A Killing of Angels (26 page)

I wanted to tell him that his nicotine craving had probably saved my life, but he was already tottering away to enjoy his cigarette. I raised myself to a sitting position. Luckily I’d landed on the grass rather than the pavement. There would be no evidence of my encounter − not so much as a bruise. The bag he’d put over my head was made of thick black plastic, and it looked perfectly innocent, but it could have smothered me in minutes. It was identical to the one the Angel Killer had used to cover Jamie Wilcox’s face in Gutter Lane. But why had he attacked me? He only targeted people who’d worked at the Angel Bank. Nothing was making sense, and the adrenaline hit me before I could stand up. My hands trembled as I dialled Burns’s number. There was a buzz of music and conversation when he answered, and I guessed he was in the middle of a crowded pub.

‘Stay put, Alice. I’m on my way.’ He sounded aggrieved, as though he was the one who’d been attacked.

I inspected myself in my bedroom mirror, checking for damage. There was a tear in my skirt and grass stains across my top, but it was my face that gave the game away − my eyes stared back at me, hollow with shock. Burns looked unusually smart when he arrived. His dark hair had been combed for once, and he’d even ironed his shirt. Even though he’d lost so much weight, he still looked like a rugby full back, solid and dependable, with the kind of shoulders you could cry on for hours.

‘You look like hell on earth,’ he exclaimed.

I collapsed on a kitchen stool. ‘Cheers, Don.’

Burns was keeping busy, rooting through my cupboards. Eventually he found a bottle of brandy and poured a huge measure into a tumbler.

‘Knock that back. It’s medicinal.’ He followed me into the lounge, watching me intently while I described what had happened. When I handed him the ripped piece of plastic, he held it at arm’s length, as if he hoped it would disappear.

‘I’ll give it to the lab tomorrow. Taylor won’t be thrilled – this blows his theory that Stephen Rayner’s our man. He’s still in a holding cell.’

The shock seemed to be affecting Burns too. His hands were clenched so tightly it looked like he was trying to crack Brazil nuts with his bare knuckles. Until a few minutes ago he’d been celebrating, keeping his fingers crossed that he’d arrested the right man and the second Angel Killer was safe under lock and key.

‘You should be in protective custody, Alice.’

‘I’ll pass on that one, thanks.’ I’d spent enough nights in airless hotels during the Crossbones case to last me a lifetime.

‘Why didn’t he just sling you over his shoulder?’ Burns murmured.

‘He was strong enough. If the old man hadn’t come along, I wouldn’t have stood a prayer.’ When I glanced at him again I noticed that his five-o’clock shadow had disappeared. ‘Where were you tonight, anyway?’

‘Out with a colleague. Someone from work invited me for a meal.’

A look of embarrassment crossed Burns’s face and I felt a flicker of guilt. He’d probably been out on his first date since his divorce. It took him a moment to snap back into professional mode.

‘Right, you can’t stay here by yourself. I’ll sleep on the settee.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve got good locks on my door. I don’t need a bodyguard.’

‘I’m staying, Alice.’ His colossal shoulders were squared for a fight, and I realised there was no point in arguing. It would take a bulldozer to shift him, so I scurried away to make up the spare bed.

I didn’t get much sleep that night, and neither did Burns. I could hear the bed creaking in Will’s room as he tossed and turned, but I still couldn’t work out why I’d been targeted. So far he’d only chosen men who worked at the Angel Bank. Maybe my relationship with Andrew had angered him, or he’d begun to focus on the investigation team.

It was dawn before I managed to drift off, and when I opened my eyes, Burns was standing in the doorway, clutching a mug of tea. He dumped it on my bedside table and made a swift exit. It felt as though I’d woken up in the wrong body. The muscles across my shoulders were tight enough to burst. I must have strained them, fighting to get away. Taking a shower helped, the jets of water scouring me awake. I stepped into some shorts and a T-shirt.

‘You’re never going for a run.’ Burns gaped at me. ‘Someone attacked you, for God’s sake.’

I wheeled round to face him. ‘Hiding in here like a frightened rabbit won’t help, will it?’

‘Christ. It’s like negotiating with Darth Vader.’ He held up his hands like I was throwing things at him.

He ignored me and carried on brewing the coffee. He made toast and scrambled eggs, and my image of him started to crumble. A few years ago he’d existed on junk food, munching king-sized McBreakfasts in his car.

