A Killing of Angels (10 page)

‘It’s me, in case you’re wondering.’ Beckwith stared directly into my eyes, challenging me to criticise her.

‘Beautiful,’ I said, returning her gaze. ‘The whole flat is.’

She looked smug, as though she’d been proved right about something fundamental.

‘We’re not here to admire the decor, Poppy.’ Burns thumbed through his notebook. ‘It’s your dead boyfriend I want to hear about.’

‘Don’t,’ Beckwith said quietly. ‘Leo was one of my favourites. He took me to the best restaurants and spoiled me rotten. Everything you could want from a sugar daddy.’ Her laughter petered out instantly. ‘He was generous to everyone.’

‘Did he pay for this lot?’

Beckwith’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re joking. The flat’s mine, lock, stock and barrel.’

‘You’re joking. You were in Holloway on drug charges last time I saw you.’

‘That was six years ago.’ She glared at him, but the silence soon defeated her. ‘I’ve turned my life round since then, not that it’s any of your business.’

Burns held his tongue, but his patience seemed to be wearing thin. Poppy had the opposite effect on me − I could have listened to her all day. Her voice was a refined growl like Marianne Faithfull’s.

Beckwith transferred her gaze to me. ‘My clients are millionaires. One guy even paid me to sail round the Caribbean with him. He proposed when we got back, but I refused. I need my independence too badly.’

Burns sighed loudly. ‘You still haven’t told us anything about Gresham, Poppy.’

‘Maybe I don’t want to.’ She stared back at him.

The floor shuddered and a huge, bald-headed man emerged from the room next door. She must have been feeding him a diet of anabolic steroids. When he scowled at Burns he looked like a Rottweiler that had been chained up for days, half crazy with rage and hunger. Beckwith didn’t bother to turn round. She just held up the palm of her hand, and after a few seconds he slunk back through the door, in search of his kennel.

‘Who’s the charming new boyfriend?’ Burns asked.

‘That’s my assistant.’ She gave her sweetest smile. ‘But it’s you I’m worried about, Don. I’ve never seen you so uptight. Isn’t Mrs Burns looking after you? I’m free on Tuesday mornings, you know. My best clients are from the Met.’

His frown deepened. ‘Just give us the information, Poppy. We haven’t got all day.’

‘Leo was sweeter than you, that’s for sure. There was a romantic side to him. He sent me enough roses on my birthday to fill a bathtub.’

‘How long did you know him?’ I asked.

‘Two years. I checked my appointments book when I heard the news.’

I could imagine Beckwith scratching Gresham’s name from her client list, then poring over her schedule, making sure the cash flow never dried up. It was hard to guess her age, but she was probably on the wrong side of thirty. Small lines were appearing at the corners of her eyes. Perhaps she lay awake on her rare nights alone, wondering how long before the next girl stole her crown.

Burns laid a photo on the coffee table. ‘Ever seen him before?’

‘He’s cute.’ She paused for a second. ‘You can send him my way.’

He stuffed the picture back into his pocket. ‘Too late. He was murdered on Friday night.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Beckwith blinked rapidly then checked her watch. ‘I have to go. A client’s waiting for me at The Dorchester. I can’t say I’m thrilled − all he ever wants is a striptease and a blowjob. No imagination at all.’

Burns’s look of outrage was still in place when we got outside.

‘You’re not keen on her, are you?’ I said.

‘It’s not that.’ He shook his head. ‘She could have anything, and that’s what she’s choosing.’ He stared at Poppy’s building like it was the worst possible destination.

My car felt like a pressure cooker as I followed Burns back to the station. I could understand his frustration. Poppy had everything going for her: looks, privilege, taste − yet she was risking her life every day. Maybe she was capable of venting her destructive impulse on her clients too. But I sensed that she was too controlled to act like Aileen Wuornos, savaging the men who used her. She was taking drugs to keep her emotions in check, rather than letting them break her.

When we got back to the station, Steve Taylor was already in the Invisible Woman’s office. He was sitting so close to her, it looked like he was planning to climb onto her knee. Other members of the team were filing in with gloomy expressions on their faces. The group seemed united in their dislike of Burns, and happy to bad-mouth colleagues behind their backs. I had a strong suspicion that Brotherton liked it that way. She never revealed her loyalties, encouraging competition through divide and rule.

