‘She doesn’t know yet,’ said Baxter solemnly as Georgina Tate was shown into the renovated interview room.
‘About her mother?’ asked Edmunds.
‘Doesn’t look in any fit state to hear it, does she?’
Baxter started packing up her things.
‘Are we going somewhere?’
‘We’re not,’ said Baxter. ‘I am. With no Wolf or Finlay, guess which mug’s been left to sort all their shit out on top of my own. Who’s number four on the list?’
‘Andrew Ford, the security guard,’ said Edmunds, a little surprised that Baxter needed to ask.
‘Complete arsehole. Big drinker. Managed to knock out a female officer’s tooth last night when she tried to stop him trashing the place.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘I can handle it. Then I’ve got a meeting with Jarred Garland, the journalist, who’s due to die in …’ Baxter counted it out on her fingers, ‘three days. He’s decided to spend his final week reporting how useless he thinks we all are and how it feels to be on a serial killer’s hit list. I’ve been asked to “pacify” and “reassure” him.’
‘You?’ asked Edmunds incredulously. Fortunately Baxter took his disbelief as a compliment. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Find out if Georgina Tate remembers anything useful. Chase up about the ring; we need to know who it was made for. See if the medical examiners have anything new for us, and get hold of Elizabeth Tate’s mobile phone the second it’s released by forensics.’
Baxter left the office, and Edmunds realised that he had not even told her about the nail varnish. He placed the small bottle on the desk, feeling foolish for getting so excited about his trivial investigation while Wolf was out there chasing reluctant killers around Southall, having kidnapped women delivered to the office and holding phone conversations with criminal royalty. It was all horrible, of course, but he had to admit he was a little jealous.
‘This is beautiful,’ laughed Elijah excitedly as the photograph he had just purchased for two thousand pounds was projected onto the conference room wall. ‘And I mean beautiful.’
Andrea was holding her hand over her mouth and was grateful that no one else in the darkened room could see the tears rolling down her cheeks. The picture was anything but beautiful; in fact, it was probably the saddest thing that she had ever seen: a black-and-white photograph of Wolf on his knees, lit beneath a solitary streetlight, the sparkling rain and car headlights reflecting off the puddles and shop windows like stage lights. She had seen Wolf cry perhaps two or three times during their marriage and each time it had broken her heart.
This was so much worse.
He was sat in the flooded road beside the mangled body of an older woman, still gently holding her bloodied hand as he stared into space with a look of utter defeat painted across his face.
He was broken.
Andrea glanced around at the faces of her colleagues: smiling, applauding, laughing. She could feel herself shaking in anger and disgust. At that moment she despised each and every one of them and wondered whether she would have worn the same delighted look had she not once loved the man in the photograph. She was disturbed to admit that she might.
‘Who’s the roadkill?’ Elijah asked the room to a series of shrugs and shaking heads. ‘Andrea?’
Andrea focused on the image, attempting to hide her eyes from the others.
‘How would I know who that poor lady is?’
‘Your ex-husband seems keen on her,’ said Elijah.
‘A little too keen,’ the balding producer in the corner of the room shouted out to the amusement of the others.
‘Thought you might recognise her,’ finished Elijah.
‘Well, I don’t,’ said Andrea as pleasantly as she could, although, several people shared surprised looks.
‘No matter. It’s TV gold either way,’ said Elijah, unfazed by her tone. ‘We’ll open with the photograph and the counter ticking down the hours that Rana, or whatever his name is, has to live. We’ll do a bit about the ongoing search for him and then back to the photograph for speculation and fabrication.’
Everyone in the room apart from Andrea chuckled.
‘Who is this woman? Why’s the lead detective on the Ragdoll case at a traffic accident rather than searching for the next victim? Or was this somehow connected to the murders? The usual.’ Elijah waited expectantly. ‘Anything else?’
‘“Hashtag: notonthelist” is trending right now,’ said an irritating young man, who Andrea had never seen without a phone in his hand, ‘and our Death Clock app’s been downloaded over fifty thousand times already.’
‘Shit. Should’ve charged for it,’ cursed Elijah. ‘How’s the Ragdoll emoji coming?’
Another man tentatively slid a piece of paper across the table to him. Elijah picked it up and stared at it in confusion.
‘It’s hard to capture the full extent of the horror in a cartoon,’ the nervy man explained defensively.
‘It’ll do,’ Elijah told him, tossing the picture back in his direction. ‘But lose the boobs. Bit inappropriate for the kids, don’t you think?’
Apparently satisfied that he had done his good deed for the decade, Elijah adjourned the meeting. Andrea was the first to get up and leave the conference room. She was not sure herself whether she was going to head down to make-up or carry straight on out through the exit. She only knew that she desperately wanted to see Wolf.
Simmons stood staring at the enormous Ragdoll collages on the meeting room wall. He looked immaculate, wearing full dress uniform, apart from the deep scuff to his right shoe that he had not been able to polish out. He had damaged the leather while furiously kicking the metal filing cabinet in his office just minutes after seeing his friend lying charred and still on the flooded interview room floor. It seemed fitting, somehow, to wear them that afternoon, a private symbol of loss and friendship in what was sure to be an impersonally regimented and formal affair.
The service for Mayor Turnble was due to take place at St Margaret’s, in the grounds of Westminster Abbey, at 1 p.m., his family having requested a private funeral at a later date once the body was released. Before that, Simmons was scheduled to hold a press conference to confirm the deaths of Vijay Rana and Elizabeth Tate. He was struggling to keep his temper in check as the PR team bickered amongst themselves regarding the best way to put a ‘positive spin’ on the situation.
Simmons watched as Georgina Tate was led out of the interview room that he had not yet worked up the courage to return to and was not at all sure he ever would. He would never forget the sight of his friend’s blistered and peeling face, and he could still smell burning flesh whenever he revisited the unwelcome memory.