A Killing of Angels (21 page)

‘It’s in the Ardenne,’ she commented. ‘Nothing to do there except swim in the river, and eat the best food on earth.’

My image of Brotherton fell apart. Maybe her persona changed when she crossed the Channel, her suitcase crammed with gaudy sundresses. Her guard slipped back into place as soon as the investigation team arrived. She became chilly and remote again in the blink of an eye, and the atmosphere in the room was even worse than our last meeting, the air loaded with frustration and pent-up adrenaline. Taylor was the only person smiling as Pete Hancock described his progress on Fairfield’s crime scene. Every staff member and prisoner on B Wing at the Scrubs had been DNA-screened and fingerprinted, and a guard suspended for supplying drugs. He was refusing to say where he’d bought the poison that killed Fairfield. The batch of tablets had looked perfectly innocent. Fairfield probably thought he was taking Xanax to help him sleep when he swallowed his lethal dose of rat poison.

Burns was fighting hard to disprove Taylor’s claim that he was a liability. He handed out an overview report of events since Gresham died, with a summary of evidence for Wilcox’s murder, the attack on Nicole Morgan, and Fairfield’s poisoning. His reporting style was still terse and monosyllabic, as if the idea of lapsing into bullshit terrified him, but Brotherton nodded her approval. She drew the line at congratulating him, but at least she looked impressed. Steve Taylor seemed desperate to get in on the act. His bald head gleamed under the overhead light as he described his immaculate command of the incident room.

The team seemed to be listening carefully when I ran through my profile, or maybe they were just too tired to argue. No one interrupted when I explained that the hallmarks from the three killings were still consistent with a category A psychopath, acting out a vendetta against the Angel Bank for personal or religious reasons. Burns had spent days following my advice, getting his officers to trawl through medical records for patients with a history of mental illness and violence, but progress had been slow. So far none of the interviewees was a credible suspect. I was still convinced that the assault on Nicole Morgan had been carried out by someone who knew her, a former colleague or an obsessive fan, because the MO and signature were significantly different from the three fatal attacks. When I mentioned the idea of a copycat again, Taylor muttered something inaudible. Clearly he was still convinced that a single culprit had carried out all the attacks.

I produced the angel card from my bag and passed it to the exhibits officer. ‘This came to my work address on Friday.’

‘Snap.’ Burns blinked at me in surprise.

He put another card down on the table, and on an ordinary day I’d have commented on the beauty of the painting. It was a Pre-Raphaelite archangel, with a lily in his hand. I remembered it from my talk with Dr Gillick.

‘You’re at the top of his pile,’ I said. ‘He’s given you the most powerful archangel ever. It’s Gabriel, telling Mary about the immaculate conception.’

‘And that’s an honour, is it?’

Brotherton looked concerned. ‘We’ve had dozens of crank calls. It’s probably some freak with time on his hands, but we need to be vigilant.’

She kept Burns and Taylor back after everyone else had left the room.

‘A quick reminder, gentlemen. I’m monitoring your work very closely. I’ll be reviewing your roles after this investigation, so keep your policy and action books up to date. I don’t want to hear about any more cock-ups.’

I felt like telling her to change her management style. Threats might be helping her let off steam, but they increased the rivalry between Burns and his deputy, when they should have been working like a well-oiled machine. Taylor still managed to give her an adoring smile before strutting away.

Burns looked unimpressed when I confessed to visiting Poppy Beckwith. He reminded me in no uncertain terms to get his permission before acting alone.

‘I think she needs protection, Don. She’s inside the danger zone, isn’t she?’

He shook his head firmly. ‘Poppy’s never worked for the bank. He doesn’t care about anyone else, and she’s got her bodyguard, hasn’t she?’

Burns handed over Poppy’s file reluctantly. It felt substantial as I stuffed it into my briefcase on the way out − she must have been in trouble since the day she was born.

*   *   *

My clinical supervisor, Sandra, came over from the Maudsley at ten o’clock. Our supervision sessions had fallen into a pattern over the past five years. She was one of the few people I relied on for unbiased professional advice, and I’d grown used to her sympathetic smile. Her white hair had been cut so short that she looked like Judi Dench’s doppelgänger.

‘You look tired, Alice. How are you juggling your caseload with all that forensic work?’

