Sunday, 20 December 2015
6:03 P.M.
The snowflakes glittered as they fell through the headlight beams of Baxter’s Audi. The car had picked up a fresh grating noise and been pulling to the right ever since taking a chunk out of the Oxford Street Superdrug earlier that afternoon. The first niggling doubts had set in regarding the likelihood of it passing its upcoming MOT.
Baxter switched off the engine. A sharp hiss of air escaped from under the hood, suggesting yet another fault to fix/cover up. Either that or the car was literally sighing in relief at completing this latest journey unscathed.
On spotting the group of sportswear-clad youths loitering at the entrance to the park (the morbidly obese one apparently wearing it ironically), she unplugged her satnav and tucked it under the seat. Gloves on. Hat on. She grabbed a bag from the passenger seat and crunched along the path to Edmunds’s maisonette.
She rang the doorbell. As she waited, she noticed a set of dead Christmas lights trailing down the brickwork that looked to have been severed in half. Down the street, a bottle smashed and laughter rang out over the quiet houses. She heard the sound of Leila crying before the hallway light came on and Tia struggled to unlock the front door one-handed.
“Merry Christmas!” Baxter smiled, making a real effort. She held up the bag of presents that she had collected from her flat on the way over. “Merry Christmas, Leila,” she cooed, reaching out to stroke the baby, much as she would Echo, while using the same silly voice she adopted to call him for his dinner.
Tia tutted and then disappeared back down the hallway, leaving Baxter stood on the doorstep like an idiot.
“Alex!” she heard Tia call, the sound coming from around the side of the property. Leila was still crying. “Alex!”
“Yeah?”
“Your girlfriend’s at the door. I’ll be upstairs,” she told him as Leila’s cries faded away.
A few moments later, Edmunds came rushing down the hallway, brushing snowflakes out of his hair.
Baxter was almost positive that the socially acceptable way to handle situations such as this was to pretend that she had heard nothing and then to drop in passive-aggressive comments about Tia whenever the conversation permitted.
“Baxter!” Edmunds smiled. “Why are you still out there? Come in.”
“What the hell’s her problem?” she blurted, unable to help herself.
He waved it off. “Oh, she thinks you’re a bad influence on me . . . and I missed a one-year-old’s birthday party or something this morning . . . and there was something else too,” he said cryptically as he closed the front door behind her and walked through to the kitchen, where the open back door invited the night inside.
She handed him the bag of gifts, only to receive an even larger one in return.
“Drink?” he offered.
“No . . . I shouldn’t stay,” she said, looking pointedly up at the ceiling, deciding to go down the passive-aggressive route anyway. “I just came round to . . . I just had to . . . I . . .”
Edmunds recognized the telltale awkwardness that preceded Baxter bestowing a compliment or praise.
“. . . I just wanted to say . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You were looking out for me . . . like usual . . .”
There was more? Edmunds was astounded.
“. . . and you were brilliant today . . . like usual.”
“Actually,” said Edmunds, “I think it’s me who needs to thank you. Today . . . this last fortnight really has made me realize just how much I miss this. God, I miss it: the danger, the excitement, the . . . importance of it all. Tia’s pissed off with me, well, with us, because I kinda handed in my notice this afternoon.”
Baxter’s face lit up: “You’re coming back!”
“I can’t.”
She deflated.
“I need to have a life. I need to think about my family. But at the same time, I can’t waste away behind a desk in Fraud any longer either.”
“So . . . ?”
“I want to show you something.”
Confused, Baxter followed him outside and across the wedge of snow illuminated by the kitchen light to the rickety shed.
“Da-naaaa!” sang Edmunds proudly, gesturing to the in-no-way “da-naaaa”-worthy eyesore.
His enthusiasm dissipated with Baxter’s underwhelming reaction.
“Bollocks,” he said, realizing why the unveiling had not earned the anticipated response. He stooped down to pick up the homemade sign. “Stupid bloody thing won’t stay up,” he explained, hooking it back on to the wood. “Da-naaaa!”
ALEX EDMUNDS—PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
He opened the flimsy door, which almost dropped off its hinges, to reveal the office he’d set up within. Lit by the cozy glow of a desk lamp, his laptop sat atop the work surface beside a printer and a cordless phone. An oil heater in the corner warmed the tiny space. There was a coffee machine, a kettle, a hose hooked over a bucket to form a makeshift sink, and even a “client seating area” (second stool).
“So what do you think?”
Baxter didn’t answer right away, taking another long look around the shed.
“It’s just temporary, of course,” Edmunds insisted when she failed to respond. “Just while I get myself set up and . . . Are you crying?”
“No!” replied Baxter, her voice cracking. “I just think . . . I think it’s perfect.”
