A Killing of Angels (22 page)

‘My client’s dealing with the shock of his arrest. As far as I can see, you’ve got no evidence for detaining him.’ The man’s expression was a mixture of outrage and disbelief.

Taylor ignored him and carried on, his voice rising to a nasal whine. ‘Your housekeeper’s concerned, Liam. She says you’ve been acting strangely, talking to yourself and breaking down in front of your kids. And your mountain bike’s gone missing. That’s a coincidence, isn’t it? The man who attacked Nicole was riding a bike.’

Morgan’s shoulders twitched violently.

‘And if you’re the kind of bloke who could cut your wife’s face to ribbons, chances are you killed them all.’

‘You can’t talk to my client like that,’ the solicitor snapped. ‘It’s harassment.’

‘Ten of our boys are combing your house right now, turning over every knife and fork.’ Taylor was grinning, his skull glistening with sweat. ‘It’s best you tell us now, isn’t it? Juries love a sob story; you can say it was post-traumatic stress.’

Liam’s calm was fraying at the edges. His legs bounced under the table while he struggled to keep his mouth shut.

‘It’s your kids I feel sorry for.’ Taylor leant closer. ‘This’ll take a lot of explaining, won’t it?’

Morgan’s face was turning purple. He must have been fantasising about putting his combat skills into practice, and his solicitor looked thunderous. The old man was murmuring threats about reporting Taylor to the authorities when Burns and I escaped to his office. I talked him through my assessment form. Morgan’s score was almost off the scale. He was registering high numbers for agitation, stress and avoidance, but it still didn’t amount to a confession.

‘Going on his body language, he attacked her, but it hasn’t registered yet,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he had anything to do with the others. Some crisis with his wife triggered the attack.’

Burns shook his head. ‘We have to look at him for all the attacks. It’s Nicole who’s suffering. She’s got another operation tomorrow − the press are round the Cromwell like flies.’

By the time we got back to the incident room, Taylor was holding court, flirting with one of the telephonists. No doubt he was explaining that he alone was capable of bringing the Angel Killer down. He was too busy staring into the depths of the young woman’s cleavage to give Burns his usual look of contempt. It occurred to me that he must genuinely believe he was a ladies’ man − that explained his slipknot tie, the aftershave and snug trousers. They were the tools he used to increase his masculine charm.

‘What do you know about Morgan’s military record?’ I asked Burns.

‘Ten years in the Royal Yorkshires. The bloke’s a decorated war hero. He got a gong for carrying an injured mate across a minefield in Afghanistan. He’s been out six years.’

‘And he’s still brutalised.’

He massaged the back of his neck. ‘Liam’s been with Nicole ever since the attack. He hasn’t left her side.’

‘That’s not unusual. Last year an ex-squaddy in Birmingham shot his wife in the back, then drove her to the nearest hospital. He was inconsolable.’

‘But it doesn’t explain why he killed the other three, does it?’

‘That’s because he didn’t. I’m sure this is domestic.’

His expression was neutral. Taylor might be convinced that the hunt was over, but Burns seemed to be struggling to make up his mind.

As the squad car drove me home, my mind kept drifting back to Liam Morgan. Part of me wanted to believe that the investigation had ended successfully. But Liam was a million miles from the killer I’d profiled. I’d been certain he was a graduate, with a love of culture and religious interests. And why would Morgan kill so many people? Maybe his wife’s banking friends had snubbed him at too many dinners, or being her slave had finally unmanned him − his rage spreading to every corner of her exclusive world. I gazed out of the window at rows of unlit houses. Something about the theory struck me as wrong. Husbands attacked wives for all sorts of reasons: lying, infidelity, disappointed dreams. But it was hard to see why he’d kill three of her colleagues. Whatever he’d done, I didn’t envy him. Taylor would dream up new ways to fracture his ego overnight, then he’d be dragged back into the interview room. Voices would keep hammering at him, until the cracks began to show.

29

I ate the world’s unhealthiest breakfast the next morning: a huge fry-up, followed by a banana to salve my conscience. The cashier at Brown’s beamed as she passed me a complimentary copy of the
Sun,
but the headline spoiled my appetite. ANGEL KILLER’S REIGN OF TERROR! I dropped the paper back onto the table, and wondered how Liam Morgan had spent the night. Taylor was probably still shining a searchlight into his eyes. The police hadn’t released details of his arrest yet, in case it added to the feeding frenzy around Nicole. I watched the businessmen racing along the riverside, dressed for another day of sub-Saharan heat. By now Andrew and his sister would be halfway to Paris. I felt like chucking my briefcase in the river and jumping on the next train.

