‘So what were you working on while all that was happening?’
Tia was obviously trying to show an interest in his work. Although it was confidential, he did not feel as though he could shoot her down. He decided to share the least important aspect of the investigation with her, which would serve the dual purpose of putting her mind at ease regarding the mundane nature of his role within the team.
‘You saw the pictures of the Ragdoll on the news? Well, the right arm belonged to a woman.’
‘Who?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. She was wearing two kinds of nail varnish, which we believe is a clue to her identity.’
‘Two types on one hand?’
‘The thumb and three of the fingers were painted in Crushed Candy, but the last one is something slightly different.’
‘You really think a nail varnish can tell you who this lady is?’
‘It’s all we’ve got to go on,’ shrugged Edmunds.
‘It’d have to be a pretty special one, wouldn’t it?’ said Tia. ‘To be of any help, I mean.’
‘Special?’
‘Yeah, like there’s this one stuck-up old bag who comes into the salon once a week to get her nails done, and Sheri has to order the stuff in specially because it’s got real gold flakes in it or some rubbish.’
Edmunds was listening to Tia attentively.
‘They don’t sell it in most shops because it’s way too easy to nick and costs about a hundred pounds a bottle.’
Edmunds grabbed Tia’s hand excitedly.
‘T, you’re a genius!’
After just half an hour of searching for limited-run and ludicrously expensive nail polishes on the Internet, Edmunds thought he had found his elusive missing shade: Chanel Limited Edition Feu De Russie 347.
‘This stuff was being sold at the 2007 Moscow Fashion Week for ten thousand dollars a bottle!’ read Tia as Edmunds topped up their glasses.
‘For nail polish?’
‘It was probably a charity thing,’ she shrugged. ‘Even so, I bet there aren’t too many people out there walking around with a bottle of this in their bag.’
The next morning, Baxter received a text from Edmunds asking her to meet him at the Chanel Boutique on Sloane Street at 10 a.m. When she reminded him that she was being taken off the case come Monday, he had simply reminded her that it was still only Saturday.
She was running late after sleeping through her alarm and had been stuck behind a wheelchair for almost two minutes. Following Garland’s horrific death, she had wanted nothing more than to vegetate and feel safe, so had curled up on the sofa watching Friday-night television. She had also managed to finish off two whole bottles of wine by herself.
When the wheelchair got stuck on a drain cover, she seized the opportunity to overtake and found Edmunds waiting for her a little further down the road. She had been thinking a lot about his theory that one of the team was leaking information. The more she thought about it, the more preposterous it seemed. Wolf, obviously, was not involved and she trusted Finlay implicitly. Simmons was facing disciplinary action for fighting her corner, and, although she would never tell him to his face, she trusted Edmunds as much as any of them.
Edmunds handed her a lukewarm takeaway coffee and told her all about Tia’s discovery. She appreciated that he had reverted to addressing her like his bad-tempered superior. There was no trace of the pity or reassurance that she had so desperately needed the day before, and his faith in her gave her confidence in herself again.
A manager had come across to meet them from the Oxford Street store. The woman, who was refreshingly efficient, spent over an hour making phone calls and checking accounts on their behalf. Eventually she produced a list of eighteen transactions, seven of which had names and delivery details attached.
‘There were others,’ the well-spoken woman told them, ‘that were sent out for auctions, prizes, charity events. The people that we hold contact details for are naturally our best clients …’
The woman trailed off as she read through the printout.
‘Problem?’ asked Baxter.
‘Mr Markusson. He is one of our regulars at Oxford Street.’
Baxter took the list off the woman and read the contact details.
‘Says here he lives in Stockholm,’ said Baxter.
‘He divides his time between Stockholm and London. He and his family own property in Mayfair. I’m absolutely positive I have a delivery address. If you’ll excuse me a moment …’
The woman dialled the number for their main branch again.
‘What are the odds Mr Markusson is nuding it up in some sauna in Sweden right now?’ Baxter mumbled to Edmunds.
‘Oh, he’s not dear,’ said the woman, holding the phone theatrically far away from her. ‘He came in yesterday.’
Simmons had made a point of sitting at Chambers’ desk again. Several people had approached him with trivial problems, shift swaps and holiday requests but he had refused to deal with all but the most pressing issues in order to concentrate on the task at hand.
His wife had not taken the news of his potential demotion well, and he had spent the majority of the night reassuring her that they would still be able to afford the mortgage and could still go on their summer holiday. They would get by. They always did.
He was in the middle of the mind-numbing task of checking Edmunds’ list of names from the Khalid trial against the Missing Persons database one at a time. He was not as convinced as Edmunds that the murders were all centred around Khalid; however, he had nothing more promising to be working on.
His concentration was beginning to waver when, on the fifty-seventh name, he finally got a match. He double-clicked the report to bring up the complete details. It was dated Sunday 29 June, the day after the Ragdoll’s discovery, and had been generated by the Metropolitan Police. It had to be one of their three unidentified victims.
‘Son of a bitch,’ murmured Simmons.
Baxter and Edmunds climbed the steep steps up to the front door of the four-storey town house, located on a leafy but busy side street in Mayfair. They had to knock twice before they heard the sound of footsteps clicking down the hallway towards them. A sinewy man answered the door, a coffee in one hand, his phone clamped between his ear and his shoulder. He had bright blond hair, which he wore in a long but tidy style, was clearly very muscular and was wearing an expensive shirt over blue jeans. A strong aroma of aftershave wafted over them as he looked at them impatiently.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Stefan Markusson?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Police. We need to ask you a few questions.’