A Killing of Angels (2 page)

‘Tell me about it.’ He pinched the baggy material of his jacket. ‘This is my third new suit.’

It had been over a year since I’d worked as a consultant on the Crossbones case, helping him track down the serial killer who’d been targeting women in Southwark. Since then he’d shrunk from the kind of huge man that children jeer at in the street to a couple of stone overweight, and his terrible inch-thick glasses had been replaced by the thin-framed kind that journalists wear. Even his smile looked different. He rubbed a hand through his dark hair, embarrassed about being scrutinised.

‘How much have you lost, Don?’

His shoulders jerked awkwardly. ‘Five stone or thereabouts.’

I let out a gasp of amazement, my ribs protesting at the sudden movement. I kept trying to put my finger on something else that had changed − it looked like his confidence had deserted him.

‘What have you been up to?’ he asked.

‘Research, mainly.’ I pointed at my new book on the shelf, and he helped himself to a copy.

‘
Treatment Options for Violent Personality Disorders,
by Dr Alice Quentin. Sounds like perfect bedtime reading.’

Burns’s accent was exactly as I remembered it, still veering back and forth between Bermondsey and the Scottish lowlands, like the needle in a broken compass.

‘But you’re not here to borrow a book, are you?’

He turned to face me. ‘I need your help. You’re the only shrink I can work with, but I know the last time was tough.’

Tough was an understatement. I’d been in hospital for two weeks, recovering from a fractured skull. Since then I’d avoided working for the Met, just doing a handful of mental health assessments at police stations, and prison visits to diagnose suicide risks.

‘What’s happened this time, Don?’

‘A bloke went under a train at King’s Cross on Friday. Leo Gresham, a big investment guru in the City. Can I show you the CCTV?’

He pushed his memory stick into my computer, and grainy black-and-white images trailed across the screen in slow motion. I had a bird’s-eye view of a packed underground platform, more commuters piling in every second, pressing forwards as the train arrived. Then a man pitched face first onto the tracks, arms flailing. The last thing I saw was the pale sole of one of his shoes.

‘My God.’ I clapped my hand over my mouth.

It was impossible to tell who’d pushed him, but a man in a dark top was standing behind Gresham, his hood low over his face. When I looked again, he’d already vanished.

‘It’s the driver I pity.’ Burns’s sharp eyes observed me. ‘I wouldn’t fancy his nightmares.’

In spite of myself, I felt involved. You can’t watch someone die like that without wanting to snatch them back onto the platform.

‘Gresham lost an arm and both legs, he kept screaming that he was pushed,’ Burns said. ‘He survived for hours in intensive care.’

‘I still don’t see where I come in.’

‘I want you to work with me. All the evidence is going into HOLMES 2, in case he does it again.’

‘Aren’t you jumping the gun? It’s probably payback for a dodgy business deal, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not taking any chances. Gresham worked for a bank called the Angel Group. We found this in his pocket.’

Burns handed me a postcard, wrapped in a clear plastic bag. It was a close-up of an angel’s face. Apart from a bloodstain smeared across her forehead, her features were perfect. Her pale eyes gazed at me calmly, as though she knew I could still be saved. The writing on the back explained that she was
An Angel in Green with a Vielle,
painted by a pupil of Leonardo da Vinci’s, hanging in the National Gallery. My curiosity was growing − the killer would make a fascinating case study. I could imagine him browsing through the museum’s gift shop for the loveliest image he could find.

‘One calling card doesn’t make a serial killer.’ I passed it back to him.

‘We found white feathers in his pocket too. The lab’s checking them out.’

The strength of Burns’s gaze was unsettling. It didn’t let me forget all the times when he’d visited me in hospital. I used to wake in a panic and see him there in the half-dark, patient as a guard dog. He’d sit for hours by the window in my room without moving a muscle. It was hard to guess what had happened to him since then. His expression was so tense it looked as though he was hanging onto his nerve by a fingernail.

‘Tell me the real reason you’re here,’ I said.

He shifted in his seat. ‘They demoted me after Crossbones − the top brass said I mishandled the investigation. I got transferred to King’s Cross two months ago. The team don’t trust me, and the boss lady’s watching me like a hawk.’ He leant forwards, palms together like he was offering up a prayer. ‘I can’t do this without you, Alice.’

