A Killing of Angels (14 page)

18

It takes a strong constitution to give a speech to a roomful of coppers. I’d dressed carefully for the event, in trousers and a high-necked top, in spite of the heat. Experience had taught me that revealing even an inch of flesh could be disastrous. Burns had given his team a three-line whip, so the incident room was packed, but the only smile I could see belonged to a dead man. Leo Gresham’s photo beamed down benevolently while I switched on my laptop. Steve Taylor was sitting beside Brotherton, smirking in the front row, like a sixth former who’d shaved his head for a prank. I hit the return button on my computer and a map of the City appeared on the wall. When the room fell silent, I knew I had approximately twenty seconds to win their attention.

‘Everyone loves bankers, don’t they? Those generous people who invest our cash and never take anything for themselves.’ There were a few hoots of derision. ‘But this campaign isn’t being carried out by some group that hates every banker on planet earth. If it was, they’d have published their manifesto by now. It’s much more specific.’ I pointed at the red dots on the map, marking King’s Cross, Gutter Street and Staining Lane. ‘The victims were all attacked close to the Angel Bank, and we know about their commitments to the place. Gresham ran their investments, Nicole Morgan spends one day a week doing their PR, and Jamie Wilcox was a trainee.’

I touched the computer key again and three angel paintings appeared behind me.

‘You could be literal about his calling card, and say that the angels only tell us where the victims worked, but I think he’s enjoying the symbolism − he’s taking the moral high ground, because something about the bank disgusts him. It could be the name, because it implies the place is sacred. And the feathers are another way of showing us how much he despises his victims; conscientious objectors had them stuffed through their letterboxes as a sign of cowardice. They tell us something else as well − he’s got time on his hands to plan the details. He’s unemployed, or he’s got a private income, spending days following his victims and working out their patterns. He could be so highly functional that the people nearest him don’t have a clue what he’s up to. He carries out his attacks at night then sneaks home again, and his family are none the wiser. Killers like this are often brilliant at compartmentalising. They can be good parents and partners, and still go out and commit acts like these. I think he’s probably a graduate, with a high IQ. He’s happy browsing in the National Gallery, informed about culture, with a religious upbringing. It’s likely he’s been treated for a mental illness, and he may have made suicide attempts.’

Some old-timers were refusing to meet my eye, but most of the room seemed to be listening, some new recruits diligently scribbling notes.

‘You’ll get copies of my report today, but one thing we have to keep in mind is that the MO and the signature in Nicole Morgan’s attack were different from the first two. That’s rare. Serial killers normally get more violent with each attack, but the MO hardly ever changes. Nicole was his first female victim, he was less decisive, and he left a new calling card. That suggests you could be looking for a copycat.’ There were some grunts of disgust from the back of the room, then a ripple of heads shaking. ‘Both attackers know about pain. When the attacks are this violent, the killer’s normally getting even for his own trauma − sexual abuse, or the kind of mental suffering that makes people kill themselves. The main difference is that the killer tries to avoid watching his victims’ pain, but the copycat wanted to see Nicole Morgan in agony.’ I paused to scan the room. ‘Any questions, before I let you get on?’

A young man put up his hand. Under the strip-lights his skin was a raw, glistening red.

‘That’s just guesswork, isn’t it? What makes your guess better than mine?’

Taylor’s smirk grew even more pronounced. It didn’t take a Nobel Prize to work out who’d planted the question. I smiled at the young man before giving my reply.

‘Psychology’s not a precise science, we all know that. But it’s based on the evidence you give me. Every report you put through the system adds to my profile. For example, you interviewed dozens of commuters at King’s Cross. Five of them saw Leo Gresham’s killer walking away, and their descriptions help explain his mindset. He walked decisively, pushing through the crowd, and he never looked back. He had no desire to gloat, or to hear Gresham’s screams, but he wasn’t afraid. His actions were planned and clinical. He’d probably visualised every stage of the attack. Those five interviews form a composite picture, don’t they?’ I held the young man’s gaze then smiled again. ‘I’ve worked on three major incidents so far, and I keep getting asked back, so I must be doing something right.’

