Wolf had absolutely no idea what the appropriate response to this peculiar pearl of wisdom should be, so he waited self-consciously for the mayor to either continue or shut up.
‘Let’s not pretend that you like me, Fawkes.’
‘OK,’ replied Wolf, a little too quickly.
‘Which makes what you are doing for me today all the more humbling.’
‘I’m doing my job.’
‘As was I. I want you to know that. Public opinion was not in your favour, therefore, I was not in your favour.’
Wolf felt that the phrase ‘not in your favour’ fell a little short when referencing the relentless tirade of condemnation, the unabashed rallying to whet the appetite of the corruption-fatigued public and the unremitting portrayal of Wolf as a symbol of immorality: a target at which the virtuous could, at last, vent their anger.
Riding a wave of inexhaustible public support against the city’s floundering police force, the mayor had unveiled his ground-breaking reports, Policing and Crime Policy. He had repeatedly encouraged that Wolf be punished to the full extent of the law during a rousing speech to a roomful of his peers, in which he coined the already well-known slogan ‘policing the police’.
Wolf recalled the almost comical turnabout after Naguib Khalid was arrested for the second time. He remembered how this man, still using Wolf as his poster boy, had flaunted his Health Inequalities Strategy while damning the inadequate services available to ‘our best and bravest’ and to the city of London as a whole.
Conducted by a charismatic and unusually popular public figure, the mayor’s supporters applauded and rallied obediently in time to his manipulations. The same dedicated voices that had called for Wolf’s blood were now campaigning to patch him back up, and one passionate interviewee had even gone on television to demand both.
There was no doubt that without the mayor’s influence and his well-publicised crusade to reinstate one of the people’s ‘broken heroes’, Wolf would still be behind bars; however, both men knew that Wolf owed him nothing.
Wolf remained deathly silent, fearful of what he might say should he open his mouth.
‘You did the right thing, by the way,’ the mayor continued pompously, oblivious to Wolf’s drastic change in mood. ‘There is a difference between corruption and desperation. I see that now. Personally, I wish you had killed the sick bastard in that courtroom. That last little girl he set alight was my daughter’s age.’
The mayor’s breathing had calmed during the hours of tense quiet, but this extended period of talking had undone all of his progress. He shook his blue inhaler and the uninspiring metallic sound, as the dregs of the medicine shuffled against the canister wall, came as no surprise; he had overdosed on over a week’s worth of Salbutamol since entering the interview room. Unperturbed, he took another dose and held the precious breath in for as long as he could.
‘I’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time,’ said the mayor. ‘That it was never personal. I was just doing—’
‘Your job, yeah,’ Wolf finished bitterly. ‘I understand. You were all just doing your jobs: the press, the lawyers, the hero that shattered my wrist and pulled me off Khalid. I get it.’
The mayor nodded. He had not intended to aggravate Wolf, but he felt better for speaking his mind. Despite his current unenviable situation, he felt a small weight lift off his shoulders, something that he had been carrying for far too long. He opened up his briefcase and took out the packet of cigarettes.
‘Do you mind?’
Wolf stared at the wheezing man in disbelief: ‘You must be joking.’
‘We all have our vices,’ said the mayor unapologetically. His pomposity had been buoyed by his almost-apology, his authority given free rein now that he no longer felt in any way indebted to Wolf. ‘If you expect me to stay locked up in this room for another eleven hours, I expect you not to argue. One now, one at dinner time, that’s all.’
Wolf was about to protest when the mayor defiantly placed the cigarette between his lips, sparked his lighter and, with a cupped hand shielding the flame from the air-conditioned breeze, drew the fire towards his face …
For a fleeting moment, the two men stared at one another, neither able to comprehend what was happening. Wolf watched as the flame caught where the cigarette wedged the mayor’s mouth open and spread instantaneously to consume the entire lower half of his face. The mayor gasped deeply to scream out, but the inferno followed his breath, filling his nose and mouth as it poured into his lungs.
‘Help!’ yelled Wolf as he reached the man who was silently burning alive. ‘I need help in here!’
He grabbed the mayor’s flailing arms, uncertain what to do. Edmunds burst through the door and stood open-mouthed as the mayor let out a sickening, guttural cough that showered Wolf’s left arm in frothy blood and liquid fire. Wolf momentarily loosened his grip on a thrashing arm and was struck painfully across the face as his own shirtsleeve started to burn. He realised that if he could only get close enough to hold the mayor’s nose and mouth closed, the oxygen-starved fire would die out instantly.
Edmunds had rushed back out into the corridor as the fire alarm tripped. The entire office were on their feet, watching as he ripped a fire blanket off the wall. He saw Simmons running between desks towards the room. Edmunds re-entered the interview room. The sprinkler system now raining down over the two men was doing more harm than good; with every mouthful of water that the panicking man sprayed across the room, he spread the flames further, as though he were literally breathing fire. Wolf was still attempting to wrestle him to the ground when Edmunds raised the blanket and charged into them both, dropping all three of them onto the flooded floor.
Simmons splashed into the room and froze in repulsion as Edmunds pulled the blanket off the devastated body that had once been his handsome friend. When it dawned on him that the air he was breathing stank of scorched flesh, he began to gag. Two more officers rushed inside as Simmons backed out. One of them threw another blanket over Wolf’s, still burning, arm while Edmunds searched the mayor’s neck for a carotid pulse and listened for breathing at the destroyed mouth.
‘No pulse!’ he yelled, unsure who was even in the room.
The Savile Row shirt disintegrated in his hands as he pulled it open and started counting in time to the chest compressions; however, every time he pushed down on the mayor’s sternum, blood and charred tissue flooded the ruined throat. The very first thing that his three-day First Aid at Work course had taught him was the ABCs: without an airway, all the chest compressions in the world could not save him. Edmunds gradually slowed to a stop and slumped onto the soaking floor. He looked up at Simmons, who was standing just outside the door.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’