Wolf shrugged: ‘Edmund?’
‘… Edmund Edmunds through. There’s security on all doors, the armed DPG lads in the garage for the meet and the dogs have been through. We closed every blind on this floor and stopped the lifts, which means we’re taking the stairs – or Will is, anyway.’
‘Excellent,’ said Simmons. ‘Fawkes, once you’ve got the mayor, an armed officer will accompany you up here. Keep in mind that it’s a big building and we don’t know everyone in it. Once you’re in the interview room, you’re in there for the long haul.’
‘How long?’ asked Wolf.
‘Until we’re sure the mayor is safe.’
‘I’ll get you a bucket,’ called out an arrogant detective constable named Saunders, finding his own contribution hilarious.
‘I was actually wondering what was for lunch,’ replied Wolf.
‘Blowfish,’ sneered Saunders, testing Simmons’ patience.
‘Do you think this is a laughing matter, Saunders?’ Simmons shouted, perhaps overreacting a little for the sake of the commander. ‘Get out!’
The rat-faced detective stuttered like a chided schoolboy:
‘I actually physically can’t … because of the lockdown.’
‘Then just sit there and shut up.’
Choosing the worst possible moment to enter the meeting room – Baxter and Edmunds entered the meeting room.
‘Nice of you two to join us. I’ve got a long list of tenuous leads for you to follow up.’ Simmons threw Baxter a folder, which she handed straight to Edmunds.
‘What did we miss?’ Baxter asked the room.
‘Will and I are on protection duty,’ Finlay answered. ‘You and Edmund Edmunds are identifying the bits, and Saunders was being a—’
‘Dick?’ Baxter suggested, taking a seat.
Finlay nodded, grateful that she had spared him breaking his no-swearing rule.
‘OK. Settle down,’ ordered Simmons. ‘So, while I’ve got you all here: we’ve got six dead victims stitched together, a death threat against the mayor, and a hit list of five others.’ He pressed on, ignoring the roomful of enquiring looks. ‘Does anybody have any—’
‘Plus the puppet monster’s pointing into Will’s window,’ interrupted Finlay cheerfully.
‘And that. Does anybody have any theories?’ A room of blank faces answered Simmons’ question. ‘Anyone?’
Tentatively, Edmunds raised a hand: ‘It’s a challenge, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘At university I wrote a paper examining the reasons for serial killers to send communiqués to the media or police: The Zodiac Killer, The Happy Face Killer—’
‘The Faustian Killer, the baddy from Seven,’ added Saunders, his impersonation of Edmunds earning him a few spiteful laughs and a glare from Simmons.
‘Aren’t you the Fraud guy?’ someone asked.
Edmunds ignored them.
‘Often, but not always, their communication will contain irrefutable proof that they are, in fact, the genuine perpetrator,’ he continued. ‘Sometimes it’s as subtle as details that haven’t been made public; other times it’s something rather more substantial.’
‘Like the photographs sent to Fawkes’ wife today,’ said Vanita, oblivious of her faux pas.
‘Ex-wife,’ Wolf corrected.
‘Exactly. And in very rare cases this is done as a cry for help, literally pleading with the police to stop them killing again. They believe that they are no more than victims of their own uncontrollable urges. Either that or the idea of somebody else claiming credit for their work is unbearable. In both scenarios, consciously or unconsciously, the ultimate intention is invariably the same: to eventually get caught.’
‘And you believe that this is one of those rare cases?’ asked Vanita. ‘Why?’
‘The list, for one … The definitive time frame … The press-baiting … I believe the killer will keep their distance as they test the water, but they won’t be able to resist getting closer and closer to the investigation. With each subsequent murder, their confidence will grow, fuelling their god complex, goading them into taking greater and greater risks. In the end, they will come to us.’
The entire room stared at Edmunds in surprise.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak before,’ said Finlay.
Edmunds shrugged bashfully.
‘But why me?’ asked Wolf. ‘Why not point that horrible thing through someone else’s window? Why send the pictures to my wife?’
‘Ex-wife,’ Baxter and Finlay chimed in unison.
‘Why is my—’ Wolf stopped himself. ‘Why me?’
‘You’ve just got one of those faces,’ smirked Finlay.
The room turned back to Edmunds expectantly.
‘It is far less common for a serial killer to single out an individual over the police force as a whole, but it does happen – and when it does, the reasons are always personal. In a way, it’s a form of flattery. He must see Wolf, and Wolf alone, as a worthy adversary.’
‘That’s all right, then. As long as he meant it nicely,’ said Wolf dismissively.
‘Who else is on this list then?’ asked Baxter, eager to change the subject to something on which Edmunds had not written a paper.
‘I’ll handle this one, Terrence,’ said Vanita as she stepped forward. ‘At this time we have elected to withhold that information because A, we do not wish to cause a panic; B, we need you all focused on the mayor right now; and C – we don’t know for sure that the threat is genuine, and the last thing that this department needs is another lawsuit.’
Wolf sensed several heads turn accusingly in his direction.
The internal line on the meeting room phone rang, and the crowd listened in as Simmons answered.
‘Go ahead … Thank you.’ He nodded to Vanita.
‘OK, people, be at your very best today. Meeting adjourned.’
The mayor’s Mercedes was already parked by the time Wolf reached the underground car park. Unlike the rest of the building, the subterranean garages lacked the benefit of air conditioning and the heat rising up off the tarmac, laced with the scents of rubber, oil and exhaust fumes, was almost suffocating. The oppressive strip lighting that illuminated all but the darkest corners toyed with Wolf’s internal clock. In his exhausted state he wondered whether it was evening again already and checked his watch: 7.36 a.m.
As he approached the car, one of the rear doors swung open and the mayor climbed out, much to the dismay of his now redundant chauffeur.
‘Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?’ he snapped as he slammed the door behind him.
‘Mr Mayor, I’m Detective Sergeant Fawkes.’
Wolf held out a hand in greeting, and the mayor’s anger dissipated instantly. He looked momentarily uneasy before recovering his composure and shaking Wolf’s hand heartily.
‘Nice to finally meet you in person, Detective,’ he beamed, overcompensating, as if posing for a photograph at the charity event he should have been on his way to.
‘If you’ll follow me, please,’ said Wolf, gesturing to the armed officer who would accompany them upstairs.
‘One moment, please,’ said the mayor.