A Killing of Angels (23 page)

Burns found me a spare computer, then left me to my own devices. I logged onto the HOLMES system while people raced past my desk. The room was in frantic motion. At least a dozen telephonists were answering calls from members of the public, each caller certain that they knew the identity of the Angel Killer. Their expressions were jaded − they must have spent hours listening to unlikely fantasies. On the other side of the room huge photos of the victims gazed down at the flurry of activity.

My phone buzzed loudly as I started my work. It was another text from Andrew. He’d sent a string of photos since the morning: one of his sister outside Notre Dame, the pair of them boating down the Seine, and the last of himself, standing in bright sunlight outside a café. I was still smiling when my phone vibrated in my hand, and my brother’s name appeared in the window. I stepped into the corridor to speak to him.

‘Hello, sunshine.’

His reply never came. I couldn’t even hear him breathing, and I was afraid he was in trouble, unable to tell me what was wrong. I forced myself not to panic. The most likely reason was that he’d tripped the redial button by mistake.

‘Will, are you there?’

All I could hear was a fizz of static, so faint that it sounded like it was being beamed from another planet. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and returned to my seat. Will was so far out of reach, there was no point in worrying. I took a deep breath and started picking through the evidence files, lit up in red, flashing across the screen.

30

I’d been concerned about Darren since I’d seen him being frogmarched into the psychiatric unit. But he must have calmed down overnight, because he’d been moved to a standard room, beside Robinson Ward. The nurse I spoke to looked under the weather. The skin on his face had broken out in a sore-looking rash.

‘We had to give him a mega-dose of risperidone last night,’ he admitted.

‘And he’s coping with that, is he?’

‘We had no choice, the lad was bouncing off the walls. The head psych wants to see him later.’

I didn’t envy him his job. Acute mental illness has always been the sharp end of nursing; it’s a wonder they don’t end up in straitjackets themselves. I looked through the observation hatch into Darren’s room. He was lying in bed, staring groggily at the TV, barely able to keep his eyes open. I’ve always hated risperidone. It slams a lid on the symptoms of paranoia, but they come back immediately when the patient stops taking it. The side effects are no fun either – slurred speech, migraines and renal failure. I glanced at my watch and decided to come back when the head psych had done his rounds.

I’d planned to use the afternoon to work on my paper for the BPS conference, but by two o’clock I was starting to wilt. The air conditioner had developed such a racking, consumptive cough, it sounded in need of a course of penicillin. I picked up the phone and called Burns.

‘Making progress?’ I asked.

‘Morgan’s about to let rip. Can you get over here?’

‘I’m on my way.’

Taylor was the first person I saw at the station. His smug grin was absent for once. Maybe he was aggrieved because his new boss’s sideways approach had worked miracles. Morgan had begun to talk the instant his aggressive questioning stopped, but the strain had taken its toll on Burns. He was talking in the controlled monotone of someone using all his energy to keep calm.

‘I don’t want anyone standing up in court saying he was coerced. I need a full assessment, Alice.’

He didn’t even register my nod of agreement, but I already knew my report had to be one hundred per cent accurate. I would have to testify to every sentence if the case went to court and Morgan pleaded diminished responsibility. The tabloids would go into meltdown if he was found guilty.

It was clear that Morgan was at cracking point when he reached the interview room. His skin was paler than before, tan bleached to a dull indoor pallor. His solicitor was so gaunt he looked as if he’d been on a sympathetic hunger strike.

The moment Burns’s finger hit the recorder, Morgan started talking. His voice was a dry whisper at first, as though silence had weakened it.

‘She’s been seeing someone, right under my nose,’ he muttered. ‘She laughed in my face when I found out.’

‘Who’s the bloke?’ Burns looked sympathetic.

‘Fuck knows − she didn’t deny it though. She said I was cramping her style.’ Morgan’s mouth gagged in disgust.

‘That’s unbelievable. How did you take it?’

‘I lost it with her, I suppose.’ His shoulders jerked upwards in an involuntary spasm.

Burns’s voice dropped a level, as if they were friends, trading secrets in a pub. ‘It’ll go in your favour that you’re opening up. And it sounds like you had your reasons. Just take us through it, step by step.’