‘What are you doing today?’ he asked. ‘I’m taking my boys to Hyde Park. Come with us, if you like.’

‘Thanks, but I think I’ll just take it easy.’ For some reason I couldn’t tell him about the visit I was planning.

‘Fair enough.’ He glanced down at his empty plate. ‘Don’t stay on your own tonight, though. I’ll get surveillance here tomorrow morning.’

Burns was gone before I could thank him. I checked my mobile before setting off for my run. A message from Hari had arrived the previous night, just after 10 p.m. Normally his voice was soporific, but this time he sounded strained.

‘Call me when you get this, Alice. I’m afraid there’s some bad news.’ He took a long breath. ‘Darren’s gone missing from the ward.’

36

The sky was a blank sheet of light as I crossed the bridge. By Shadwell Pier the Sunday strollers had disappeared, and the towers of Canary Wharf were filling the horizon. Heat haze made the buildings shiver, no longer attached securely to the ground, and the endorphins flooding my system were as effective as anaesthetic. Maybe the Angel Killer had nothing to do with my attack. Darren had made his way to my building, fresh from Robinson Ward, outraged by my lack of interest. But why would he use a plastic hood, just like the Angel Killer? I felt sure he was more likely to rant about his fantasies than hurt me again. I’d seen his horrified expression after he punched me, as though he’d witnessed a stranger knocking a woman to the ground. I slowed to a jog by Wapping station, choking on mouthfuls of overheated air.

After my shower I tapped the postcode I’d memorised from Piernan’s Filofax into my sat nav, and let the GPS take control. When I arrived in Richmond, the mansion was so huge that I checked the postcode again, but it was definitely the right address. I parked my car and looked down at the cattle grazing on Petersham Meadows, the river winding east towards Westminster. I remembered Andrew saying that his parents had sold the ancestral home. If this was their idea of downsizing, their estate must have been the size of a small town. The house had too many windows to count, and an imposing flight of steps leading to the door. I was beginning to get cold feet when an old man strode towards me. The skin on the back of my neck contracted, because the likeness was so unsettling − Andrew had come to life again, but the clock had spun forwards by thirty years, the red tones in his hair replaced by grey.

‘Are you looking for someone?’ he asked.

‘I was a friend of your son’s.’

The man blinked rapidly as he held out his hand. ‘Come inside, it would do my wife good to see someone.’

I glanced at the portraits in the hallway. The faces sprang from the same gene pool, framed by white eighteenth-century collars and, judging by their expressions, they objected to strangers invading their territory. Piernan’s father paused by a set of wooden doors and whispered to me: ‘Miriam can see you, but I’m afraid she’s not herself.’

The woman sitting in an armchair by the window seemed too young to be Piernan’s mother. Her head was bowed over a photo album, but when she raised her face to me, it was child-like, almost free of lines. The thing I noticed first was her expression. I’d seen that combination of rage and disbelief before. The stories the police had told her must have been terrifying. She closed the album and looked at me expectantly, and I told her how sorry I was about Andrew’s death.

‘People have been staying away,’ she murmured. Her eyes were like her son’s, pale brown and inquisitive.

‘I wanted to ask you a question. I thought you might know who Andrew was with on the night he died.’

‘It’s too late for questions,’ she snapped. The anger on her face was quickly replaced by distress. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that talking about it seems so pointless. Neither of us can face telling his sister.’ Her mouth twitched uncontrollably. ‘Andrew worked so hard, he didn’t notice everything he was missing.’

‘He didn’t like putting himself first, did he?’

Her eyes suddenly blinked back into focus. ‘Were you his girlfriend?’

‘We’d just started seeing each other.’

‘The psychologist. Of course, he told us about you.’ Miriam’s face brightened. ‘Would you like to see some photos?’

I leafed through the pages of her album. They showed Andrew at football matches, acting in a school play, sitting in a tree house with his sister. He looked the same in every shot, lanky and full of mischief, thin fingers hiding his uneven smile. When I glanced at Miriam her head had fallen again, tears dropping into her hands. Her husband appeared in the doorway, but he didn’t seem to notice his wife’s distress. I thanked him for letting me intrude and he paused to speak to me on the way out.

‘I don’t know what to tell her. None of it makes sense.’

