Ragdoll Page 7

  After her 11 a.m. bulletin, Andrea had received a phone call from her editor-in-chief, Elijah Reid, instructing her to go home and get a few hours’ rest. She had protested obstinately. She had no intention of renouncing her claim over what was sure to become the most sensational story since the Cremation Killings (especially being privy to the troubling contents of the envelope, which she was yet to share with her boss). She was finally persuaded when Elijah swore to phone her immediately at the slightest hint of activity.

  It had been a pleasant half-hour stroll in the sunshine, along the palace grounds and past Belgrave Square Garden, back to Knightsbridge and the three-storey Victorian town house that she shared with her fiancé and his nine-year-old daughter. Andrea closed the substantial front door and climbed straight upstairs to the tastefully bland bedroom on the top floor.

  She pulled the curtains and lay on top of the covers, fully clothed, in the semi-darkness. She reached into her bag, found her mobile phone and set an alarm. She then removed a file containing photocopies of each and every one of the items that she had surrendered to Wolf and held it tightly against her chest as she closed her eyes, acutely aware of their tremendous significance to the police, to the fated people on the list – and to her.

  For over an hour and a half she lay there unable to sleep, staring up at the high ceiling and the ornate detailing surrounding the antique light fitting, weighing up the moral and legal implications of sharing the evidence with Elijah. She had no doubt whatsoever that he would shamelessly parade all twelve of the photographs in front of the world. A tactful promise that ‘some viewers may find the following images distressing’ would only tantalise the public’s insatiable morbid curiosity. She wondered darkly whether the families of the as yet unidentified victims would be watching, finding themselves simultaneously fascinated and repulsed by the vaguely familiar dismemberments.

  That morning dozens of journalists had stood side by side in front of the same clichéd backdrop to report the exact same information, each vying for the attention of the spoilt-for-choice viewing public. The fact that Andrea had been contacted directly by the killer would surely give them an edge over the BBC and Sky News, who would undoubtedly reproduce the images within minutes of them being broadcast. However, she knew exactly how to ensure that every television in the country was focused solely on her:

  1. The pitch – Andrea would inform the public that she had been contacted by the city’s newest serial killer.

  2. The tease – They would reveal each of the photographs in turn, describing what was depicted and making wild assumptions to provoke easily influenced imaginations. They may even be able to find an ex-detective, a private investigator – even a crime novelist would do – who would agree to lend their opinion to the unveiling.

  3. The promise – Andrea would reveal that included in the package was a handwritten list detailing the identities of the killer’s next six victims and the precise dates on which they would die. ‘All will be revealed in just five minutes time,’ she would promise (long enough for word to spread across the entire planet, yet too little time for the police to disrupt the broadcast).

  4. The reveal – With the whole world watching, she would list the names and dates, pausing dramatically between each one like a television talent show judge choosing their finalists. She wondered whether a drum roll would be going too far.

  Andrea hated herself for even considering it. There was a strong possibility that the police had not yet contacted the marked people, who undoubtedly deserved to learn of their impending doom at least a little before the rest of the world. Plus, she would be arrested; although, that had never dissuaded Elijah in the past. Even in his short time at the station, Andrea had watched him ruin lives through conjecture, circulate dubiously obtained details of active investigations and attend court twice for withholding evidence and attempting to bribe a police officer.

  Having abandoned sleep, she sat up on the bed, no more rested but resolute on a course of action. She would use the photographs; it would land her in trouble, but the benefits to her career far outweighed the inconvenience. She would keep the list secret. It was the right thing to do. She felt proud of herself for still fighting the growing pressure to become as merciless and destructive as her boss.

  She reached the corridor that led to the newsroom. Even at this modest height, Andrea instinctively veered towards the wall, ignoring the view out over the rooftops of Camomile Street. When she entered the office, she was struck, as always, by the relentless commotion that persisted twenty-four hours a day. Elijah revelled in the chaos: people shouting at one another, phones ringing discordantly, numerous plasma screens jutting down from the ceiling, subtitles replacing their muted words. She knew that, within minutes, she would acclimatise to it, and the aggressive atmosphere would become no more than background noise.

  The newsroom was located on levels ten and eleven. The dividing floor had been removed to create a commodious double-height space. After years of working at regional stations, Andrea found the set-up excessive and wasteful, almost a parody of a newsroom. All she needed was a desk, a computer and a telephone.

  The new editor-in-chief had been poached from a hard-hitting US news programme, which had controversially uncovered the rampant corruption festering within a number of well-known brands and companies. He had brought with him a multitude of the patronising Americanisms, team-building exercises and morale-boosting incentives that are increasingly forced upon the chronically reserved English employees.

  Andrea took a seat in her neon-yellow (scientific research has discovered a direct correlation between efficiency and bright colours) ergonomic chair opposite the Ben & Jerry’s machine and immediately checked her post tray for any further messages from the killer. She removed the file from her bag and was just about to climb the stairs to Elijah’s office when people started abandoning their desks to congregate beneath the largest of the television screens.

  Andrea noticed that Elijah had also emerged from his office to watch, arms folded, from the balcony. His gaze flickered down to her and then, disinterested, returned to the screen. With no idea what was going on, she got to her feet and stood at the back of the growing crowd.

