staff struggling to escort someone back to their room out in the corridor.

  ‘Goodnight Joel,’ he said.

  ‘Week later, I find a bin bag waitin’ on my doorstep, just a regular black bin bag. There was so much blood. I mean, it was on my hands, my clothes …’

  ‘What was in the bag?’

  Joel did not hear the question. He could see it staining his hands once more, could smell the metallic blood. He started muttering under his breath and crawled across the room towards his few worldly possessions. He ripped another page from his decimated Bible and scrawled across it in crayon.

  Wolf realised that, this time, he was not reciting a prayer but a number. He cautiously took the page from Joel’s outstretched arm.

  ‘It’s a phone number,’ said Wolf.

  ‘He’s coming for me, Detective.’

  ‘Whose number is this?’

  ‘“This is the second death, the lake of fire,”’ quoted Joel, reading the relevant verse off the back wall.

  ‘Joel, whose number—’

  ‘Eternal damnation. Who wouldn’t be afraid?’ A tear rolled down his cheek. He took a moment to compose himself and then met Wolf’s eye. ‘But you know what?’ He looked up at the creased page that Wolf held in his hands and smiled sadly:

  ‘It was worth it.’

  CHAPTER 28

  Friday 11 July 2014

  7.20 a.m.

  Baxter thought she might have damaged her Audi, which was frustrating because she was always so careful with it and knew she was an excellent driver. She had had no choice but to park just off the high street in an open space that had been miraculously transformed from a rubble-strewn building site into a functional car park simply by installing a ticket machine in the far corner.

  She was on her way to prep Ashley for the move later that day. On Vanita’s orders they were to keep their involvement simple. She and Edmunds would collect her from her flat in an unmarked car and rendezvous with Simmons on the outskirts of the city. Ashley would then change vehicle and be driven to the south coast, where Protected Persons would be waiting with a boat. As before, the final destination had not been shared with them.

  Baxter stepped into the third-floor corridor. The two sleep-deprived officers sitting outside Ashley’s door got to their feet when they heard her coming. Baxter took out her identification and introduced herself.

  ‘You might want to give it a few more minutes,’ smirked the female officer.

  The male officer looked annoyed. Baxter ignored the advice and banged loudly against the blue door.

  ‘I’m on a tight schedule,’ she said.

  She could see the two officers exchanging irritated looks out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘I told you, I don’t think they’re up yet.’

  ‘They?’ asked Baxter.

  At that moment, the lock clicked loudly and the door swung open. Wolf was halfway through buttoning up his shirt and froze when he saw Baxter standing in the doorway.

  ‘Hey,’ he said dumbly.

  Baxter’s expression shifted from confused to hurt to angry. Without a word, she clenched her fist, turned her shoulder and swung at Wolf with all her weight behind it. He had taught her well. The satisfying blow made contact with his left eye, and he stumbled backwards. The two police officers watched in surprise, but neither made any attempt to intervene.

  Baxter suspected that she had broken a finger and tried to shake off the pain. Then she turned on her heel and stormed off back down the corridor.

  ‘Baxter! Will you please just stop for a second?’ Wolf had followed her out of the building, down the street, and into the potholed car park. ‘I hate to use the dead man walking card, but I could be dead in three days’ time. Please.’

  Reluctantly, Baxter stopped. She turned to face him and folded her arms impatiently.

  ‘We are not a couple,’ said Wolf, ‘and never have been.’

  Baxter rolled her eyes and turned back towards the car.

  ‘We are something else,’ he said sincerely, ‘something confusing, infuriating, special and messy. But we are not a couple. You can’t be angry with me about this.’

  ‘You just carry on waltzing about doing whatever you want like usual.’

  ‘I will, and that’s my point. I’m not couple material. Andrea will tell you that.’

  Baxter made to walk away again and Wolf gently took her arm.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ she shouted, and he let her go.

  ‘Look, I just need you to know that …’ Wolf was struggling to find the words, ‘that nothing I’ve done … that I never intended to hurt you.’

  Baxter unfolded her arms and looked at him for a long moment.

  ‘Go screw yourself, Wolf,’ she said before marching back in the direction of Ashley’s building.

  Wolf looked hurt but did not try to pursue her.

  ‘Baxter!’ he yelled after her. ‘Protect the little girl!’

  She continued walking away.

  ‘If he can’t get to Ashley, I think he’ll come for her!’

  Baxter turned onto the high street and disappeared out of sight without acknowledging him.

  After the non-meeting the day before, Vanita had rescheduled the case review for 9.30 a.m. Baxter came rushing into the office with just two minutes to spare. Thanks to Wolf, her frosty encounter with Ashley had overru
n considerably and then she had hit heavy traffic trying to get back into the city.

  Edmunds came bounding over before she had even put her bag down in the greasy stain on her desk, a souvenir from the night shift’s nocturnal supper. He looked tired and unusually untidy.

  ‘Christ’s sake,’ huffed Baxter, moving her bag to the floor. ‘This place is going to shit.’

  ‘I need to speak to you,’ Edmunds said urgently.

  ‘Not now. It’s been a shitty morning already.’

  ‘I think I’ve found something, but I don’t fully understand it.’

  Baxter could see Vanita watching them from inside the meeting room.

  ‘Then share it with everyone. Come on.’

  She tried to step around him.

  ‘That’s the thing. I really do need to discuss it with you first.’

  ‘Jesus, Edmunds! Afterwards,’ she snapped.

  She jogged into the meeting room and apologised for being late. Anxiously, Edmunds followed her inside, where the flipchart of information now looked impressively complete.

  (HEAD) Naguib Khalid ‘The Cremation Killer’

  (TORSO) – ? – Madeline Ayers – (Khalid’s defence lawyer)

  (LEFT ARM) platinum ring, law firm? – Michael Gable-Collins – why? spoke to AL

  (RIGHT ARM) nail varnish? – Michelle Gailey – (Khalid’s probation officer)

  (LEFT LEG) – ? – Ronald Everett – juror – leaking information to JG

  (RIGHT LEG) Detective Benjamin Chambers – why?

  A – Raymond Turnble (Mayor)

  B – Vijay Rana/Khalid (Brother/accountant) not at trial, paid off AL

  C – Jarred Garland (Journalist) bought information off RE

  D – Andrew Ford (Security guard/alcoholic/pain in arse) – Dock security officer

  E – Ashley Lochlan (Waitress) or (nine-year-old girl) faked witness statement

  F – Wolf

  The meeting began with Vanita recapping the plan to deliver Ashley Lochlan to Protected Persons later that afternoon. When Baxter noticed the additional annotations that had been scrawled on to the board, Finlay told them about his conversation with Samantha Boyd and how Ronald Everett had been selling information to Jarred Garland. He handed out a selection of articles written by Garland around the time, all unremittingly criticical of either Wolf, the Metropolitan Police or the neo-Nazi, Muslim-hating juror.