‘I read about the pictures he leaves. I couldn’t get them out of my head.’ Morgan’s voice was faltering. All the words he’d swallowed over the past few days seemed to be sticking in his throat.

‘So you made it look like the Angel Killer did it?’

Morgan was too busy studying the backs of his hands to reply.

‘It’s okay to take your time,’ Burns said quietly. ‘Can you tell me where you left your bike, Liam?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Clerkenwell.’

‘Are you ready to explain what happened?’

He gave a miserable nod. ‘She kept struggling. I only wanted to give her a scare.’

‘Did you carry out the attack, Liam? I need a yes or a no, for the recorder.’

There was a long pause. ‘It was to teach her a lesson, that’s all.’

‘A lesson?’ Burns’s tone hardened suddenly. ‘It was a bit more than that, wasn’t it? You left her in shreds. She almost lost an eye.’

I caught a glimpse of Morgan’s relief. It passed from his face in an instant, like a cloud lifting. Destroying his wife’s beauty was a price worth paying. It had given him so much pleasure, a ten-year stretch would feel worthwhile. When I glanced at him again, he was doing his best to look contrite.

‘You went after her in the car, didn’t you?’ Burns had regained his calm.

Morgan described downloading the angel picture from a website. He’d loaded his bike into the boot of his car, parking in Clerkenwell, then cycling to the Square Mile. Afterwards he hid the bike in someone’s back garden. He drove home to Mayfair in a state of shock. When the phone rang, he got back in the car and raced straight to the hospital.

‘I couldn’t believe what I’d done.’

‘Right.’ Burns’s eyebrows shot up. ‘It was a great big accident.’

‘I didn’t lay a finger on anyone else.’

‘But you know who’s behind the other attacks, don’t you?’

Morgan spent the next half-hour denying responsibility. He claimed that his wife’s behaviour had provoked him, and he had no idea who the Angel Killer was. After that, every new question met with silence. We were about to leave when he finally spoke again.

‘When can I see my kids?’

Burns’s glare indicated that his parental rights had been cancelled for the foreseeable future. He still looked pale with tension when I followed him out into the corridor, even though he’d got a result.

‘One down, three to go,’ he said, frowning. ‘Brotherton says Scotland Yard’ll replace me if we don’t catch him soon.’

I wanted to say something comforting, but he marched away before I could open my mouth, as though his life depended on reaching his next destination on time.

*   *   *

The heat was still breathtaking when I got outside, and the bus dropped me by Butler’s Wharf. I found a chair in the shade, and ordered a lime soda. A tour boat was drifting on the tide, and the Angel Killer was still out there, on the loose. I couldn’t stop thinking about Liam Morgan, and all the other men who maim their wives. I’d carried out an assessment once on a man who’d thrown acid in his girlfriend’s eyes. He was pleading temporary insanity, but I’d never met anyone more rational in my life. He’d worn exactly the same look of mock-regret that I’d seen on Morgan’s face.

All I wanted when I got home was a long bath and a night in front of the TV. With any luck some ancient black-and-white movie would be playing, like
High Society
or
Roman Holiday.
But I’d only been in the bath five minutes when the doorbell rang. I heaved myself out of the water, cursing loudly. Lola was on the landing, wearing an expectant smile and clutching two bottles of pinot grigio.

‘Surprise!’ she yelled, barging past me into the kitchen.

Within half an hour she’d updated me on the Greek god’s efforts to secure a recording deal, and Craig’s failure to find love on match.com. And she’d pumped me for every detail about my date with Andrew at Le Coq d’Argent. I lay flat out on the living-room floor, letting the day’s tension drain away while she chattered. When my mobile rang at nine o’clock, I didn’t move a muscle.

‘I’ll get it.’ Lola reappeared immediately, struggling to contain her excitement. ‘It’s Andrew,’ she whispered.

‘How was it?’ I asked him.

‘Extortionate. Guess how much a coffee on the Champs-Elysées costs these days?’

‘Go on, shock me.’

‘Ten euros. But at least Eleanor had a great birthday; I’d love you to meet her some time.’ There was a thunderous noise in the background, like he was standing beside a motorway.

‘Where are you?’ I asked.

‘Out for a drink. Listen, Alice, can I come round later?’

