A Killing of Angels (16 page)

‘Some friends were getting into a taxi, then Liam called. I didn’t think it was risky − the street was well lit and there was no one around. I was carrying my jacket because it was still so hot. I had to look in my bag for my keys.’ Her voice stalled, like she’d run out of air.

‘Don’t push yourself too hard, Nicole. Stop there, if you prefer.’

‘He grabbed me from behind, and that’s when I saw the knife. I tried to scream but no sound came out. He was dragging me between the buildings.’ Morgan’s hands clenched into fists. ‘I can’t remember anything after that.’

‘Did you hear him speak? Sometimes people remember a few words, or the person’s accent.’

Morgan sat bolt upright, taking short, panicked breaths. She looked terrified, as if the worst part of her ordeal had come back to her.

‘It’s okay,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s best to wait until you’re ready. You can talk about it then.’

Morgan’s husband appeared with a huge gift-wrapped package as we got up to leave. His face wore the overstretched smile people always adopt when calamity strikes. It’s a combination of shock and the need to convince everyone that you’re coping.

‘It’s from Max and Sophie,’ he said brightly.

The hamper from Nicole’s boss brought our meeting to an end, and I was glad to see she’d calmed down enough to coo over the luxury chocolates and toiletries. The camera was already rolling again.

Liam Morgan showed us out, and I couldn’t help wondering why she’d chosen him; he was as thickset as a weightlifter, an ugly knot of veins bulging over his collarbone. Maybe she saw him as her protector, loyal and unquestioningly devoted, but it wouldn’t have worked for me. Apart from his cropped blond hair, he was a dead ringer for the thug Poppy Beckwith paid to guard her door. I hung back to talk to him while Taylor paced away down the corridor.

‘How are you coping with all this?’ I asked.

He squared his shoulders. ‘Water off a duck’s back.’ His accent had a hard-edged northern twang.

‘Really?’ It was hard to tell whether he was being ironic, but the alarm bells in my head were as loud as klaxons.

‘Twelve years in the army. This doesn’t even compare.’

‘But it’s different when it’s someone you love, isn’t it?’

‘Nicole’s a fighter. She’ll come up smiling.’ His hard-man mask didn’t even twitch.

I made a mental note to call Burns as soon as I got back to my office. If he wasn’t investigating Liam Morgan already, then he should be. Either Morgan was completely desensitised or still in shock. He didn’t seem to care that it would be a year, at least, before his wife could manage even the ghost of a smile.

21

A miracle happened the next day. The trustees did a U-turn and agreed to fund my anger management groups for the next two years. Hari was peering into his filing cabinet when I burst into his office. He looked unruffled as always, as though he’d spent the last hour meditating. I wanted to fling my arms round him, but it would have disturbed his perfect calm.

‘How did you manage it?’ I asked. ‘They couldn’t care less when I saw them.’

‘It’s a mystery. Those guys never justify anything.’ Hari’s slow smile gradually opened to its fullest extent. ‘How are you doing? I haven’t seen you all week.’

‘Pretty good, except I’ve got an unwelcome admirer.’

He gazed back at me. ‘A touch of De Clérambault’s?’

‘It’s probably just a slamming case of loneliness.’

‘We’re talking about Darren Campbell, the one who hit you?’

‘That’s him.’

‘Have you called his probation officer?’

‘She hasn’t got back to me yet. I’ve booked you to do a diagnostic. Can you tell me how it goes?’

‘Of course.’ Hari’s calm eyes assessed me. He seemed to be fighting his temptation to offer me advice.

The air-conditioning unit had finally been fixed, but it had developed an ominous rattle. I was so elated that I ignored it, even though the noise loudened to a full-blown scream. By the time I left, it sounded like the brass section of an orchestra was tuning up in the room next door. It felt wonderful to escape the cacophony, but I stepped outside into a solid wall of heat.

*   *   *

My bus slogged west through Kensington Gore, giving me time to admire the architecture. The Regency villas in Holland Park looked glorious in the warm evening light, dripping with wedding cake stucco. I don’t know why I was so excited about seeing Piernan again. Maybe it was the fact that he came from a secret world. I’d grown up in the dull middle-class suburbs, while he’d been raised by a nanny, on a country estate. His childhood sounded like a series of
Upstairs Downstairs.
Or perhaps it was much simpler than that. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I walked from the bus stop to a garden square in Notting Hill, and a tall, well-dressed man was waiting under a London plane tree, grinning at me. I had to blink several times before I realised that it was Andrew.

