A Killing of Angels (28 page)

‘It’s Sophie here.’

I took a second to recognise Max Kingsmith’s wife. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’

Her voice sounded strained as she asked me to meet her for coffee.

‘I could come to your house,’ I offered.

‘Actually, I’m climbing the walls. I’d rather get out.’

I suggested meeting in Covent Garden, and there was a quake in her voice as she said goodbye. It sounded like her anxiety levels were hitting the roof. So many of her husband’s colleagues had died, everyone must have started to look like a potential culprit.

The rain clouds were darker when I left home that evening, scudding in rows across the sky. People were clutching umbrellas as I caught the bus at Tower Bridge, and a spatter of raindrops hurled themselves against the glass then disappeared. A gang of women in leotards were queuing outside a dance studio on Floral Street when I reached Covent Garden, and I felt like joining them. An hour of high-impact aerobics would be the ideal way to burn off some stress.

Sophie gave me the awkward smile I remembered from our first meeting, and it struck me again that she didn’t tick the boxes for a millionaire’s partner. She was attractive, but she wasn’t calling attention to herself. As far as I could tell she was wearing no make-up, apart from a dab of transparent lip gloss. Only her diamond earrings gave her away: she could have exchanged them for an Alfa Romeo. We’d been walking several minutes before I noticed a man in a dark shirt trailing us along Betterton Street.

‘Is he yours?’ I asked.

‘He’s worse than a Labrador.’ She gave an embarrassed nod. ‘He even follows me to the loo.’

The man loitered outside the Poetry Café as we ordered our drinks. Every time I looked over my shoulder he was peering through the door, but it was hard to believe the place was dangerous. Most of the tables were occupied by young men with foppish haircuts, scribbling verse in their notebooks, while photos of Rupert Brooke gazed down approvingly.

‘The police told us about Andy Piernan,’ Sophie’s voice faltered. ‘I didn’t know him that well, but I admired him. He was someone with a conscience.’

It crossed my mind to admit that I’d been seeing him, but it would have hijacked the conversation. She seemed frailer than last time we met, her skin waxy with sleeplessness.

‘How’ve you been coping?’ I asked.

‘Not great.’ She attempted a smile. ‘I snap at everyone, and if a door slams I have a heart attack.’

‘The police are making progress, you know.’

‘Are they?’ Her face brightened. ‘Have they arrested someone?’

‘Not yet. They’ve got some strong leads though.’

‘Not strong enough to help Nicole. I heard about what Liam did. It’s incredible, he seemed so crazy about her.’ A deep frown settled on her face, making her look years older.

‘And how’s your husband doing?’ I asked.

‘Same as ever. If he’s scared, I’d be the last to know. When he said the bank was closing, I thought he’d spend more time at home, but he’s with his lawyers all day long. They’re planning an appeal.’

‘Doesn’t Max ever talk about how he feels?’

‘Not if he can help it. To be honest, all I’ve ever wanted is more time with him. But he’s in his own world − Molly doesn’t get a look in. Sometimes it makes me want to beat him to a pulp.’ She let out a short laugh, then clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry. I think I’m losing it.’

‘I’d be more worried if you were calm. But at least you can talk to your mum if it gets too much.’

‘She’s been amazing.’

‘How does she get on with Max?’

‘Mum says I should leave him.’ She gulped down a breath. ‘She thinks I deserve better. She’s wrong, of course. He’s not always like this. He’s just under so much pressure.’ Sophie’s anxious gaze settled on my face. ‘And what about you? You live with someone, don’t you?’

I shook my head. ‘Work keeps me pretty busy.’

‘No time to relax.’ She gave me a sympathetic look. ‘It’s the same for me. I haven’t even been swimming. The friends I go with are from the bank − the police have told us all to stay indoors.’

Sophie and I talked for another hour. Her statements kept circling back to her husband. She told me more about how their relationship began. At first she’d turned him down, worried by the age gap, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, bombarding her with letters and phone calls until she finally crumbled. She hinted at the conflicts between them, then fell into an awkward silence. I felt like telling her about his method for recruiting female executives, but I managed to keep my mouth shut. We were about to leave when she glanced across at me.

‘Sometimes I wish I didn’t care about him so much, if that makes sense.’

‘Of course it does. It makes everyone feel vulnerable.’

‘It’s Molly I’m scared for, not me.’

When I looked at her again, her eyes were round with fear.

