There was a thump against the front door.
Baxter darted into the hallway and stepped into the bathroom. She raised the gun as she heard metal against the door lock. The front door creaked open and she saw a large shadow spill across the threshold. She held her breath and waited for the figure to pass the bathroom doorway before stepping out and pushing the end of the gun’s metal slide against the hooded head, causing the intruder to drop a bag full of razorblades, sharp scissors and disposable gloves over the floor.
‘Police,’ said Baxter, glancing down at the assortment of ominous implements at her feet. ‘Who are you?’
‘Tia. Alex’s fiancée. I live here.’
Baxter leaned round to see the obvious bump beneath the pregnant woman’s top.
‘Jesus! I am so sorry,’ she said, lowering the weapon. ‘I’m Emily – Emily Baxter. Nice to finally meet you.’
The head of security at Dubai International had already spoken to Wolf by the time Ashley disembarked the plane. He was a terrifying man, who barked orders at anyone and everyone in his vicinity, so it should have come as no surprise to learn that he had forced the airline to rearrange the seating for her flight to Melbourne.
Ashley felt terrible. She could see her fellow passengers crammed into every last available seat further down the cabin while she was surrounded by four empty rows. The clock on the entertainment system had adjusted to reflect the changing time zones. It was now officially Sunday morning, but she was not safe yet. She checked her unadjusted watch, knowing that she could not let her guard down until it was midnight back in England.
Ever since Wolf first told her his plan she had had reservations about boarding a plane full of innocent people. The seemingly ubiquitous killer appeared to have no bounds, and she could not help but wonder whether crashing a passenger jet might still fall within the realm of his extensive capabilities. She had been gripping the armrest for hours, expecting to fall out of the sky. She had refused all food and drink on Wolf’s orders and watched warily every time that anybody got out of their seat to visit the facilities.
The dimmed lights flickered all around her and Ashley looked up alertly. The cabin crew appeared oblivious as they tiptoed between the sleeping passengers. The armrest started to tremble and then to shake beneath her hand, and an unfittingly cheery ping accompanied the illuminated seat-belt signs.
He had found her.
The entire plane began to vibrate violently, waking people from their sleep. Ashley saw the concerned expressions on the cabin crew’s faces as they dished out reassurances while scurrying back to the safety of their seats. The lights went out. Ashley felt for the window beside her but could see only darkness. It was as though she was already dead …
The shaking gradually subsided and then the lights returned at full brightness. Nervous laughter filled the cabin and, shortly after, the seat-belt signs went dark once more. The captain’s voice buzzed over the intercom, apologising for the turbulence and making a joke about everyone getting a massage chair on his airline, not just first class.
As people started dropping back off to sleep, Ashley counted the seconds in her head, ticking off the minutes until they landed.
Andrea gave her now signature sign-off. The Death Clock read: +16:59:56 as the ‘On Air’ light went out. She had enjoyed the day, full of positivity and people wishing Ashley Lochlan well or bestowing advice as she attempted to outrun the previously infallible killer. The vile countdown, having passed midnight and now into positive numbers, had been renamed the ‘Life Clock’ by one caller and, for the first time, symbolised hope rather than despair, counting up the hours to the killer’s failure.
But Andrea’s mood quickly dampened when she walked back into the newsroom and spotted Elijah waiting for her up on his narrow walkway. With a gesture dripping with arrogance he summoned her up and then strode into his office.
Andrea refused to rush. She stopped at her desk and took a moment to steady her nerves, trying not to think about the gravity of the decision that she was about to make, that she had already made. She crossed the chaotic room, took a deep breath and climbed the metal staircase.
Wolf was watching the news in the cheap bed and breakfast that he had paid for in cash. He had been on edge for hours and dived across the dirty room when his Pay As You Go phone went off shortly after midnight. He opened the text from the unfamiliar number and slumped back against the bed in relief as he read:
STILL HERE! L X
She was safe.
He removed the sim card from the phone and snapped it in half then crawled over to switch off the television, pausing when he realised that Andrea’s news channel had already reset the Death Clock. He watched three minutes of his life disappear as though they were seconds before pushing the power button: -23:54:23
CHAPTER 32
Sunday 13 July 2014
6.20 a.m.
Vanita and Simmons had stayed on until 7.30 p.m. and 9 p.m. respectively while Edmunds and Finlay settled in for a long night at the office. Baxter had joined them a little before 1 a.m. after sending the Lochlan family home at midnight with a police escort.
Edmunds had been expecting a series of fuming texts and phone calls from Tia for having turned their modest home into a bed and breakfast for complete strangers, however, the mum-to-be had spent the entire day playing with nine-year-old Ashley and had been fast asleep when Baxter left their maisonette.
When Baxter arrived at the office, Finlay had taken over the gargantuan task of working through the list of discharged servicemen. Edmunds, meanwhile, had emptied the archived evidence across the meeting room floor and been busy meticulously sorting through the mess.
She always found it a strange atmosphere in the office at night-time. Even though New Scotland Yard was still teeming with caffeine-fuelled employees, the night workers seemed to carry out their duties in a hushed murmur. The oppressive lighting felt a little warmer as it diffused into vacant rooms and dark corridors, and the phones that had to fight so hard to make themselves heard during the day were set to a polite hum.
At 6.20 a.m. Finlay was asleep in his chair, snoring gently beside Baxter, who had now inherited his laborious task. Based on Edmunds’ profile and the overwhelming number of people that could be eliminated due to the severity of their physical injuries, they had, so far, compiled a list of just twenty-six names from the first thousand people they had assessed.
Someone cleared their throat.
Baxter looked up to find a scruffy man in a cap standing over her.
‘Got some files for Alex Edmunds,’ he said, gesturing to the flatbed trolley behind him, where seven more archived boxes were neatly stacked.
‘Yeah, he’s actually just in—’
Baxter saw Edmunds throw a box of evidence across the meeting room in a temper.