‘Lola’s here. Can we make it tomorrow, about seven?’

He groaned. ‘That’s a long wait.’

‘You never know, I might push the boat out and get us a takeaway.’

‘The luxury never ceases.’ Another car roared by, then I heard a girl’s voice, calling his name. ‘I can’t wait to see you.’

He rang off before I could say goodbye, and a pang of jealousy hit me. I wanted to be the one sitting opposite him in the pub, listening to his stories, not some mystery woman with a braying laugh. Lola gave me her widest Cheshire Cat grin before going back to her monologue. She was so busy explaining her plans for future happiness that I was free to dream about the following night. Her chatter washed over me and, for the first time in days, my ribs expanded properly when I breathed.

31

Lola had forgotten to go home. She was elegantly draped across the bed in Will’s room. I switched on the coffee machine, went back into my room and flicked through my wardrobe. There was nothing remotely seductive for my date with Andrew. He’d have to put up with a sundress and my usual black cotton underwear, but with any luck he wouldn’t complain after waiting so long. Lola picked up on my state of mind straight away. Her smile was glued in place as she ploughed through an enormous bowl of muesli. At least my nerves provided her with some early-morning entertainment.

The sky was the usual relentless blue when I set off, but the weather seemed to be turning. The air hung in front of me like a smokescreen, muggy and hard to breathe. Andrew kept appearing in my thoughts. It was easy to imagine waking up with his arm round my shoulders; the idea felt surprisingly comfortable. I was still fantasising when Hari stopped me by the hospital gates. He was beautifully turned out as usual, wearing a well-cut suit and his permanent smile.

‘You look happy, Alice. Is it the sunshine?’

‘That must be it.’

‘Got time to visit our Mr Campbell? I want to see how he’s doing.’

‘Isn’t it too early?’

Hari’s calm gaze assessed me. ‘I need to check how he responds to you. Don’t worry, I’ll be there too. Nothing can happen.’

I followed him across the quadrangle reluctantly. An elderly man was banging his head against the wall at three-second intervals when we arrived at Robinson Ward. There was a look of grim satisfaction on his face, as though the impact was knocking his thoughts into shape much more effectively than his medicine. Two ward orderlies were struggling to coax him into a wheelchair.

A blissed-out smile crossed Darren’s face when he saw me. He was sitting up in bed with his hands gripped tightly together, as if he was clasping something precious. He didn’t even register Hari’s presence.

‘I knew you’d come,’ he whispered.

‘How are you feeling, young man?’ Hari asked.

‘It’s all making sense now.’ Darren’s gaze was still glued to my face. ‘Can I leave here soon?’

‘Not for a while. You need an assessment first. How much do you remember about the last few weeks?’

‘Everything.’ He stared straight back at me.

‘You were following me, Darren. Do you remember that?’

‘It’s for you, not me.’ His words were slurred by the risperidone, but his tone was resolute.

‘That’s what you think, is it?’

‘One day you’ll understand.’ His dark eyes blinked in slow motion, then he tapped his temple with his index finger. ‘I’ve got second sight; my mum had it too. Someone needs to take care of you.’

Hari’s smile had faded by the time we left Darren’s room.

‘It’s not looking good,’ I said.

‘I wouldn’t say that.’ He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. ‘He’s calmer than before.’

‘It’s acute phase schizophrenia, isn’t it?’

‘Too early to say. I’ll do the verbal fluency and stress tests with him later.’ Hari glanced at me. ‘Relax, Alice. We’ve got him on a Section Two order − he’s not going anywhere for twenty-eight days.’

We went straight into the case conference. Hari and the head psych discussed Darren’s treatment, and I tried to remind myself of the statistics: fewer than three per cent of paranoid schizophrenics commit acts of violence. I’d treated dozens of patients with the condition over the years, and most of them held down jobs and relationships, just like the rest of us. But I couldn’t help remembering a patient from the Maudsley when I was doing my training. He refused to take his medication and his delusions grew worse, until he believed that government spies were plotting to assassinate him. He stabbed a girl on the underground, convinced she was sending telepathic signals, ordering him to kill himself. I made myself tune back into the discussion. The head psych was planning to keep Darren hospitalised until his delusions were under control. I had a month, at least, before he was back on the streets.