‘We’ve got a ring on the left hand and an operation scar on the right leg. It’s not a lot to go off.’
‘There’ll be more,’ said Finlay matter-of-factly. ‘Someone who doesn’t leave a single drop of blood at a massacre doesn’t leave a ring behind by accident.’
Wolf rewarded Finlay for his thought-provoking insights by yawning loudly in his face.
‘Coffee run? I need a smoke anyway,’ said Finlay. ‘White and two?’
‘How have you still not learnt this?’ asked Wolf as Finlay hurried to the door. ‘An extra-hot, double-shot skinny macchiato with sugar-free caramel syrup.’
‘White and two,’ shouted Finlay as he left the meeting room, almost colliding with Commander Vanita on his way out.
Wolf recognised the diminutive Indian woman from her regular appearances on television. She had also attended one of the countless interviews and evaluations that he’d had to endure to secure his reinstatement. From what he remembered, she had been against the idea.
He really should have spotted her approaching, seeing as she perpetually looked to have stepped out of a cartoon, that morning’s ensemble consisting of a vivid purple blazer inexplicably matched with garish orange trousers.
He retreated behind the flip chart too late and she paused in the doorway to speak with him.
‘Good morning, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Morning.’
‘It looks like a florist in here,’ she said.
Wolf glanced at the hideous montages dominating the wall behind him in confusion. When he looked back, he realised that she was gesturing into the main office, where dozens of extravagant bouquets were scattered over desks and filing cabinets.
‘Oh. They’ve been arriving all week. I think they’re from the Muniz case. Pretty much the entire community sent flowers in from the looks of it,’ he explained.
‘Nice to be appreciated for a change,’ said Vanita. ‘I’m looking for your boss. He isn’t in his office.’
Wolf’s phone started buzzing loudly on the table. He glanced at the caller ID and hung up.
‘Anything I can help you with?’ he asked half-heartedly.
Vanita smiled weakly.
‘I’m afraid not. The press are tearing us apart out there. The commissioner wants it handled.’
‘I thought that was your job,’ said Wolf.
Vanita laughed: ‘I’m not going out there today.’
They both spotted Simmons heading back towards his office.
‘Shit rolls downhill, Fawkes – you know that.’
‘As you can see, I’m completely tied up here. I need you to go out there and speak to the vultures for me,’ said Simmons with almost believable sincerity.
Within two minutes of the commander leaving, Wolf had been summoned to the chief inspector’s poky office. The room was barely four square metres. It contained a desk, a tiny television, a rusty filing cabinet, two swivel chairs and a plastic stool (in case of a crowd piling into the tiny space). Wolf found it a depressing incentive to flaunt before the workforce; the dead end at the top of the ladder.
‘Me?’ asked Wolf dubiously.
‘Sure. The press love you. You’re William Fawkes!’
Wolf sighed: ‘Anyone lower on the food chain I can hand this down to?’
‘I think I saw the cleaner in the men’s loos, but I think it would be better coming from you.’
‘Right,’ mumbled Wolf.
The phone on the desk started to ring. Wolf went to stand as Simmons answered it, but paused when he held up a hand.
‘I’ve got Fawkes with me. I’ll put you on speaker.’
Edmunds’ voice was barely audible over the revving engine. Wolf had to sympathise. He knew from experience that Baxter was an appalling driver.
‘We’re en route to Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Khalid was transferred to their ICU a week ago.’
‘Alive?’ barked Simmons irritably.
‘Was,’ replied Edmunds.
‘But now?’
‘Dead.’
‘Head?’ Simmons yelled in frustration.
‘We’ll let you know.’
‘Fantastic.’ Simmons ended the call and shook his head. He looked up at Wolf. ‘They’re expecting you outside. Tell them we have six victims. They already know that anyway. Assure them that we are currently in the process of identification and will be contacting the families before making any names public. Don’t mention anything about stitching bits together – or your flat.’
Wolf gave a sarcastic salute and left the room. He closed the door behind him and spotted Finlay approaching with two takeaway cups.
‘Just in time,’ Wolf called across the office, which was now filling up with people beginning their day shifts. It was easy to forget that, while the high-profile cases eclipsed the lives of those involved, the rest of the world continued on as normal: people killing people, rapists and thieves running free.
As Finlay passed a desk covered with five huge bouquets, he started to sniff. Wolf could see his eyes watering as he drew nearer. Just as he reached Wolf he sneezed violently, throwing both coffees across the grubby carpeted floor. Wolf looked crushed.
‘These effing flowers!’ bellowed Finlay. His wife had made him give up swearing when he became a grandad. ‘I’ll get you another.’
Wolf was about to tell him not to bother when an internal deliveryman emerged from the lift holding yet another impressive armful of flowers. Finlay looked as though he might hit him.
‘All right? Got flowers for a Ms Emily Baxter,’ announced the scruffy young man.
‘Terrific,’ grumbled Finlay.
‘This has gotta be the fifth or sixth lot for her. Bit of a looker is she?’ asked the oafish man, catching Wolf off-guard with the inappropriate question.
‘Ummm … She’s – well, very—’ Wolf stuttered.
‘We don’t really think about other detectives in that way,’ interrupted Finlay, seeing his friend struggling.
‘It depends on …’ Wolf looked back at Finlay.
‘I mean, of course she is,’ blurted Finlay, losing his calming hold over the conversation. ‘But—’
‘I think that everybody’s unique and beautiful in their own way,’ finished Wolf wisely.
He and Finlay nodded to each other, having flawlessly negotiated a potentially awkward question.
‘But he would never …’ Finlay assured the deliveryman.
‘No, never,’ agreed Wolf.
The man stared blankly at the two detectives: ‘OK.’
‘Wolf!’ a female officer called across the room, providing him with an excuse to leave Finlay with their visitor. She was holding a phone up at him. ‘Your wife’s on the line. Says it’s important.’
‘We’re divorced,’ Wolf corrected her.
‘Either way, she’s still on the phone.’
Wolf reached for the receiver when Simmons came out of his office and saw him still standing there.
‘Get down there, Fawkes!’
Wolf looked exasperated:
‘I’ll call her back,’ he told the officer before stepping into the idling lift, praying that his ex-wife would not be among the crowd of reporters he was about to face.
CHAPTER 3
Saturday 28 June 2014
6.09 a.m.