When she had agreed to help Baxter she had had every intention of leaving the cut-throat profession behind; however, her misguided attempt at redemption had backfired horribly, while catapulting her fame and journalistic influence to dizzying new heights. Somehow, in her fight to free herself from the dirt, she had only succeeded in digging herself further in.
Elijah spotted her coming and, for the first time ever, opened the door for her before she even had time to knock, robbing her of a few additional seconds that she so desperately needed in order to make up her mind. He smelled faintly of sweat, and dark patches were beginning to form under his arms. He was wearing a fitted sky-blue shirt that looked as though it would split should he tense anything, and tight black trousers that emphasised his absurdly disproportioned profile.
He offered her one of his revolting espressos, which she declined, and then droned on about how he was seldom surprised but had to admit that she had shown a killer instinct he had not believed her capable of. He clicked a button to bring a graph up on the projector behind him and began reeling off numbers without even glancing at it. Andrea had to stifle a laugh because half of the lopsided chart he was referring to had disappeared out of the office window, which he would have realised had he not been too conceited to even turn his head.
She zoned out as he congratulated her for her sterling work on Garland’s murder, as though it had been a live television event that she had meticulously choreographed, which, in a nauseating way, it had been. While flashbacks of Garland thrashing around occupied her thoughts, Elijah finally reached his point.
‘… our newest prime-time newsreader!’
He deflated when Andrea failed to respond.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I heard,’ said Andrea quietly.
Elijah relaxed back in his chair, popped a piece of chewing gum into his mouth and nodded knowingly. As he continued, he unconsciously pointed a condescending finger at her.
Andrea was tempted to rip it off.
‘I get what this is,’ he said, chewing with his mouth open. ‘This is about Wolf. You’re thinking: he can’t seriously expect me to sit there in front of a camera and report my own ex-husband’s death to the world, can he?’
She hated it when he put words in her mouth; although, on this occasion he was spot on. She nodded.
‘Well, tough shit, precious,’ he snapped. ‘That’s what’s gonna make it so compelling. Who’ll be watching the dreary BBC when they could be watching the love of Wolf’s life only learning of his passing as she reads it out on air. Un … missable!’
Andrea laughed bitterly and got up to leave.
‘You’re unbelievable.’
‘I’m a realist. You’re gonna go through it anyway. Why not do it on camera and make yourself a star in the process? Oh! You could convince him to do an interview the night before. How heartbreaking would that be? We could actually broadcast you saying your goodbyes.’
Andrea stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind her.
‘Think about it!’ he yelled after her. ‘I’ll expect your answer, one way or another, by the weekend!’
Andrea was due back in front of the camera in twenty minutes. She calmly walked into the women’s toilets, checked that no one was in any of the cubicles, locked the door and burst into tears.
Edmunds yawned loudly as he waited for Joe in the empty forensics lab. He had elected to stand in a cramped corner between a clinical waste bin and a fridge. Coincidentally, it just so happened to also be the furthest point away from the large cadaver freezer, which he glanced up at every few seconds between scribbling in his notebook.
He had stayed up well past 3 a.m., sifting through the case files that he had stashed on top of his kitchen units. Although Tia had no hope of finding them up there, her new pet, using the curtains as a climbing aid, did. And had subsequently thrown up all over a very important witness statement. He felt worryingly tired considering that it was not even lunchtime. At least his exhaustion was worthwhile; he had come across one case that certainly warranted further investigation.
‘Wow! What the hell happened to you?’ asked Joe as he entered the lab.
‘It’s nothing,’ replied Edmunds, stepping out from his corner and touching his broken nose self-consciously.
‘Well, it’s definitely him,’ announced Joe. ‘All three photographs were taken by the same camera.’
‘Please say you found something from the blood.’
‘I could, but I’d be lying. He’s not in our database.’
‘Which means we’ve never arrested him,’ said Edmunds, more for his own benefit. He could now confidently rule out a large percentage of the archived case files.
‘Blood type: O-positive.’
‘The rare one?’ asked Edmunds hopefully.
‘Common as muck,’ said Joe. ‘No sign of mutation or illness, no alcohol or drugs. Eye colour: grey or blue. You know, for the most twisted serial killer in recent memory, his blood is deplorably dull.’
‘So you’ve got nothing?’
‘I didn’t say that. The boot prints are size eleven, and the cast of the tread pattern is a combat boot, so maybe military?’
Edmunds got his notebook back out.
‘The crime scene forensics guys found traces of asbestos, tar and a lacquer in the imprints along with considerably higher levels of copper, nickel and lead than the surrounding soil. A warehouse maybe?’
‘I’ll look into it. Thank you,’ said Edmunds, closing his book.
‘Hey, I heard they identified our torso. Did you ever work out what that tattoo was?’ asked Joe.
‘It was a canary escaping a cage.’
Joe looked puzzled: ‘Funny thing to get removed.’
Edmunds shrugged.
‘I suppose she realised that some canaries belong in cages after all.’
The Embassy of Ireland was an imposing five-storey building that overlooked the grounds of Buckingham Palace from its large corner plot position in Belgravia. On this breezeless and sunny day, Wolf entered the grand portico under the shadow of the wilted flags that protruded out over the busy pavement. The grand entranceway doubled as a bridge over the litter-hoarding service area that provided a fire escape to the basement level below.
Wolf had been in a number of embassies in his time, none by choice, and had always been left with the same impression: the high ceilings, old paintings, ornate mirrors and comfortable-looking sofas that appeared as though no one had worked up the courage to sit on them yet; it was like visiting a well-off relative who simultaneously wanted to appear welcoming and for you to leave before you could break anything. This one was no exception.
Once Wolf had passed through security in the public areas, he was confronted with a grand staircase framed by intricately embellished duck-egg-blue walls. He was stopped on three separate occasions on his way up, which was encouraging, and reached the top floor to be greeted by the familiar sound of Andrew Ford’s raised voice filling the civilised hallway.