‘Not a word,’ she snapped at Edmunds, who ignored the tone of the unnecessary order with his usual good grace.
They approached the cordon to a barrage of questions and camera flashes, ducked under the tape and started pushing through the crush. Baxter gritted her teeth on hearing Edmunds apologise repeatedly behind her. Just as she turned to shoot him a glare, she collided with a heavyset man, whose bulky television camera fell to the floor with an expensive-sounding crack.
‘Shite! Sorry,’ she said, automatically producing a Met Police business card from her pocket. She had gone through hundreds over the years, handing them out like IOUs before immediately forgetting the chaos that she had left in her wake.
The large man was still on the floor, kneeling over the scattered remains of his camera as if it were a fallen loved one. A woman’s hand snatched the card from Baxter’s grip. Baxter looked up angrily to find an unfriendly face staring back at her. Despite the early hour, the woman was immaculately made-up for television; any trace of the exhaustion that had marked everybody else with heavy bags beneath their eyes had been concealed. She had long curly red hair and was wearing a smart skirt and top. The two women stood in tense silence for a moment as Edmunds watched in awe. He had never imagined that his mentor could look so ill at ease.
The redheaded woman glanced fleetingly at Edmunds:
‘I see you found someone your own age, at last,’ she said to Baxter, who scowled back at Edmunds as though he had wronged her simply by existing. ‘Has she tried to have her wicked way with you yet?’ the woman asked him sympathetically.
Edmunds froze, genuinely wondering whether he was experiencing the worst moment of his entire life.
‘No?’ she continued, checking her watch. ‘Well, the day is still young.’
‘I’m getting married,’ mumbled Edmunds, unsure why words were coming out of him.
The redhead smiled triumphantly and opened her mouth to say something.
‘We’re leaving!’ Baxter snapped at him before recovering her usual indifferent demeanour: ‘Andrea.’
‘Emily,’ the woman replied.
Baxter turned her back on her, stepped over the guts of the camera and continued with Edmunds in tow. He triple-checked his seat belt as Baxter revved the engine and reversed suddenly, bouncing up and over two kerbs before speeding off, letting the flashing blue lights shrink in the rear-view mirror.
Baxter had not said a word since leaving the crime scene and Edmunds was struggling to keep his eyes open as they raced through the almost deserted streets of the capital. The Audi’s heater was blowing a gentle warm breeze into the luxurious interior, which Baxter had littered with CDs, half-used make-up and empty fast-food packaging. As they crossed Waterloo Bridge, the sunrise burned behind the city, the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral a featureless silhouette against the golden sky.
Edmunds surrendered to his heavy eyes and headbutted the passenger window painfully. He immediately sat upright, furious with himself for showing weakness, yet again, in front of his superior officer.
‘So, that was him?’ he blurted out. He was desperate to spark a conversation to distract him from the drowsiness.
‘Who?’
‘Fawkes. The William Fawkes.’
Edmunds had, in fact, seen Wolf in passing several times before. He had noticed the way in which his colleagues treated the seasoned detective, ever conscious of the clearly unwelcome air of celebrity that surrounded him.
‘The William Fawkes,’ Baxter scoffed under her breath.
‘I’ve heard so many stories about what happened …’ He paused, waiting for a sign that he should abandon the topic. ‘You were on his team around that time, weren’t you?’
Baxter continued driving in silence as if Edmunds had not even spoken. He felt foolish for thinking that she would ever want to discuss such a significant topic with a trainee. He was about to get his phone out for something to do when, unexpectedly, she answered.
‘Yes. I was.’
‘So, did he do all of those things that he was accused of?’ Edmunds knew that he was on dangerous ground, but his genuine interest outweighed the risk of provoking Baxter’s wrath. ‘Planting evidence, assaulting the prisoner—’
‘Some of them.’
Edmunds made an unconscious tut-tut sound, jabbing at Baxter’s temper.
‘Don’t you dare judge him! You have absolutely no idea what this job is like,’ she snapped. ‘Wolf knew Khalid was the Cremation Killer. He knew it. And he knew he would do it again.’
‘There must have been legitimate evidence.’
Baxter laughed bitterly.
‘You just wait until you’ve been in a few more years, watching these pieces of shit wriggle themselves out of trouble time and time again.’ She paused, feeling herself getting worked up. ‘Everything’s not black and white. What Wolf did was wrong, but he did it in desperation for all the right reasons.’
‘Even brutally attacking a man in front of a packed courtroom?’ Edmunds asked challengingly.
‘Especially that,’ replied Baxter. She was too distracted to pick up on his tone. ‘He cracked under the pressure. One day you will, I will – everybody does. Just pray that when you do, you have people there standing by you. No one stood by Wolf when it happened, not even me …’
Edmunds kept quiet, hearing the regret in her voice.
‘He was going to be sent down for it. They wanted blood. They were going to make such an example of their “disgraced detective” and then, one chilly February morning, guess who they find standing over the barbecued corpse of a schoolgirl? She’d still be alive today if they’d only listened to Wolf.’
‘Jesus,’ said Edmunds. ‘Do you think it’s him – the head?’
‘Naguib Khalid is a child killer. Even criminals have standards. For his own safety, he’s locked up in permanent solitary confinement in the High Security Unit of a maximum security prison. He doesn’t see anybody, let alone anyone who could walk out of there with his head. It’s ridiculous.’
Another strained silence grew between them following Baxter’s definitive conclusion that they were wasting their time. Aware that this had been by far the most successful conversation that they had shared during their sporadic three and a half months together, Edmunds reverted back to the previous unresolved topic.
‘It’s amazing Fawkes’ – sorry, Wolf’s – back at all.’
‘Never underestimate the power of public opinion and the eagerness of the people in charge to bow to it,’ said Baxter with disdain.
‘You sound like you don’t think he should be back.’
Baxter did not respond.
‘It’s not much of an advert for the police, is it?’ said Edmunds. ‘Letting him off scot-free.’
‘Scot-free?’ said Baxter in disbelief.
‘Well, he didn’t go to prison.’
‘It would’ve been better for him if he had. The lawyers, saving face, pushed for the hospital order. Easier mess to clean up, I guess. They said the stress of the case had triggered a response “completely out of character”—’