‘You’ll be okay. Your Labrador’s keeping an eye on you.’ I nodded at her security guard, still stationed by the window. ‘Call me any time, won’t you?’

Sophie hugged me impulsively when we got outside. Her bodyguard was stifling a yawn. The poor man must have been longing for something dangerous to happen to brighten up his day. I watched them walk back to the Tube, ignoring each other, like a couple after an almighty row.

I took my time walking through Soho. It’s always been one of my favourite neighbourhoods; hemmed in by smart shopping streets, but determined to stay disreputable. Old men were hanging around outside lap-dancing clubs, adult bookshops and massage parlours concealed by smoked-glass windows. Tiny Chinese restaurants were doing a roaring trade. It was hard to remember the last time I’d eaten a proper meal, but even the smell of Peking Duck didn’t tempt me. Watching couples enjoying a romantic dinner would be too much to bear.

At nine o’clock I caught a taxi home, with my phone buzzing in my pocket. But at that moment I didn’t care how perfect my mother’s holiday was, or how urgently Burns needed to talk. My devil-may-care attitude lasted until I got back to Providence Square. I forced myself to march up the stairs. I was beginning to feel relieved, until a sound came from the living room. My feet had fused themselves to the floorboards, even though I knew I should be running. Someone had got there before me, and he was standing a few metres away, on the other side of the door.

40

‘What are you doing, Al?’ Lola stumbled into the hall, rubbing her eyes.

I was brandishing a wine bottle to cosh over the intruder’s head. ‘I thought you were a burglar. Why didn’t you turn the lights on in there?’

‘I fell asleep on the sofa. You didn’t answer your phone, I’ve been worrying about you.’

I didn’t have the heart to explain that sympathy wouldn’t help. If anyone tried to look after me, I’d come apart at the seams. I went into the kitchen to make us some tea, but my hands were shaking, and milk slopped across the counter.

‘Your friend came round earlier,’ Lola said. ‘He couldn’t stay long. He said he’d come back later.’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘Darren.’ She was busy stirring sugar into her tea. ‘He seemed pretty urgent about it. Maybe you should give him a bell.’

I reached over and grabbed her arm. ‘Listen to me, Lo. He’s the one who’s been following me. He’s dangerous. Don’t talk to him again.’

‘He’s a stalker?’ Lola looked astonished. She’s always had strange ideas about human nature. The inmates on Death Row could convince her in seconds that they were pure as the driven snow. She was still studying me intently. ‘Look, Al, I’m going to stay here for a bit. You shouldn’t be on your own.’

‘What about Neal?’

‘He’ll cope.’ Her feline grin flashed on for a moment. ‘It’ll keep him on his toes.’

I gave her a hug then went to search for clean sheets for Will’s bed. The light was flashing frantically on the answer-machine, so I forced myself to listen. The first message was from Taylor, letting me know that he’d told Brotherton about my supposed professional misconduct. He paused dramatically between sentences, as if he was puffing on a Cuban cigar. Any day now my contract would be cancelled. The next message was silent. Someone breathed quietly for thirty seconds, then hung up. And the last was from Burns, his accent thick as Scotch mist. I deleted them all and dived into bed.

Burns was waiting for me in Browns the next morning. His skin had a greyish cast as he stared at his uneaten toast. I wondered whether he knew about his deputy’s latest efforts to get me fired, but I could see it was the wrong time to share bad news.

‘Stephen Rayner told us his little secret,’ he said. ‘When I got your message about Freiberg’s visit, I asked him what he knew about Poppy, and out it came. Once he started, he wouldn’t shut up.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Rayner overheard someone at work saying Poppy was the top guys’ favourite girl, and it wasn’t hard to get her address. He went to Raphael Street two or three nights a week, taking photos. He was planning to use them for blackmail if the bank tried to fire him. Then he made a mistake. He told a friend about it at a party, and a few days later his camera got nicked. Pictures of half a dozen Angel staff were in there, including all the victims.’

‘And you think the killer’s using the pictures as a blueprint. Anyone from the bank who visited Poppy recently is on his list.’

Burns’s phone rang before he could reply, and his eyes widened as he listened to the voice at the end of the line. He stuffed the phone back in his pocket as soon as the call ended.

‘Henrik Freiberg’s gone missing,’ he said.