I didn’t want to admit that my date with Andrew had kept me awake, fear and elation flooding my system. ‘I’m spinning a few too many plates, that’s all.’

‘What would happen if you let one drop?’ she asked.

I pictured myself in the middle of a room, the floor thick with broken crockery. I took a deep breath but didn’t reply.

‘Listen, Alice. I’ve seen people burn out, and it’s not pretty. Keep doing everything for everyone, and they’ll just keep piling more onto you.’ Sandra touched my wrist. Her touch was gentle but firm, as though she was taking my pulse. ‘How are things at home?’

‘Better, thanks.’ It crossed my mind to confess that I was still adjusting to the space Will had left, getting used to the echoes.

‘Did you hear I’m taking early retirement? They finally agreed to let me go.’

It felt like a body blow, but I managed to congratulate her, and she told me about the Indonesian cruise she was planning. It was difficult to imagine someone else taking her place.

The rest of the day was a blur of heat and conversations. Patients arrived, unburdened themselves, and left, until I felt like a collection service, waiting for them to hand over their parcels full of woes. I made a conscious effort to leave their stories behind when I set off for my run. I decided to aim for pace instead of distance. If people could run marathons in the tropics, I could manage a few miles at top speed, even in forty-degree heat. Every muscle was screaming for a reprieve by the time I reached Cherry Garden Pier, the sun scorching my face. I stretched my arms over my head and gasped in some oxygen. Thank God I was doing the marathon, not a hundred-metre sprint. The training would have killed me. I stood by the railing and watched a man fishing from the end of the pier, line bobbing with the tide. I couldn’t believe anything edible survived in such murky water. If he had any sense he’d buy his fish from Sainsbury’s like the rest of us.

I was so desperate to dive into the shower when I got back to my building that I didn’t notice anything unusual as I scrabbled for my keys. It was only when I heard footsteps that I turned around. Someone was standing there, almost hidden by shadows. I flicked on the landing light and Andrew stepped towards me. There were dark hollows under his cheekbones, and I wondered if he’d been sleepless too. It was clear that something was bothering him. I smiled at him and unlocked the door.

‘Come in while I grab a shower.’

I left him in the living room, inspecting my bookshelves. I was towelling myself dry before I realised that I hadn’t told him my address. I pulled on a blue dress and found him lounging on the sofa, flicking through a walkers’ guide to Nepal.

‘You’ve got fifty-one travel books, Alice.’

‘It’s wish fulfilment − I never go anywhere.’ I passed him a glass of orange juice. ‘How did you get my address?’

‘Take a guess. Which one of your friends can’t keep secrets?’

I rolled my eyes. If Attila the Hun had asked for my number, Lola would have passed it straight over.

Andrew carried on watching me expectantly. ‘The thing is, it’s my sister’s birthday tomorrow.’

‘And you’re going to Paris.’

‘Just for a few days. I was hoping you’d come with us.’

I had to explain that my work couldn’t be cancelled. If Brotherton knew I’d absconded to Paris, she’d have me struck off instantly. Andrew looked crestfallen, and when I met his eye, I realised I’d stopped seeing him clearly. All I could see was his irrepressible smile. It took an act of will to stop myself touching him.

‘Tell me about your last relationship, Alice,’ he said quietly.

A band of panic tightened round my chest. ‘Why are you asking?’

‘You should get it out of your system. Go on, give me the whole story.’ His hand was resting on my shoulder.

I told him as much as I could and, to his credit, he didn’t flinch, even when I told him about the women who’d died. The violence didn’t seem to affect him. He listened without interrupting, as if everything I said was easy to believe. And when I finished he didn’t break eye contact. He just reached out and pushed a strand of hair back from my forehead. The gesture almost undid me. It was so gentle that I hardly felt his fingers glance across my skin, and when I leant over to kiss him, I meant business − I’d forgotten we were supposed to be taking it slow. Andrew gave an agonised laugh when the phone rang in the hall.

Burns was talking so fast it sounded like he’d swallowed a mouthful of helium.

‘I can’t hear you. Slow down, Don.’

‘We’ve caught him, Alice. He’s here at the station.’

‘You’ve got immaculate timing.’

