‘Apparently, it’s an asthmatic’s kryptonite. And I brought him here.’
Forgetting that he was only holding a picnic cup, Simmons threw his empty glass against the wall, furious with himself. It bounced across the desk anticlimactically and, after a moment, he topped it back up.
‘So, let’s get this out the way before the commander gets back,’ said Simmons. ‘What are we going to do about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Well, this is the meeting where I tell you you’re too close to the case and advise you that it’s in everybody’s best interests to take you off …’
Wolf went to protest but Simmons continued:
‘… then you tell me to piss off. Then I remind you what happened with Khalid. Then you tell me to piss off again, and I reluctantly agree to let you stay on but warn you that the first flicker of concern from your colleagues, your psychiatrist, or from me, and you’ll be reassigned. Good chat.’
Wolf nodded. He was aware that Simmons was putting his neck on the line for him.
‘Seven dead bodies and, so far, the only murder weapons are an inhaler, flowers and a fish.’ Simmons shook his head incredulously. ‘Remember the good old days when people had the decency to just walk up to someone and shoot the bastard?’
‘Better days,’ said Wolf, raising his Optimus Prime cup.
‘Better days!’ echoed Simmons as they toasted their glasses.
Wolf felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket. He took it out and glanced down at the short message from Andrea:
Wolf was suddenly unsettled. He knew that Andrea was apologising for more than the inappropriate penis drawing that she had, presumably, intended as a heart. He was about to reply when Baxter came storming into the room and switched on the small television on the wall. Simmons was too drained to even react.
‘Your bitch of an ex is running with the story,’ said Baxter.
Andrea appeared mid-report. She looked incredible. Seeing her objectively like this, Wolf realised that he had taken her beauty for granted – those long red curls pinned up in the style that she usually reserved for weddings and parties, the sparkling green eyes that barely looked real. The reason behind her betrayal was immediately apparent. She was not standing outside by the main road or speaking down a distorted line while an old photograph of her idly loitered on screen like a poor ventriloquist act; she was reporting from the studio, presenting the programme, just as she had always wanted.
‘… that Mayor Turnble’s death this afternoon was, in fact, an act of premeditated murder linked to the six bodies discovered in Kentish Town early this morning,’ said Andrea, showing none of the nerves that Wolf knew must have been flitting beneath the surface. ‘Some viewers may find the following images—’
‘Speak to your wife, Fawkes. Now!’ bellowed Simmons.
‘Ex,’ corrected Baxter as all three of them frantically punched numbers into their phones:
‘Yes, I need the number for the newsroom at …’
‘Two units to 110 Bishopsgate …’
‘The person you are trying to reach is not available …’
Andrea’s report continued in the background:
‘… have confirmed that the head is that of Naguib Khalid, the Cremation Killer. It is unknown at this time how Khalid, who was serving …’
‘I’m gonna try security at the building,’ said Wolf after leaving a curt three-word voicemail for Andrea: ‘Call me now!’
‘… apparently dismembered before being stitched back together to form one complete body,’ said Andrea, on screen, as the horrific photographs appeared one after another, ‘which the police are referring to as “The Ragdoll”.’
‘Bollocks we are,’ snapped Simmons, who was still on the phone to the control room.
They each stopped to listen as Andrea continued:
‘… five further names and the precise dates on which they will die. All will be revealed in exactly five minutes. I’m Andrea Hall. Stay tuned.’
‘She wouldn’t?’ Simmons asked Wolf in disbelief, his hand over the receiver.
When Wolf did not respond, they all resumed their fraught conversations.
Five minutes later Wolf, Simmons and Baxter all sat watching the lights fade up on the news studio, which gave the impression that Andrea had been filling the time by sitting alone in the dark. Behind them, their colleagues were crowding round a television that somebody had carried out from the meeting room.
They were too late.
Andrea had, unsurprisingly, failed to reply to Wolf’s message. Building security had been barricaded out of the newsroom offices, and the police officers that Simmons had sent were yet to even arrive on scene. Simmons got through to the editor-in-chief whose name he knew all too well. He had informed the insufferable man that he was sabotaging a homicide investigation, for which he could face a prison sentence. When that had no effect, Simmons attempted to appeal to his humanity by admitting that they had not yet even informed the people on the list of the threat against them.
‘We’re saving you a job then,’ Elijah had replied. ‘And you say I don’t do anything for you.’
He had refused to let them speak to Andrea and promptly hung up. All they could do now was watch with the rest of the world. Simmons poured three fresh glasses of whiskey. Baxter, who was sitting on the desk, sniffed at hers uncertainly but then knocked it back all the same. She was about to ask to see the confidential list, as it would be public knowledge in a matter of minutes anyway, when the programme restarted.
Andrea missed her first cue and Wolf could see that she was anxious, hesitant, having second thoughts. He knew that behind the minimalist desk, her knees would be bobbing up and down as they always did when she was nervous. She looked into the camera, searching the millions of invisible eyes staring back at her, and Wolf sensed that she was looking for him, that she was looking for a way out of the hole that she had dug for herself.
‘Andrea, we’re on,’ a fretted voice hissed in her ear. ‘Andrea!’
‘Good evening. I’m Andrea Hall. Welcome back …’
She spent over five minutes recapping the story so far and recycling the gruesome photographs for the countless viewers who had just switched over. She began to stumble over her words as she explained that a handwritten list had been included with the pictures, and her hands were visibly shaking by the time it came to reading the six death sentences out loud:
‘Mayor Raymond Edgar Turnble – Saturday 28 June
‘Vijay Rana – Wednesday 2 July
‘Jarred Andrew Garland – Saturday 5 July
‘Andrew Arthur Ford – Wednesday 9 July
‘Ashley Danielle Lochlan – Saturday 12 July