A Killing of Angels (12 page)

‘He’s not stupid, is he?’ Taylor said. ‘Those streets are a labyrinth. A bike’s his best bet.’

‘What do you think, Dr Quentin?’ Brotherton asked. Her gaze was so chilly, it took me a moment to gather my thoughts.

‘His MO’s changed. This is his first female victim, and he’s getting less squeamish. He went for maximum pain, instead of sedating her, or pushing her under a train and walking away before the first scream. Even the calling card’s different, and there were no feathers.’

Taylor looked outraged. ‘You’re saying it’s a copycat?’

‘It’s possible. Or two people could be working together. But if it’s the same killer, he was much less organised − he might be starting to break down.’

Brotherton gave me a curt nod, then turned her attention to Burns and Taylor. She drew herself up in her chair and peered at them through her grey curls. Her voice was slow and deliberate, as though she’d audited every word.

‘A celebrity was maimed last night, right under your noses. What have you been doing? You’re meant to be senior officers, running a double murder investigation. If I hear any more gossip about sparring, or failing to follow procedure, one of you will collect your P45. Do I make myself clear?’

Taylor’s head wagged violently, like a nodding dog on the dashboard of a speeding car. I could understand Brotherton’s anger. She was about to become famous for all the wrong reasons, stepping out from her smoke and mirrors to appear on millions of TV screens. Taylor broke the silence as soon as she left.

‘What a bitch,’ he sighed, polishing the crown of his head with both hands.

‘If you hate her so much, why brown-nose her every day?’ The contempt in Burns’s voice lowered the room temperature by several degrees. It was the first time I’d seen him riled since the start of the investigation. It was a relief when he followed me into the corridor instead of letting the disagreement turn into a slanging match.

*   *   *

I arrived at my consulting room an hour before my first appointment. Burns had given me the most recent printout from HOLMES. It was several inches thick, with dozens of pages of work-flow analysis and evidence management to skim through before I reached the Dynamic Reasoning Report, which was frustratingly brief. The system had picked up just one parallel, to a serial killing case in Brixton over a decade ago, but the attacker was already behind bars. I grabbed a highlighter and got to work. The killer’s motivation must be hidden somewhere inside the ream of paper, and keeping busy would help me forget what I’d seen. But Nicole Morgan’s wounds came back to haunt me when I put down my pen. The plastic surgeon had an impossible job to perform − he’d need a yard of surgical twine to mend her heart-shaped face.

15

A surprise was waiting for me when I turned on my computer. I was already feeling queasy from lack of sleep, and the first email I opened didn’t help. It was from Darren, and the message consisted of just five words. YOU CAN RELY ON ME. My heart twitched uncomfortably in my chest. The font size was huge, each letter at least an inch tall, the equivalent of standing in front of me, screaming at the top of his voice. It crossed my mind to harangue the receptionists, but I knew it wasn’t their fault. There were half a dozen websites where he could have found my work email address. I looked up the details for Darren’s YMCA and left a voicemail asking the manager to contact me. His probation officer wasn’t answering her phone either. I wrestled with the window, gasping for fresh air. A helicopter was hovering over the tip of The Shard, giving its passengers the perfect photo opportunity. I felt like beckoning them to land on the hospital roof. Maybe a tour of the building’s failing resources would give them an attack of philanthropy.

The day went by too quickly, with hardly any intervals between patients. At five thirty I went looking for Hari, hoping to share my worries about Darren, but his secretary said he was meeting the trustees, so I locked my office door and set off. The street was crammed with stationary cars, drivers revving their engines impatiently. The air felt sticky with heat and bad humour.

My brother was shuffling around in his room when I got back. Normally I would have made him a cup of tea, but we hadn’t spoken since he’d slammed out of the flat. I went into the bathroom and turned the shower to full blast. The jet of water was strong enough to hurt. It felt like a masseur was standing behind me, pummelling the tension from my muscles.

Will was frozen in the middle of his room when I came out, clutching a handful of CDs.

‘You look busy,’ I said.

‘I’m packing some of my stuff.’ He made no attempt to return my smile.

I wanted to tell him to forget about leaving and wait until he was well, but I bit my tongue. ‘Do you need a hand?’

He looked at me in surprise. ‘You can do the books, if you want.’

It was a struggle to pick my way between piles of clothes, newspapers and dirty coffee cups. I found a cardboard box then scooped a handful of paperbacks from the shelf. Will was standing completely still, gazing around the room.

