In contrast to the first impression that he had given, Markusson had been amiable and welcoming. He led them through his incredible home, which could only be described as Georgian sci-fi, and into the living room where an entire glass wall had been folded back to open it up on to the decked garden. Baxter was sure that Rory would have loved it and was determined to take some pictures for him if their host left them alone at any point.
Markusson sent his adorable daughter back upstairs when she came down to see who had come to visit, and Edmunds wondered whether they were wasting their time when his beautiful two-armed wife went off to prepare them some iced tea. Baxter’s experience, however, had taught her that men seldom bought such extravagant gifts for their wives and that they were far more likely to get honest answers with her out of the room.
‘So, how can I help you?’ asked Markusson, his accent more noticeable now.
‘We believe you were in Moscow in April 2007,’ said Baxter.
‘April 2007?’ Markusson stared into space. ‘Yes, fashion week. My wife, she drags us to all of these shows.’
‘We need to ask you about something you bought while you were out there …’ Baxter paused, expecting the man to remember his ten-thousand-dollar purchase. Apparently, he did not. ‘A bottle of Chanel nail polish?’
At that moment Mrs Markusson returned with their drinks, and Baxter noticed the uncomfortable look on her husband’s face.
‘Why don’t you go keep Livia company?’ Markusson told his wife, squeezing her affectionately from his chair. ‘We’ll head out soon.’
Baxter rolled her eyes as the beautiful blonde scuttled obediently from the room and Edmunds noticed a dramatic shift in her mood.
‘The ten grand polish then?’ she asked, just as the door clicked shut.
‘It was for a woman who I met when I was here in London. I was travelling a lot back then, and it gets very lonely when—’
‘I honestly don’t give a toss,’ interrupted Baxter. ‘What is this woman’s name?’
‘Michelle.’
‘Surname?’
‘Gailey, I think. We’d have dinner when I was in town. She loved all of this fashion stuff, so I bought her a gift.’
‘And you met how, exactly?’ asked Baxter.
Markusson cleared his throat. ‘Dating website.’
‘Rich-shits.com?’
Markusson took the insult on the chin, apparently considering it deserved.
‘Michelle wasn’t from money; my reason for getting her the present,’ explained Markusson. ‘To avoid complications, it seemed wise to date someone of a different social standing.’
‘I bet it did.’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’ asked Edmunds, scribbling, as usual, in his notebook. Distractedly, he took a sip of his iced tea and started spluttering. Baxter ignored him.
‘I called it off when my daughter was born back in 2010.’
‘That’s mighty fine of you.’
‘I haven’t seen her since. It’s funny …’
‘What is?’ asked Baxter.
‘I’ve been thinking about her a lot in the last week, probably because of all these things in the news.’
Baxter and Edmunds shared a glance.
‘Which things?’ they asked in unison.
‘The Cremation Killer turning up dead. Naguib Khalid, is that his name? It’s just that Michelle and I spoke a great deal about him the last time I saw her. It was a big step for her.’
‘What was?’ they both chimed together again.
‘Her being assigned to him,’ said Markusson thoughtfully. ‘She was his probation officer.’
CHAPTER 21
Monday 7 July 2014
9.03 a.m.
Wolf ignored the call from Dr Preston-Hall’s assistant as he entered the Homicide and Serious Crime department. He had, unofficially, discharged himself from her care. Seeing as she had already effectively declared him unfit for work, he could see no reason to waste another moment of his precious time in the old battleaxe’s company.
Simmons only had grounds to overrule the psychiatrist’s advice because of the premature and very public death of Jarred Garland. With so little time, and the odds already stacked against them, he could not risk provoking the killer further, and the communiqué sent to Baxter following the murder had made it quite clear that Wolf’s involvement was to continue.
By Simmons’ reckoning, the risk of having one unstable detective out on the streets was far outweighed by the insinuated threats of a serial killer: additional victims? Disregarding the stipulated dates again? Leaking more sensitive information to the press?
They weren’t coping as it was.
Oddly, Wolf could not help but feel a little appreciative towards the ruthless monster, who planned to murder him in a week’s time, for keeping him in a job. He had no intention of buying him a card, but every cloud …
On the spur of the moment, Wolf had decided to head down to Bath for the weekend. Although he had barely entertained the notion of his own demise, something inside him had yearned for the furnace-like front room of the house he’d grown up in, his mother’s overcooked beef Wellington, and a pint at the local with his oldest friend, who was apparently destined to live, work and die within a two-mile radius of their senior school.
He had taken the time to listen to the same stories that his dad had been telling for his entire life and had, after all this time, understood why they were worth revisiting so regularly. Only once, during a lull in the conversation, had his parents briefly touched upon the subject of the murders and their son’s impending doom; his father had never been the touchy-feely type. They had apparently discussed it at ‘great length’ while Wolf had been in the shower (a subtle dig at him for using too much hot water) and arrived at their usual solution to most of life’s problems: he could move back into his old room upstairs.
‘Doubt this fella will want to trek all the way down here,’ his father told him confidently.
In the past, Wolf might have found their naivety and trivialisation infuriating, but on this occasion he found it endearingly humorous. His dad then got cross with him for laughing at his opinion.
‘I might not be one of your big city know-it-alls but that doesn’t mean I’m thick either,’ he snapped. For some reason, he had always had an issue with the capital and had treated his son differently ever since he abandoned their ‘dull little town’ for better things. ‘Bloody M4’s a menace. Roadworks and average speed checks the entire way!’
Unfortunately this only set Wolf off again, irritating his father further.
‘William-Oliver!’ his mother had chided him when William Senior stormed out to ‘make a cuppa’.
He hated the way that she always double-barrelled his first names. As if their pretentious surname wasn’t bad enough. She appeared to consider hyphens camouflage for their modest means, just as the immaculate garden and financed car parked in front of the house in no way matched the tired rooms inside.
Wolf did a few jobs around the house; however, this did not extend to Ethel next door’s bloody fence, and he almost crippled himself diving behind the garden wall when she had suddenly emerged from her porchway to accost him.