Water streamed out of Edmunds’ saturated hair and was running down his face. He closed his eyes as he tried to make sense of the surreal events of the previous two and a half minutes. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear sirens approaching.
Simmons stepped back into the room. His expression was unreadable as he looked down at the charred body of his friend. Forced to look away from the ghastly image that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life, he turned his attention to Wolf, who was on his knees, holding his blistering arm in pain. Simmons grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him to his feet before throwing him back against the wall, shocking everyone in the room.
‘You were supposed to protect him!’ Simmons screamed with tearful eyes, slamming Wolf into the wall repeatedly. ‘You were meant to watch him!’
Edmunds jumped back to his feet before anyone else had reacted and restrained his boss’ arms. Following his lead, the two other officers and Baxter, who had just appeared in the doorway, wrestled Simmons away from Wolf and dragged him out of the room. They closed the door on their way out to preserve the crime scene, leaving Wolf alone with the grotesque corpse.
Wolf slid down the wall and sat curled up in the corner. Dazed, he felt the back of his head and stared at the blood on his fingers in confusion. He was surrounded by dozens of tiny oily flames, still burning ferociously across the surface of the rising flood, like Japanese water lanterns guiding lost spirits into the world of the dead. Resting his head against the wall, he watched the flames flicker under the relentless downpour, letting the cold water wash his bloody hands clean.
CHAPTER 6
Saturday 28 June 2014
4.23 p.m.
Andrea climbed out of the taxi and into the shadow of the Heron Tower, London’s third-tallest skyscraper. She gazed up at the topmost floors, eclipsing the sun. The unbalanced forms reached incoherently skywards, the lanky metal mast balancing precariously on top, grasping desperately for status at the expense of the aesthetics and, by the looks of it, structural integrity.
The newsroom could not have been housed in a more appropriate building.
She entered the immense reception area and automatically headed for the escalators, intending never to put so much as a foot inside any of the six transparent lifts that propelled impatient businessmen back in the direction of their desks at alarming speed. As she rose gently away from the lobby floor, she admired the colossal aquarium built into the wall behind reception, the immaculate employees apparently unperturbed by the 70,000-litre slice of ocean held at bay by a thin layer of acrylic.
Andrea was thinking about her newest passion in life, scuba diving, as she stared at the colourful blossoms sprouting from the coral and peaceful fish darting in and out of view in the blissfully warm water. She almost tripped over when the travelling staircase jolted her from her thoughts and deposited her unceremoniously onto the stationary floor.
She had received the call to attend the crime scene at 3 a.m. After finally making contact with Wolf, to hand him the disturbing envelope that she had discovered in her post tray, she had remained outside New Scotland Yard with her cameraman for four further hours in order to record half-hourly live updates. This involved repeatedly rehashing the same information to make it appear, although never specifically state, that there had been significant activity and thrilling developments occurring outside on the pavement in front of the police headquarters’ closed doors.
After her 11 a.m. bulletin, Andrea had received a phone call from her editor-in-chief, Elijah Reid, instructing her to go home and get a few hours’ rest. She had protested obstinately. She had no intention of renouncing her claim over what was sure to become the most sensational story since the Cremation Killings (especially being privy to the troubling contents of the envelope, which she was yet to share with her boss). She was finally persuaded when Elijah swore to phone her immediately at the slightest hint of activity.
It had been a pleasant half-hour stroll in the sunshine, along the palace grounds and past Belgrave Square Garden, back to Knightsbridge and the three-storey Victorian town house that she shared with her fiancé and his nine-year-old daughter. Andrea closed the substantial front door and climbed straight upstairs to the tastefully bland bedroom on the top floor.
She pulled the curtains and lay on top of the covers, fully clothed, in the semi-darkness. She reached into her bag, found her mobile phone and set an alarm. She then removed a file containing photocopies of each and every one of the items that she had surrendered to Wolf and held it tightly against her chest as she closed her eyes, acutely aware of their tremendous significance to the police, to the fated people on the list – and to her.
For over an hour and a half she lay there unable to sleep, staring up at the high ceiling and the ornate detailing surrounding the antique light fitting, weighing up the moral and legal implications of sharing the evidence with Elijah. She had no doubt whatsoever that he would shamelessly parade all twelve of the photographs in front of the world. A tactful promise that ‘some viewers may find the following images distressing’ would only tantalise the public’s insatiable morbid curiosity. She wondered darkly whether the families of the as yet unidentified victims would be watching, finding themselves simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by the vaguely familiar dismemberments.
That morning dozens of journalists had stood side by side in front of the same clichéd backdrop to report the exact same information, each vying for the attention of the spoilt-for-choice viewing public. The fact that Andrea had been contacted directly by the killer would surely give them an edge over the BBC and Sky News, who would undoubtedly reproduce the images within minutes of them being broadcast. However, she knew exactly how to ensure that every television in the country was focused solely on her:
1. The pitch – Andrea would inform the public that she had been contacted by the city’s newest serial killer.
2. The tease – They would reveal each of the photographs in turn, describing what was depicted and making wild assumptions to provoke easily influenced imaginations. They may even be able to find an ex-detective, a private investigator – even a crime novelist would do – who would agree to lend their opinion to the unveiling.
3. The promise – Andrea would reveal that included in the package was a handwritten list detailing the identities of the killer’s next six victims and the precise dates on which they would die. ‘All will be revealed in just five minutes time,’ she would promise (long enough for word to spread across the entire planet, yet too little time for the police to disrupt the broadcast).