A Killing of Angels (17 page)

Kingsmith was standing uncomfortably close, and I felt like telling him that the police would be more effective if he gave them the information he was hiding. But he’d already changed the topic, and my suspicions were confirmed. The only narrative that interested him was his own. He launched into his life story: four years at Oxford, a decade on Wall Street, then back to the small world of the UK to run the Angel Bank. There was something oddly mesmerising about him, despite his egotism. The colour of his eyes was impossible to judge. They changed from grey to green at five-minute intervals, according to his mood. I was so busy studying them that I didn’t notice Sophie approaching until it was too late. She was watching us and I felt mortified − she must have been sick of women gazing into her husband’s eyes. I took a rapid step backwards and it was a relief when Andrew appeared, with the red-faced man still chattering in his ear.

He exhaled loudly when we got outside. ‘Sorry about that. It would have been rude not to show my face.’

‘Their marriage is rocky, isn’t it?’

‘Really?’ He looked at me in surprise. ‘I hoped Max might finally be settling down.’

‘I doubt it. His wife’s drafted her mum in for support.’

‘Five minutes in a crowded room and you’ve psychoanalysed everyone.’ He grinned at me then glanced at his watch. ‘Have you eaten yet?’

We ended up at Le Pont de la Tour. Piernan rested his feet on the railing, completely at ease, and I decided to tackle him about the butterfly.

‘You shouldn’t have given it to me, you know.’

‘I told you, it didn’t cost a thing.’

‘That’s not the point.’

He turned to study me. ‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who never accepts anything, just in case it turns out to be a bribe.’

I drew in a sharp breath. ‘Something like that, maybe.’

‘I’m not trying to buy you, Alice. You’ll have to trust me on that, won’t you?’

A flash of anger passed across his face. It reminded me of the rage I’d seen in Regent’s Park. He must have learned to conceal his temper years ago, so hardly anyone would know it existed. It was a few minutes before he could talk freely again. He told me about the fundraisers he’d organised: a charity lunch, a dinner and an auction of promises. I couldn’t help wondering what he was avoiding by working so hard. When I told him that the funding for my therapy groups had been extended, he looked pleased but not surprised. Maybe financial miracles happened to him all the time. He poured me another glass of wine after we’d eaten, and something he’d said at the Albion Club came back to me.

‘Tell me what it was like, working at the Angel Bank,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘You’re an enigma, Alice.’

‘I don’t mean to be.’

‘I know. That makes it easier to bear.’ He looked out across the river. ‘I’m just research for you, aren’t I?’

‘Not at all. I just wondered how you found it.’

‘I hated it, to be honest. But I didn’t fall out with anyone − the Angel Bank’s still my biggest donor. The place suited Gresham perfectly. He loved what money could buy, and he had a limitless appetite for pleasure − a true hedonist. Max Kingsmith looks on me as a friend, but he’s got a vicious reputation. He can break anyone who crosses him.’

I wanted to ask more questions, but it was clear Andrew had nothing else to say on the matter, so I stopped probing, and his good humour soon returned. He told a couple of unrepeatable stories about a politician and three female secretaries from his campaign office, which made me laugh so much I could hardly breathe. I asked for the bill and paid my half, then got up to leave. It surprised me that he rose to his feet too. When I looked down, his fingers had closed around my hand. He leant across the table and kissed me hard on the mouth. I was so startled that I kissed him back. Afterwards I stared at him in amazement.

‘Sorry. That was flagrant rule-breaking, wasn’t it?’ He gave me an apologetic grin. ‘Blame it on the lateness of the hour.’

He offered to walk me home, but I made an excuse and hurried back along the boardwalk. It was hard to decide whether the churning feeling in my stomach was excitement or terror. I stopped by Cherry Garden Pier to catch my breath. The tide was going out at an alarming rate, exposing miles of black riverbank, thick with carrier bags and Styrofoam cups. The river was a useless hiding place. Everything the city abandoned came back to haunt it on the next tide.

