A Killing of Angels (6 page)

‘Bloody ambulance chasers,’ Burns mumbled. ‘Looks like our man’s having a laugh.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He’s left a bigger calling card, in case we missed the first one.’

He put on a pair of plastic gloves and picked up the card. It was larger than the one in Leo Gresham’s pocket, and the image had been defaced. Thick lines had been drawn across her perfect Renaissance features, slicing them into sections. I stared down at the victim’s body. There was a wound in the middle of his abdomen: a jagged cut, at least six inches long. I pressed the back of my hand across my mouth.

‘Are you okay, Alice?’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘You don’t have to stay. I’ll get someone to take you home.’

I shook my head. It’s always better to visit crime scenes, instead of working from photos. Sometimes the killer’s escaped less than an hour before, and the details are so fresh, you’re breathing the same air. You can inhale information that a photo could never give you. I’d already absorbed the care that had gone into staging the scene, the victim’s arms arranged neatly at his sides, as if he’d made no attempt to struggle.

The pathologist arrived a few minutes later; a stout, middle-aged woman with a cheerful manner, determined not to let the horrors of her job ruin her evening. I waited outside the cordon with Burns to let her get on with it. By the time we returned she was removing the bag from the victim’s head, so the photographer could take pictures. She eased the plastic back slowly, as though she was reluctant to cause more pain, and I forced myself to carry on looking. The man’s face had been cut to pieces. His cheek had been sliced so savagely there was a hole beside his ear, exposing his teeth. A flap of skin lolled against his collarbone. The wounds on his forehead were so deep that the white bone of his skull was exposed. A hot rush of nausea surged in the back of my throat. I made it through the cordon, and stumbled a few more yards before retching behind a wheelie bin. At least Burns was polite enough not to comment when I tottered back down the alley.

I could have found a taxi, but I was too tired to refuse when Taylor offered me a lift home. My legs were starting to feel unsteady. Corpses have always unsettled me, unlike all the other students in my year at medical school. They loved dissections, humming contentedly as they sliced through human skin and bone as if they were carving the Christmas turkey. Despite the circumstances, Taylor seemed determined to be gallant, opening the passenger door with a flourish. His phone rang just as we were about to drive away, and he stood on the pavement to take the call. He spent several minutes reassuring someone that he’d be home soon.

‘Third time tonight,’ he moaned as he got back into the car. ‘She hates letting me out of her sight.’ We’d only been driving a hundred yards when he glanced in my direction. ‘What about you? Someone waiting for you at home, is there?’

‘Just my brother.’

I was too preoccupied to edit my reply, but I realised afterwards that I should have invented a boyfriend. Taylor gave me a meaningful smile, then talked about himself for the rest of the journey. I got the impression that he’d have carried on bigging himself up even if the car had been empty. He described his athletic prowess, explaining how well he’d done in his Sports Studies degree, collecting trophies for judo, football and diving. He’d won every prize under the sun. And it was the same with women – he could pick and choose. Only his career frustrated him.

‘This is the third time I’ve been overlooked. They promised me the job, then Burns gets the push from Southwark, and I’m out of luck. It’s unbelievable. The bloke’s incompetent, so they give him to us.’

I didn’t bother to correct him, because he wasn’t listening. The expression on his face was the definition of heartbreak, and it seemed odd that he could obsess about himself while a man lay on the ground with his face in shreds. I wondered why promotion bothered him so much − it couldn’t just be the money. Under all the bluster, his ego must be microscopic. It crossed my mind to tell him that a course of cognitive behavioural therapy would sort him out.

It was after two when Taylor finally drew up outside my building. ‘Want some company?’ he asked. ‘You could make me a coffee.’ His arm was poised across the back of my seat.

‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’ I felt like reminding him about his long-suffering girlfriend, watching the clock at home. He shot me a look of disapproval, as though I’d refused the chance of a lifetime.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror proved how low Taylor set his standards. My chignon had collapsed, and lines of mascara were trailing down my cheeks. I scrubbed my face with soap and went straight to bed, but the day kept replaying itself. I tried not to think about the body on Gutter Lane, abandoned among the rubbish for the rats to find. The angels haunted me too: maybe the killer was an atheist, certain there would be no retribution for his attacks. The last face I saw belonged to my companion at the Albion Club. Andrew Piernan’s gold-flecked eyes watched me as I fell asleep, focused as a bird of prey’s.

