‘But—’ started Edmunds.
‘A touch of diplomacy goes a long way in situations such as this, and I for one have no intention of losing my job over it until we know, beyond any conceivable doubt, that Fawkes is guilty,’ Simmons told him. ‘Even then, there will be a time and a place to trickle out the details of what transpired.’
Edmunds was disgusted. He stormed out of the meeting room and slammed the door behind him, extending the large crack in the glass wall created by his own head the previous morning.
‘Very nicely handled. It’s good to see that there’s still a manager in there somewhere,’ said Vanita. ‘Maybe when you get this cops and robbers phase out of your system, there will still be some hope for you.’
Edmunds swung the door to the men’s toilets open and kicked the metal bin across the tiled floor in frustration. He felt like laughing and crying simultaneously; the irony of Wolf being protected by the very self-serving, red-taped, arse-covering bureaucracy that had landed them all in this situation had not been lost on him. If he stood any hope of making his superiors act, he needed to find irrefutable proof of Wolf’s guilt.
He needed to get into Wolf’s head before he started covering his tracks, before he was thinking clearly. He needed him at his most vulnerable.
Baxter and Finlay pulled into the South Mimms services on the outskirts of the city. Ashley’s reassembled phone revealed that she had been texting Wolf with their location at every step of the journey. The one incoming message from Wolf had simply read:
WARDOUR ST. RUN.
They had returned to Ashley’s flat to search for any clue as to where they were heading but had left empty-handed, then on their way back to New Scotland Yard, they received a phone call. The parking enforcement company that operated at the services had contacted the police when their automatic number plate recognition camera had issued a fine to the flagged-up car.
The dilapidated Ford Escort had been left unlocked and virtually out of fuel, suggesting that Wolf had no intention of returning for it. The useless CCTV footage showed them abandoning the car before disappearing out of sight, presumably to change vehicle. Wolf now had a four-hour head start on them.
‘How does any of this fit Edmunds’ brilliant theory?’ asked Baxter as they walked back through the car park.
‘I don’t know,’ said Finlay.
‘It doesn’t. She chose to run off with him of her own accord. She willingly changed cars with him here. He’s trying to save her, not kill her!’
‘I guess we’ll find out when we find him.’
Baxter laughed as though Finlay was being naive.
‘Problem is, we’re not going to find him.’
Edmunds reread the selection of NHS posters pinned haphazardly across the notice board as he waited opposite the small reception window in the entrance of St Ann’s Hospital. He looked up hopefully every time one of the casually dressed employees buzzed in or out through the secure main doors. He was beginning to doubt his own idea, unsure what he realistically expected to learn in exchange for the five-hour round trip.
‘Detective Edmunds?’ a careworn woman finally asked.
She buzzed them in and led him through the maze of bleak corridors, only pausing to swipe her card whenever a door blocked their path.
‘I’m Dr Sym, one of the primary AMHPs here,’ she said, too quickly for Edmunds to even scribble down the meaningless jumble of letters. She flicked through the handful of paperwork in her hands and posted something into a colleague’s pigeonhole. ‘You had some questions about one of our—’
The woman spotted someone she urgently needed to speak to: ‘Sorry.’
Jogging off down the corridor, she left Edmunds standing outside the entrance to the Rec Room. Ever the gentleman, he opened the door for an elderly woman, who dawdled out without acknowledging him as he peered inside. The majority of the room’s occupants were sitting around the television, which was blaring at an uncomfortable volume. A man tossed a table tennis bat across the room in a temper and another was reading beside the windows.
‘Detective!’ the harried woman called from along the corridor.
Edmunds let the door swing shut and caught up with the doctor.
‘Let’s stop by the residential wing on the way to my office,’ she said, ‘then I’ll dig Joel’s file out for you.’
Edmunds stopped walking: ‘Joel?’
‘Joel Shepard,’ she said impatiently before realising that Edmunds had never actually stated which patient he had wanted to discuss with her.
‘Joel Shepard?’ Edmunds repeated for his own benefit. He recognised the name from one of the archived case files, one from Wolf’s list. He had dismissed it as unrelated to the investigation.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the flustered woman, rubbing her tired eyes. ‘I just presumed you were here about his death.’
‘No, no,’ said Edmunds quickly. ‘I’m not being very clear, am I? Tell me about Joel Shepard.’
The doctor was too drained to register Edmunds’ abrupt change of mind.
‘Joel was a very disturbed young man – sweet though, in the main.’
Edmunds took his notebook back out.
‘He suffered with crippling paranoia, schizophrenic behaviours and vivid delusions,’ she explained as she unlocked the door to Joel’s old room. ‘But given his past history, none of that should come as too much of a surprise.’
‘Remind me, if you would,’ said Edmunds.
The doctor sighed.
‘Joel’s sister died – was killed, brutally. He, in turn, butchered the men responsible. Evil breeds evil.’
The room was unoccupied. The walls had been whitewashed, yet the eerie shadows of dark crosses bled through to stain the pristine canvas. Scripture scarred the floor beneath their feet and the inside of the door was decorated in deep scratches.
‘Sometimes you can’t just scrub away the things our more troubled patients leave behind,’ the doctor said sadly. ‘We’re at capacity, but have to leave this room empty because we obviously can’t put anybody else in here.’
The room felt cold, the air stale and soiled. Edmunds did not want to spend a moment longer than he needed to on the wrong side of its door.
‘How did he die?’ asked Edmunds.
‘Suicide. Overdose. It shouldn’t have happened. As you can imagine, we monitor every single pill dispensed in here. We still don’t know how he managed to hoard enough to—’ She stopped herself, realising that she was thinking out loud.
‘How did he justify the murders?’ asked Edmunds, running his hand over the largest and most prominent cross.
‘He didn’t. Not directly. Joel was under the impression that a demon, perhaps even the Devil himself, had “claimed their souls” on his behalf.’
‘A demon?’
‘You asked,’ shrugged the doctor. ‘His delusion was all-consuming. He irrefutably believed that he had made a deal with the Devil and that it was only a matter of time before it came to collect what Joel had promised.’
‘Which was?’