There was a grim expression on his face as we got into his car, and I knew what he was thinking. Freiberg was one of Poppy’s loyal customers. Rayner would have had no trouble snapping him as he went into her building.

I thought about Stephen Rayner as we drove. He’d been convinced that his boss was his only ally. Maybe he believed that if Gresham retired, his job would be on the line. He’d seemed so frail when I interviewed him. If his photos were being used by the Angel Killer, the guilt would drive him to the edge. I glanced out of the window as we reached the West End. Mayfair was home to more millionaires than any other neighbourhood in the city, but the pedestrians were determined not to appear rich. Most of them looked scruffy and bohemian, like artists, or resting actors.

Burns pulled up on a narrow road. A view of Hyde Park unfolded at the bottom of the street, but the Freibergs’ house looked too dilapidated to belong to a banker. It was a mess of shambling eaves, with a climbing frame in the centre of the front garden. The family seemed to be advertising their home as a kids’ paradise before you’d even stepped inside. The woman who welcomed us must have been a beauty once, with dark, deep-set eyes. She was in her fifties, thickening around the waist, her hair a bright, artificial auburn. When she ushered us into her living room, a young woman was standing by the window, her face tense with concern.

‘This is my daughter, Rina,’ said Mrs Freiberg.

I sat down on a worn-out sofa and it was easy to see what had caused the wear and tear. A horde of grandchildren gazed out from the mantelpiece – more pictures of babies and toddlers than I could count. There was a portrait of Freiberg at the centre, wearing a patriarchal smile. I couldn’t help wondering how his wife would react to the news that her husband had been paying a fortune for sex, every week, on his way home from work.

‘Can you tell us what’s happened, Mrs Freiberg?’ Burns asked.

‘Sonia, please.’ Her smile was slowly unravelling. ‘Henrik answered the phone around 3 a.m., then he got up and left. I thought it must be one of the kids, but they’re all fine.’

Rina was holding her mother’s hand tightly, as though she was in danger of floating away. I tried to picture Freiberg relaxing in one of the tatty armchairs. His body language at the Angel Bank had been so self-effacing. The pressure of being Kingsmith’s right-hand man seemed to weigh heavily on him, yet he’d kept his pleasant, history teacher’s manner. It was easy to see why he was terrified of exposure. It would jeopardise his whole family.

‘Henrik wouldn’t just leave. We’ve been married thirty years.’ Sonia’s voice rose in protest, as though she was giving her husband a piece of her mind. ‘He’s been in a terrible state for months − some days he hardly says a word. I keep telling him to see the doctor.’

The tears arrived suddenly, as though someone in another room had opened a valve.

‘Calm down, Mum. Nothing’s happened, he’ll be fine.’ Rina’s arm closed around her shoulders and her mother’s sobs paused for a second.

Burns rose to his feet. ‘We’ll do everything to find your husband, I promise.’

I followed him back along the overgrown path, and he pulled the passenger door open without glancing in my direction. He listened intently to the message his police radio was broadcasting, but there was so much static I couldn’t hear properly. After a few minutes Burns jabbed the off button and swore quietly under his breath.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘Freiberg’s car’s at Pacific Wharf.’

‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’

‘Christ knows.’ His shoulders heaved upwards. ‘The message says it’s been torched.’

41

It took an hour to cross the city, cutting a line southeast from Mayfair, through heavy traffic. By the time we reached Bermondsey we’d swapped extravagant villas for grey social housing. I knew Pacific Wharf well, because I ran past it on the way to Rotherhithe. The neighbourhoods grew less salubrious the further east you travelled, and Pacific Wharf hadn’t profited from the housing boom. Property developers had lined the river with apartment blocks, knowing the views would fetch high prices, then they’d run out of cash. Concrete skeletons towered above the pavement, ribs of metal exposed to the elements.

Burns parked on Rotherhithe Street and we headed towards the river. The water was gunmetal grey, reflecting the clouds massing overhead.

‘The heavy brigade got here before us,’ he commented.

Two squad cars, a scene-of-crime van and a fire engine had arrived already, clustered in front of a half-built apartment block. Only the foundations and ground floor had been completed. A mess of steel girders and concrete sections lay abandoned, as though the builders had suddenly downed tools. Burns spoke to one of the firemen, then we crossed the outer cordon to an underground car park. The developers must have had big plans – it could have accommodated hundreds of cars, but the space was empty now, apart from the stink of burnt rubber. Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the concrete.