A Killing of Angels (3 page)

When I went to bed I noticed the light flashing on the answer-machine. The first message was from my mother. Her tone was so cool, it sounded like she’d spent the afternoon inhaling dry ice. When I pressed the button again, Burns’s tone was anxious. He was reminding me about my visit to the police station on Pancras Way, even though he’d already sent me an email. There was a long pause after he stopped speaking, as though he expected to be let down. I deleted the messages immediately, but it didn’t help. I stared at the ceiling for a long time before I fell asleep.

3

A young police officer collected me from reception the next morning. She asked me to wait in the corridor until the senior team called me into the meeting room, because Leo Gresham’s investigation was the last item on their agenda. I noticed that she seemed relieved to be staying outside, and when the door swung open I understood why. The atmosphere was so tense you could have tied it between two skyscrapers and used it for a tightrope. The woman at the head of the table was in her mid-fifties, with deep lines etched across her forehead. Her face was free of make-up, framed by a shoulder-length frizz of grey curls. She didn’t bother to crack a smile when she greeted me.

‘Thanks for coming, Dr Quentin. I’m DSI Lorraine Brotherton.’ Her voice was a low monotone, as if she was determined not to say anything memorable.

It took a while for everyone to introduce themselves, because there were at least a dozen people in the room. Pete Hancock, the senior crime scene officer, had thick black eyebrows which met in the middle, adding weight to his frown. A family liaison officer gave a brief smile, and the man sitting beside Burns turned out to be his deputy, DS Steve Taylor. He had a wide, ingratiating grin, and he looked more like a football pundit than a copper, keeping himself in trim, even though his glory days were over. His head was shaved to disguise his receding hairline and he was sporting a deep suntan. He seemed to be hanging on Brotherton’s every word.

‘DI Burns thinks the death at King’s Cross might be the first in a series. I’m no great believer in gut instinct, but he’s right to take it seriously. He’ll be running the operational side of the investigation.’ Her lips twitched as though she was trying not to laugh. ‘You can give us your update now, Don.’

I was beginning to see why Burns had enlisted me. His deputy’s body language spoke volumes, arms folded across his chest, eyes glazed. He was using every trick in the book to show that he didn’t give a monkey’s what his new boss had to say, and the rest of the room was following suit.

‘The first hour after the attack doesn’t give us much,’ Burns said. ‘The barriers at King’s Cross closed five minutes after Gresham fell, but it was too late. Our man was already on the street. The CCTV caught him riding a bus, all the way to Putney. These are our last images before he slips off our radar.’

The blurred pictures Burns passed round showed a man of average build, shoulders hunched as he stepped off the bus. His hood was so low over his face that it cast an impenetrable shadow, like the Grim Reaper in a pantomime. I stared at the photos while Burns described the police work since the attack – dozens of witness interviews, lab analysis of Gresham’s clothes, liaison work with his family. The exhibits officer pushed a grey plastic tray into the middle of the table. The contents of Gresham’s pockets had been arranged like artefacts in a museum: two white feathers, the angel postcard, a smart leather wallet, and a wad of blood-spattered bank notes, the stains dried to an earthen brown. His Rolex had survived without a scratch, still keeping perfect time.

Burns’s talk confirmed my suspicion that he’d spent the past year transforming himself into someone else. In the old days he’d have scribbled a few notes on the back of an envelope, relying on his deputy for support. But this time he’d been systematic, making sure the evidence was logged. He held up the postcard, so everyone could see the angel’s face.

‘The prints on this went through the box, with no matches,’ he said.

I had to wrack my brains to remember that ‘the box’ was the Met’s nickname for the Police National Computer. It held the details of everyone who’d ever been cautioned or charged with an offence.

‘Any questions?’ Burns asked.

‘I still don’t get why you think he’ll do it again.’ Taylor’s voice was a dull estuarine drone. ‘Bankers aren’t flavour of the month, are they? Maybe Gresham lost someone a fortune. It looks like a contract killing to me.’

Plenty of heads nodded vigorously, proving where their loyalties lay.

‘You could be right.’ Burns kept his expression neutral. ‘I just want to make sure we’ve followed every lead.’

Brotherton raised her hand, like a teacher breaking up a fight. ‘What’s your view, Dr Quentin?’