Photos of Jamie Wilcox were scattered across the table, and one of them caught my eye. He was the spitting image of my brother in his twenties, with the same dark blond hair and tennis player’s physique, unshakeable confidence written across his face. I remembered the painting beside Wilcox’s body, showing the angels weeping in despair. Maybe he’d been a casualty of war, as the killer worked his way through the ranks to more powerful targets at the bank? When I looked up again, Taylor was handing the action book to the Invisible Woman.

‘The incident room’s running like a Swiss clock, ma’am.’ He beamed at her like she was his new infatuation.

Burns talked through Jamie Wilcox’s toxicology results, and mentioned that he’d been seen with a blonde woman at the Counting House. I was grateful that he didn’t mention my unauthorised visit − Brotherton wouldn’t have been impressed by my off-the-record chat with the Latvian waitress.

‘Someone gave Wilcox a massive dose of Rohypnol before he died,’ Burns said. ‘At least ten milligrams.’

Taylor’s mouth dropped open. ‘You think some blonde slipped him a Mickey Finn, then led him to the killer?’

‘It’s possible. So far the only link between Gresham and Wilcox is the Angel Bank, but they’re not co-operating. Their lawyers have delayed access to their records on the grounds of confidentiality, but we’ve had a tip-off from an anonymous caller. She said they’ve been breaking trading laws for years. SOCA are interviewing them today.’

Brotherton’s cool eyes observed him as he spoke. It was impossible to tell whether she was taking sides in Taylor’s campaign, but the conflict seemed to be weighing on Burns. He walked with me to the exit without saying a word.

‘I’m sure this is personal,’ I said. ‘If someone wanted to destroy the bank’s reputation, they wouldn’t be killing people, they’d be writing letters to the Financial Services Authority. It’s someone who hates the place so much, they want to lock everyone inside, then burn the place down.’

Burns looked morose as he squinted into the sun.

‘How long do you reckon this heat can keep up?’ I asked.

‘God knows. Give me a bit of sleet any day.’ He gave me a half-hearted smile as he said goodbye.

*   *   *

My consulting room was close to boiling point that afternoon. One session ended abruptly, because a patient passed out from heat exhaustion. I had to ask a nurse to help me lift her into the corridor and wait for her to come round. My mobile buzzed in my pocket just as I was packing up for the day. It was a voicemail that I hadn’t received, because my phone had been switched off. I recognised Andrew Piernan’s charming, upper-class drawl immediately. He was inviting me to dinner the next evening. There was a slight tremor in his voice and I couldn’t decide what to do. He was great company, but the idea of a date sent a surge of panic through my nervous system. I should have called him immediately and said no, but I decided to give myself some thinking time. Until I’d come up with an answer, my only option was to lie low and pretend his message had never reached me.

13

I phoned Piernan from a French café on Tooley Street the next morning. Almost every table was full of couples eating croissants and drinking café au lait. Maybe I was hoping for safety in numbers when I gave him the bad news. He sounded as relaxed as ever when he picked up the phone. I wondered if I’d misjudged him; perhaps he took a different woman to Chez Bruce every night of the week.

‘I’m busy tonight, I’m afraid.’

‘Doing what, may I ask?’ My excuse seemed to amuse him.

‘Running. I’m training for the London marathon.’

‘Good.’ He didn’t seem fazed that his invitation had been turned down flat. ‘I could use some exercise.’

Anxiety fizzed inside my chest when I rang off. Somehow he’d scuppered my plan to delete his number and get on with my life. I knocked back the dregs of my coffee and wondered how it had happened. Freud was right about one thing: mistakes are just another way of getting what we want. Despite my nerves, I was already looking forward to seeing him again.

A copy of yesterday’s
Metro
was lying on the back seat when I hailed a cab. The headline blared from the front page as the driver battled with the traffic. ANGEL KILLER STILL AT LARGE! I was surprised by how much information the police had released about the two attacks, including the killer’s fixation with angels. Maybe Burns was hoping someone would read the story and remember a friend’s interest in the winged messengers. The only detail he’d held back was the feathers left at the murder scenes. I flicked through the rest of the paper, but it contained very little information, apart from pictures of celebrities’ botched plastic surgery, and yet another footballer who’d cheated on his wife.