The manila folder in front of me was covered in greasy fingerprints – dozens of coppers must have thumbed through it over the years. Poppy Beckwith’s file made me blink rapidly. Her father was a viscount, living in a stately pile in the Cotswolds. When her parents divorced she was exiled to boarding school. An incident involving a Bunsen burner, petrol and minor damage to the science block got her expelled at sixteen. Her early twenties were a nightmare − pills, booze, soliciting in public toilets and a ten-month stretch in Holloway. It was miraculous that Beckwith had fought her way back to the top of the pile, with a flat in Knightsbridge and a list of millionaire clients.

Her perfect face floated in front of me. The idea that the killer was connected to her was still refusing to go away, even though Burns didn’t agree. The killer could be one of her clients, just like Gresham and Fairfield, unable to cope with sharing her. Once he found out where her most regular clients worked, the Angel Bank had become his target. I closed my eyes and tried to conjure him. He seemed to be revelling in details. It must have given him so much satisfaction to taunt the police by sending a postcard to a man he’d already poisoned. I wondered if Max Kingsmith knew that another of his associates had died. Even the sheer walls of Wormwood Scrubs had failed to protect Lawrence Fairfield. But Sophie was the one I felt sorry for – she’d be on the receiving end of her husband’s rage.

Darren was perched on the railings, peering into the sun, when I reached the hospital. I watched him from the side of the building, trying to decide what to do. His expression reminded me of the boys who always waited by the school gates, lovesick but trying to disguise it, longing for a glimpse of their favourite sixth former. My stomach twisted as I phoned the emergency mental health team. They did their best to be discreet, but the operation still looked like a scene from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
The doctor from the acute psychiatric ward was wearing his white coat, a nurse and three ward orderlies trailing behind him. Darren obviously had no intention of going quietly. I felt like covering my eyes as they grabbed his wrists and marched him away, because I knew what was in store. He’d be left in a secure room, with nothing to distract him. If he was more co-operative by morning, the drug regime would begin. They’d keep him high as a kite until his mood stabilised. When I glanced down, my fists were so tightly clenched that my nails were cutting my palms. Being sectioned was Darren’s best chance of a proper diagnosis, but I still felt guilty. It took me back to the morning when Will had been sectioned. I’d travelled with him in the ambulance, but the paramedics had had to sedate him because he kept screaming at the top of his voice. The breath I’d been holding slowly released itself as I stepped back into the sun.

I meant to go and check on him at lunchtime, but a GP called and told me about a young female patient. The girl’s self-harming involved razors and matches, and it sounded so extreme that I spent the next hour arranging an emergency bed for her. The rest of the day was packed with phone calls, appointments and emails. I didn’t even have time to check the texts that kept arriving from Andrew, while the air conditioning groaned in the background, as though it was mortally wounded.

A young policewoman pulled up in a squad car at six o’clock and I climbed into the passenger seat. She spent the next half-hour describing her boyfriend’s efforts to qualify as a chartered surveyor. By the time we reached Notting Hill, we were on first-name terms, and a dull headache was thumping at the base of my skull. Burns was leaning against the railings outside Kingsmith’s house when we pulled up. I wasn’t sure why he needed my help. Maybe he just wanted company, because his deputy was fighting him at every step.

‘How’s Mr Morgan?’ I asked.

‘Keeping his trap shut. It looks like you were right. He’s got alibis for all the other attacks, apart from Nicole’s.’ He gazed up at the Kingsmiths’ house. ‘I thought you’d want to see the great man’s palace.’

Burns looked stunned when I told him that I’d already visited. ‘He must have a hide like a rhino to throw a party with all this going on.’

Two men in dark suits were standing outside Kingsmith’s front door; they looked more like hired assassins than private security guards. Burns tutted impatiently while one of them grunted into his walkie-talkie. When the door finally opened, Louise was standing there, her grey hair caught in an untidy ponytail. The gold crucifix she’d worn at the party was almost hidden by the collar of her blouse. Her face lit up when she saw me.

‘Alice, how lovely to see you again. Thank you both for coming.’