It didn’t take a mind-reader to realise that emotional blackmail meant Burns was down to his last chance. One touch would have made him resonate like a violin string.

‘Would I have access to all the evidence files?’ I asked.

He nodded earnestly. This man was a far cry from the old Burns, working too hard but so disorganised that he forgot to pass on vital information. He seemed desperate to turn over a new leaf, and his gaze was starting to feel intrusive. It reminded me of Darren’s stare, before he threw his punch.

‘I’ll let you know tomorrow, Don.’ I glanced at the papers on my desk. ‘I need to talk to my boss.’

Burns disappeared into the corridor and suddenly the heat felt unbearable. Even with the door wide open, it was difficult to breathe.

2

I inspected the bruise in the hall mirror. It had changed colour overnight to a vivid purple, six inches in diameter, and it hurt every time I moved. I pressed the wound gingerly. At least the rib felt intact − cracked rather than broken, so it would mend in days instead of weeks. The mark on my shoulder was less spectacular, a dull midnight blue. I emptied some ice cubes into a freezer bag then lay down on the sofa. The cold started to numb the pain immediately, and I concentrated on small mercies − if Darren had meant business, he could have beaten me to a pulp. With luck and a handful of painkillers, I’d get through the day.

A text arrived from Hari while the ice was taking effect, advising me to stay at home. I deleted the message immediately and forced myself to sit up. Hari had been a friend for years, but he still didn’t understand that sick days weren’t in my repertoire. I’d rather drag myself across hot coals than languish on the sofa, watching TV. I went into the kitchen and dumped the ice cubes in the sink. Through the wall I could hear my brother shuffling around in his room. Will was another good reason to haul myself into work. I couldn’t face the morose silence while he stared out of the window. Although he’d never blamed me, his injuries were my fault. If I’d been smarter I could have prevented him falling from a third-floor window, the bones in his legs shattering as he hit the concrete. It wasn’t surprising that the trauma had made his drug habit even harder to control.

A huddle of patients was waiting outside the therapy room when I got to work. Some came from the Probation Service, and others had been referred by their GPs, but everyone was there for the same reason. They were struggling to keep a lid on their rage. When I broke the news that there would be no more sessions, their reactions varied from outrage to resignation. But it was the rest of the week’s groups that worried me more. They’d already been cancelled − I wouldn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.

I took a walk round the quadrangle. Exercise has always been my preferred method for keeping rage under control. I hoped the stroll would clear my head, but the heat was already punishing. The hospital gardeners seemed to be sticking to the hosepipe ban, because the roses were struggling to bloom, and the lawn was a parched brown, aching for a sign of rain.

When I got back to the clinic I asked one of the receptionists if Darren had kept his appointment.

‘He was a no-show, I’m afraid.’ She looked apologetic, as if she was the reason he’d stayed away.

I was incandescent as I walked back to my office, ribs protesting with each step. Knowing Darren hadn’t bothered to pitch up made me regret my decision. I should have let the police prosecute him for assault. It was a struggle to calm down in time for my next patient.

By six o’clock the temperature was tropical, my cheese plant withering before my eyes. Keeping the fan on full blast had no effect, apart from circulating stale air from one side of the room to the other. Normally I’d have pulled on my trainers and sprinted down the fire escape, but today a slow walk was the best I could hope for. The hospital foyer was almost empty, apart from a few visitors arriving with flowers and magazines, the last day-shift nurses racing for the Tube. Commuters were flooding out of London Bridge station, shedding clothes as they walked − jackets, ties, cardigans, anything they could get away with. I had no choice but to limp behind them, a spasm of pain jolting through my chest with each footfall. By the time I reached the river I had to sit down. A cluster of tourists was blocking the walkway, taking snaps of each other, silhouetted against Tower Bridge. The last quarter of a mile took forever, dragging myself across the boardwalk at New Concordia Wharf. When I got to Providence Square I was ready to lie down in a darkened room.

A familiar sound greeted me from the hallway of my flat, a voice talking at full volume. It hadn’t changed since we were at school, still husky and excitable, like she’d been gargling bourbon all afternoon.

‘Al!’ Lola flung her arms around me, then pulled a face. ‘God, you look terrible. Are you okay?’

