A Killing of Angels (9 page)

My mind switched back to humans as soon as I reached Guy’s. One of the clinic’s receptionists beckoned me to her desk, with a sour expression on her face. She informed me that a patient of mine had been causing havoc. He’d demanded to see me, and when she told him I was unavailable, he’d yelled abuse into her face.

‘Was it Darren Campbell?’

‘That’s the one.’ She looked disapproving, as if I was a parent who let my kids riot in public.

‘If he comes back, can you book him a diagnostic with Dr Chadha, please?’

She pressed her lips together, as if she was sucking a boiled sweet, then carried on tapping notes into her computer.

My consulting room felt like a sauna. I threw open the window, then sat down to check my email. Hari had copied an incident report to the trustees, recording Darren’s assault − concrete proof that cancelling the anger management groups had been a mistake. I was tempted to rush up to the executive suite to show them my bruises. The phone rang at lunchtime while I was fiddling with the air-conditioning unit, and Burns launched straight into the middle of a conversation.

‘Jamie Wilcox’s toxicology results came back,’ he said. ‘There was enough Rohypnol in his system to kill a horse.’

It interested me that the killer had given him a lethal dose of the date-rape drug before the attack. It would have rendered Wilcox unconscious. Perhaps he was too squeamish to watch his victims suffer.

‘And the bank finally handed over Gresham’s laptop. They seem to think it’ll keep us off their backs.’ Burns gave a low whistle. ‘Seeing is believing. Orgies, cocaine, mistresses. No wonder he didn’t want the missus finding it.’

Mrs Gresham would hate seeing her husband fall from his pedestal. Maybe the iron mask would drop for a moment, like Thatcher on the night of the long knives. Then I remembered the picture of Stephen Rayner, gazing at his boss in wonder.

‘I need to pay his deputy a visit,’ I said.

‘Why? Taylor’s been hounding him non-stop. We’ll get sued at this rate.’

‘Humour me, Don. He worked alongside Gresham for years. I need to know if he saw changes in his state of mind.’

He grumbled reluctantly. ‘How was the angel bloke?’

‘Interesting. They’re a lot more vicious than I realised. Our man probably thinks he’s on a holy crusade.’

‘Fantastic,’ Burns groaned. ‘The God squad are always the worst.’

I walked to London Bridge station when work finished, and Leo Gresham came to mind as I stood on the platform. I closed my eyes and pictured him falling, his shoulder hitting the cold metal of the track, a few seconds of terror before the agony began. By the time I opened my eyes again, my train had vanished. Who in their right mind would think that showing so little mercy gave them moral authority? It had to be someone who was in excruciating pain themselves. When the next train arrived, I steadied my nerves and climbed on board.

My mood had improved by the time I reached Bank. The pavements had been absorbing heat all day, and now they were releasing it, like a network of giant radiators. Crowds of girls had swapped their suits for tiny backless dresses, chatting as they sauntered down the street. Yvette was waiting for me outside the Counting House. Her appearance hadn’t changed since she left her job as Human Resources Manager at Guy’s to earn three times as much in the City. Her fashion sense was still outrageous; she was wearing a shocking pink dress, her hair braided in cornrows to show off her high cheekbones. She gave me a hug and kissed me on both cheeks.

‘Do we have to go in there?’ she asked. ‘The place’ll be heaving with idiots.’

I nodded. ‘It’s a work thing, I’m studying their behaviour.’

‘You never give up, do you?’ She grinned at me and rolled her eyes.

I glanced at the pub’s exterior. It was showing off its history as a Victorian building society, with a row of arched windows and an austere granite façade. The entire banking fraternity seemed to be holding a meeting inside, a mass of pinstriped backs gathered by the bar.

‘Look and learn, Al,’ Yvette whispered. ‘These are the guys who brought the country to its knees.’

When she left me to hunt for a table, her dress was the only splash of brightness I could see. Almost every other punter was male, under thirty, bouncing with ambition and testosterone. The man ahead of me was ordering the world’s most complicated drinks: gin slings and super-dry martinis, and the barman looked desperate to go home. At least the queue gave me time to admire the building. It was a shame the City boys had commandeered the place. Evening light was flooding through a glass-domed cupola, and a row of mahogany booths lined one of the walls, like confessional boxes. Debtors must have hidden there a hundred years ago, whispering secrets to their financial advisers. Yvette waved at me from the mezzanine, but it took a while to push my way up the stairs.

