by Daniel Cole
‘Realise what?’
‘That there are no “good” people. There are just those who haven’t been pushed far enough yet, and those that have.’
‘You don’t sound like you want Wolf caught.’
‘We have to catch him. Some of those people didn’t deserve what happened to them.’
‘And you think some did?’
‘Aye, some did. Don’t worry, lad. I want to catch him more than any of you because, more than any of you, I don’t want him getting hurt.’
Vanita and Simmons returned to the meeting room looking sheepish and took their seats. Edmunds handed them each a copy of the profile that he had created for their killer.
‘We are running out of time,’ he told them, ‘so I have gathered together everything we know about our killer, along with some educated assumptions to narrow down the search: Caucasian male, six foot to six-four, bald or closely shaven hair, scarring to right forearm and back of head, size eleven boots, standard army issue pre-2012, either is or was a soldier. Very high intelligence, which he tests on a regular basis to fuel his ego. Emotional detachment, trivialisation of the value of human life, relishes the challenge and wants to be tested. He’s bored, so it’s likely that he’s not a soldier any more. The theatre of it all tells us that he enjoys it. He’ll be a loner, an outsider, unmarried, basic accommodation. Considering London prices, my money’s on a studio flat in a bad area.
‘People who join the army solely because they like killing tend to make themselves known and wind up dishonourably discharged after either doing or being suspected of doing something appalling. As we don’t have his prints in the system, he must have only been suspected of something; although, we can’t rule out injury either, considering the scars.’
‘That’s a lot of guesswork,’ said Simmons.
‘Educated guesswork, and it’s somewhere to start,’ said Edmunds unapologetically. ‘We need to compile a list of names that fit the description and were discharged from the military in the years leading up to the first archived case in 2008.’
‘Excellent work yet again, Edmunds,’ said Vanita.
‘With your permission, I would like to continue working through the evidence with Finlay. It would be helpful if DCI Simmons could start compiling the list of names for me.’
Simmons did not appreciate their newest recruit delegating him work and was about to say so when Vanita answered:
‘Whatever you need,’ she told him. ‘I presume that Baxter is out looking for Fawkes, then?’
‘Baxter won’t leave that girl’s side before midnight, and all the orders, threats and pleading in the world aren’t going to change her mind. I wouldn’t waste your time,’ said Edmunds.
Finlay and Simmons shared a stunned look. Was he giving the commander orders now?
‘The killer has systematically been drawn in closer and closer with each murder. He plans to finish this face to face. If we find him, we find Wolf.’
The meeting was adjourned. Vanita and Simmons headed back towards her office while Edmunds lingered behind to speak to Finlay in private. He closed the meeting room door and then hesitated, unsure how best to approach the unusual subject.
‘Finlay … weird question.’
‘OK?’ said Finlay, glancing at the closed door.
‘You and Simmons were talking about something yesterday.’
‘You’re going to have to be a wee bit more specific,’ laughed Finlay.
‘Faustian,’ said Edmunds. ‘I was wondering what you meant by that.’
‘Honestly, I barely remember what this meeting was about.’
The notebook came out.
‘We were discussing the victims and then you said: “almost looks like Will’s hit list, if he wasn’t on it” and then Simmons said: “it’s almost Faustian” or something to that effect.’
Finlay nodded as the memory returned to him.
‘It was nothing. A stupid joke,’ he said.
‘Could you explain it please?’
Finlay shrugged and took a seat.
‘A few years back we had a run of people swearing blindly to their innocence despite the piles of bodies accumulating around them.’
‘Blaming demons or the Devil?’ asked Edmunds, fascinated.
‘Aye, the Faustian alibi, as it became known,’ smirked Finlay.
‘And how would one go about arranging something like that?’
‘Come again?’
‘In practical terms, I mean.’
‘Practical terms?’ asked Finlay in confusion. ‘It’s an urban legend, lad.’
‘Humour me.’
‘What’s all this about?’
‘It might be important – please.’
Finlay looked at his watch, conscious that they had precious little time.
‘All right. Story time: there are these numbers floating about out there, just regular mobile phone numbers. No one knows who they belong to, and no one’s ever been able to trace them. They’re only ever live for one call before being disconnected. If a person comes into possession of one of these numbers, and are so inclined, they can offer up a trade.’
‘A deal with the Devil,’ said Edmunds, captivated by the story.
‘Aye, a deal with “the Devil”,’ sighed Finlay. ‘But like any story involving the Devil, there’s a catch: once he’s done doing your bidding, he will expect something in return …’
Finlay paused and gestured for Edmunds to lean in closer.
‘Your soul!’ he bellowed, making Edmunds jump.
Finlay coughed and spluttered as he laughed at his nervy colleague.
‘Do you think there could be any truth to it at all?’ asked Edmunds.
‘The Devil on Pay As You Go? No. No, I don’t,’ said Finlay, now looking serious. ‘You need to concentrate on more important things today, all right?’
Edmunds nodded.
‘All right then,’ said Finlay.
Mr and Mrs Lochlan were watching television in Edmunds’ tatty lounge. Baxter could hear Ashley playing upstairs in the bedroom from her seat at the kitchen table. She was about to get up to make something to eat when Ashley suddenly went quiet.