“Oh my God! You are crying!” said Edmunds, embracing her.
“I’m just so happy for you . . . and it’s been such a hard couple of weeks.” She laughed, before bursting into tears.
Edmunds continued to hold her as she sobbed against his shoulder.
“Christ!” she said, her mascara smudged across her cheeks, laughing as she composed herself. “I’ve snotted on you. I’m so sorry! I’m gross.”
“You’re not gross,” Edmunds assured her.
It was a bit gross.
“Leila already dribbled food all over this top anyway,” he told her, pointing to it. In actual fact, he suspected that stain had also come from Baxter.
“‘Means something more to him,’” she said, wiping her eyes, reading one of the half-formed ideas scrawled onto the sheets of paper that littered the wooden wall behind him.
“Yeah,” said Edmunds, ripping the sheet down to decipher his own handwriting. “Puppet . . . Bait. Why carve those particular words into themselves and their victims?”
“A sign of loyalty?” suggested Baxter, still sniffing. “A test?”
“I’m sure his disciples see it that way—a brand of unity, of being a part of something, but I can’t help feeling that it means something else entirely to our . . . Azazel.” He used the name reluctantly. “Something personal.”
He hesitated before continuing:
“Baxter, I don’t think you are going to be able to stop whatever’s coming.”
“Cheers for the confidence boost.”
“It’s just . . .” He looked concerned. “Look at the amount of work that must have gone into persuading Glenn Arnolds to stitch another man onto his back, building him gradually to that level of delusion, systematically substituting his meds like that—all tailored solely to that one person. This is beyond obsession . . . This is someone’s sole purpose on this earth . . . and that terrifies me.”
Ten minutes and a cup of shed tea later, Baxter was on the doorstep, bag of presents in hand.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” said Edmunds. He rushed back down the hallway to fetch something. He returned with a white envelope, which he tucked into the top of the present bag. “Last one, I’m afraid. Listen, Baxter—”
“Do myself a favor and don’t open it?” she interrupted, knowing Edmunds was once again about to voice his opinion on them spying on Thomas.
He nodded.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek before walking back out into the night.
Baxter returned to the house to find it empty. She had completely forgotten that Thomas was out at one of the numerous work dos scheduled over the festive season. She placed the bag of presents beneath the Christmas tree and two things slowly dawned on her: One, Thomas had purchased a tree. Two, thanks to everything going on, she hadn’t actually bought him a single present yet.
With Echo asleep in the kitchen, Rouche spending the night in the hospital, and Thomas no doubt getting pawed at by Linda “the Cougar,” she wished she had dropped in on Finlay after all. She hadn’t wanted to intrude on his and Maggie’s evening with the grandchildren so had thanked him for his help over the phone and arranged to pop around to see him after Christmas.
Suddenly feeling very alone, and resolute not to start thinking about the other people, the ones she had lost from her life over the past year and a half, she kicked off her boots and went upstairs to run herself a bath.
Baxter picked Rouche up from the entrance to St. Mary’s Hospital at 8:34 A.M. Still buzzing from the pain meds, he was irksomely cheerful company for a Monday-morning rush hour. As they escaped the queue for one junction just to join another for the next, she didn’t have high hopes of them making their 9:30 A.M. meeting with MI5 T-Branch, who were, all of a sudden, taking the threat against national security very seriously indeed.
Rouche turned up the radio.
“. . . morning, the UK’s terror threat level has been elevated to ‘Critical,’ meaning that the security agencies believe an attack on the country to be imminent.”
“About bloody time,” said Baxter. She looked over at Rouche and caught him smiling to himself. “How has any of this given you reason to smile?” she asked him.
“Because there isn’t going to be an attack. We’re going to stop them.”
Baxter jumped a set of traffic lights:
“I like your optimism—PMA and all that—but—”
“It’s not about optimism. It’s about purpose,” he replied as the news bulletin moved on to the story that both Betfred and Ladbrokes had ceased taking bets on a white Christmas. “I’ve spent years drifting aimlessly, wondering why I survived that day and my family didn’t . . . Now I know . . .
“Just think about the innumerable decisions and chance events required to lead me out of that Underground station a victim of a terror attack a decade ago, only to find myself in the position to prevent one tomorrow. It’s like history repeating itself, giving me a do-over. It’s like I finally understand why I’m still here and, at last, I have a purpose.”
“Look, I’m glad you’re feeling more upbeat and everything, but our priority is that Underground station and whatever these shits have planned for it. We need to handle it. We can’t let them manipulate us like in New York. We can’t pull resources from elsewhere in the city, no matter what happens down there, no matter what happens to us. The diversion is our responsibility. The bombs are the security services’. We’re not going to be involved with that side of things . . . Sorry,” she added, feeling guilty for raining on his parade.