‘These guys are acting like they never saw a black girl before.’ Yvette glanced across at a table full of young businessmen. ‘One just offered to take me home.’

The place was a sea of identical pastel shirts, silk ties and Eton haircuts. Women were still in the minority, but at least more were sprinkled through the crowd than there had been a few years ago. The markets must have had a good day, because the roar of conversation was deafening. Cockney accents mixed with genteel Home Counties. Clearly the City didn’t care where you hailed from, if you could turn a profit. It was a struggle to hear Yvette’s voice. She was telling me she’d found a better job, at a multinational bank.

‘I’ll have underlings to do my photocopying.’ She looked pleased with herself.

‘Tell me what makes bankers tick, Yvette.’

She sucked in her cheeks. ‘Imagine a world where nothing exists except money. The milk of human kindness dried up years ago, and all that matters is buying yourself a top-class boob job, owning a Ferrari, and grinding your colleagues’ faces in the dirt with the heel of your Italian shoe. Every man, woman and child who visits the City ends up getting corrupted, including me. I’ve been spending money like water.’

‘The clichés are all true, then?’ The disgust on her face made me laugh.

‘Seriously, these people have calculators for souls.’

‘Why work for them, if you despise them so much?’

‘The world’s not perfect, Al. I’m putting my niece through medical school in Ghana − no one else can.’ Her tiredness displayed itself briefly, then slipped back behind her grin. ‘And I’ve got my shopping habit to maintain.’

‘Can you do some digging for me? I need to find out about the Angel Bank.’

‘I’ll see what I can do − I know someone who used to work there.’ She held up her hands as if I was throwing things at her. ‘Now give me the gossip about Lola’s new man.’

‘He’s jailbait, by all accounts. Tonight’s the big night.’

Yvette was busy scanning the crowd on the floor below. ‘Bloody hell. She’s a lucky, lucky girl.’

I caught sight of Lola’s flame-red hair immediately. The young boy standing beside her had borrowed his face from a Greek statue, with full lips and wide blue eyes, blond curls spilling across his forehead. When they arrived at our table, even his smile was an advert for high-class dentistry. I couldn’t help wondering if Lola minded barmaids asking for his ID every time he bought a drink. But Neal turned out to be good company, and he could handle being teased. He told us that he was studying music and acting at the Guildhall. He’d met Lola two months ago at a party, and no, the age gap didn’t bother him one iota.

‘No one mentioned it,’ Yvette protested.

He hooted with laughter. ‘But you were dying to, weren’t you? It’s the elephant in the room.’

I could see why Lola had chosen him. Star quality exuded from every pore, but it wouldn’t have worked for me. Waking up next to a face without a single wrinkle would have been too daunting.

‘You owe me a favour, Al.’ Lola’s eyes narrowed when she finally sat down. ‘I gave Andrew Piernan your number.’

‘Jesus, Lo,’ I spluttered. ‘You could have asked.’

‘She’s crazy.’ Lola turned to Yvette. ‘This lovely bloke’s after her, and she’s running a marathon in the wrong direction.’

Yvette rubbed her hands together. ‘Send him my way. I’m auditioning for husband number two.’

The rest of the evening turned out to be the best fun I’d had all year. After a few drinks our mental ages descended rapidly, until we were telling embarrassing stories about each other to keep Neal amused. The place was beginning to empty when I saw a young girl loading glasses onto a tray at the end of the bar. I knew Burns would be outraged, but I couldn’t resist the temptation. She carried on working when I approached her.

‘I know it’s a long shot,’ I said. ‘But do you remember this bloke?’

She peered at my photo of Jamie Wilcox. Thick lines of kohl were blurring her eyes, and she was wearing a shapeless black dress. She must have made a strategic decision to hide her attractiveness, to stop punters hitting on her.

‘He’s the one that died, isn’t he?’ She had a faint Eastern European accent.

‘That’s right. He was here on Friday.’

She looked around anxiously. Her boss probably sacked waitresses who fraternised too much. ‘He came in about six, with some friends. They left him to finish his drink.’

‘And you remember him?’