‘Unbelievable, isn’t it?’ Voices were rising to a shout, as if he was standing in a jubilant football crowd. ‘I can’t talk now. Just get down here, quick as you can.’

A look of disbelief passed across Andrew’s face after I told him the killer had been arrested. He stumbled to his feet blindly when I asked for a lift to the station.

28

‘This is my life story,’ Andrew said, as we left the flat. ‘The girl who’s seducing me always runs for the hills.’

‘Not by choice. I’d rather switch off the phone and keep you here.’

It was after midnight by the time we got into his car. I was too distracted to notice what make it was, but it felt luxurious. It smelled of brand-new leather and air freshener, as though he’d just collected it from the showroom. Andrew told me about his trip to Paris as he drove. He and Eleanor were leaving first thing next morning on the Eurostar and she was overflowing with excitement. If the trip went well, he’d take her on a longer break later in the year.

‘When are you coming back?’ I asked as he pulled up outside the station.

‘Wednesday night. I’ll see you then, won’t I?’

‘If you’re lucky.’ I gave him a hasty kiss then ran up the steps.

For once there were no journalists in sight. The incident room was pulsing with energy, and a young policewoman barged past, holding her coffee aloft, like she was carrying the Olympic flame. Clusters of detectives were hanging around in groups, a mixture of relief and exhaustion on their faces. Burns must have been high on adrenaline, because he looked fresh as a daisy, even though he’d been at the station for sixteen hours. He led me towards the interview rooms. When he told me the name of the man they were holding, I came to a halt in the middle of the corridor.

‘Liam Morgan’s been arrested for the angel killings?’

‘Not yet, but he’s got himself a lawyer.’

I stared back at him. All I could remember was the way Morgan had served tea to his wife, gently setting the cup in front of her, keeping his overdeveloped muscles firmly under control.

‘You’ve got enough evidence to prove he attacked Nicole, then pitched up at the hospital to nurse her half an hour later?’

‘Not yet. That’s why you’re here.’ Burns gave a tense smile.

‘He hasn’t opened his mouth − I need you to do an assessment.’

At least I was back on familiar territory. I’d carried out dozens of psychological assessments at police stations and prisons. Sometimes the reports were used in court, or they helped prison governors decide whether an offender should be transferred. Often the suspects hardly spoke during the interviews I witnessed, falling back on repetitions of ‘no comment’. But physiology can be revealing. Someone’s state of mind is easy to measure through body language, eye contact and avoidance methods. I pulled out a copy of the assessment pro forma and made myself comfortable in the observation room. It interested me that Taylor was conducting the interview − Burns must believe he would learn more from watching Morgan than asking the questions himself.

Taylor had chosen the worst interview room the station had to offer. It looked like a Honduran interrogation cell − windowless, with a neon strip-light bringing the temperature to boiling point. I half expected to hear the screams of torture victims being water-boarded when Liam Morgan was finally led in. He was wearing a tight shirt and I noticed again how exaggerated his physique was − the weightlifter’s classic inverted triangle, with bulky shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. He looked as if he’d spent years honing every muscle. His eyes looked glazed, and when he lowered himself onto one of the plastic chairs, I could see the outlines of his military tattoos. For the first time it struck me that he was a trained killer – he must have witnessed hundreds of deaths during his tours overseas. His solicitor sat down beside him, an elderly man with his briefcase balanced on his knee.

Taylor flicked a switch on the digital recorder and stated the date and time of the interview. He looked as tense as his suspect. No doubt he was desperate to run into Brotherton’s office to brag that he’d got a result.

‘Here we go again, Liam.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh.

Morgan was too busy studying the surface of the table to reply. It showed a legacy of neglect: rings from a hundred coffee mugs, and scorch marks from the days when suspects were allowed to smoke.

‘Your housekeeper says you went out to the annexe in your garden to use the gym, the night Nicole got hurt. But you could have gone anywhere, couldn’t you? No one would have heard the car.’ Taylor’s voice sounded cold and insistent.

‘We’ve got reason to believe you attacked your wife, Liam. You must want to deny that, don’t you?’

Morgan’s face looked like it had been chipped from granite. He was still staring at the table intently, burning a hole in the Formica with the power of his gaze. After a few minutes his solicitor turned to Taylor.