A Killing of Angels (25 page)

‘How’s it going, Alice?’ His forehead was dripping with sweat. ‘Made any progress?’

‘Leave me alone,’ I snarled.

He leered at me. ‘Is the stress getting to you again? You should jack the job in, shouldn’t you? Let someone more qualified have a go.’

I elbowed past him and ran up the steps. But when I reached the incident room I knew I’d stepped out of the frying pan into the fire. Taylor’s toxic grin was even more unpleasant than the journalist’s.

‘I’ve brought Stephen Rayner in. We’re about to interview him,’ he said. ‘He got caught on CCTV outside Piernan’s building the night he died. Looks like he was Piernan’s buddy, not Morgan. He’s not playing ball, though − I think he prefers the feminine touch.’

Taylor swaggered along the corridor beside me, the contempt in his voice increasing with each stride. He glanced around to check there were no witnesses.

‘You’re a laughing stock. Do you realise that?’ he hissed. ‘You give us all that pathetic psychobabble, then it turns out you’re shagging the main man.’

By now I was aching to wrap a crowbar round his head, but Burns emerged before I could follow through. His level gaze seemed to be measuring my state of mind.

I stared back at him. ‘You realise there’s no way Andrew killed himself, don’t you? People don’t forward-plan when they’re about to commit suicide. His diary was full for the rest of the year.’

Burns gave a slow shake of his head. ‘Stay in the observation room, Alice. Fill out a report form, if you feel up to it. We’ll talk after the interview.’ He closed the door before I could argue.

I watched Taylor and Burns preparing themselves through the observation window. Two metres of clear space between their chairs showed that no truce was in sight. The next person to enter the room was Rayner’s lawyer. She was a pretty Asian woman, and she was wearing a shocked expression. The state of Rayner’s face explained why. His jaw was so swollen he could hardly speak, a string of bruises littered across his neck. I felt like leaving immediately – Taylor’s arrest methods must include attacking people in their own homes. But I knew my only hope of helping Andrew was to remain professional and keep my wits about me. I fumbled in my bag for a pen.

‘We’ve lodged a complaint,’ the lawyer snapped.

Taylor folded his arms. ‘You resisted arrest, Stephen. It took two officers to pin you down.’

‘That’s not my understanding.’ The lawyer frowned her disapproval.

When he began to speak, Rayner’s sentences were so full of gaps, he seemed to be struggling to breathe. ‘You lot haven’t given me any peace since Leo died. It was getting to me − that’s why I went to Andrew’s. I wanted to talk to a friend. I told you, he was out when I got there. He didn’t pick up his phone.’

‘Trying to decide who to shove under the next train, were you?’ Taylor scowled. ‘We know you don’t mind a bit of violence.’

Rayner stared back at him, his arms resting at his sides, body language unusually controlled. ‘I just wanted to do something normal, that’s all.’

‘Did Piernan let you in, Stephen?’ Burns’s deep voice was a relief after Taylor’s aggressive whine.

‘I rang the bell but no one answered.’

‘Rubbish,’ Taylor sneered. ‘The CCTV on the street caught you at 10.05 p.m., then again at 10.31 p.m. You had plenty of time to chuck him in the bath, then dump the feathers and postcards on his desk. Your fingerprints are everywhere − they’re even on his kettle. Make yourself a cuppa afterwards, did you?’

‘Slow down, Steve.’ Burns leant over and looked him in the eye. His expression reminded me of someone walking an attack dog in the park, using all his discipline skills to keep it under control.

Rayner’s hands lay motionless in his lap as he began to speak. ‘I waited for him on the landing. I’ve known Andrew since he worked at the bank; we met up for a few beers most weeks.’

My pen hovered above the page. It made perfect sense; Andrew would have taken pity on Rayner’s isolation. Maybe he was grateful for someone to wind down with, on his few evenings at home.

‘Does it give you a thrill, Stephen?’ Taylor leant across the table. ‘You get a kick from killing these rich, powerful blokes. Is that where the photos come in? D’you take a few snaps after, to excite yourself ?’

Burns gave him a warning look, then hissed a caution that was too quiet to hear.

When Rayner spoke again, his voice was trembling, odd pauses separating his words.