He looked deflated. Maybe he’d been expecting some verbal sparring, to inflate his standing in front of his mates. There were no more questions. Either the team was too stunned by the idea of the Angel Killer roaming the streets with a copycat trailing him, or they were tired of listening to my psychological jargon. Most of them looked relieved when Burns got to his feet and started passing out orders, even though there were no definite leads. He took command of the room easily. His stature helped, and his deep voice bouncing off the walls. He explained that the Serious Organised Crime Agency had applied for a licence to seize the bank’s records. The managers must have seen the writing on the wall, because they had agreed to provide lists of past and present employees.

It was ten o’clock by the time we got into Burns’s car, to go to the Angel Bank. His scowl indicated that their endless stonewalling was starting to get to him.

‘I want you to figure them out for me, Alice. I need to know what they’re hiding. So far they haven’t given an inch.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I replied.

Burns gave me more details about Leo Gresham’s secret lifestyle on the way. It sounded like one long jamboree of expensive hotels, champagne and escorts. Jamie Wilcox had been his direct opposite. He’d done heroic amounts of overtime in a warehouse while he studied, to support his wife and son. There was still no news about the mystery blonde at the Counting House. Half a dozen prostitutes worked the place, but none would admit to meeting Wilcox on the night he died. I told Burns about my visit to Rayner’s flat but he didn’t react. Maybe he’d grown so tired of Taylor’s obsession that he was sick of hearing about him.

The traffic was getting worse, and Burns was too focused on the road to make conversation, so I sat back and watched the city drift by. A heat haze was already floating above the pavement as we reached the financial district. Businessmen were striding to their next meetings as if the fate of the world economy rested on their shoulders. Their uniforms were gradually adapting to modern times; pinstripes replaced by Armani and Paul Smith, but they must have been sweltering inside their suits. The women seemed determined to look elegant at any cost, hobbling along the pavement in killer heels.

We turned left into Angel Court and the narrow cul-de-sac looked different in sunlight. The bank was much taller than the surrounding buildings, and its white fascia was a stark contrast to its grubby Victorian neighbours. The marble angels observed us calmly as we walked through the doors.

‘This lot don’t really call themselves angels, do they?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid so, yeah.’ Burns looked appalled. ‘They’re on a mission to rescue your finances.’

The chequered floor of the foyer was so clean it glittered. An army of janitors must have slaved over it at dawn, scouring and polishing. I’d never visited a private bank before. It was a far cry from my branch of the Co-op on Cornhill, with its harassed tellers, hiding behind bulletproof glass. I kept looking for evidence that staff were receiving huge bonuses, but the atmosphere seemed low-key. The traders must be hidden on another floor, Jaguars parked discreetly behind the building. There wasn’t a counter in sight, but occasionally a black-suited executive whisked some clients up the marble stairs. Burns was speaking to a young woman, who looked like she was enjoying the most riveting conversation of her life. I thumbed through a brochure. It claimed that the Angel Bank enjoyed a golden reputation. It was one of the oldest banks in London, and a percentage of its profits went to charities. It supported disabled children, and helped the unemployed to retrain. Soft-focus pictures showed a gang of kids dressed as angels playing in tree houses, having the time of their lives. I noticed the Ryland Foundation logo at the bottom of the page and wondered if Piernan had visited the place recently.

‘They’re waiting for us in the boardroom.’ Burns looked anxious when he trotted towards me, as though he’d been summoned to see Alan Sugar.

Two men were sitting at the end of an oval table, chairs so close together their heads were almost touching. I recognised one of them immediately from the Albion Club. Max Kingsmith’s tan had grown even darker. Maybe he’d just returned from a holiday in Barbados, or he’d spent the morning playing golf. Up close it was clear that he was trying too hard to maintain his good looks. He was in his sixties, but his smile was too flawless to be real.

‘You didn’t say you were bringing an assistant, Inspector.’ Kingsmith appraised me carefully, like an item of furniture waiting to be auctioned.

‘Dr Quentin’s helping us with the investigation,’ Burns explained.