Stephen Rayner’s flat was in an upmarket area, close to Old Street station, with window-boxes blossoming above art galleries and upmarket delis. I scanned the street for Burns’s Mondeo, but Taylor hailed me from the pavement opposite. He looked different in the harsh sunlight. Deep lines were carved around his eyes and his skin looked desiccated. Maybe he lay in his garden every weekend, soaking up the rays. It was a struggle to fight my dislike. Taylor was exactly the kind of macho man I’d crossed the street to avoid, ever since one put me in hospital.

‘I was expecting Burns,’ I said.

‘You struck lucky and got me instead.’ His smile had been replaced by a sneer. ‘You can do the talking, I’m looking forward to seeing you in action.’

I ignored him and walked up the steps to Rayner’s apartment. It was over an estate agent’s − every morning he’d be woken to the clamour of phones ringing; a constant reminder that the city was nothing more than an assortment of properties, waiting to be resold. When the door finally opened, Rayner’s appearance surprised me. He’d been off work with stress since his boss died, but I’d never seen anyone more pristine. The creases in the sleeves of his shirt were knife-sharp, and it was hard to believe he’d ever experienced a five-o’clock shadow. But there was something unsettling about his face. His features seemed too large for his face to accommodate: bulging eyes, his nose a broad pink slab, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth.

He led us into his living room. A whole wall was covered in unframed photographs, pinned so closely together they were overlapping. Dozens of strangers gazed down at me, and a series of landscapes showed a hillside turning pink as the sun rose.

‘Did you take these?’ I asked. ‘They’re amazing.’

His mouth gaped open. ‘What is this? I’ve had the bad cop so now I get the good cop. Is that it?’

‘I’m a psychologist. I’m just helping the police with the investigation.’

‘They’ve already been here three times. They won’t leave me alone.’ He threw an angry glance at Taylor, who was studying his notebook.

‘I don’t want to put you under any more pressure, but I need to know why the police cautioned you ten years ago.’

His cheeks flushed a vivid red. ‘That was fifteen years ago, before I started at the Angel. I had a few drinks after work and someone insulted me.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said gay men disgusted him.’ Rayner looked so furious that I wondered if Taylor was right about his violent tendencies. ‘Banking’s full of Oxbridge idiots stabbing each other in the back. It’s like football or the army − no one’s openly gay. You’ve got to boast about your wife and your lovely kids if you want to get on. Leo was the only one to accept me; everyone else makes me feel like my face doesn’t fit.’

Nothing about Rayner’s face seemed to fit when I glanced at him again. His mouth was quivering with distress, bulbous eyes shiny with tears. Maybe his need for acceptance explained why he’d invented a fantasy life, including a devoted fiancée.

‘I’m sorry to keep pressing you, but the bank’s blocking our requests for information. Can you tell me if there’s anyone Leo was afraid of at work?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Except the boss, of course. Even Leo tried not to get on the wrong side of him.’

‘Max Kingsmith?’ I remembered the svelte grey-haired man, schmoozing people at the Albion Club.

He nodded. ‘Even the directors have to watch their step. His temper’s unbelievable. Leo was one of the few people who could handle him.’

‘I can see how much you miss Leo,’ I said. ‘Apart from his wife, you were one of the people he trusted most. Can you think of anyone else the police should be talking to?’

His face crumpled, and I got the sense that he was holding something back; either too cautious or too afraid to explain. His body language had been tense since we arrived, and he was struggling to meet my eye. The long pauses between his statements made me sure he was plucking up courage to share something. I glanced again at the wall of photos − some had obviously been taken in the local parks. He’d captured every detail: flowers, statues, old men asleep on benches, even the rubbish littering the grass. But it was the portraits that interested me. Most people’s faces showed surprise or anger, as though he’d stolen their images, without seeking permission. Rayner’s voyeurism interested me, but his personality struck me as too passive for violence. When I looked at him again, he was doing his best to pull himself together.

‘There’s one person you should see,’ he said. ‘Lawrence Fairfield knows everything about the Angel. That’s why they got rid of him.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Taylor scribbling the name in his book. I waited for Rayner to explain, but he was still too distressed to speak. On the way out I noticed a Nikon lying on the hall table, a set of lenses lined up beside it. Maybe he harboured fantasies about escaping from banking and joining the photo team at the
National Geographic.