‘I’ve told you, I’ve got nothing to hide. I went to see my friend, that’s all. I don’t know why he was killed. It’s so terrible. First Leo, then Andrew.’

It was hard to tell whether Rayner was crying, because his shoulders were heaving, but he wasn’t making a sound. By the time Burns found me, I felt calm for the first time since Andrew’s death.

‘It’s not him, Don. But it’s obvious he’s lying about something. All the signs are there.’

Burns sat opposite me, huge shoulders braced for an outlandish theory.

‘I could see it in his body language,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When someone lies, they stop making gestures. They’re so busy concentrating on building the lie, their hands stop moving. Often they don’t gesticulate at all, even when they’re accused. Didn’t you see how frozen he was? And the stress patterns in his speech were out of sync − long pauses, then periods of babbling. His eye contact was too strong, trying to convince you he’s telling the truth.’

‘You’re not making sense.’ Burns rested his hands on the back of his neck, as though his head was too heavy to support.

‘It can’t be him. Andrew went out for a drink with someone − he wasn’t there when Rayner called round. But he knows something. He’s trying to hide it, and he’s cracking under the strain.’

‘Rayner’s prints are everywhere. He’s the only face we can identify on the CCTV.’

‘Look at it again. I bet he visited every week, just like he said.’

‘It’s got to be him. We’ve interviewed all the bank’s employees, going back five years, and drawn a blank.’

‘Look closer to home then. What about relatives and acquaintances?’

‘I’m telling you, there’s nothing there.’

‘I’m sorry, Don. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.’

Burns looked exasperated. ‘Look, Alice, I’ll take on board what you’ve said, but I think you should go home now and get some rest.’

I gritted my teeth, because he’d stopped listening, and I expected better from him. Being treated like a child goes with the territory of being a puny, five-foot blonde, but it always rankles, especially when I’m right. I stuffed the form back into my bag and marched out of the room, before I said something I’d regret.

34

On Saturday I disposed of Andrew’s flowers. I’d been avoiding going into the kitchen, but the smell of gardenias was strong enough to make me gag. I felt a pang of guilt as I abandoned them in the rubbish bin, but it was part of my coping mechanism. The only way to keep going was to avoid thinking too hard. Hopefully the numbness would last until the killer was found. But it was a struggle to keep myself occupied. I’d been through the latest HOLMES printout twice, combing for clues and coming up with nothing. It felt like trying to build a house from thousands of mismatched bricks, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Watching TV was out of the question, because as soon as I sat still, my mind defaulted to Lombard Street.

There was only one way to keep calm. Normally I hate getting my hair cut, but for once the tedium was comforting. The stylist at the salon on Elizabeth Street was too polite to comment when she inspected my split ends. Under the harsh lights I looked gaunt and dry-skinned. Other women’s voices buzzed in the background, discussing their love lives and the finalists of
Big Brother.
I emerged with shiny, expensive-looking hair, and a vacuum where my thoughts should have been.

A headline caught my eye when I passed the newsagent. ANGEL BANK STOPS TRADING. I rushed inside to buy a copy of the
Independent,
and wondered how the Angel Killer was felt destroying the bank’s empire. The story didn’t give much away, but it explained that the FSA had withdrawn their licence while ‘serious irregularities’ were investigated. The bank’s golden reputation would be badly tarnished, if it ever reopened. For some reason Henrik Freiberg came to mind. He’d coped with his boss’s egotism for years − at least now he’d be liberated. I considered stopping at a coffee shop on the way home, but I couldn’t face a crowd of people enjoying themselves.

I caught sight of myself in the hall mirror that afternoon. My hair skimmed my shoulders, and for once I looked presentable. Andrew was standing behind me, wearing a smile of approval, but he’d vanished by the time I turned round. I don’t know how long I stood there, with my hand pressed over my mouth.

By the evening I’d run out of displacement activities. I’d scrubbed the bathroom floor, dusted the bookshelves, and annihilated every germ in the flat. When the phone rang I was sitting on the floor in my bedroom, unable to move. The woman at the end of the line sounded delirious. My brain was working so slowly that it took a while to realise it was Lola, babbling with excitement.

‘I got the part. The theatre’s letting me do three episodes of
EastEnders.
They’ve given me my own storyline!’