‘I should get rid of all this crap. It’s only weighing me down.’ He held my gaze, waiting for me to protest. ‘We’re going to Brighton in my friend’s car; there won’t be any room for it anyway.’

‘Where does your friend live?’ I stacked more books into the box, lining up the spines.

‘Whitecross Street,’ he said. ‘He’s there now, waiting for me.’

He turned on his heel and disappeared out of the front door. I stood there clutching his copy of
The Rough Guide to Mexico.
Whitecross Street was a place I always avoided at night; a bleak row of council flats, every ground-floor window protected by a metal grille. The tenants must have grown tired of bricks being hurled into their living rooms.

I could have sat down in the middle of Will’s debris and howled, but I made myself stick on a CD, and the music worked wonders. It’s hard to feel miserable with Bill Withers belting out ‘Lovely Day’ at full volume. I spent an hour doing therapeutic cleaning, scouring the sink to within an inch of its life. By the time I’d finished, the kitchen was immaculate and I was starving. I melted some butter in a pan and fried three eggs, sandwiching them between doorsteps of white bread, loaded with ketchup.

All the fat and cholesterol I’d consumed had given me an unexpected surge of energy, and my mood was beginning to lift, so I texted Piernan before I got cold feet, asking if he was free the next evening. He replied immediately, inviting me to a private view. I put on some lipstick, then lugged my bike downstairs to meet Lola, feeling oddly pleased with myself.

It took ten minutes to cycle along Tooley Street, the air still solid with heat and exhaust fumes. Lola was waiting outside the Market Porter, sipping a glass of Pimm’s. Her friend Craig was standing beside her, two inches of dark roots visible in his long blond hair. He blinked at me through layers of expertly applied mascara. Lola went to drama school with Craig, sharing flats and misadventures. He made a living as a cabaret performer, and his relationship with Lola was like a chemical experiment. It either burned with adoration, or fizzled into despair. When we went inside, the Greek god was setting up microphones on a small stage.

‘I didn’t know Neal was in a band. What are they called?’ I asked.

‘The Jack Pescod trio,’ Lola beamed. ‘They’re heavenly.’

She was right about the music. Normally I’m allergic to jazz, but this was in a different league. The trumpet hovered above the piano’s melody, pulsing and washing over me, like the sea at ebb-tide.

Lola was gazing at me expectantly, and I could tell she was planning an interrogation, so I headed her off at the pass.

‘How’s love’s young dream?’ I asked.

‘Amazing. He says I’m his soul mate.’

‘What goes up must come down,’ Craig muttered.

‘Cynicism’s so unattractive, darling,’ Lola rebuked him. ‘Don’t yield to it.’

‘The rest of us call it realism, sweetie.’ He turned his cornflower-blue gaze in my direction. ‘You wouldn’t go for a juvenile, would you?’

‘Probably not. But only because it would make me feel ancient.’

Lola’s green eyes snapped open. ‘What’s happening with Andrew? I think he’s adorable. He’s got that posh charm, like Hugh Grant in
Notting Hill.
’

‘Don’t get your hopes up, Lo. It’s too soon after the last disaster.’

‘But you’re seeing him again, aren’t you?’ she ploughed on.

‘Tomorrow.’

The subject of romance was finally dropped because Yvette had arrived. She’d poured herself into a skin-tight orange dress, and I saw a man by the bar do a complete 360-degree turn to watch her sashay through the crowd. When she reached our table, she pulled a piece of paper from her bag.

‘There you go,’ she said. ‘The salaries of every employee at the Angel Bank.’

‘Who stole this for you?’

‘I shouldn’t tell you.’ Yvette seemed to be relishing her Mata Hari moment. ‘My friend Vanessa took a risk getting it. I’ve no idea how they’re paying those wages in a recession.’

Craig and Lola were still bickering about relationships, while I stared at the figures. The traders’ bonuses were eye-watering − even the lowest payout was enough to buy a penthouse suite in my building.

Yvette peered over my shoulder. ‘They’re fighting for the biggest prizes in the City. I wouldn’t want to be around on bonus advisory day.’

‘Too much machismo?’

‘Worse than that − they’d be tearing each other limb from limb.’ The smile slipped from her face. ‘You should let it drop, Al.’

‘In case I end up in a concrete shroud?’

‘Vanessa says she’ll talk to you, but I think you’re crazy. It could get both of you in trouble.’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘Too right I am. When there’s that much cash at stake, people don’t play by the rules.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s a personal vendetta, not some mafia-style corporate feud.’