  ‘Turn it up!’ someone shouted.

  Suddenly New Scotland Yard’s familiar sign appeared and Andrea recognised her cameraman Rory’s trademark soft-focus zoom out to reveal a beautiful blonde reporter wearing an inappropriately low-cut summer dress. There was a wolf whistle from somewhere near the front. Isobel Platt had only been working at the station for four months. At the time of her appointment Andrea had considered it an insult to the profession, giving a mindless, cosmetically enhanced, twenty-year-old a position based on no more than her ability to read out loud; she now felt it a personal attack on her and her career.

  Isobel was cheerfully informing them that a police spokesperson would be making a statement ‘im … min … ently’ while her exposed cleavage dominated the screen to the point where Andrea wondered why Rory was bothering to keep her head in frame at all. She felt tears pricking her eyes and could feel Elijah watching her for a reaction. She focused intently on the screen, refusing to turn around or leave the room, denying him that satisfaction.

  It had not been the first time that she had underestimated her editor-in-chief’s utter ruthlessness. She understood his reasoning; in the battle of ratings for the biggest story of the year, why not stick a model in front of the camera as a little extra incentive? She would not have been at all surprised had Isobel reappeared topless for her sign-off.

  The startling news of Mayor Turnble’s untimely death, while visiting the police HQ for a policies update meeting, barely registered with Andrea as her colleagues gasped and swore accordingly. She was preoccupied with fermenting her self-pity into anger. She would not be quietly dismissed from her own story. She turned away from the screen, not lingering to hear what Isobel’s breasts had made of the shocking press conference, stormed back over to her desk, collected
the file and marched up the stairs towards Elijah. Apparently expecting this, he nonchalantly strolled back into his office and left the door ajar.

  Elijah had been screaming and swearing for almost five minutes. He was livid that Andrea had sat on such an explosive story for an entire day. He had told her that she was fired seven times, called her the C-word three times, and physically chased his assistant away when she had come to check that everything was all right.

  Andrea waited patiently for him to finish. She found his predictable reaction almost as amusing as the way in which his dubious New York accent became laced with a southern drawl the angrier he got. He was a vain man. He visited the gym both on his way in and back from work and always wore shirts a size too small to emphasise the extent of his obsession. Despite being over forty, his hair showed no sign of grey; instead, a flawless coverage of unnaturally golden hair was slicked back tidily across his scalp. Some of the other women in the office found him heartbreakingly attractive, the very definition of an alpha male. Andrea just found him comically repugnant. She had to wait another minute for his display of dominance to subside.

  ‘These pictures are shitty quality, barely usable,’ he spat, masking his excitement as he spread them over his desk.

  ‘Yes, they are. These are just for you,’ replied Andrea calmly. ‘I have the high-quality versions saved on an SD card.’

  ‘Where?’ he asked urgently. When Andrea did not answer, he glanced up at her. ‘Good girl, you’re learning.’

  Although offensively patronising, Andrea could not help but take some pride in the grudging compliment. The playing field had just been levelled; they were two sharks circling a piece of meat.

  ‘The police have the originals?’ he asked.

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Wolf?’ Elijah had taken a keen interest in Andrea’s divorce from the infamous detective. The Cremation Killer scandal had been equally newsworthy across the Atlantic. He grinned. ‘Then we can’t be accused of withholding evidence, can we? Get the photos to the graphics guys. You can keep your job.’

  Andrea was caught off guard. Surely he had understood that her intention was not merely to preserve her employment but to reclaim her ownership of the story. Elijah must have seen the look on her face because his grin turned malicious.

  ‘Don’t act like you’ve been screwed. You’ve done your job, that’s it. Isobel’s already there. She’ll do the report.’

  Andrea could feel the familiar stinging in her eyes, which she desperately tried to conceal as she racked her brain for a countermove: ‘Then I’ll just—’

  ‘Just what? Quit? Take the photos somewhere else?’ he laughed. ‘I’m willing to wager that the SD card you used belongs to the company. If I suspect that you are attempting to leave the premises with stolen property, I am well within my rights to have security search you.’

  Andrea pictured the small black rectangle wedged between her Starbucks loyalty and PADI registration cards in her purse. They would find it in seconds. But then she realised that she had one last card to play.

  ‘There’s a list,’ she blurted, talking before her conscience could catch up, ‘of the killer’s next victims.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  She removed the crumpled photocopy from her pocket and folded it carefully so that only the first line was visible:

  Mayor Raymond Edgar Turnble – Saturday 28 June

  Elijah squinted at the greyscale printout that Andrea was keeping well out of reach. He had watched her walk from the television to her desk and then straight up to his office. She’d had no opportunity to fabricate the photocopy.

  ‘I’ve got five more names and dates below it. And I swear, if you try to take it from me, I’ll swallow it whole.’

  Sensing that she was deadly serious, he leaned back in his chair and smiled happily, as though they had finally reached the conclusion of a closely fought board game.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s my story.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You can leave Isobel standing out there wasting her time. I’ll be presenting my report from the studio.’

