‘What’s all this about, Baxter?’ he whispered.
It took her a minute to compose herself enough to answer him. Even then, she could barely talk between her harried breaths: ‘The Ragdoll … The leg … It’s Chambers!’
CHAPTER 15
Wednesday 2 July 2014
7.05 p.m.
Wolf was still wearing his shoes when he finally crawled onto his uninviting mattress at 8.57 a.m. He and Finlay had worked through the night at the two crime scenes, a quarter of a mile apart – preserving evidence, containing media coverage, conducting witness interviews, and compiling statements. When Finlay eventually dropped him off outside his building, just as the rest of the city was heading out to work, they were both too drained to speak. Wolf had simply patted his friend on the shoulder and climbed out of the car.
He watched Andrea’s first broadcast of the day, sitting on his hard floor with a mouthful of toast, but had switched it off when the photograph of him beside Elizabeth’s crumpled body appeared. He dragged himself into the bedroom and fell asleep within moments of closing his eyes.
He had hoped to get his arm looked at by an actual doctor but slept straight through until 6 p.m., when he received a phone call from Simmons. After a few words about Mayor Turnble’s service, Simmons had briefed him on the day’s progress and the media fallout from the night before. Following a hesitant pause, he went on to tell Wolf about Baxter’s discovery. Forensics had confirmed that hair lifted from the comb in Chambers’ desk had been an exact match to the right leg of the Ragdoll. Lastly, he reminded Wolf that he could still walk away from the case whenever he wanted.
Wolf had cooked himself a microwaveable meatball pasta, but after his conversation with Simmons, he was unable to get the image of the killer’s stained apron out of his head. He had wondered, while watching the fuzzy CCTV footage, whose blood had already dried into the dirty apron, who had died even before the killer had claimed his fêted trophy in the form of Naguib Khalid. Now it all made sense. The killer had been forced to murder Chambers before he could leave the country.
He sat down in front of the television only to discover that the nightmarish photograph had been shared around the news channels, all of whom seemed to be filling airtime by debating whether Wolf was a suitable choice to hold such a prominent role in the case. He managed just two mouthfuls of his fleshy-looking meal before giving up on it. He was about to get up to scrape it into the bin when the intercom buzzed. Frustratingly, he was still unable to open any of the windows; otherwise, he might have been able to rid himself of both an intrusive reporter and his revolting dinner in one fell swoop. Reluctantly, he pushed a button on the receiver.
‘William Fawkes: media scapegoat, male model and dead man walking,’ he answered cheerfully.
‘Emily Baxter: emotional wreck and moderately drunk. Can I come up?’
Wolf smiled, pushed another button, quickly tossed the worst of the mess through the bedroom door and closed it. He opened the front door to Baxter, who was dressed in tight jeans, black ankle boots and a lacy white top. She was wearing smoky blue make-up around her eyes and a sweet floral perfume that drifted over the threshold. She handed him a bottle of red wine as she stepped into the depressingly tatty room.
Wolf could never get used to the sight of Baxter in such casual clothing, despite knowing her for so many years. She looked younger, dainty and delicate; someone more suited to dances and dinner parties than dead bodies and serial killers.
‘Chair?’ he said.
Baxter looked around the unfurnished room.
‘Do you have one?’
‘That’s what I was asking you,’ said Wolf dryly.
He dragged the box labelled ‘Trousers & Shirts’ into the centre of the room for her and found some wine glasses in the one that he was about to sit on. He poured them each a conservative glass.
‘Well, the place is certainly looking …’ Baxter trailed off with an expression that suggested she did not want to touch anything. She then looked at Wolf, with his crumpled shirt and messy hair, in much the same way.
‘I only just got up,’ he lied. ‘I stink, and I need a shower.’
They both sipped their wine.
‘You heard?’ she asked.
‘I heard.’
‘I know you weren’t his biggest fan, but he meant a lot to me, you know?’
Wolf nodded with his eyes glued to the floor. They never talked like this.
‘So, I cried into my trainee’s arms today,’ said Baxter, utterly mortified with herself. ‘I’ll never live it down.’
‘Simmons said you were the one who figured it out.’
‘Still … my trainee! It would’ve been OK if it was you.’
There was a heavy pause, stretched further by the knowledge that they were both picturing him with his arms wrapped around her.
‘I wish you’d been there,’ mumbled Baxter, accentuating the unpropitious image, her huge smoky eyes flicking up to gauge Wolf’s reaction.
He shifted uncomfortably on his box, smashing something inside, as Baxter generously topped up their glasses and leaned in closer.
‘I really don’t want you to die.’
She slurred slightly, and Wolf wondered how much she had already had to drink before arriving at his. She reached across and took his hand.
‘Can you believe she thought there was something going on between us?’
Wolf took a moment to catch up with the non sequitur: ‘Andrea?’
‘I know! Crazy, right? I mean, if you think about it, we basically suffered all the negatives of having an affair but got to enjoy none of the … positives.’
Her wide eyes were watching him again. Wolf let go of her hand and got to his feet. Baxter sat back and sipped her wine.
‘Let’s go out and find something to eat,’ he suggested enthusiastically.
‘I’m not really—’
‘Sure you are! There’s a noodle place just down the road. Let me jump in the shower. Five minutes and we’ll go.’
Wolf almost ran into the bathroom. He had to wedge a towel beneath the ill-fitting door to keep it closed and got undressed as quickly as possible.
Baxter felt light-headed as she got to her feet. She wobbled over to the kitchenette, downed the rest of her glass, then filled it up with tap water. She refilled it and drank three more while staring into the empty apartment opposite, where the mastermind behind all of this misery and death had proudly displayed his monster.
She thought of Chambers making that phone call to Eve, presumably under duress, in a desperate attempt to protect her.
The muffled sound of running water permeated the paper-thin bathroom wall.
She pictured Elizabeth Tate lying broken in the rain, that black-and-white photograph of Wolf holding her hand.
Wolf was humming tunelessly in the echoic shower.