Vanita and Simmons returned to the meeting room looking sheepish and took their seats. Edmunds handed them each a copy of the profile that he had created for their killer.
‘We are running out of time,’ he told them, ‘so I have gathered together everything we know about our killer, along with some educated assumptions to narrow down the search: Caucasian male, six foot to six-four, bald or closely shaven hair, scarring to right forearm and back of head, size eleven boots, standard army issue pre-2012, either is or was a soldier. Very high intelligence, which he tests on a regular basis to fuel his ego. Emotional detachment, trivialisation of the value of human life, relishes the challenge and wants to be tested. He’s bored, so it’s likely that he’s not a soldier any more. The theatre of it all tells us that he enjoys it. He’ll be a loner, an outsider, unmarried, basic accommodation. Considering London prices, my money’s on a studio flat in a bad area.
‘People who join the army solely because they like killing tend to make themselves known and wind up dishonourably discharged after either doing or being suspected of doing something appalling. As we don’t have his prints in the system, he must have only been suspected of something; although, we can’t rule out injury either, considering the scars.’
‘That’s a lot of guesswork,’ said Simmons.
‘Educated guesswork, and it’s somewhere to start,’ said Edmunds unapologetically. ‘We need to compile a list of names that fit the description and were discharged from the military in the years leading up to the first archived case in 2008.’
‘Excellent work yet again, Edmunds,’ said Vanita.
‘With your permission, I would like to continue working through the evidence with Finlay. It would be helpful if DCI Simmons could start compiling the list of names for me.’
Simmons did not appreciate their newest recruit delegating him work and was about to say so when Vanita answered: ‘Whatever you need,’ she told him. ‘I presume that Baxter is out looking for Fawkes, then?’
‘Baxter won’t leave that girl’s side before midnight, and all the orders, threats and pleading in the world aren’t going to change her mind. I wouldn’t waste your time,’ said Edmunds.
Finlay and Simmons shared a stunned look. Was he giving the commander orders now?
‘The killer has systematically been drawn in closer and closer with each murder. He plans to finish this face to face. If we find him, we find Wolf.’
The meeting was adjourned. Vanita and Simmons headed back towards her office while Edmunds lingered behind to speak to Finlay in private. He closed the meeting room door and then hesitated, unsure how best to approach the unusual subject.
‘Finlay … weird question.’
‘OK?’ said Finlay, glancing at the closed door.
‘You and Simmons were talking about something yesterday.’
‘You’re going to have to be a wee bit more specific,’ laughed Finlay.
‘Faustian,’ said Edmunds. ‘I was wondering what you meant by that.’
‘Honestly, I barely remember what this meeting was about.’
The notebook came out.
‘We were discussing the victims and then you said: “almost looks like Will’s hit list, if he wasn’t on it” and then Simmons said: “it’s almost Faustian” or something to that effect.’
Finlay nodded as the memory returned to him.
‘It was nothing. A stupid joke,’ he said.
‘Could you explain it please?’
Finlay shrugged and took a seat.
‘A few years back we had a run of people swearing blindly to their innocence despite the piles of bodies accumulating around them.’
‘Blaming demons or the Devil?’ asked Edmunds, fascinated.
‘Aye, the Faustian alibi, as it became known,’ smirked Finlay.
‘And how would one go about arranging something like that?’
‘Come again?’
‘In practical terms, I mean.’
‘Practical terms?’ asked Finlay in confusion. ‘It’s an urban legend, lad.’
‘Humour me.’
‘What’s all this about?’
‘It might be important – please.’
Finlay looked at his watch, conscious that they had precious little time.
‘All right. Story time: there are these numbers floating about out there, just regular mobile phone numbers. No one knows who they belong to, and no one’s ever been able to trace them. They’re only ever live for one call before being disconnected. If a person comes into possession of one of these numbers, and are so inclined, they can offer up a trade.’
‘A deal with the Devil,’ said Edmunds, captivated by the story.
‘Aye, a deal with “the Devil”,’ sighed Finlay. ‘But like any story involving the Devil, there’s a catch: once he’s done doing your bidding, he will expect something in return …’
Finlay paused and gestured for Edmunds to lean in closer.
‘Your soul!’ he bellowed, making Edmunds jump.
Finlay coughed and spluttered as he laughed at his nervy colleague.
‘Do you think there could be any truth to it at all?’ asked Edmunds.
‘The Devil on Pay As You Go? No. No, I don’t,’ said Finlay, now looking serious. ‘You need to concentrate on more important things today, all right?’
Edmunds nodded.
‘All right then,’ said Finlay.
Mr and Mrs Lochlan were watching television in Edmunds’ tatty lounge. Baxter could hear Ashley playing upstairs in the bedroom from her seat at the kitchen table. She was about to get up to make something to eat when Ashley suddenly went quiet.
Baxter got to her feet, straining to listen over the blaring television in the other room, but relaxed when she heard Ashley’s thunderous footsteps running along the landing and then bounding down the stairs. She came rushing into the kitchen with an assortment of hair clips and flowers clasped haphazardly over her head.
‘Hello, Emily,’ she said happily.
‘Hello, Ashley,’ Baxter replied. She had always been terrible at speaking to children. It was as if they could smell her fear of them. ‘You look very pretty.’
‘Thank you. You do too.’
Baxter doubted that was true but smiled wearily at her.
‘I just wanted to check that you still want me to come and tell you if I see anybody outside?’
‘Yes please,’ said Baxter as enthusiastically as she could muster. ‘I’m waiting for a friend,’ she lied.
‘OK!’
Baxter had expected the little girl to run back upstairs but instead she just stood there giggling.
‘What?’
‘What?’ laughed Ashley.
‘What is this?’ Baxter’s patience was waning.
‘What you asked me to do! I’m telling you that there is somebody in the back garden!’
Baxter’s forced smile dropped. She grabbed Ashley and rushed her into the lounge while gesturing to her alarmed parents.
‘Go upstairs and lock the door,’ she whispered, thrusting their daughter into their arms.
As the three of them thudded overhead, Baxter ran back into the kitchen and removed the gun from her bag. She froze when there was a scraping noise from the side of the property. She crept over to the back windows but could not see anything out there.