He criticised her and her team for broadcasting Andrew Ford’s precise location in the embassy and, perhaps unfairly, accused her of facilitating the killer’s manipulation of an already paranoid and unhinged mind by televising the protest. She listened to his lecture without argument, even though it had been completely irrational, as every news channel in the world had done the same.
When she had suggested that she buy him dinner, he told her to leave him alone and abruptly hung up. Although she would never vocalise it, she was angry with him for being so petty and judgemental during what might well have been one of their last-ever interactions. It was obvious from the way he had been talking that the idea of not surviving to see next Tuesday had scarcely crossed his mind, making her wonder whether he had finally stepped across the blurred line between optimism and denial.
Elijah was pressuring her for an answer regarding the promotion and it had occupied the majority of her thoughts ever since their meeting. She felt frustrated with herself for the disparity of her indecision. At any given moment she could either be determined to hand in her notice and walk away with what little remained of her moral integrity, or resolute on accepting the position that would be filled with or without her.
She and Geoffrey had discussed it the night before, sitting in the late-evening sun on the patio of their small but beautifully landscaped, garden. As with all things in their relationship, he had made no attempt to influence her decision. It was what made them work so well together. He respected Andrea’s independence, that she had grown so accustomed to during her marriage to Wolf. She and Geoffrey chose to spend time together, but they never needed to.
Geoffrey had been watching the Ragdoll story unfold with the rest of the world and had never so much as raised an eyebrow at Andrea’s sensationalist reporting style, her groundless conjecture, or even the Death Clock, which even she considered a grotesquely shameful gimmick. He had only ever asked that she be careful. His shelves full of war books had taught him that, throughout history, messengers were chosen for their ability to communicate, the speed with which they could reach the intended ear and, more troublingly, their expendability.
Geoffrey listened patiently as the temperature dropped and the strategically positioned garden lights were activated one by one in the falling darkness. He had made the argument that, if she were to take the promotion, her decision would be purely driven by ambition. They did not need the money and she had already established herself as a credible and talented reporter. As perceptive as ever, he had suggested that she speak to Wolf, realising that his opinion was the only one that truly mattered to her on the subject.
Their brusque conversation that morning had made Wolf’s position quite clear.
Finlay was keeping one eye on the commander’s office as he walked across the room to Simmons and Edmunds’ desk. He could see that the tiny but terrifying woman was agitated as she gesticulated wildly while speaking to somebody on the phone. He perched on the corner of the desk, sitting firmly on top of Edmunds’ work.
‘She’s not a happy bunny,’ Finlay told them.
‘Why’s that?’ asked Simmons.
It was strange for him, begging for scraps of information from the office gossip when he was so accustomed to being the first to know.
‘Will,’ said Finlay. ‘What else? Apparently he took Ashley Lochlan away from her protected flat.’
‘What for?’
‘Breakfast. And then stormed off and left her in a café. Her protection team put in a formal complaint. She wants him suspended.’
‘On her head be it,’ said Simmons. ‘What’s he playing at?’
Finlay shrugged.
‘It’s Will, so who knows? He’s staying well clear of the office today. I’m off out to meet him now.’
Simmons was rather enjoying the school-like clandestinity taking place right under the boss’ nose.
‘If she asks, I’m making arrangements for Ashley Lochlan’s safe house, which is actually true,’ said Finlay.
‘We’re heading out too,’ said Simmons.
‘We are?’ asked Edmunds. ‘Where?’
‘I’ve still got four people on this list unaccounted for,’ said Simmons. ‘One of them is dead. We’re going to find out which one.’
Simmons and Edmunds had treated themselves to Greggs’ sausage rolls, as evidenced by the trail of pastry running along the pavement behind them as they neared the third address on the list. They had already visited the home of the court stenographer and discovered that she had died of cancer back in 2012. They had then learned that His Honour Judge Timothy Harrogate and his wife had emigrated to New Zealand. Fortunately, a neighbour had had contact details for their son, who woke them up in the middle of the night to confirm that they were both alive and well.
The sun emerged from behind a cloud as they strolled past Brunswick Square Gardens and approached the identical brick town houses on Lansdowne Terrace. They located the correct black door and found it ajar. Edmunds knocked loudly, and they stepped into an intricately tiled communal hallway. An engraved plaque directed them upstairs to ‘The Penthouse’, which struck them both as being rather pretentious in a four-storey building.
They climbed the echoic staircase and reached the corridor that serviced the top-floor apartment. Faded photographs adorned the wall, most depicting an aged gentleman in the company of far younger, and considerably more attractive, women in exotic places. The blonde that the man had his arm around on a yacht appeared not to have made it to shore, where the next picture showed a bikini-clad redhead relaxing beside him on the beach.
There was a loud smash from inside the apartment and, as they drew closer, they could see that this door had also been left unlocked. Sharing a concerned look, they quietly pushed it open. The gloomy hallway boasted the same original tiles as the entrance hall below. They crept past closed doors towards the light at the end of the corridor and the sound of footsteps against a hard floor.
‘You tit! I told you not to touch it.’
Edmunds paused. He and Simmons recognised the snide, condescending tone instantly.
‘Baxter?’ Edmunds called out.
Straightening up, he walked out into the main room, where Blake was on his hands and knees collecting up pieces of the, presumably expensive, vase he had just dropped.
They both looked bewildered as Edmunds and Simmons joined them.
‘What the hell are you two doing here?’ she asked.
‘Ronald Everett, missing juror from the Khalid trial,’ said Edmunds.
‘Oh.’
‘You?’
‘I told you earlier: puddle of blood, no body.’
‘Where?’ asked Simmons.
‘Everywhere.’
She gestured to the floor behind the large sofa. There, a halo of dark, dried blood covered the white tiles that surrounded the saturated rug.
‘Jesus,’ said Edmunds.
‘I think we can safely assume that your Mr Everett is no more,’ said Baxter callously.
On seeing the bloodbath at his feet, Edmunds was reminded of one of the archived case files he had been reviewing overnight: puddle of blood, no body ever discovered. There was no way that it was simply a coincidence.
‘What’s wrong?’ Baxter asked him.
He could not tell anyone about his private investigation until he was certain that he had found something concrete.