‘You look amazing,’ he said, as I walked towards him.

‘That’s an overstatement.’ My outfit was incredibly simple − a black sleeveless dress, high heels and my favourite silver jewellery.

‘I was worried about you on Friday, you didn’t seem yourself.’

‘The private view made me a bit queasy, that’s all. I can’t believe anyone could blow half a million on a piece of paper.’ I glanced around the square. The houses were perfectly conserved, with glossy black railings marking out their empires. ‘Is this where you live?’

‘God, no. I’d need a fatter bank balance. It’s Max Kingsmith’s birthday party. It’s a bit of a duty call. Do you mind if we pop in, just for an hour?’

I was so surprised that it took me a moment to remember that he’d worked at the Angel. I wondered what kind of welcome I’d receive from his old boss. Burns wouldn’t approve, but it was the ideal opportunity to look behind the scenes of the Angel Bank’s empire.

The party was already in full swing. The Kingsmiths’ house was large enough to occupy almost an entire side of the square, and clusters of people were hanging around in the hallway, clutching glasses of punch. It made me realise how small the banking world must be. Most of the guests from the Albion Club were there, including the girl who’d been weighed down by emeralds. She’d swapped them for a diamond pendant tonight, large enough to bring a tear to Elizabeth Taylor’s eye. A tall, dark-haired woman was striding along the hall towards us. Her baby was clinging to her shoulder, but she managed to greet us warmly, even though the child was yelling at the top of her voice. Max Kingsmith was surrounded by admirers, lapping up the adulation like an ageing film star. His face tensed when he saw me, then transformed into a lingering smile. His wife was still waiting by my side.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ she asked. ‘My name’s Sophie, by the way.’

I smiled at her. ‘I’d love one, please.’

I followed her through the crowd, and when I looked back Andrew had been trapped by a red-faced man with a loud, overbearing voice. Sophie’s kitchen was almost empty, apart from a clique of dedicated boozers who’d set up camp by the drinks table, where a waiter was patiently doling out champagne. They didn’t bat an eyelid when they saw her, and I wondered if they knew she was the host’s wife. They’d come to placate her husband – no one else mattered. But at least Kingsmith had provided her with a state-of-the-art kitchen. It looked like a set for
House and Home,
with glass work surfaces and sofas to lounge on. The baby stopped bawling as soon as Sophie put her back in her Moses basket. She must have been five or six months old.

‘Thank God for that. You weigh a tonne, Molly,’ she told her daughter as she rubbed her back.

I watched Sophie collect a glass of wine for me from a passing tray. I’d been expecting a fragile blonde with cut-glass cheekbones. She was beautifully dressed in a long, dark blue dress, but she looked too robust for a trophy wife, her hair cropped into a short bob. She had the broad-shouldered physique of a serious swimmer, and there must have been a yawning thirty-year gap between her and her husband. She looked surprised when I told her how I’d met him.

‘This can’t be an easy time for you,’ I commented.

She perched on a stool opposite. ‘It’s worse for Max. He worked with Leo since the year dot.’

‘And you knew him socially?’

She nodded. ‘I know everyone at the bank. They have so many lunches and dinners.’

Maybe I imagined it, but I thought she flinched. Her social duties must have been overwhelming, with a new baby to care for. ‘Does Max talk about what’s been happening?’

‘He prefers to play eighteen holes if something’s getting him down.’ Her smile dimmed for a second.

‘Are you a golfer too?’

‘God, no, I’m hopeless,’ she said, laughing. ‘I used to be an interior designer. That’s how I met Max − the charm offensive started when I walked through the door.’

She would have done a roaring trade as a designer, listening politely to her clients, keen not to challenge their taste. But it was harder to understand why she’d settled for someone old enough to be her father. She didn’t seem the type to target someone for their money. Maybe she’d found some good in him that was invisible to the naked eye. We chatted for the next twenty minutes, and it turned out that we had a lot in common. She was a south Londoner too, and she’d lived in a flat a few streets from mine before she got married. I got the impression that she could happily have ignored the party and talked to me for the rest of the evening.