She blushed. ‘He was polite – not like the rest. This blonde girl was all over him for a while, then she left.’

‘Is that unusual?’

‘Not really. Plenty of girls come here looking for business.’ She glanced at me. ‘He left a few minutes after her. The strange thing is, he was staggering, but he’d only had a few beers.’

A red-faced man strutted over and snapped his fingers, inches from the girl’s face. ‘Another round, love. Quick as you can.’

The girl’s face tensed as she served him, and I didn’t blame her. The punters’ endless rudeness was enough to grind anyone down. When I thanked her and dropped a ten-pound note on her tray, her face lit up. No doubt the City slickers forgot to tip her, even though she was on minimum wage.

At midnight I poured myself into a taxi, navigating unsteadily up the stairs to my flat. My bedroom tipped from side to side, and the ceiling lamp swung around my head in uneven circles.

‘I’m too old for this,’ I groaned.

Sleep was out of the question, because my brother came back soon after me. I could hear his voice, loud and excitable, burbling through the wall. It sounded like he was having a party in his room; four or five different voices all talking at once, with an occasional screech of high-pitched laughter. God knows what they were chatting about in the middle of the night. Cloud systems, drugs, or The Great Escape. I felt like barging into his room and telling his hangers-on to get out. Anger fizzed inside my chest like a chemical experiment. Who would feed him if he took to the streets again? And what would happen when winter came? I pictured him huddled under a blanket as the snow fell, then I stuck my fingers in my ears and did my best to pass out.

12

To say that I felt the worse for wear in the morning is an understatement. The shower was deafening, and standing up felt like hauling my body through quicksand. The heat was unforgiving when I got outside, sunlight reflecting from every surface, making my head pound. Burns had left a mysterious phone message, asking me to visit one of Gresham’s secret haunts. The invitation was too intriguing to refuse, but the rush-hour traffic turned my journey through the Chelsea heartlands into a nightmare. Crowds of women were racing into Mulberry, as if their lives depended on locating the perfect holdall. They looked like members of the same family, complexions glowing from expensive facials, with identical honey-coloured hair. It reminded me that my trip to the salon was long overdue.

Burns had reached Knightsbridge before me. His car was parked outside an elegant townhouse on Raphael Street, and he was checking his phone messages. It was clear that Gresham’s secret acquaintance was prosperous. The building was at the centre of London’s swankiest postcodes, a two-minute stroll from Hyde Park.

‘Late night?’ Burns inspected me over the top of his glasses.

‘Don’t ask. Who’re we seeing?’

‘Gresham’s favourite girl, Poppy Beckwith. He sent her hundreds of emails.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I’ve dealt with her before. Her family are loaded, but she fell out with them. She’s been on the game since she left school.’

I felt curious as I followed Burns to the door. Whoever lived there was paying their concierge handsomely, because every inch of paintwork gleamed. We climbed to the top floor and the woman who greeted us was tall and slim, a swathe of black hair almost reaching her waist. She had one of those delicate, symmetrical faces that photographs perfectly from any angle. You could have hung her upside down for days and she’d still have looked beautiful. She ignored Burns but shook my hand, as if she was offering a partial truce.

‘This is the worst time to call. I’m just on my way out.’ Her voice was the product of elocution lessons, or a good public school, roughened by years of cigarettes. She was wearing a dark pink silk dress, held together by a narrow cord. Her whole outfit looked in danger of falling to the ground at any second.

I stood by the window of her living room. The view stretched past the boats drifting on the Serpentine all the way to Hyde Park Corner. By the time I turned round, Beckwith had perched on a red chaise longue, keeping a watchful eye on Burns. Footsteps pounded across the floor in the adjoining room and her shoulders twitched. She was so jumpy that I realised smoking was just one of her addictions. I couldn’t help pitying her. Despite all her luxuries, she seemed to be suffering as badly as the girls who touted for business in the pubs on Marylebone Road.

‘How’s life been treating you, Poppy?’ Burns asked.

‘Brilliantly, thanks. Recessions don’t touch me.’

I glanced around the room. It was too glitzy for me, but I could see that it had style. A gold silk throw hung over one of the settees, two scarlet rugs almost covering the white floorboards. And there were some well-judged touches of kitsch − a gorgeous female nude filled the wall over the fireplace, modestly keeping her back to us.