“Don’t be.” Rouche smiled. “You’re right, but I just know that by playing our part tomorrow, we’ll stop this from happening.”
Baxter forced a smile to humor him.
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” she pointed out. “We might still have one more murder to deal with before then. And if our stitched-together Gemini man is anything to go by, it’s going to be absolutely horrific.”
“Unless we’ve already arrested that particular Puppet.”
“Because we’re just that lucky,” scoffed Baxter bitterly.
The traffic started moving more freely. Rouche kept quiet while Baxter changed lanes and overtook a procession of buses. The sporadic sweeps of the windscreen wipers had already compacted the beginnings of a snowman around the edges of the glass.
“We could . . .” Rouche hesitated, trying to form a more compelling argument. “We could wait until five to five and then evacuate the station.”
“I wish we could,” said Baxter. “But we can’t.”
“But if we—”
“We can’t. If we do that, we’re risking them dispersing across the city again and then they could attack anywhere. At least this way, we know where they’ll be and we’ll be prepared.”
“We’re using innocent people as bait . . . Why does that sound so familiar?” he asked. He didn’t sound accusatory, only regretful.
“Yes, we are, but I don’t see another option.”
“I wonder if someone said something similar about me and my family back in 2005.”
“Maybe they did,” Baxter said sadly.
She felt a little disgusted with herself for her callous assessment of the situation. She suspected that Rouche was going to struggle with their day of strategic meetings, regarding people’s lives as no more than figures on a graph. Sacrifice one digit here, save two there.
She suspected that she was going to struggle with it too.
By 6:04 P.M. Baxter was exhausted. As expected, the day had consisted of back-to-back meetings. Security had been doubled on the London Underground and at all major attractions. The five largest A&E departments in the city were on standby to implement their Major Incident Protocols, while the London Ambulance Service had arranged additional cover through private providers.
The Puppet interviews had continued throughout the day without any major revelations. It had been futile to threaten or bargain with Green’s fanatical followers when they had no interest whatsoever in self-preservation. Green himself had been in the hands of MI5 overnight, being subjected to whatever enhanced interrogation techniques they could throw at him; however, the lack of communication suggested that they were yet to break the psychiatrist.
The department had spent the entire day on tenterhooks but reports of a final grotesque murder somewhere within the city never came. As such, the uninterrupted hours had left Baxter feeling as well prepared as possible for the Puppets’ final act.
It was a strange feeling, knowing what might happen, a betrayal to every soul she’d passed on the street not to warn them. She wanted to call everyone in her phonebook, shout from the rooftops that people should stay out of the city, but to do so would only be to delay the inevitable and to sacrifice their one advantage.
She spotted Rouche waiting to say good night as she filed some paperwork. By then she felt as though there was nothing more they could do to prepare. She packed up her bag and walked over to him.
“Come on,” she yawned. “I’ll give you a lift back. I need to pick up a couple of bits anyway.”
Baxter and Rouche had made it as far as Vincent Square before both their phones went off in unison. They shared an exhausted look, anticipating what was coming. Rouche put the call on speakerphone.
“Agent Rouche,” he answered. “I’m with DCI Baxter.”
Baxter’s phone immediately stopped buzzing in her bag.
“Apologies, Agent Rouche. I’m aware you’ve both left for the day,” started the woman on the phone.
“It’s fine. Go ahead.”
“One of Dr. Hoffman’s patients, an Isaac Johns, just used his credit card to pay for a taxi.”
“OK,” he said, presuming there was more to the story.
“I called the taxi firm and got put through to the driver. He said the man was very intense, told him that he was dead anyway, that he’d go out while he still had his dignity, in a way that people would remember. According to Hoffman’s statement, Johns was recently diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. The driver had already called it in. A unit from Southwark has been dispatched.”
“Location?” asked Baxter as she switched on her sirens and maneuvered out of the traffic.
“The Sky Garden,” replied the woman.
“In the Walkie-Talkie?” asked Baxter, using the building’s nickname.
“That’s the one. Apparently he was heading for the bar, which is on the thirty-fifth floor.”
The wheels spun against the slushy road as Baxter sped down Rochester Row, heading north.
“Stand them down,” she shouted over the noise, “and back us up with an armed unit. We’re seven minutes out.”
“All understood.”
“Have you got a description?” asked Rouche.
“Caucasian, ‘built like a brick shithouse,’ short hair, dark suit.”
Rouche hung up as the colors of the city flashed by. He took out his firearm and checked it:
“Here we go again.”
Baxter stifled a yawn: “No rest for the wicked.”