‘How are you on your nail varnishes?’ he asked.
Wolf had phoned the medical examiner to enquire whether they had found anything new in relation to the three unidentified body parts. He was told that they were still running tests and had nothing of investigative value to offer him. He needed to get across to Peckham at some point to meet with Andrew Ford, but was waiting around to speak to Baxter before she left the office.
For some reason Edmunds had suddenly appeared at the end of his desk and had not left, even though Baxter had been in Simmons’ office for thirty-five minutes and her station was sitting empty. Edmunds had been attempting to make conversation, but Wolf was too distracted, watching them, to really engage with him.
‘I had a thought,’ said Edmunds. ‘Our killer is methodical, resourceful and clever. He hasn’t slipped up once yet. Which got me thinking: he’s done this before. Think about it. This person has perfected their art—’
‘Art?’ asked Wolf dubiously.
‘That’s how he’ll see it, and there’s no denying that as awful as the murders are, they are nonetheless, objectively speaking, impressive.’
‘Impressive?’ Wolf snorted. ‘Edmunds, are you the killer?’ he asked, straight-faced.
‘I want to look into old case files,’ this caught Wolf’s attention, ‘for examples of unusual MOs, murders of supposedly inaccessible victims, amputations and mutilations. Somewhere out there he’s left a trail.’
Edmunds had hoped that Wolf would support his idea, perhaps even be impressed by his thinking. Instead, he became angry.
‘We have four of us working this case full-time: four! That’s it. Do you actually think we can spare you to go swanning about looking for a needle in a haystack while people are dying out there?’
‘I was – I was just trying to help,’ stammered Edmunds.
‘Just do your job,’ snapped Wolf as he got to his feet and rushed across the office to intercept Baxter, who had just finished with Simmons.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Not happening.’
Baxter had a file in her hands as she strolled past him towards her desk.
‘If this is about last night …’
‘It’s not.’
As they passed the meeting room, Wolf grabbed Baxter’s wrist and pulled her inside, attracting strange looks from the people sitting nearby.
‘Hey!’ she shouted.
Wolf closed the meeting room door.
‘I’m sorry I walked out last night. We still had things to talk about. She just made me so mad … I shouldn’t have left you with her. I apologise.’
Baxter looked impatient.
‘Do you remember the bit when I said you were beautiful and smart and …’
‘Amazing,’ she reminded him with a smirk.
‘Amazing,’ nodded Wolf. ‘She didn’t like that, did she?’
Baxter smiled broadly: ‘No. No she didn’t.’
‘So let me help you with this Garland situation. I can’t sit with Edmunds any longer. He tried to paint my nails a few minutes ago!’
Baxter laughed: ‘No, but thank you.’
‘Come on, you’re the boss. I’ll do whatever you say.’
‘No. You need to be less controlling. You heard Simmons; he’s on the verge of taking you off the case altogether. Just drop it.’
Wolf looked desperate.
‘Excuse me,’ said Baxter, trying to leave the room.
Wolf did not move from the doorway: ‘You don’t understand. I need to help.’
‘Excuse me,’ she said more forcefully.
Wolf attempted to snatch the file out of her hand. The plastic folder twisted and cracked under the strain as it bridged the space between them. She had seen him like this before, during the Cremation Killer investigation, when she had lost him so entirely to his obsession, when he had no longer been able to tell friend from foe.
‘Let … go … Will.’
She never used his Christian name. She tried again to pull the Garland file free of his grip but couldn’t. All she had to do was shout for help. A dozen officers would burst through the door and Wolf would be taken off the case. She wondered whether she had done the wrong thing by letting it go on this long, by ignoring the signs. She had only wanted to help him, but enough was enough.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
She raised her free hand to bang against the frosted glass but, at that moment, Edmunds came blundering into the room, accidentally opening the door into Wolf’s back.
Wolf released his grip.
‘Sorry,’ said Edmunds. ‘I’ve got a Constable Castagna on the phone for you about Andrew Ford.’
‘I’ll call them back,’ said Wolf.
‘Apparently he’s threatening to jump out of the window.’
‘Constable Castagna or Ford?’
‘Ford.’
‘To escape or kill himself?’
‘Fourth floor, so fifty-fifty.’
Wolf smiled at this, and Baxter watched his transformation back into his normal, irreverent self.
‘Fine, tell them I’m on my way.’
He smiled warmly at Baxter and followed Edmunds out. Baxter waited out of sight behind the frosted glass. She exhaled deeply and then crouched down before she could fall over. She felt light-headed and emotionally drained from making such a significant decision, only to be left feeling as indecisive as ever. She got back up before anyone entered the room, took a steadying breath, and stepped back out into the office.
CHAPTER 17
Thursday 3 July 2014
3.20 p.m.
Wolf had to catch an overground train to Peckham Rye Station, which felt like an irrationally enormous undertaking to him. To reward himself, he bought an extra-hot, double-shot skinny macchiato with sugar-free syrup but then felt rather emasculated when the man behind simply ordered ‘Coffee. Black’.
He ambled along the main road towards a set of three council tower blocks standing proudly over everything else in the vicinity, blissfully unaware or merely undeterred that the rest of the population regarded them as unwelcome eyesores and would tear them down given half a chance. At least the designers of these particular monstrosities had chosen to paint them a perfect ‘miserable, drizzly, smoggy, London-sky grey’, which rendered them almost invisible for 90 per cent of the year.
Wolf approached the one labelled ‘Shakespeare Tower’, unconvinced how much of an honour the great man would have considered it, and sighed as he took in the familiar sights and sounds. Perhaps a dozen flags depicting the St George Cross had been draped out of windows, pledging allegiance to this great country or at least to eleven dependably disappointing footballers. A dog, Wolf guessed a Staffordshire bull terrier or German Shepherd, was barking incessantly from the five-foot balcony that it had been shut out on, and an exhibition of rancid undergarments had been displayed, drying in the rain like grotesque modern art.