I kissed her then started to explain, but as usual Lola was too busy to listen. She was racing round the kitchen like a whirlwind, a clot of cheese sauce trapped in her long auburn curls, and she’d worked her usual magic on my brother. For once he was wearing clean clothes − a blue linen shirt and the new jeans I’d bought for him. She’d even made him wash his hair. I studied him from the corner of my eye. He was smiling at her, and his walking stick had been forgotten, propped against the wall. I made a mental note to buy Lola a bunch of flowers. She always brought gifts to keep Will entertained: a DVD of
The Motorcycle Diaries,
ingredients for pizza, even a battered Monopoly set she’d found in an Oxfam shop. I left them to it and ran myself a bath. It was a relief to slip into the warm water, rinsing the last few days from my skin. After twenty minutes the image of Darren lunging at me had almost soaked away. I rubbed arnica cream into my bruises then headed back to the kitchen.

Lola was scrubbing the sauce from her hair with a piece of paper towel. ‘Shit, Will. We forgot the garlic bread. Whack it in the microwave, my friend.’

The kitchen looked like a bombsite, the floor littered with grated cheese, but it was impossible to resent Lola. There was no denting her
joie de vivre.

‘
Voilà!
’ She pulled the pasta dish out of the oven in triumph.

Will was enjoying every moment. Normally he skulked in his room, refusing everything except sandwiches, but tonight he was almost his old self. It was easy to remember the way he used to be, before the drugs took hold. His whole body was angled towards Lola while she spooned pasta onto his plate.

‘How’s the show going?’ he asked.

Lola’s green eyes widened. ‘The high kicks are killing me, and I’m the oldest girl in the chorus line.’ She glared down at her mile-long legs as if they’d failed her in some way.

‘Have you got a back-up plan?’ I asked.

‘Sort of. I’m working with a group of disabled kids in Hammersmith, helping them put on a talent contest. You should come over on Saturday, Al. You’d love it.’ Lola leant across and stole some bread from my brother’s plate. ‘What have you been up to, Will?’

‘Nothing, really. But I’ve joined the Cloud Appreciation Society. It’s this website about different types of cloud.’ His pale eyes flickered. ‘And the thing is, we should study them more, because of the messages.’

‘How do you mean?’ Lola looked mystified.

‘Each cloud holds a message. If you watch it long enough, you can decode it.’ His expression was so earnest, he looked like a scientist reporting a key breakthrough.

‘I’ll have to give that a go.’ Lola beamed at him, then helped herself to the rest of his garlic bread.

After dinner, Will returned to the sofa, and left us to the washing up.

‘Christ,’ she whispered. ‘He’s still got some pretty random ideas, hasn’t he?’

‘It’s better than a few months ago. At least he can string sentences together.’

‘I suppose so.’ She stared at the bowl she was drying.

‘You did well, Lo. He loves seeing you. That’s the first proper conversation he’s had in weeks.’

‘And how are you doing?’ She peered at me. ‘Still working too hard, tragically celibate, and running marathons in your spare time?’

‘Don’t knock it. Soon I’ll have legs like you.’

‘What about blokes? Any hot dates lined up?’

‘I told you, I’m taking a year off. My door is closed.’

She clapped her hands together. ‘It’s the summer, for fuck’s sake. You’re meant to be having fun.’

We’d reacted in opposite ways since the Crossbones case. Lola’s injuries had been as bad as mine, but she’d never shown a moment’s self-pity. She just clutched my hand when I tried to apologise, and told me to focus on the future. As soon as we were discharged from hospital, her pleasure principle went into overdrive. She dated as many men as possible, remaining a firm believer that love conquers all, despite getting her heart broken countless times. Sometimes I worried about the slump that would hit her if she ever slowed down. She accepted a hundred party invitations, while I stayed at home, writing books. There was no point in telling her that all I wanted was equilibrium. My nightmares came less often, but the idea of trusting someone was out of the question.

‘This is a smokescreen, Lo. You’ve met someone, haven’t you?’

Her grin widened. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

Lola spent the next fifteen minutes nagging me to search for the ideal man, but I was so grateful for her help that I kept my mouth shut, and nodded at appropriate intervals. Afterwards she curled up beside Will on the sofa, giggling helplessly at a repeat of
Rev.