It was difficult to think of a reply, so I rested my hand on his arm for a moment.

‘The thing I need to understand is Andrew’s link to the Angel Bank.’

He seemed agitated when he spoke again. ‘They were his biggest benefactor. A few months ago, Andrew came to see me. He told me that he hated doing business with them. He wanted to cut his losses and walk away.’

‘How did you respond?’

‘I told him not to be a fool. The charity needed as much help as it could get.’ His voice quavered. ‘I wish I’d told him to follow his heart. Maybe he’d still be alive.’

‘I’m sure it’s not your fault.’

The old man’s eyes were brimming. ‘You’ll come and see us again, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will.’

He was still standing at the top of the steps as I drove off. All I could hope was that Burns and Taylor didn’t release any information. The couple would break into a thousand pieces if they knew their son was a suspect for the angel killings.

I parked on a side road when I reached the centre of Richmond. The village looked like a parallel world, where nothing ever went wrong. Cricketers were playing on the green in immaculate whites, and throngs of locals were sunning themselves outside the pubs. But the idyllic setting couldn’t remove my worries. I was wondering why Andrew had never found a partner – dozens of eligible girls must have pursued him. It would have taken a strong will to keep turning them down. A woman drifted past, a brood of perfect, blonde-haired children trailing behind her. The family looked like an illustration from
Country Life.
If the locals knew I was sitting there, contemplating murder and destruction, they’d have chased me out of the neighbourhood.

37

Yvette had gone up in the world since she worked at Guy’s. Her new flat was on the fifth floor of a swish apartment block by Butler’s Wharf, and from her doorstep I could see yachts packed tight as sardines in St Katharine Docks, and the warehouses of Wapping and Shadwell. When she threw open her door she looked fabulous, as usual. She was wearing a bright red dress, and she seemed to be modelling herself on the old school divas, like Shirley Bassey and Diana Ross. She hugged me so tightly that my bruised ribs twinged, then she led me into her living room and we collapsed on armchairs overlooking the river. I was hoping she wouldn’t ask about Andrew, but it’s not Yvette’s style to beat about the bush.

‘Tell me about him,’ she said.

‘I don’t think I can. Not yet, anyway.’

‘You poor soul.’ The look on her face was a combination of sympathy and fear. ‘Do you still think it’s to do with the Angel Bank?’

I nodded. ‘Someone’s obsessed by the place. Your friend Vanessa said the Angel was hell on earth when she worked there. It’s even worse now.’

‘Vanessa told me how they select their juniors.’ Yvette pulled a face. ‘One year the interns were a hundred per cent female. Like Hollywood in the good old days − if you did okay on the casting couch, the job was yours.’

‘It sounds like the Dark Ages.’ I remembered Vanessa Harris hinting that women had been exploited. Clearly the Angel Bank was a lousy place to work, for female employees as well as gay men. The only person having fun was the straight white male who called the shots.

Yvette did her best to distract me. She made me dinner, and told jokes about her attitude to bankers. According to her, every yard of the Square Mile was morally bankrupt.

‘You’re not their biggest fan, are you?’

‘Put it this way, not many of them go to church. Our paradigms are unlikely to collide.’

I did my best to smile. ‘Lucky you’ve got strong convictions, or some hedge fund manager would have seduced you by now.’

By ten o’clock I was exhausted and Yvette led me to her spare room. She seemed embarrassed when she opened the door – evidence of her love-hate relationship with money was scattered everywhere. Dresses in garish colours were draped across chairs, the carpet knee-deep in Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik shoes. It took a long time to clear enough space to crawl under the sheets. But in the morning I woke up convinced that Andrew was still alive, until I saw the shoe boxes stacked beside the bed, and the facts flooded back into my mind. I got up immediately and wrote a note to Yvette.

I called in at Guy’s to see if there was any news about Darren. The junior doctor on Robinson Ward looked embarrassed as she led me to his empty room.

‘We checked on him every fifteen minutes, but he broke the window lock,’ she said.

When I peered outside it was clear how easy his escape route had been. All he’d had to do was drop ten feet onto the grass below, then run through the gates onto Newcomen Street.

‘Let’s hope they pick him up soon.’ The doctor glanced at me. ‘He was saying some pretty disturbed stuff about being on a special mission. He kept ranting about guns and knives.’