22

By the next morning I was headline news. I stopped to buy a paper at the newsagent in Shad Thames and leafed through the pages of the
Express.
The journalists were still having a field day at Nicole Morgan’s expense. A photographer had caught her in hospital, looking frail, still wreathed in bandages. Dean Simon’s story about me was printed on page twelve. ALICE IN MURDERLAND was the best headline he could come up with, and the photo showed me hiding behind my sunglasses, refusing to smile. He’d dredged up every detail of the Crossbones case, with photos of all the victims, guaranteed to make their families grieve all over again. But the thing that made me angriest was his reference to Will. My eyes dropped to the story’s last sentence: ‘Given that mental illness runs in Dr Alice Quentin’s family, is she the right psychologist to help the Met track down the Angel Killer?’ It was lucky for Simons that he wasn’t standing next to me: the urge to punch his lights out would have been overpowering.

A young black man in an ill-fitting suit was standing by the entrance doors when I got to work. He walked up and introduced himself, and I didn’t stop to question how he knew me. Sam Adebayo looked too young to be the deputy manager at the YMCA, but the job must have been taking its toll, because his hair was turning pure white at the temples, even though his face was unlined. We found a seat in the gardens, surrounded by a wilderness of parched flowerbeds. Adebayo started talking as soon as we sat down. He seemed relieved to get his concerns about Darren off his chest.

‘He was keeping out of trouble, more or less. Then the wheels came off the bus when he lost his job. The routine was his lifeline. We couldn’t get through to him after that. The other guys complained about him talking all night, keeping them awake. Maybe that’s why he left.’

‘He doesn’t stay with you any more?’

Adebayo shook his head regretfully. ‘But that’s not the reason why I’m here. Darren’s got a photo of you on his phone, that’s how I recognised you.’ His words tumbled out in a rush. ‘He’s got this thing about protecting people. He liked this girl who worked on our reception desk, but she couldn’t handle it. She resigned after a few months.’

My brain was scrambling to remember the information from Darren’s file. The only thing I could recall was that he’d gone to jail for attacking a man who’d raped a friend of his. Adebayo’s face was still tense with concern.

‘Can you tell me why you’re so worried about Darren?’

‘This is a big city, Dr Quentin.’ His eyes lingered on my face. ‘He’s a genuine lost soul.’

‘I think he’ll contact you again. Could you call me, next time you see him?’

Adebayo took my card then said goodbye. He covered the ground slowly when he walked away. Either he was a young man carrying a heavy burden, or he was much older than he appeared.

I spent the rest of the morning keeping busy. There was no point in worrying about Darren until Hari had finished his assessment. I contacted the estates office and rebooked the therapy room for my anger management classes, and at three o’clock one of the receptionists called to say that a man was waiting for me in the foyer. I thought Sam Adebayo might have returned, to share some more of his concerns, but Burns was waiting by the revolving doors with an unusually solemn look on his face.

‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘Remember our mate from Wormwood Scrubs? He was found dead in his cell this morning.’

I stared back at him, waiting for him to explain.

‘His wife was divorcing him,’ he said. ‘His body’s in the mortuary, but she’s not prepared to identify him.’

Burns’s skin had developed a greyish tinge. It was clear that he wanted me along for moral support, and I didn’t have the heart to refuse. If no one from work was prepared to accompany him, his isolation was even worse than I’d realised.

‘The perfect end to a summer afternoon,’ I sighed.

Normally I avoided going anywhere near the mortuary because it gives me the creeps. There’s a secretive look about its shuttered windows, permanently closed to protect the dead from prying eyes. Sometimes there are a dozen bodies waiting for burial, and more in the cold room. Corpses wait in the deep freeze for years if the cause of death is unknown. Burns must have requested that Fairfield’s body be kept there, because it was close to Pancras Way, and it would be easier for him to attend the post mortem. I kept thinking about Fairfield. Maybe his wife’s desertion was the reason why he’d relied so heavily on drugs. They must have eased the pain of watching everything slip through his grasp.

‘Come on then,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it, if we have to.’