I glanced up from my notes. ‘I’m still not clear that this was a personal attack. But if it was, I’ll need more information about Gresham’s world to understand why he was targeted.’ My words stumbled as I glanced at the blank faces around the table. ‘In cases like this the killer’s often fantasised about throwing himself under a train, before pushing his victim. It’s likely he’s being treated for mental illness, so it would be good to check hospital records. His high-level planning makes it more likely he’ll try again. And there’s a reason why he chose a well-dressed, middle-aged, male victim. Maybe he’s got issues with his father, or with all authority figures.’

Taylor smirked, like I’d told a lame joke, and the rest of the room gazed back at me, unblinking. The aggressive atmosphere was a surprise. Normally when I worked for the Met they treated me like a new kid at school, giving me time to learn their in-jokes and acronyms. But this team was different − hostility seemed to be woven into their DNA.

It was a relief when the meeting ended. Taylor paused as everyone filed out; he nodded in Brotherton’s direction then hissed in my ear: ‘You can see why she’s called the Invisible Woman, can’t you?’

Taylor left an unpleasant reek of aftershave when he walked away, but I could see what he meant. The DSI’s clothes were nondescript, and her handshake was so insubstantial it felt like clutching at mist. I wondered how she’d reached the top of the tree. Maybe her anonymity was just an act; women who reach senior rank in the Met are either brilliant at their jobs or completely ruthless.

‘You were involved in the Crossbones case, weren’t you?’ Her grey eyebrows shifted upwards by a millimetre.

‘But I lived to tell the tale.’

‘You were lucky, by all accounts.’ She parted her grey fringe to observe me more closely. ‘How much consultancy have you done for the Met?’

‘I’ve advised on three major incidents, and carried out prison assessments for years.’

‘What form will your work for us take?’

‘Burns has asked me to work alongside him. I’ll start by shadowing the visits to Gresham’s family and contacts.’

Brotherton looked irritated. She obviously saw my presence as an unnecessary distraction. ‘Let me have a copy of your Home Office licence by the end of the day, please, for my records.’

She melted back into the corridor’s grey walls, and I realised why the meeting had been so tense. Brotherton prided herself on her inscrutability. None of the team knew where the axe would fall, because it was impossible to guess what she was thinking. Maybe she was the reason why Burns had lost so much weight. Her air of secrecy would put anyone off their food.

4

Burns was flicking through a computer printout with a gloomy expression on his face, but the victim seemed determined to take a more positive view. A huge photo of Leo Gresham grinned down at me from the wall of the incident room, bald and avuncular, laughter lines creasing his eyes. Someone had parked a coffee machine directly under it, as though the team had chosen him as their favourite deity, making offerings of caffeine to keep him sweet. Burns was taking me to visit Gresham’s family. I’d insisted on the meeting because, despite his obsession with serial killers, most murders were committed by someone close to home. After a few minutes Burns threw the report into a tray and grabbed his car keys.

‘Come on then,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s go up West, to see the merry widow.’

I watched him march away, struggling to believe he was the same man who used to drag himself around with so much difficulty. The interior of his Mondeo had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life. For once there were no crisp packets or chocolate wrappers strewn across the back seat.

I sniffed the air. ‘You’ve given up the fags, haven’t you?’

‘Don’t,’ he moaned. ‘I’m still grieving.’

The rush-hour traffic eased as we drove west, but Marylebone looked shabbier than ever. The streets seemed to be starving themselves: boarded-up cafés, bakeries and greengrocers on every corner.

‘I should warn you, Marjorie Gresham’s not the sweetest flower in the bunch,’ Burns said.

‘Grief does strange things to people.’

‘Not to her. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.’

We headed along Curzon Street into the heart of Mayfair. Bankers had been snapping up property there for a hundred years, and it was easy to imagine how a millionaire’s wife would spend her days: strolling in St James’s Park, a trip to the beauty salon, then the Royal Academy for a moment of culture. The car came to a halt outside a Georgian villa at the end of a cobbled mews.

‘Prepare yourself for the dragon lady,’ he whispered, pressing the doorbell.

The woman who greeted us bore a striking resemblance to Margaret Thatcher in her prime. Her hair was an immaculate blonde wave, which must have required considerable time, patience and hairspray. A Jack Russell appeared out of nowhere, snapping at our ankles.