Yvette looked unconvinced. It took half an hour and two large gin and tonics to calm her down, before I could say goodbye.

*   *   *

My pulse was racing from the cycle ride when I got home, so I switched on the TV. I had to blink twice before my eyes accepted that the woman standing on the hospital steps was Lorraine Brotherton. She was surrounded by a sea of reporters, with dozens of microphones aimed at her, and she’d transformed herself for the cameras. Her grey hair had been swept back, and she was wearing lipstick and eye make-up. She looked more than capable of keeping Taylor in his place, explaining that dozens of extra officers were working round the clock on the Angel case. The camera panned across mounds of flowers and cards, propped against the hospital gates, wishing Nicole Morgan a speedy recovery. But when Brotherton reappeared, she was working too hard to convey her message. She tried to explain that the situation was under control, but she was staring at the camera without blinking, as though a gunman was forcing her to read a statement she didn’t believe.

16

I felt a pang of envy as I walked to work on Saturday. A woman was sunbathing on a bench, legs stretched in front of her, taking in the view. In an ideal world I’d be the one watching the river ebb downstream, but there was no wriggling out of it. A skeleton team had to keep the department open each weekend to deal with emergencies. When I reached Great Maze Pond the media circus was still camped in front of the hospital, so I skirted round Newcomen Street to the back entrance, keen to avoid another clash with Dean Simons. I thought about Nicole Morgan as I climbed the stairs. I’d treated a man once who’d lost most of his face in a horrific car accident. It was months before he could confront a mirror, and it would be even harder for someone like Nicole, a recognised beauty, whose looks had helped her become a celebrity.

I spent the day catching up on the paperwork I’d neglected since the investigation began. The thermometer in my room was edging past thirty-three degrees by the time I escaped, and I stood under the air-conditioning vent in the stairwell, letting cold air chill the back of my neck. By the time I’d jogged down four flights I was picking up speed. But when the next corner came, I had to slam on the brakes, because an obstacle was blocking my way. Darren was sitting in the middle of the stairs. It crossed my mind to vault over him and keep running. All I could hear was the echo of my own breathing. No one would disturb us, because the fire exit was only used by a few renegade nurses, desperate for a fag. I glanced over my shoulder, but the concrete stairs looked unforgiving. Darren seemed more confused than last time. The hood of his grey top was half covering his face, and his lips were moving constantly, without producing a sound.

‘I want you to do something for me, Darren. Come up to the clinic. I’ll fix another appointment for you, with Dr Chadha.’

His gaze shifted back into focus, as if he was waking from a long sleep. ‘It’s you I need to see, not him.’ His hands jittered across the concrete, and I knew he was losing control.

‘This way,’ I said quietly. ‘Follow me.’

I started to walk back up the stairs, ignoring my impulse to run, and Darren trailed behind me. When I glanced back, his expression was flickering between anger and fear. Maybe they were the only feelings he could access, his emotional range even narrower than mine. I tried to suppress my anxiety, because I knew it would prevent me helping him. He seemed calmer by the time we reached my floor, standing quietly by the reception desk when I handed him his appointment card.

‘Promise you won’t miss it this time.’ He nodded his head, but wouldn’t meet my eye. ‘You can go home now, Darren.’

He took a long time to leave. Maybe that was because he had no home to go to, just a room at the YMCA, shared with a dozen strangers. My heartbeat gradually steadied itself, but the urge to fly had deserted me. When I opened the door to the fire exit for the second time, I took each flight at a steady pace.

Someone had left a newspaper on a bench in the quadrangle. ‘HOTTEST JULY ON RECORD’, the front page announced. The picture showed hundreds of people frolicking in the grubby waters of the Serpentine, like it was the Côte d’Azur. By the time I reached the river, the idea of ripping off my clothes and diving in seemed appealing. I leant on the railing and watched the tide roll past. The shore was an expanse of black silt, littered with broken glass and McDonald’s wrappers. No doubt dozens of poisons were lurking there: Weil’s disease, salmonella, maybe even a touch of Hepatitis B. I sat at a table outside Browns and ordered an orange juice loaded with ice. When I opened the paper, another headline caught my eye: NICOLE MORGAN IN SAVAGE ATTACK. Morgan’s friends in PR had rallied to her rescue. The picture showed her in a glamorous dress, before the attack took place, and the article described her brave determination not to let her injuries ruin her career. A woman at the table opposite was reading the same story, completely immersed. There was a tense expression on her face, as though she’d discovered her name was next on the Angel Killer’s list. I reached for my phone and called Piernan.