Edmunds had left the meeting room in an unusable state, despite now being back at Simmons’ desk to access a computer program that Finlay did not even recognise. Vanita and Simmons had shut themselves away in her poky office to watch the Andrea Hall interview, no doubt on damage control, waiting with bated breath to hear what bombshell Wolf’s ex-wife might expose to the world next. Although the Death Clock had vanished for the duration of the interview, none of them needed reminding of the time constraints that they were working to.
Finlay looked down at the next name on the list. He was using a combination of what little information the Ministry of Defence had permitted them access to, the Police National Computer, the Police National Database and Google to condense his pool of suspects. He would have felt more comfortable hedging their bets a little more; after all, it was still entirely possible that their killer had never been discharged from the army, that he had never even been enlisted in the first place. He tried not to think about that. This was their best shot at finding Wolf, so he and Baxter would continue to supply Edmunds with names as they found them.
Saunders came strutting up to Baxter’s desk. She left her earphones in and continued working, hoping that he would get the message and go away, but it was apparent, when he waved his hand in front of her face, that he needed telling out loud.
‘Piss off, Saunders,’ she snapped.
‘Wow! No need for that. I just came over to check on you. You know, with Andrea Hall making some pretty scandalous allegations about Wolf and an “unnamed” female colleague,’ he said with a sly smile. ‘I mean, we all had our suspicions but …’
He trailed off and took a step back when he saw Baxter’s expression. He muttered something inaudible and walked away. The news had come as a shock to Baxter and she was embarrassed to admit that she was a little hurt. She had believed that she and Andrea had talked through their issues and that Andrea had finally accepted the truth that nothing ever happened between her and Wolf. On the other hand, this was the same woman who was currently on global television dishing the dirt on her ex-husband just hours before he was due to die.
Still, these minor betrayals paled in comparison to what Baxter was feeling towards Wolf.
An hour later, Finlay ham-fistedly entered the next name on the list into the computer. He was embarrassingly slow compared to Baxter, but wanted to get through as many as possible before she finished her half and came over to take more off him. The Ministry of Defence entry was typically brief:
Staff Sergeant Lethaniel Masse, D.O.B. 16/02/74, (HUMINT) Intelligence Corps, Discharged on medical grounds – June 2007.
‘Whose side are they on?’ he mumbled, wondering whether they could have been any more vague if they tried. He scribbled the words military intelligence on a napkin left over from his working lunch.
A quick Google search produced pages of results, mostly news stories and discussion boards. He opened the link at the top of the page:
… Staff Sergeant Masse seconded to the Royal Mercian Regiment … the sole survivor of the attack that left nine of his unit dead … their convoy encountered the roadside IED (Improvised Explosive Device) south of Hyderabad Village in Helmand Province … being treated for life-threatening internal injuries and ‘devastating’ burns to his face and chest.
Survivor – God Complex? wrote Finlay, next to a brown sauce stain. He entered the details into the Police National Database and was pleasantly surprised to find a plethora of information, including height (six-three), marital status (unmarried), employment (unemployed), registered disabled (yes), NOK. (next of kin, none), known addresses (none in past five years).
Encouraged by the similarities to Edmunds’ profile, Finlay proceeded on to the second page, where the reason for the volume of information held on Staff Sergeant Masse became apparent. Two files had been attached. The first was an incident report created by the Metropolitan Police in June 2007:
2874 26/06/2007
Occupational Health Suite, 3rd Floor, 57 Portland Place, W1.
[14:40] Attended address due to reported disturbance. A patient, Lethaniel Masse, confrontational and aggressive towards staff.
On arrival at premises, raised voices heard from upstairs. Located Mr Masse (Male, 30–40yrs, 6ft+, white/British, facial scarring) sitting cross-legged on floor, staring into space and bleeding from side of face. Desk upturned, window cracked.
While colleague attended to Mr Masse, I was informed that wound to head was self-inflicted and nobody else injured. Dr James Bariclough advised patient suffering from PTSD and outburst prompted by news that he could not return to army due to physical and mental injuries.
Neither doctor or staff wish to take matter further. No cause for arrest or continued police involvement. Ambulance requested due to head wound and possibility of suicide risk in current state. Will wait on scene until arrival.
[15:30] Ambulance crew on scene.
[15:40] Accompanied ambulance crew to University College Hospital.
[16:05] Clear scene.
Finlay realised that he was already standing up, eager to share their most promising suspect yet with the rest of the team. He moved his mouse over the second document and double-clicked. A photograph of a broken computer lying beside an upturned desk appeared. He scrolled to the next picture: a large cracked window. Disinterested, he brought up the final photograph and felt a chill run up his spine.
The photograph had been taken beside an open doorway with the fearful staff watching anxiously in the background. It showed the deep laceration to Lethaniel Masse’s severely scarred face; however, it was not the extent of his terrible injuries that had troubled Finlay. It was his eyes: pale, dead, calculating.
Finlay had come into contact with more monsters than he could remember and had found that those who committed the most atrocious crimes shared a common trait, a look: the same detached, cold, stare gazing back at him from his computer screen now.
‘Emily! Alex!’ he bellowed across the office.
Lethaniel Masse was a killer, of that he had no doubt. Whether he was the Ragdoll Killer, the Faustian Killer or both, Finlay could not care less. Edmunds could worry about gathering the evidence.
All he and Baxter needed to worry about was finding him.
Wolf was on edge. He had been watching the rain pour over the high street for hours, periodically wiping condensation off the claustrophobic flat’s lone window, praying that he might spot Masse returning home at any moment, more than aware that he might have missed his one opportunity to finish what he had set in motion years earlier.