‘Quiet, Rollo,’ she hissed. ‘This is your final warning.’ The dog scuttled away with a terrified look in his eye.

A marble sculpture filled one of the alcoves in Mrs Gresham’s sitting room. It was an abstract nude, the stone so highly polished that I wanted to run my hand along its spine. Mrs Gresham lowered herself onto a settee cautiously. I guessed that she’d learned how to sit at finishing school, with her feet side by side, black dress smooth, so no creases would appear.

‘Thanks for seeing me again,’ Burns said. ‘We’ve been looking at the circumstances around your husband’s death.’

‘I should hope so.’ She nodded her head, but the blonde wave stayed rigidly in place. ‘My husband had no reason to take his own life. Leo never suffered from low spirits; he couldn’t abide self-pity.’

‘This must be terrible for you and your family,’ I said quietly.

She softened for a moment, passing me a photo from her coffee table, in an elaborate silver frame. ‘This is our son, James, and our granddaughters.’

‘Pretty girls,’ I murmured. ‘What does your son do?’

‘He’s a GP, in Manchester.’

I studied James Gresham’s face. He was doing his best to appear relaxed, but his three little girls looked downcast. Trips to Granny’s house must have been an ordeal − always on their best behaviour, with no opportunity to watch TV or let off steam. I spotted another picture on the mantelpiece. It showed a dark-haired young man with an overstretched smile.

‘Another son?’ I asked.

‘That’s Stephen Rayner, Leo’s deputy at the bank.’ Her face brightened. ‘He’s been with Leo for years. We’re very fond of him.’ Her voice faltered as she caught herself referring to her husband in the present tense.

An invitation card was propped beside the picture, the letters embossed in gold. It was advertising a gala for financiers, on Friday evening.

‘We’ve been going to the annual dinner for as long as I can remember.’ She was still sitting bolt upright, as if she was aiming for a deportment prize.

‘Just a couple more questions, Mrs Gresham,’ said Burns. ‘Do you know if your husband argued with anyone recently?’

She gave him a withering look. ‘Of course he didn’t. My husband advised banks all over the world on their investment policies. At the weekends he gardened, and on Sundays he went to church. He didn’t have a single enemy.’

Burns looked chastened. ‘He never fell out with anyone?’

‘Envy. That’s what killed my husband, Inspector.’ She lifted her chin and stared at him. ‘Young people today want everything on a plate. They won’t work, but they expect all of life’s luxuries.’

‘I’m not with you.’ He looked confused.

‘Someone saw my husband, in his good suit and handmade shoes.’ She spoke slowly, as though she was explaining something to a child. ‘They can’t bear anyone having more than them.’

Burns gave a polite nod, then rose to his feet. Rollo had learned his lesson by now. He observed us silently from the stairway, teeth bared. Just as we were leaving, Burns pulled something from his pocket.

‘Would this picture have meant anything to your husband?’ he asked.

It was a pristine version of the angel that had been found in his pocket. Mrs Gresham passed it back to Burns with a sour expression. ‘My husband worked at the Angel Bank, Inspector, that’s the only link you’ll find. He had a strong faith, but he wasn’t sentimental. Angels are best left to Sunday schools, aren’t they?’

The door clicked shut the moment we turned away.

‘Not the warmest reception I’ve had,’ Burns murmured as we walked back to the car. ‘She’s got one hell of an art collection, though. That’s a Brancusi in her hall and a Henry Moore by the window.’

‘I didn’t know you were an art lover.’

‘We do have galleries in Scotland, you know.’ He gave me a sideways look. ‘Those pieces are worth a mint.’

The car was heading east, into less affluent territory. Prada and Gucci were giving way to Oasis and Miss Selfridge, and the summer crowds were out in force on the Strand. Young girls were ogling bikinis in the windows of Topshop, but money seemed to be thin on the ground. Hardly anyone was carrying shopping bags.

‘We should go to that dinner at the Albion Club,’ I said. ‘I want to see how Gresham spent his downtime − I still need to figure out how his world operates.’

Burns nodded. ‘I’ll get it sorted.’

‘What was the GP doing when his dad went under the train?’

‘You’re turning into a copper, Alice.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘He was at his surgery, his colleagues saw him.’