8

The nightmares came back with a vengeance. Every time I closed my eyes, young girls were lying in front of me, their thin bodies covered in wounds. I had to crawl across them to reach the door. Under the palms of my hands I could feel their damp skin, the cold gloss of their hair. I woke up with an aching jaw, as though I’d spent the night gasping for air, and I knew I couldn’t stay indoors. I would have to go running. Exercise is my only addiction, and I suppose I was bound to have one, because my family tree’s littered with cravings: Will’s need for stimulants, my father’s alcoholism, my mother’s love of control. Maybe I got off lightly – at least running’s less harmful than gin or cigarettes or heroin. And it’s the perfect antidote to thought. Whenever I want to indulge in a spot of avoidance, I reach for my trainers and let my worries drain through the soles of my feet. I knew it was a crazy idea to run with a soft-tissue injury, but it felt like I had no choice. A spasm of pain travelled across my chest with each footfall, but I had no intention of slowing down.

Tower Bridge was almost empty when I crossed the river. It was already so hot that the air tasted like it had been burned, a sour tang of petrol and smoke filling my mouth whenever I swallowed. Half a dozen cabin cruisers were tethered by the entrance to St Katharine Docks, mooring ropes stretched tight enough to snap. I ran north, skirting the edge of the City. Rows of brownstone buildings were minding their own business, windows shuttered, like closed eyes. When I reached Cornhill there was a cordon across the road, a cluster of police vans parked in the distance. Burns must have been blowing his budget on combing the area around Gutter Lane for evidence. I headed down Leadenhall Street, running through the narrow roads, until my hamstrings burned. Crowds of shoppers were flocking towards Borough Market as I crossed London Bridge, ready to pauper themselves for a bag of avocadoes.

My mobile was ringing on the hall table when I got home.

‘You’re still coming, aren’t you?’ Lola sounded about fifteen, worried I might abandon her.

Only Lola could drag me across town in the middle of a heat wave to admire her professional skills, followed by lunch in a café. After my shower I stepped into my thinnest sundress and a pair of ballet shoes. The journey took even longer than I’d expected, because of a signal failure at Paddington, but London Underground’s security team had been hard at work since Leo Gresham’s death. Posters were displayed on every platform, advising people to stand clear of the yellow line, and report suspicious behaviour. People were keeping their backs to the wall, eyeing the crowd for potential murderers. I glanced down at the headline in the
Independent:
ANOTHER MURDER IN THE CITY. One of last night’s journalists had managed to get details of the attack on Gutter Lane: the victim was Jamie Wilcox, twenty-five years old, married with a baby. The story explained that he was a trainee trader at the Angel Bank and the links with Leo Gresham fell into place. They’d worked in the same building, so the two men would have known each other, by sight at least. There was a photo of Wilcox on his graduation day, round-faced and beaming with pride. He looked like my brother after he got his first job in the City. What kind of person could believe that killing such a young man put them on the side of the angels? Maybe the battle was simple, in his eyes − the haves would be defeated by the have-nots. He could be doing a reverse Dennis Nilsen, punishing society’s high-flyers for their affluence. I stuffed the paper back into my bag.

I was seriously late when I finally reached the theatre. A crowd of thespians was standing in the foyer, shrieking at the tops of their voices. It reminded me that I would have been hopeless at drama school. Actors made wonderful friends, but their non-stop charisma would have exhausted me. I found Lola in the rehearsal room, helping a young girl in a wheelchair turn the pages of her script. She looked gorgeous as always, red hair scooped back from her face, showing off her mile-wide smile. About twenty kids were playing and teasing each other, with occasional acting exercises thrown in. Two young boys were dancing in their wheelchairs, manoeuvring so gracefully that the chairs seemed like extensions of their bodies. The room buzzed with excitement and noise.

After a few moments I realised that someone was staring at me.

I had to look twice to confirm that it was Andrew Piernan, and he was coming towards me, wearing the amused look that I remembered from the night before. His dinner suit had been replaced by jeans and a dark green shirt.