Baxter got to her feet, straining to listen over the blaring television in the other room, but relaxed when she heard Ashley’s thunderous footsteps running along the landing and then bounding down the stairs. She came rushing into the kitchen with an assortment of hair clips and flowers clasped haphazardly over her head.
‘Hello, Emily,’ she said happily.
‘Hello, Ashley,’ Baxter replied. She had always been terrible at speaking to children. It was as if they could smell her fear of them. ‘You look very pretty.’
‘Thank you. You do too.’
Baxter doubted that was true but smiled wearily at her.
‘I just wanted to check that you still want me to come and tell you if I see anybody outside?’
‘Yes please,’ said Baxter as enthusiastically as she could muster. ‘I’m waiting for a friend,’ she lied.
‘OK!’
Baxter had expected the little girl to run back upstairs but instead she just stood there giggling.
‘What?’
‘What?’ laughed Ashley.
‘What is this?’ Baxter’s patience was waning.
‘What you asked me to do! I’m telling you that there is somebody in the back garden!’
Baxter’s forced smile dropped. She grabbed Ashley and rushed her into the lounge while gesturing to her alarmed parents.
‘Go upstairs and lock the door,’ she whispered, thrusting their daughter into their arms.
As the three of them thudded overhead, Baxter ran back into the kitchen and removed the gun from her bag. She froze when there was a scraping noise from the side of the property. She crept over to the back windows but could not see anything out there.
There was a thump against the front door.
Baxter darted into the hallway and stepped into the bathroom. She raised the gun as sh
e heard metal against the door lock. The front door creaked open and she saw a large shadow spill across the threshold. She held her breath and waited for the figure to pass the bathroom doorway before stepping out and pushing the end of the gun’s metal slide against the hooded head, causing the intruder to drop a bag full of razorblades, sharp scissors and disposable gloves over the floor.
‘Police,’ said Baxter, glancing down at the assortment of ominous implements at her feet. ‘Who are you?’
‘Tia. Alex’s fiancée. I live here.’
Baxter leaned round to see the obvious bump beneath the pregnant woman’s top.
‘Jesus! I am so sorry,’ she said, lowering the weapon. ‘I’m Emily – Emily Baxter. Nice to finally meet you.’
The head of security at Dubai International had already spoken to Wolf by the time Ashley disembarked the plane. He was a terrifying man, who barked orders at anyone and everyone in his vicinity, so it should have come as no surprise to learn that he had forced the airline to rearrange the seating for her flight to Melbourne.
Ashley felt terrible. She could see her fellow passengers crammed into every last available seat further down the cabin while she was surrounded by four empty rows. The clock on the entertainment system had adjusted to reflect the changing time zones. It was now officially Sunday morning, but she was not safe yet. She checked her unadjusted watch, knowing that she could not let her guard down until it was midnight back in England.
Ever since Wolf first told her his plan she had had reservations about boarding a plane full of innocent people. The seemingly ubiquitous killer appeared to have no bounds, and she could not help but wonder whether crashing a passenger jet might still fall within the realm of his extensive capabilities. She had been gripping the armrest for hours, expecting to fall out of the sky. She had refused all food and drink on Wolf’s orders and watched warily every time that anybody got out of their seat to visit the facilities.
The dimmed lights flickered all around her and Ashley looked up alertly. The cabin crew appeared oblivious as they tiptoed between the sleeping passengers. The armrest started to tremble and then to shake beneath her hand, and an unfittingly cheery ping accompanied the illuminated seat-belt signs.
He had found her.
The entire plane began to vibrate violently, waking people from their sleep. Ashley saw the concerned expressions on the cabin crew’s faces as they dished out reassurances while scurrying back to the safety of their seats. The lights went out. Ashley felt for the window beside her but could see only darkness. It was as though she was already dead …
The shaking gradually subsided and then the lights returned at full brightness. Nervous laughter filled the cabin and, shortly after, the seat-belt signs went dark once more. The captain’s voice buzzed over the intercom, apologising for the turbulence and making a joke about everyone getting a massage chair on his airline, not just first class.
As people started dropping back off to sleep, Ashley counted the seconds in her head, ticking off the minutes until they landed.
Andrea gave her now signature sign-off. The Death Clock read: +16:59:56 as the ‘On Air’ light went out. She had enjoyed the day, full of positivity and people wishing Ashley Lochlan well or bestowing advice as she attempted to outrun the previously infallible killer. The vile countdown, having passed midnight and now into positive numbers, had been renamed the ‘Life Clock’ by one caller and, for the first time, symbolised hope rather than despair, counting up the hours to the killer’s failure.
But Andrea’s mood quickly dampened when she walked back into the newsroom and spotted Elijah waiting for her up on his narrow walkway. With a gesture dripping with arrogance he summoned her up and then strode into his office.
Andrea refused to rush. She stopped at her desk and took a moment to steady her nerves, trying not to think about the gravity of the decision that she was about to make, that she had already made. She crossed the chaotic room, took a deep breath and climbed the metal staircase.