‘Is everything okay, Mrs Emerson?’ Burns asked. ‘Your message was passed through to me.’

She led us to a room I hadn’t seen before. It looked like a Fifties time capsule. A comfortable armchair sat in the corner, beside a basket full of yarn and knitting needles. There was no sign of a TV or a computer. Louise motioned for us to sit down on a narrow, old-fashioned settee.

‘Nice and restful in here,’ Burns commented.

‘You need it when there’s a baby around. These bits and bobs are from my house in Cornwall.’ She shifted awkwardly in her seat. ‘The thing is, Inspector, I had to talk to you. I’ve been so worried…’ Her voice petered out.

‘About your son-in-law?’

‘Good Lord, no. Max can look after himself.’ Her expression hardened, and I caught another glimpse of her dislike for Kingsmith. ‘Nothing affects him.’

‘You don’t always see eye to eye?’ Burns asked quietly.

Her cheeks reddened. ‘He treats my daughter like a slave. Since Molly was born, it’s as though Sophie doesn’t exist. She’s the one I’m concerned about. She’s so busy looking after everyone else, but she’s terrified. I hear her wandering around in the middle of the night.’

‘Where is your daughter today?’ Burns asked.

‘I made her take Molly to the park – a walk always relaxes her. I’ve been trying to persuade her to go out more with her friends, because Max leaves her alone so much, but she hardly ever does. She goes to the gym, and that’s about it.’

Burns seemed to be struggling to get comfortable on the hard settee. ‘Is something in particular worrying you?’

‘A letter came for her today.’ Louise’s gaze dropped to the floor. ‘I always open the bills for Sophie, I’ve helped with that side of things since Molly came along. This morning I opened a private letter by mistake. It was so awful, I didn’t let her see it.’

She reached inside one of her magazines and pulled out a plain brown envelope, handing it to Burns quickly, as if it was contaminated. The typed address label was identical to the one I’d received. He produced a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket, and I inhaled sharply. The angel in green had become so familiar, I could see her with my eyes closed, brown curls framing her delicate features as she played her violin. This time a smear of red had been daubed across her face. It was hard to tell whether it was ink or blood. When I glanced at Louise, her face was tense with strain. It was easy to understand her anxiety. There was no way she could have imagined a crisis like this when she sacrificed her peaceful retirement.

‘Could I keep this, please?’ Burns asked. ‘It’s important your daughter doesn’t go anywhere alone, for the time being.’

‘I understand.’ Louise gave an emphatic nod, as if she was planning to lock her up for the foreseeable future.

Burns did his best to reassure her, but she still looked worried when we left. I scribbled my mobile number on the back of a business card and handed it to her.

‘Sophie’s got this already, but could you remind her she can call me any time?’ I asked.

Louise gave me a grateful smile. She stood on the doorstep as we drove away, flanked by her taciturn security guards, hand half raised, uncertain whether to wave goodbye. She must have been longing to pack a suitcase and escape to Cornwall.

*   *   *

Burns filled me in on the work that had been done since the last time we spoke. Every Angel Bank employee had been interviewed, and hundreds of clients, and he’d been liaising with SOCA and the Serious Fraud Office. They’d cast a wide net, investigating rivalries with other banks and talking to business investors. It reminded me how much he’d changed. The old Burns wouldn’t have been capable of such a systematic approach. He didn’t mention our visit to Kingsmith’s house again until we got back to King’s Cross.

‘Those are ex-SAS boys guarding the place – no wonder the old girl’s scared. She must be expecting a siege at any minute.’ He seemed reluctant to get out of the car. ‘We’re getting nowhere with Morgan. He still hasn’t opened his mouth.’

‘That’s because he can’t accept what he’s done. He’s the loneliest man in the world right now. You could spend time building a rapport, chatting about where he grew up, his time in the army, his kids. The indirect approach should do it.’

He gave a reluctant nod. I sensed that Burns had reached the point where the old-fashioned methods were starting to look appealing. He’d be prepared to use blackmail, truth drugs or a cattle prod to gain a confession from him. When we got back to the incident room I was hit by a fug of coffee, hopelessness, and smoke lingering on people’s clothes. Liam Morgan had been their only strong suspect. Judging by the team’s faces, they were running out of steam. Taylor was busy circulating, making sure Brotherton clocked his efforts to rally the troops.