‘Are you following me?’ I asked.

‘Of course. You said you’d be here, so I’ve been camping outside since dawn. But I do visit quite often, believe it or not.’

‘My friend Lola twisted my arm.’ I pointed her out. By now she was surrounded by small boys, capering in a circle, sticking out their tongues.

‘I’ve met her. She must be hard to refuse.’ Piernan carried on watching me, and I wished I was still wearing last night’s shoes. He was so tall that I had to fling my head back to make conversation. ‘Would you like to get some lunch? Or maybe you don’t have time? We could just have coffee.’

‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘Lunch would be fine.’

I gave Lola an apologetic look to let her know my plans had changed, but she gave me an excited thumbs-up. Obviously my flirting skills mattered more to her than sharing a sandwich.

Piernan managed to find a table in the bar with a view across the river, a row of Victorian warehouses lining the opposite bank.

‘What’s your connection with this place?’ I asked.

‘I fund-raise for them.’ He laughed at the expression on my face. ‘Why do you look so shocked?’

‘You said you robbed people.’

‘I do.’ His skin stretched taut across his cheeks when he grinned. ‘I work for a charity called the Ryland Foundation. It’s named after Louisa Ryland, a Victorian philanthropist who gave most of her money away. We make companies hand over cash for good causes, but normally we use persuasion instead of guns.’

Piernan chatted to the waitress courteously when she took our order, and my image of him shifted. He could morph from public school clown to English gentleman and back again in seconds. His cut-glass accent fascinated me. I kept waiting for him to drop a consonant, but it never happened. He was like a newsreader from the 1940s, announcing victories and defeats in exactly the same tone. When the waitress disappeared he turned to face me again.

‘This place works with people like my sister. That’s why I got involved.’

‘Your sister has a disability?’

Piernan hesitated. ‘Eleanor has Asperger’s. She’s nearly thirty, but she’s only just moved into supported housing.’

‘Sounds like my brother.’ The words popped out before I could stop them. Normally I never mentioned him, but Piernan’s revelation had caught me off guard. I found myself talking about Will’s bipolar disorder. I even explained about his injuries and learning to walk again.

‘How terrible.’ Piernan gave a sympathetic frown. ‘One thing after another.’

We sat in silence for a minute, watching a barge fighting the tide, hauling itself past Hammersmith Bridge. It gave me time to observe him. His shirt had a wide, old-fashioned collar, and it looked as if he’d been faithful to his hairdresser for decades, the same fringe flopping in his eyes since he was a boy. He told me more about his sister. She’d never been to Paris, so he was planning a trip in a few weeks for her birthday. His face grew animated as he talked about the hotel, and a walk he’d planned through Montmartre. He seemed comfortable talking about anyone except himself.

‘Are you a forensic psychologist?’ he asked.

I nodded reluctantly. ‘I’m licensed for it, but I prefer helping people while they’re still alive.’

‘Isn’t there a morbid fascination?’ He stifled a laugh. ‘Putting all those twisted villains behind bars.’

‘Sometimes it puts you off humankind altogether.’

‘I’d love to hear more about it some time. I wanted to study psychology, but I ended up doing finance instead. A big mistake, probably.’

His eyes were a calm, golden brown as they observed me, and something twitched at the base of my stomach, like a string loosening. I rose to my feet in a hurry.

‘I should go. It was good to bump into you again.’ I made my getaway before he could reply.

The journey home was like descending into the jaws of hell. There was no sign of ventilation, not so much as a whisper of breeze, and I couldn’t avoid thinking about Andrew Piernan. He’d given me no reason to run away, apart from the fact that I was starting to fancy him. There was no point in leading him on when there was nothing to offer. I was coping better than before, but I was still running on empty. The train burrowed under the belly of the city, jolting past Edgware Road, Baker Street and King’s Cross, spitting people out and inhaling them again at every stop. The woman opposite me looked like an exotic flower. She was wearing a brightly patterned dress, but she was wilting in the heat, make-up trickling down her face. It was a relief to emerge into cleaner air. My phone vibrated in my pocket but I ignored it − Lola would be calling already, ravenous for gossip. All I wanted was to take a siesta, but a familiar car was parked by the entrance to my building, and by now it was too late to run away.