Wolf was watching the news in the cheap bed and breakfast that he had paid for in cash. He had been on edge for hours and dived across the dirty room when his Pay As You Go phone went off shortly after midnight. He opened the text from the unfamiliar number and slumped back against the bed in relief as he read:
STILL HERE! L X
She was safe.
He removed the sim card from the phone and snapped it in half then crawled over to switch off the television, pausing when he realised that Andrea’s news channel had already reset the Death Clock. He watched three minutes of his life disappear as though they were seconds before pushing the power button:
-23:54:23
CHAPTER 32
Sunday 13 July 2014
6.20 a.m.
Vanita and Simmons had stayed on until 7.30 p.m. and 9 p.m. respectively while Edmunds and Finlay settled in for a long night at the office. Baxter had joined them a little before 1 a.m. after sending the Lochlan family home at midnight with a police escort.
Edmunds had been expecting a series of fuming texts and phone calls from Tia for having turned their modest home into a bed and breakfast for complete strangers, however, the mum-to-be had spent the entire day playing with nine-year-old Ashley and had been fast asleep when Baxter left their maisonette.
When Baxter arrived at the office, Finlay had taken over the gargantuan task of working through the list of discharged servicemen. Edmunds, meanwhile, had emptied the archived evidence across the meeting room floor and been busy meticulously sorting through the mess.
She always found it a strange atmosphere in the office at night-time. Even though New Scotland Yard was still teeming with caffeine-fuelled employees, the night workers seemed to carry out their duties in a hushed murmur. The oppressive lighting felt a little warmer as it diffused into vacant rooms and dark corridors, and the phones that had to fight so hard to make themselves heard during the day were set to a polite hum.
At 6.20 a.m. Finlay was asleep in his chair, snoring gently beside Baxter, who had now inherited his laborious task. Based on Edmunds’ profile and the overwhelming number of people that could be eliminated due to the severity of their physical injuries, they had, so far, compiled a list of just twenty-six names from the first thousand people they had assessed.
Someone cleared their throat.
Baxter looked up to find a scruffy man in a cap standing over her.
‘Got some files for Alex Edmunds,’ he said, gesturing to the flatbed trolley behind him, where seven more archived boxes were neatly stacked.
‘Yeah, he’s actually just in—’
Baxter saw Edmunds throw a box of evidence across the meeting room in a temper.
‘Know what? Why don’t you leave these with me?’ she smiled.
A file of paperwork showered down over her head as she closed the glass door behind her.
‘I can’t see whatever the hell it was he saw!’ shouted Edmunds in frustration. ‘What did he find?’
He scrunched up a fistful of documents off the floor and thrust them at Baxter.
‘No prints, no witnesses, no connection between the victims – nothing!’
‘OK, calm down. We don’t even know if what Wolf found is still here,’ said Baxter.
‘And we have no way of verifying that, because he outsourced the forensic testing and it’s bloody Sunday so no one’s at work.’ Edmunds slumped down onto the floor. He looked drained and his black eyes were showing worse than ever. He smacked himself on the side of the head. ‘We don’t have time for me to be dim-witted.’
Baxter started to realise that her colleague’s, already, impressive contribution to the case had not been driven by egocentric one-upmanship or proving himself to the team, but by the unreasonable amount of pressure that he placed upon himself, a borderline obsessiveness and dogged refusal to relinquish control to anybody else. Under the circumstances, she supposed that it would be an inopportune moment to tell him just how much he reminded her of Wolf.
‘Some boxes arrived for you,’ said Baxter.
Edmunds looked up at her in confusion.
‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ he said, getting back to his feet before rushing out of the room.
The light drizzle had gradually soaked through Wolf’s clothing during the hour that he had been standing at the bus stop on Coventry Street. He had not taken his eyes off the door to the scruffy Internet café that, like the countless souvenir shops selling London-branded tat, somehow managed to survive nestled among the world’s biggest brands along one of the capital’s busiest and most expensive thoroughfares.
He had followed the man here, keeping his distance as he boarded the train, weaved through the crowds amassing around the street performers in Covent Garden and then entered the grotty café just a few hundred metres down from Piccadilly Circus.
The temperature had dropped with the break in the weather and his quarry had camouflaged himself in standard London attire: a long black coat, immaculately polished shoes and freshly pressed shirt and trousers, all capped off with the regulation black umbrella.
He had struggled to keep pace at times as the imposing man marched briskly through the meandering crowds. Wolf had watched a number of people coming into contact with him, pushing past from the other direction, begging him for spare change, attempting to hand him glossy fliers, not one of them aware of the monster walking among them: a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Shortly after leaving Covent Garden the man had taken a shortcut. Wolf followed him down the quiet side street and quickened his pace, seizing a rare moment of solitude in the ever-watchful city. His hurried walk turned into a jog as he chased down his unsuspecting target, but when a taxi turned the corner and pulled up a little further down the road, Wolf reluctantly slowed his pace and followed his prey back out onto the busy high street.
As the drizzle built into rain, Wolf pulled the collar of his own long black coat up around his neck and hunched over to keep warm. He watched the colourful numbers on the neon clock in the café window steadily distort in the wet glass, a reminder that this was his last day, his last chance.
