Wolf was struck across the face and could taste blood as he stumbled backwards into the jury, knocking the woman nearest to him off her feet. During the few seconds it took to steady himself, several officers had flooded the space between him and the broken body lying at the base of the dock.
Wolf lashed out as he staggered forward, feeling strong hands grasping to restrain his failing body, forcing him onto his knees and then finally to the floor. He took an exhausted breath, laced with the scents of sweat and polish, watching one of the injured officers’ discarded batons roll with a hollow thud into the wood panelling beside Khalid.
He looked dead, but Wolf needed to be sure.
With a final surge of adrenaline, he kicked out and crawled towards the lifeless man decorated in dark brown stains where blood had already soaked into the fabric of his cheap navy suit. Wolf reached for the heavy weapon, wrapping his fingers round the cold metal. He had brought it up above his head when a devastating impact knocked him onto his back. Disorientated, he could only watch as the dock security officer swung again, crushing his wrist with a second vicious blow.
Barely twenty seconds had passed since the ‘not guilty’ verdict, but when he heard metal clattering against wood, Wolf knew that it was over. He only prayed that he had done enough.
People were screaming and rushing for the exits but a flood of police officers drove them back inside; Samantha just sat on the floor, dazed, staring into space despite the events taking place only metres away. Finally someone took her by the arm, pulled her to her feet, and rushed her out of the room. The person leading Samantha away was shouting something, but the words were not reaching her. A muted alarm barely registered at all. She slipped on the floor of the Great Hall and felt a knee connect with the side of her head. The pain failed to come, but she fell back onto the black-and-white Sicilian marble, staring up in confusion at the ornate dome, sixty-seven feet above, the statues, stained-glass windows, and murals.
Her rescuer pulled her back up once the crowd had passed and led her as far as the disused main entrance before running back in the direction of the courtroom. The immense wooden doors and black gates stood wide open, the overcast sky beyond beckoning her outside. Now alone, Samantha stumbled out onto the street.
The photograph could not have been more perfect had she posed for it: the beautiful blood-spattered juror, dressed all in white, standing traumatised beneath the stone sculptures of Fortitude, Truth and the ominous Recording Angel, cloaked from head to toe in a heavy robe, imitating death, preparing to report an endless list of sins back to heaven.
Samantha turned her back to the ravenous pack of journalists and their blinding lights. In the flicker of a thousand photographs, she noticed words carved into the stone high above, resting upon four separate stone pillars, as if to support their metaphorical weight:
DEFEND THE CHILDREN OF THE POOR & PUNISH THE WRONGDOER.
As she read the words, she was overcome with a sense that she had failed in some way; could she honestly say that she was as unequivocally certain of Khalid’s innocence as the detective had been of his guilt? When her gaze eventually fell back to the hooded angel, Samantha knew that she had made the list.
She had just been judged.
4 years later …
CHAPTER 1
Saturday 28 June 2014
3.50 a.m.
Wolf groped blindly for his mobile phone, which was edging further across the laminate floor with every vibration. Slowly the darkness began to disassemble itself into the unfamiliar shapes of his new apartment. The sweat-sodden sheet clung to his skin as he crawled off the mattress and over to the buzzing annoyance.
‘Wolf,’ he answered, relieved that he had at least got that right as he searched the wall for a light switch.
‘It’s Simmons.’
Wolf flicked a switch and sighed heavily when the weak yellow light reminded him where he was; he was tempted to turn it off again. The tiny bedroom consisted of four walls, a worn double mattress on the floor and a solitary light bulb. The claustrophobic box was sweltering thanks to his landlord, who still had not chased the previous tenant up for a window key. Normally this would not have been such an issue in London; however, Wolf had managed to coincide his move with one of England’s uncharacteristic heatwaves, which had been dragging on for almost two weeks.
‘Don’t sound so pleased,’ said Simmons.
‘What time is it?’ yawned Wolf.
‘Ten to four.’
‘Aren’t I off this weekend?’
‘Not any more. I need you to join me at a crime scene.’
‘Next to your desk?’ asked Wolf, only half-joking as he hadn’t seen his boss leave the office in years.
‘Funny. They let me out for this one.’
‘That bad, huh?’
There was a pause on the other end of the line before Simmons answered: ‘It’s pretty bad. Got a pen?’
Wolf rummaged through one of the stacked boxes in the doorway and found a biro to scribble on the back of his hand with.
‘OK. Go ahead.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a light flickering across his kitchen cupboard.
‘Flat 108 …’ started Simmons.
As Wolf walked into his ill-equipped kitchenette, he was dazzled by blue flashing lights strobing through the small window.
‘… Trinity Towers—’
‘Hibbard Road, Kentish Town?’ Wolf interrupted, peering down over dozens of police cars, reporters, and the evacuated residents of the block opposite.
‘How the hell did you know that?’
‘I am a detective.’
‘Well, you can also be our number one suspect then. Get down here.’
‘Will do. I just need to …’ Wolf trailed off, realising that Simmons had already hung up.
Between the intermittent flashes, he noticed the steady orange light coming from the washing machine and remembered that he had put his work clothes in before going to bed. He looked around at the dozens of identical cardboard boxes lining the walls:
‘Bollocks.’
Five minutes later Wolf was pushing his way through the crowd of spectators that had congregated outside his building. He approached a police officer and flashed his warrant card, expecting to stroll straight through the cordon; however, the young constable snatched the card out of his hand and examined it closely, glancing up sceptically at the imposing figure dressed in swimming shorts and a faded ’93 Bon Jovi: Keep the Faith tour T-shirt.
‘Officer Layton-Fawkes?’ the constable asked doubtfully.
Wolf winced at the sound of his own pretentious name:
‘Detective Sergeant Fawkes, yes.’
‘As in – Courtroom-Massacre Fawkes?’
‘It’s pronounced William … May I?’ Wolf gestured towards the apartment building.
The young man handed Wolf’s warrant card back and held the tape up for him to pass under.
‘Need me to show you up?’ he asked.
Wolf glanced down at his floral shorts, bare knees and work shoes.
‘You know what? I think I’m doing pretty well by myself.’
The officer grinned.