The dinner that Ashley had cooked for them was delicious. She repeatedly apologised for the ‘burnt bits’ nonetheless, not that Wolf could find any. She poured the dregs of each bottle into their glasses as she served dessert, and the conversation became more melancholy but no less enthralling.
Ashley had warned him that the flat became unbearably hot after cooking. When he self-consciously rolled up his shirtsleeves, she had been intrigued rather than repulsed by the burn covering his left arm. She dragged her chair over to look at it more closely, gently running her fingers over the sensitive, scarred skin in fascination.
Wolf could smell the strawberry in her hair again and the sweet scent of wine on her breath as she turned to look up at him, inches from his face, sharing the air between them …
… The wolf mask.
Wolf flinched and Ashley pulled away. The image disintegrated instantly, but it was too late. He had completely ruined the moment and could see the rejection painted on her face. He desperately wanted to save what had already been one of the most enjoyable nights he could remember.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Can we try that again? You know, your hand on my arm, you looking up at me, etcetera.’
‘Why did you pull away from me?’
‘I pulled away, but not from you. The last person who got that close to me was the man who’s trying to kill us … Yesterday.’
‘You saw him?’ Ashley’s eyes were wide.
‘He was wearing a mask.’
Wolf explained what had happened outside the embassy. Something about him facing down the masked man, the wolf, meeting its eye and refusing to look away, sparked something in Ashley, and she gradually came in closer once more. Her hand was back on his arm. He could smell the subtle hint of wine on her breath. She breathed in heavily and parted her lips …
Wolf’s phone went off.
‘Bollocks!’ He looked at the screen and almost hung up but then smiled apologetically and stood up to take the call. ‘Baxter? … Who? … No, don’t do that … Where? … I’ll be an hour.’
Ashley looked annoyed and started clearing the table.
‘You’re going then?’
Wolf was in love with that accent and very nearly changed his mind on hearing the disappointment in it.
‘A friend’s in trouble.’
‘Shouldn’t they call the police?’
‘Not that kind of trouble. Believe me, if it was anybody else I’d tell them where to go.’
‘They must be very special to you.’
‘Irritatingly … yes.’
Edmunds opened his eyes and had no idea where he was for a few seconds. He had drooled all over his own arm and was lying on a mattress of paperwork, staring up at the canyon of shelving units running in either direction. He had been so exhausted, and the combination of the darkness and quiet had been too much for him. Bracing himself, he looked down at his wrist: 9.20 p.m.
‘Bugger!’
He threw everything littered across the floor back into the evidence box, slid it onto a shelf and started running towards the exit.
Wolf barely had enough money on him to pay the extortionate taxi fare before climbing out in front of Hemmingway’s on Wimbledon high street. He fought his way through the alfresco drinkers and flashed his identification at the bar.
‘She’s passed out in the toilets,’ the girl pulling pints told him. ‘Someone’s with her. We were gonna call an ambulance, but she insisted we try you first. Wait, you’re that detective … Wolf. The Wolf!’
Wolf was already well on his way to the toilets by the time she reached for the camera phone in her pocket. He thanked and dismissed the waitress who had been good enough to sit with Baxter until he arrived. He knelt down beside her. She was still conscious but only responded if he pinched her or shouted her name.
‘Just like old times,’ he said.
He draped her jacket over her head to hide her face, predicting that the girl behind the bar would have told every one of the amateur photographers out there that the man from the news was in the ladies’ toilets then he scooped Baxter up in his arms and carried her out.
The doorman had cleared a path through the crowd for him. Wolf suspected it was more to get the intoxicated woman outside before she vomited again than out of concern for her welfare, but the assistance was appreciated all the same. He carried her along the street and almost dropped her down the narrow staircase up to her apartment. He somehow managed to unlock the front door and was met by the sound of the radio blaring. Stumbling through to the bedroom, he dropped her onto the bed.
He pulled her boots off and tied her hair back like he had countless times before, albeit not for a long time. Then, he went into the kitchen to fetch the washing-up bowl and switched off the music before feeding Echo. There were two empty wine bottles in the sink and he cursed himself for not asking the bar staff how much extra they had served her.
He filled two glasses with water, gulped his down, and went back through to the bedroom where he placed the bowl beside the bed and the glass of water on the bedside table, then he kicked off his shoes and climbed up next to her. Baxter was already snoring.
He turned off the lamp and stared up at the dark ceiling, listening to the first patters of rain against the window. He hoped that Baxter’s recent relapses had been solely due to the stress that they were all under, and that she still had some control over the vice that had never fully relinquished its grip on her. He had helped her hide it from everybody for so long, too long. As he settled in for another sleepless night, periodically checking that she was still breathing and cleaning up after her, he wondered whether he was really helping at all.
Edmunds was soaked through by the time he arrived home to find all of the lights out. He stumbled through the dark hallway as quietly as he could, presuming that Tia was already asleep; however, when he reached the open bedroom door, he saw that the bed was still made.
‘T?’ he called.
He went from room to room, switching on lights and noticing the things that were missing: Tia’s work bag, her favourite jeans, the walking trip-hazard of a cat. She had not left a note; there was no need. She was at her mother’s. He had let her down one time too many, not just during the Ragdoll case but ever since the transfer.
He slumped onto the sofa, which he had expected to be sleeping on that evening, and rubbed his tired eyes. He felt terrible for upsetting her so much, but they only had to struggle through another five days before it would all be over one way or another. Surely Tia could see that the end was in sight.
He considered calling her but knew that she would have turned her phone off. He looked at the time: 10.27 p.m. His soon-to-be mother-in-law must have come to collect her because she had left the car out on the road. Grabbing the keys off the hook he switched off the lights and, despite his exhaustion, stepped back out into the night.