Kingsmith’s smouldering glance was obviously meant to send my pulse into a racing gallop. ‘Forgive me, Dr Quentin. We’re more security conscious than normal, as you can imagine.’ He was doing his best impersonation of George Clooney, but his accent was resolutely British. His eyes were hard to categorise, hovering somewhere between grey and green. It seemed odd that his confidence was undamaged by SOCA’s investigation. He looked determined not to appear cowed.

The other man stood up to introduce himself. ‘Henrik Freiberg,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s good of you to come.’

Freiberg was polite and apologetic, with the sloped shoulders of a man who spent too long at his desk. His grey hair was in need of a cut, and he was wearing heavy tortoiseshell glasses. His suit was so old-fashioned that he looked more like a history teacher than a banker.

The two men gazed expectantly at Burns while he made his request. ‘We still need access to all of your client records.’

Kingsmith looked exasperated. ‘We’ve given you details of every single member of staff. Our clients won’t let us release their financial information. I’ve already told you that.’

‘You must be worried by all the negative press you’re getting. The sooner you hand over the information, the sooner we can leave you alone. We’re only doing this to keep you and your employees safe,’ Burns said.

‘I doubt whether you’re capable,’ he sneered. ‘You didn’t stop Nicole getting attacked.’

‘My officers are working round the clock.’ Burns seemed to be struggling to stay calm. ‘We need to find out about anyone with a grudge − ex-employees, or customers with grievances.’

‘We pride ourselves on looking after our staff and our clients, Inspector.’ Kingsmith’s tone had turned icy.

I wondered if he knew that staff members like Stephen Rayner felt compelled to lie about their sexuality. Certainly he didn’t come over as someone you could reveal your secrets to. He could switch his charisma on and off at will, like Nicole Morgan. I decided to see how he’d react to a direct confrontation.

‘But some of your staff must feel the pressure,’ I said. ‘You pay the highest bonuses in the City.’

Kingsmith’s stare was needle-sharp. ‘We never publish salary details. I’d like to know who told you that.’

I gave him a pleasant smile, which seemed to disarm him. When the discussion continued he vented his aggression on Burns instead, until Freiberg placed a restraining hand on his forearm.

‘These people are trying to help, Max.’ Freiberg reminded me of a prefect, confronting the school’s worst bully.

I glanced around the boardroom, while Burns tried to persuade Kingsmith to open his records. The bank’s Quaker founders gazed down from oil paintings on the walls, dressed in black frock coats, expecting us to part with vast sums of money. When the meeting ended, Henrik Freiberg showed us to the door, speaking in a low voice.

‘You’ll have to forgive Max. He’s got a new baby; he doesn’t need any more stress.’

I smiled at him as I said goodbye. Maybe Kingsmith’s wife was the reason for his Peter Pan complex. He was trapped in a cycle of marrying young, childbearing women, to hold back the clock.

‘That didn’t help much, did it?’ Burns came to a halt on the pavement. ‘Let’s hope Lawrence Fairfield gives us the real picture tomorrow. What did you make of them?’

‘The top man’s a classic case of narcissistic personality disorder.’

‘He’s vain, you mean?’

I shook my head. ‘Kingsmith’s built his own universe, and everyone has to obey his rules.’

‘I can think of easier ways to describe him. How much did you say he earned last year?’

‘Fifteen million basic, and more in bonuses.’

His expression was a blend of envy and disgust. ‘They say money corrupts, don’t they? The killer could be anyone inside the Square Mile.’

Burns offered me a lift, but I chose to walk instead. Ten minutes of radiation would do me good, even though I’d forgotten my sun block. The light was so intense that the pavement shone, railings glittering like quicksilver. I thought about Kingsmith, with his chilly, indeterminate eyes. There was something threatening about him. Or maybe I’d treated too many narcissists in my time. Their world view was brutal but simple − nothing mattered to them, except their own wants and needs.

19

Will was still AWOL the next morning, and Piernan hadn’t returned my call. The butterfly shimmered at me every time I walked past. I almost felt grateful that Burns was an early riser. When I peered out of my bedroom window he was leaning against his car, tapping out a tune on the roof with the fingers of both hands. He pulled the passenger door open for me without saying a word. He looked like he’d been awake for days, his stubble gradually turning into a beard.