‘And on Monday 14 July …’
Andrea paused, not for dramatic effect (she had rushed through the list with no sense of showmanship, just desperate for it to be over), but because she had to wipe a mascara-stained tear out of her eye. She cleared her throat and shuffled the papers in front of her, unconvincingly insinuating that a typo or missing sheet had interrupted her flow. Suddenly she put her hands over her face, her shoulders shuddering as the full weight of what she had done dawned on her.
‘Andrea? Andrea?’ someone whispered from behind the camera.
Andrea looked back up at her record-breaking audience, her big moment, with unbecoming black marks smudged across her face and sleeves.
‘I’m OK.’
A pause.
‘And on Monday 14 July, Metropolitan Police officer and lead investigator on the Ragdoll murders … Detective Sergeant William Oliver Layton-Fawkes.’
CHAPTER 8
Monday 30 June 2014
9.35 a.m.
‘Bad.’
‘Bad?’
‘And sad.’
‘Sad.’
Dr Preston-Hall sighed heavily and placed her notebook on the antique coffee table beside her chair.
‘You watch the man that you were charged to protect die in front of your eyes and then the person responsible announces their intention to murder you in just a fortnight’s time, and all you can muster up for me is that you are feeling “bad” and “sad”?’
‘Mad?’ tried Wolf, having believed that he was doing well.
This seemed to pique the doctor’s interest. She picked up her notebook once more and leaned in closer.
‘So, you’re feeling angry?’
Wolf considered this for a moment: ‘Not really, no.’
The doctor threw her notebook down. It slid off the miniature table and onto the floor.
Apparently, she was mad.
Wolf had been visiting the stucco-faced Georgian town house in Queen Anne’s Gate every Monday morning since his reinstatement. Dr Preston-Hall was the Metropolitan Police Consultant Psychiatrist. Her discreet office, advertised only by a brass plaque beside the front door, sat on a quiet road just a three-minute walk from New Scotland Yard.
The doctor’s presence only complimented the elegant surroundings. She was in her early sixties now, ageing gracefully, adorned in muted high-end clothing and wearing her silver hair in a meticulously sculptured style. She maintained a stern air of authority: the character of the schoolmistress, ingrained so deeply into children at such a young age so as to never be forgotten in adulthood.
‘Tell me, have you been having the dreams again?’ she asked. ‘The ones about the hospital.’
‘You say hospital, I say asylum.’
The doctor sighed.
‘Only when I sleep,’ said Wolf.
‘Which is?’
‘Not when I can help it. And I wouldn’t really call them dreams. They’re nightmares.’
‘And I wouldn’t call them nightmares,’ argued Dr Preston-Hall. ‘There is nothing scary about a dream. You project the fear onto it.’
‘With all due respect, that’s a lot easier to say when you haven’t already spent thirteen months and a day of your life in that particular hell.’
The doctor dropped the subject, sensing that Wolf would much rather fill their remaining time arguing than telling her anything personal. She ripped open the sealed envelope that he had brought with him and perused the familiar weekly report from Finlay. From her expression, she appeared to think it as big a waste of time, trees and ink as Wolf did.
‘Sergeant Shaw seems more than happy with the way you’ve handled the stress of the past few days. He’s awarded you a score of ten out of ten. Lord knows what he’s basing his rating system on but … good for you,’ she said snippily.
Wolf stared out of the open sash window towards the grand houses lining the opposite side of Queen Anne’s Gate. Each had been impeccably maintained or else faithfully restored to their former glory. If it had not been for the distant whispers of the chaotic city gearing up for another unrelenting week, he could have bought the illusion that they had travelled back in time. A gentle breeze found its way into the shady room while the morning outside built towards its twenty-eight-degree high.
‘I’m going to recommend that we meet twice per week for the duration of this case,’ said Dr Preston-Hall, still reading the detailed report that Finlay had scrawled in his clumsy handwriting as Wolf dictated it.
Wolf sat up straight, conscious not to clench his fists in front of the psychiatrist.
‘I appreciate your concern …’
It did not sound as though he did.
‘… but I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a killer to catch.’
‘And therein lies our problem: “I”. This is my concern. Is this not what happened before? It is not your sole responsibility to capture this person. You have colleagues; you have support—’
‘I have more riding on it.’
‘And I have a professional obligation,’ she said finally.
Wolf had the distinct impression that she might suggest three days per week should he continue to argue.
‘So, it’s settled then,’ she said, flicking through her diary. ‘How would Wednesday morning suit you?’
‘I’ll be doing all in my power to prevent the murder of a man named Vijay Rana on Wednesday.’
‘Thursday, then?’
‘Fine.’
‘Nine o’clock?’
‘Fine.’
Dr Preston-Hall signed the paperwork and smiled pleasantly. Wolf got up and headed for the door.
‘And William …’ Wolf turned back to face her, ‘take care of yourself.’
Simmons had insisted that Wolf take the Sunday off after the ordeals of the previous day. Wolf suspected that he was merely covering his own arse, ensuring that he had been signed off by the psychiatrist before resuming his duties.
He had stopped off at a Tesco Express and bought enough food to hole up for the remainder of the weekend, correctly suspecting that a cluster of reporters would be eagerly awaiting his return outside the entrance to his building. Fortunately he was able to bypass the majority of them by crossing through the police cordon that was still in place while forensics completed their work.
He had used this unwelcome day off to sort through some of the boxes that Andrea had packed up for him months earlier. It looked a rather measly half of the house, and he was reasonably confident that she had not wedged the car into any of the cardboard boxes that lined his walls.