The chill hit me as soon as we stepped inside. The temperature plummeted from blazing heat to a cool twenty-two degrees, and goose-bumps prickled across the back of my neck. A supervisor admitted us to room one, then beat a hasty retreat. I didn’t blame him. It was hard to see why anyone would choose to work there, surrounded by cadavers. But at least you’d be your own boss; no one to complain if you belted out Nirvana all afternoon. I studied names listed on the wall then pulled out the metal drawer. A blast of freezing air hit my face and Burns stared down at the grey body-bag.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

I watched him tug the zip open, but I wasn’t prepared for the look on Fairfield’s face. His bulging eyes stared straight up at me, the whites clotted with broken capillaries. None of the prison guards had shown enough decency to close them for him. His skin was pale green under the strip-lights, and trails of saliva had dried on his cheeks. He must have been frothing at the mouth when he died. I peered down to take a better look, and inhaled a sharp reek of formaldehyde. I glanced across at Burns, in time to see him falter. There was a loud thud as he hit the ground. By the time I reached him, he was doing his best to sit up.

‘Stay where you are for a minute,’ I told him.

Burns had lost his glasses when he fell, and he looked like a younger brother of himself a year ago, worn out by the fight to hold his world together. I almost touched his face to comfort him, but he was already coming round. By now he was struggling to sit up and I helped him back onto his feet.

‘When’s the last time you ate something?’ I asked.

‘Fuck knows,’ he mumbled. ‘Last night probably.’

‘Do you want to sit outside?’

The pugnacious look was already back on his face. ‘Don’t be daft. Let’s get it over with.’

We stood side by side, and I reached down and closed Fairfield’s eyes. His skin felt spongy and unnaturally cold under the palm of my hand. There were no wounds on his body, but his hands and mouth were a bluish white, his chest and abdomen covered in a network of scratches.

‘How do you think he died?’ Burns asked.

‘I’m a shrink, not a pathologist, Don.’ I looked down at Fairfield again and tried to remember the facts from my time at medical school. ‘Maybe he swallowed poison. That would explain the foaming mouth. A big dose of toxins makes your skin itch, and it can stop your heart.’

‘Poor sod,’ he replied. ‘What a way to go.’

‘Don’t quote me, Don. You need to wait for the PM.’

The colour returned to Burns’s cheeks when we got outside, and by the time he’d eaten a sandwich in the canteen, he could give me more details.

‘An envelope arrived at the Scrubs today, with feathers and an angel inside, bringing tidings of comfort and joy.’

He passed me a postcard wrapped in clear plastic. It was another beautiful Renaissance portrait. The killer had reverted to the same signature he’d used with Gresham and Wilcox. The archangel looked like a superhero, tall and muscular, dressed in a flowing blue robe. A small boy gazed up at him adoringly, as though he’d just been rescued. Someone had drawn a red vertical line through the angel’s throat, tracking the poison’s journey from his mouth to his gullet. The information printed on the back told me it was Perugino’s painting of
The Archangel Raphael with Tobias,
painted around 1500.

‘That’s the clearest message yet, isn’t it? He’s not claiming to be an angel, he’s showing us how he punishes sinners.’

Burns’s expression was even bleaker when I handed it back to him.

‘Something else is bothering you, isn’t it?’ I asked.

His gaze stayed fixed on the ground. ‘Taylor’s told Brotherton I’m losing my grip.’

‘Like he could do better. What does she say?’

‘Nothing, so far. She’s biding her time.’

I parted company with Burns by the hospital gates, and watched him slope off. It was hard to guess how he’d spend his evening. Maybe he’d watch Scotland play the All Blacks, cheering for his home team, but I knew he was more likely to carry on working, forgetting to eat a proper meal.

I left work early to go to the meeting Yvette had arranged. At least it helped me forget about Lawrence Fairfield, lying in his freezer compartment in the mortuary. He must have been telling the truth about carrying a secret the Angel Killer wouldn’t let him reveal. I hurried north, against the flow of commuters, escaping from brokers’ offices. The heat was even more intense than before. It had been gathering strength all day, soaking into every brick and paving slab.

Crossing London Bridge was like entering another world − the architecture grew more grandiose, and the brass door surrounds looked like they’d been hammered out of gold. I checked the address Yvette had given me. The bank was like a smaller version of the Lloyd’s building. Ventilation ducts ran across the walls, and a glass lift compartment dangled from the roof at a crazy angle. Huge screens in the foyer were reporting trade on the Nikkei, Dow Jones and FTSE; a row of clocks announced the time in Tokyo and New York. When I asked for Vanessa Harris, the receptionist gave me directions to her office. I called the lift, but it plummeted to the ground at such supersonic speed that I opted for the stairs instead.