I managed to congratulate her, but my tone must have lacked conviction.

‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’

‘Can I come round, Lo?’

‘Of course you can. I’ll be waiting for you.’

I can never fool Lola about my state of mind; she notices if my voice is even a fraction off-key. Normally she flings her arms round me, but when she opened the door to her bedsit on Borough Road, she just stood there with her hands motionless at her sides. I followed her into the tiny flat and collapsed on the sofa. When I told her what had happened, her eyes widened in disbelief. She held onto my hand while I told her the details, studying my face for danger signs.

‘I can’t believe it,’ she whispered. ‘Who’s sick enough to do something like that?’

She made me a cup of tea and I glanced around her studio. I could see why she was flat-hunting. It was twelve feet square, with an all-night off-licence doing a roaring trade downstairs. She fell asleep every night to a lullaby of winos arguing about overpriced beer. But at least the rent was cheap − an actor friend had lent it to her while he worked in New York. He’d plastered the mildewed walls with posters for West End shows. The cast of
Matilda
beamed down from the chimneybreast, wearing showbiz smiles, as if life was one long miracle. Lola passed her hand in front of my face, as though she was checking my vision.

‘You’re not really here, are you?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You’re in a bubble. I bet you haven’t even cried.’

I shook my head. Maybe it was my inability to let go that set Lola off, but once she started, there was no stopping her. She can weep for Britain at the best of times. My only option was to put my arm round her shoulders and wait for her to stop. After a while she began to rally, but her eyes were two shades darker than before, and her light-bulb smile had fizzled out.

‘It’s you who should be blubbing, not me,’ she gulped.

‘I have to keep going. I’ve got to find out who it is.’

‘I’ll help you, Al. Just tell me what to do.’

She did everything in her power to persuade me to stay. But I couldn’t face any more talk about Andrew, or dealing with her distress as well as mine.

It was dark by the time I set off, but I ignored the cabs revving on Borough Road. A taxi ride would have reminded me too much of my last journey with Andrew. People were knocking back last orders from the pubs below Tower Bridge. I paused by the railings to watch a disco boat full of pensioners heading for Greenwich, the Bee Gees screeching their hearts out. The hectic falsetto of ‘Night Fever’ was trailing a few beats by the time it reached the shore.

My determination was finally making a comeback as I drew level with the Design Museum. Maybe the fresh air helped, but I realised that grieving had to wait until I’d tracked down Andrew’s killer. In the morning I would go through the evidence files again, to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. A crowd of people was hanging around by China Wharf, but their noise dropped away as I followed the boardwalk, then the path emptied. The only thing on my mind was going to bed and hiding under the covers. Maybe I was too numb to recognise the signs when I took a short-cut through the car park. I didn’t hear a thing, not so much as a footstep, but suddenly my vision failed. My hands were scratching at thin air, and there was nothing in front of me except a mile of blackness.

35

Someone had pulled a hood over my face. Every time I tried to breathe, plastic filled my mouth, making me gag. Shock paralysed me for a few seconds, but I knew I had to fight, or I’d end up with a face like Jamie Wilcox’s − another corpse for Burns to find. My heels were dragging along the pavement as he pulled me backwards. I lashed out, elbows thudding against his ribcage. It must have caught him by surprise, because he released one of his hands, and the plastic flapped loose around my throat. I still couldn’t see anything, but at least I could breathe. I flicked my leg back with all my strength. The heel of my sandal must have hit his shinbone, because he gave a high-pitched yelp of pain. Then my mouth was stifled again, before I had time to scream.

A door creaked a few metres away, and I was thrown forwards onto the ground, footsteps drumming past me towards the river. My eyes took a while to adjust to the orange streetlight when I ripped the bag from my face. An old man was peering down at me through thick bifocal lenses, his irises milky with untreated cataracts. Air poured from my lungs in ragged gasps, and for a few seconds I felt completely calm. Nothing cancels self-pity quicker than fighting for your life.

‘You okay, love? I bet you tripped on that bloody step, didn’t you? I keep telling them to put a light out here.’

‘Did you see someone running away?’

‘I only came out for a fag, dear.’ The old man looked confused. ‘I didn’t see a thing.’