Baxter and Edmunds had been made to wait for over ten minutes in the QE’s main reception area. Flimsy-looking shutters blocked the entrances to both the café and the WH Smith’s and Baxter’s stomach rumbled as she glanced again at the piles of Monster Munch sitting just out of reach. At last a morbidly overweight security guard waddled over to the counter and the unfriendly woman on reception pointed in their direction.
‘Coo-ee!’ she called, waving them over as if summoning a dog. ‘Jack will take you down now.’
The security guard clearly had a chip on his shoulder. Begrudgingly, he led them painfully slowly towards the lifts.
‘We’re kind of in a hurry here,’ Baxter snapped, unable to help herself. Unfortunately this only seemed to decelerate the man further.
As they disembarked the lift at basement level, their escort spoke for the first time.
‘The “real” police didn’t trust us lowly security guards with the intricate task of sitting outside a room, so they took over. Lot of good that did ’em.’
‘Was the body guarded at all after it was brought down to the morgue?’ asked Edmunds pleasantly, in an attempt to pacify the embittered guard. He had taken out his notebook and was poised to record the response as they walked along the claustrophobic corridor.
‘I’m only guessing here,’ started the man, with exaggerated deliberation, ‘but the police may have considered the guy less of a threat after he had died. But as I said, pure guesswork.’
The guard smiled smugly at his own wit. Edmunds glanced at Baxter, expecting her to shake her head or ridicule him for asking stupid questions. Surprisingly, she jumped to his defence instead.
‘What my colleague is trying, but failing, to drag out of you is whether the morgue is secure.’
They stopped outside a set of unmarked double doors. The man arrogantly tapped his thick finger against a small ‘No Entry’ sticker in the window.
‘How’s that for ya, love?’
Baxter pushed past the obnoxious man and held the door for Edmunds.
‘Thank you, you’ve been most …’ She slammed the door in the security guard’s face. ‘Arsehole.’
In contrast to the unhelpful guard, the mortician was welcoming and efficient; a softly spoken man in his early fifties, his greying beard immaculately pruned to match his hair. Within minutes he had located both the hard copy and computer files relating to Naguib Khalid.
‘I wasn’t actually here when they performed the post-mortem, but according to this the cause of death was identified as Tetrodotoxin. There were traces found in the blood.’
‘And this Tetoxin—’
‘Tetrodotoxin,’ the mortician corrected her without a hint of condescension.
‘Yeah, that. What is it? And how is it administered?’
‘It is a naturally occurring neurotoxin.’
Baxter and Edmunds stared at him blankly.
‘It’s poison and he probably ate it. Most TTX fatalities are from ingesting blowfish, a delicacy to some, although, I’m rather partial to a Ferrero Rocher myself.’
Baxter’s stomach made another painful growl.
‘I’ve got to go back to my chief inspector and tell him that a fish killed the Cremation Killer?’ she asked, unimpressed.
‘We’ve all got to go one way or another,’ he shrugged apologetically. ‘There are of course other sources of TTX out there – some starfish, snails … I think I’m right in saying there’s a toad …’
This did not look as if it reassured Baxter.
‘You wanted to see the body?’ asked the mortician after a moment.
‘Please,’ replied Baxter. It was not a word that Edmunds had heard her use before.
‘May I enquire why?’
They walked over to the wall of large, brushed-metal freezer drawers.
‘To check if he still has a head,’ said Edmunds, who was still scribbling notes in his book.
The mortician looked to Baxter. He expected her to smile or perhaps apologise for her colleague’s dark sense of humour, but she nodded back sincerely. A little disconcerted, the man located the appropriate drawer, on the bottom row, and gently pulled it out from the wall. All three of them held their breath as the infamous serial killer materialised before them.
The dark-skinned feet and legs were covered in old scars and burns. Next, the arms and groin came into view. Baxter glanced uncomfortably at the two misshapen fingers on the left hand, remembering the night that Wolf had emerged from the holding cell covered in blood. She denied all knowledge of the incident when questioned by her superiors the following day.
As the chest slid into the light, they all stared at the substantial scarring left by the numerous operations to repair the damage sustained during Wolf’s attack. Finally the drawer clicked fully open and they gazed down at their own distorted reflections in the metal tray, occupying the space where a head should have rested.
‘Shit.’
Wolf was loitering outside the main entrance to New Scotland Yard, looking nervously at the huge crowd that had amassed in the shadow of the towering glass building that occupied almost two acres in the heart of Westminster. The finishing touches were being completed to the makeshift podium, erected in the usual media-friendly spot, which incorporated the famous revolving sign as a backdrop.
Someone had once told him that the rotating sign’s reflective lettering was intended to symbolise the Met’s constant vigilance, the observer’s image mirrored back at them, always watching. The same could be said for the rest of the huge building which, on clear days, almost vanished as the mirrored windows adopted the form of the Victorian red-brick hotel opposite and the looming clock tower of 55 Broadway behind.
Wolf’s phone started buzzing in his pocket and he cursed himself for not remembering to switch it off. He saw that it was Simmons calling and swiftly answered it.
‘Boss?’
‘Baxter’s just confirmed it: it’s Khalid.’
‘I knew it. How?’
‘Fish.’
‘What?’
‘Poison. Ingested.’
‘It’s better than he deserved,’ spat Wolf.
‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’
Someone in cargo trousers was gesturing at Wolf.
‘It looks like they’re ready for me.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Cheers,’ replied Wolf insincerely.
‘Try not to mess it up.’
‘Right.’
Wolf hung up and checked his reflection, ensuring that his fly was done up and that he did not look any more exhausted and downtrodden than usual. He marched out towards the podium with the intention of getting it over with as quickly as possible; however, his confidence drained as the noise intensified and he saw the black lenses of the television cameras tracing his every step, like cannons taking aim. For a moment he was back outside the Old Bailey, ineffectively shielding his face as he was bundled into the back of a police van to the unnerving jeers of the unsatisfied press and the violent thudding against the vehicle’s metal sides, which would forever infect his sleep.