‘Do you have kids?’ Sophie’s hazel eyes fixed on me.

‘Not yet. But one day, maybe.’ I was tempted to admit that procreation wasn’t high on my agenda, given my family’s gene pool, but when I glanced at her again she was on the edge of tears.

‘You should.’ Her lower lip trembled as she spoke. ‘It doesn’t matter how bad things get. They make everything worthwhile.’

She leant over to pick up her daughter, but she’d given me a split-second insight into the state of her marriage, and it made me want to slap Kingsmith’s face. Not that it would have made any difference. Narcissists don’t change. No matter what happens, they’re always sublimely convinced that the universe exists to serve their needs.

I noticed a row of maps hanging in the corner, clipped to a metal wire, like photos hung out to dry. Small yellow islands were scattered on an expanse of turquoise.

‘Are those maps of the Seychelles?’ I asked.

‘The Maldives. We went there on honeymoon. It was unbelievable; we just sunbathed, and sailed from island to island. We didn’t see anyone for weeks.’ Her face relaxed into a smile.

‘Was Max married before?’ I asked.

‘Twice. He says I’m his third time lucky.’ She was still staring at the maps. ‘We swam for hours every day over there. I still try to get to the pool, when Mum can look after Molly. But, to be honest, I haven’t done much since all this began.’

‘At least your mum’s nearby.’

‘Very near,’ she said, nodding at a tall, grey-haired woman who was talking politely to the men by the drinks table. ‘She’s living with us at the moment.’

‘It must be good to have an extra pair of hands,’ I commented.

‘I’d sink without her. I just wish Max could spend more time here. He’s always done crazy hours – I’m working on him to retire, but it’s a hopeless cause.’

I rummaged in my bag for my card, to give her my phone number and address. ‘Give me a call if you fancy a coffee some time.’

‘Or we could go to a pub.’ Sophie’s face lit up, as though it had been months since her last night on the town. She studied the card carefully before slipping it into the pocket of her dress.

Sophie’s mother crossed the room just as I was about to search for Andrew. She told me her name was Louise, and I noticed that she had the same broad shoulders and strong bone structure as her daughter. She gave Sophie a concerned look as she reached out to take Molly.

‘People have been asking for you, darling.’

Sophie seemed reluctant to part with her daughter, but after a moment she hurried away. Her mother was wearing a green linen dress, with no jewellery apart from a small gold crucifix. I guessed that Louise was around sixty, straight-backed and fit-looking, as if she’d enjoyed a lifetime of outdoor pursuits.

‘Would you like to see the garden?’ she asked.

‘I’d love some fresh air.’

‘Could you hold Molly while I open the door?’

The baby’s eyes were closed, and she was a warm, relaxed weight in the crook of my arm. Her dark eyelashes fluttered against her cheek, as if she was in the middle of a dream. I held my breath as I carried her across the lawn to a wooden bench.

‘I’m not used to all this commotion,’ Louise said. ‘I’d just retired to Cornwall when Molly was born.’

‘You must miss the sea.’

She nodded vigorously. ‘I miss the countryside too, but I can’t leave.’

‘You’re staying indefinitely?’

‘Sophie wants me here till the end of the year. She spends too much time on her own.’ A cloud of anger passed across her face.

I was surprised that she let her dislike for her son-in-law surface in front of a complete stranger. Her anger must be bubbling so powerfully, she couldn’t suppress it. And I didn’t blame her. She’d have seen her daughter’s distress every day, while Kingsmith carried on with his business, ignoring his wife’s needs. I chatted with Louise for a while longer, and she told me that she’d bought her cottage in St Ives five years ago, but her husband had died before they could move in. I got the sense that she disliked London intensely, but her sense of duty made it impossible to leave. She gave me the same hesitant smile as her daughter when I finally left her to look for Andrew.

The volume of the music had grown louder, and girls were dancing in the hall, Pimm’s slopping from their glasses onto the parquet floor. Kingsmith was flirting with a well-preserved woman in a plunging red dress, but he turned in my direction when he spotted me.

‘I hope my wife’s been looking after you, Dr Quentin,’ he said.

‘She introduced me to Molly.’

He brushed the comment aside. ‘Working with the police must be tiresome, mustn’t it? They’re a complete waste of time. I’ve had to get a licence so we can use our own security.’