  ‘You’re a field reporter.’

  ‘You can tell Robert and Marie we won’t require them tonight. I’ll be needing the entire show.’

  A moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Consider it done. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Lock all the doors until I’m done and don’t open them for anyone. We can’t let them arrest me until I’ve finished.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Saturday 28 June 2014

  5.58 p.m.

  Wolf sat alone in Simmons’ office. He felt as though he was being intrusive for noticing the numerous fresh dents that had been kicked into the ancient filing cabinet and for treading the broken plaster further into the carpet: the first debris of the mourning process. He waited, feeling self-conscious, fiddling absent-mindedly with the damp bandage covering his left arm.

  After Simmons had been removed from the interview room, Baxter had gone back to find Wolf slumped beside the mayor’s lifeless body as the indoor monsoon raged on. She had never before seen him looking so lost and vulnerable, staring into space, apparently oblivious that she was even there. Gently, she pulled him up onto his feet and led him out into the dry corridor, where a roomful of troubled faces watched their every move with hounding attentiveness.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ huffed Baxter.

  She was supporting most of Wolf’s weight as they stumbled across the office and through the door into the ladies’ toilets. She struggled to get him up onto the countertop between the two sinks. Carefully, she unbuttoned his soiled shirt and slid it slowly off him, taking meticulous care while peeling the melted material out of the weeping and blistered wound that encircled his lower arm. The smell of cheap deodorant, sweat and burnt skin filled the air, and Baxter found herself feeling irrationally on edge, anxious that somebody could walk in at any moment and catch her doing absolutely nothing wrong.

  ‘Sit tight,’ she told him, once she had removed as much as she could. She rushed back out into the office and returned a few minutes later with a first aid kit and a towel, which she draped over Wolf’s soaked hair. Inexpertly, she ripped open and applied the slimy burns dressing before wrapping sufficient bandage to mummify him around the injured arm.

  Moments later, there was a knock at the door. Edmunds came in and unenthusiastically gave up his shirt, having unwittingly admitted to having a t-shirt on underneath. Although tall, Edmunds had the physique of a scrawny schoolboy and the insufficient material barely covered Wolf’s bulk, but Baxter supposed that it was better than nothing. With the majority of the buttons done up, she jumped up onto the counter and sat quietly beside him, waiting for as long as it took for him to recover.

  Wolf had spent the remainder of the afternoon in a quiet corner writing a detailed report on what had occurred inside the locked room. He had ignored the numerous unsolicited words of advice suggesting that he go home via A & E. At 5.50 p.m. he had been summoned into Simmons’ office, where he apprehensively awaited the arrival of his chief inspector, whom he had not seen since his violent eruption hours earlier.

  As he waited, Wolf vaguely recalled Baxter and the bathroom, but it all seemed hazy, surreal. He felt a little embarrassed, having neglected his press-ups that morning (and for the preceding four years) and pictured, with a shudder, her seeing his unkempt and slightly tubby body.

  He heard Simmons enter the room behind him and close the door. His chief dropped into the chair opposite and removed a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey, a bag of ice and a tube of plastic Transformers picnic cups from a Tesco bag. His eyes were still puffy from breaking the news to Mayor Turnble’s wife before the press conference. He scooped a handful of ice into two of the cups, topped them up generously and then slid one across to Wolf without a word. They each took a sip in silence.

  ‘Your favourite, I seem to remember,’ said Simmons at last.

  ‘Good memory.�
�

  ‘How’s the head?’ Simmons asked, as though he were in no way to blame for Wolf’s mild concussion.

  ‘Better than the arm,’ replied Wolf cheerily, genuinely unsure what the doctors would be able to salvage if Baxter’s bandaging was indicative of the treatment underneath.

  ‘Can I be frank?’ Simmons did not wait for an answer. ‘We both know that you’d be sitting in this chair instead of me if you hadn’t screwed up so massively. You were always the better detective.’

  Wolf maintained a courteously impassive expression.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Simmons continued, ‘you would have made better decisions than I did. Perhaps Ray would still be alive if …’

  Simmons trailed off and took another swig of his drink.

  ‘There was no way of knowing,’ said Wolf.

  ‘That the inhaler was laced with an incendiary? That the piles of flowers we’ve had sat in here for a week were caked in ragweed pollen?’

  Wolf had noticed the heap of plastic evidence bags on his way into the office.

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Apparently, it’s an asthmatic’s kryptonite. And I brought him here.’

  Forgetting that he was only holding a picnic cup, Simmons threw his empty glass against the wall, furious with himself. It bounced across the desk anticlimactically and, after a moment, he topped it back up.

  ‘So, let’s get this out the way before the commander gets back,’ said Simmons. ‘What are we going to do about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Well, this is the meeting where I tell you you’re too close to the case and advise you that it’s in everybody’s best interests to take you off …’

  Wolf went to protest but Simmons continued:

  ‘… then you tell me to piss off. Then I remind you what happened with Khalid. Then you tell me to piss off again, and I reluctantly agree to let you stay on but warn you that the first flicker of concern from your colleagues, your psychiatrist, or from me, and you’ll be reassigned. Good chat.’