A Killing of Angels (15 page)

‘You’ve been overdoing it,’ I said.

‘I’ll take a week off when we catch him.’

If the driver in front had taken her foot off the gas, he’d have carried on regardless, leaving tyre tracks on the roof. There was no point in advising him to rest, so I kept quiet as we drove through the hinterlands of Battersea and Wandsworth. The council estates were looking sorry for themselves. I wouldn’t have fancied raising a family there, looking down on rusting cars, and the rats nesting in the rubbish. I occupied myself with inspecting the CDs in his glove compartment.

‘James Blunt?’ I asked.

‘Not guilty. The one thing Julie left me, bless her.’

‘But Nina Simone’s yours, and Gil Scott-Heron?’

‘Yup.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘Thank God.’ Burns pretended to wipe his brow. ‘The relief ’s overwhelming.’

By now we were pulling into the prison car park. I’d visited Wormwood Scrubs dozens of times to carry out assessments, without ever really noticing it. For some reason the huge scale of the building was easy to ignore, its drab façade eclipsed by the gleaming bricks of Queen Charlotte’s Hospital next door. Rows of barred windows blinked down at us as we approached the entrance.

‘How many inmates have they got?’ I asked.

‘Thirteen hundred.’ Burns fiddled in his pocket for his ID. ‘And they’re the lucky ones. It’s a fuck of a sight better than Brixton.’

It was hard to understand why anyone would feel fortunate to serve time at the Scrubs. The quadrangle looked as if it had been doused with Agent Orange, not a flower or a tree in sight, and the corridors were worse. If the prisoners ever got the chance to draw or paint, no sign of their efforts was on display. The air tasted like it had been boiled several times. We sat in the crowded waiting area, the young girl beside us struggling to keep her toddler under control. He kept tugging at her hand, telling her it was time to go home. Judging by her expression, she was in complete agreement, but loyalty was forcing her to stay.

‘What job did Fairfield do at the Angel?’ I asked.

‘He was a director for years, until they let him go. He’s done a year for insider dealing. They’re letting him out in two weeks.’

Eventually a poker-faced guard marched us back across the quadrangle, without saying a word. I didn’t blame him. If I worked there I’d have fallen headlong into clinical depression too. But at first sight the man waiting for us in the interview room appeared to be thriving on prison life. He looked about forty-five, skin glowing, only a few strands of grey visible in his thick brown hair. Even his prison uniform of blue sweatpants and a shapeless T-shirt couldn’t dent his self-confidence. He sprang to his feet as we entered the room and extended his hand. At first I thought he was high on the prospect of being released, but his eyes gave him away. They had a glassy sheen, pupils dilated a few millimetres too wide.

‘Lawrence Fairfield,’ he purred, ‘delighted to meet you.’ His voice was smooth enough for late-night radio, loaded with false bonhomie.

He listened carefully while Burns explained the purpose of our visit. His sympathetic frown when he heard about Leo Gresham’s death lasted for a nanosecond.

‘I read about it. How sad for his family.’

‘You’ve heard about Nicole Morgan too?’ I asked.

His jollity disappeared. ‘Poor girl. That lovely face of hers.’

‘Can you think of anyone who hates the Angel Bank enough to do this?’ Burns asked.

‘Pretty much everyone who works there, especially the trainees. The top guys love tormenting them.’ He lounged in his chair, as though the Scrubs was a much more civilised environment. ‘I wouldn’t mind shooting a few people there myself.’

‘Meaning what?’ Burns glanced up from his notebook.

‘They destroyed my reputation. I’ve blown everything to clear my name, but mud sticks, doesn’t it?’ His confidence wavered for a moment. ‘I’ll never work again.’

Burns folded his arms. ‘But it’s not you, is it, Mr Fairfield? Unless you’re managing your hit men from in here.’

‘That would be tricky. I get one phone card a week, so my lawyer can tell me about my house being repossessed. If you ask me, there are plenty of people who’d love to take a pop at Max Kingsmith.’ His mouth curled into a sneer. ‘But at least he doesn’t pretend to be a nice guy. I played golf with Leo the day I was arrested and he didn’t say a dickie bird, even though he knew I was being set up.’

‘The bank won’t give us access to their records.’ Burns studied him over the top of his glasses. ‘Why do you think that is?’

A broad smile spread across Fairfield’s face. ‘All money’s filthy, Inspector. Ninety per cent of tenners have been up someone’s nose, haven’t they?’ His words were slightly slurred. ‘They’ll have shredded the evidence by now, but they’ve got clients in Iran and Syria. That’s where you should be looking.’

‘What do you mean?’ Burns stared at him with distaste.

‘I don’t have to spell it out, do I? Henrik and Nicole are the only decent people there. Nicole’s a sweetheart, but she’s out of her depth, and it’s a mystery how Henrik ended up in finance. He should be doing social work.’

I pictured Henrik Freiberg’s apologetic smile and ill-fitting suit, his shoulders stooped by other people’s burdens.

Fairfield seemed happy to scribble down a list of employees who had left the Angel Bank under a cloud, but he drew the line at providing written information about illegal trading. Maybe he was afraid of another spell in prison. When we stood up to leave, he reached out to shake my hand.

‘I could tell you secrets about the Angel Bank that would make your hair curl. Come and see me when I get out.’ His vacant eyes lingered on my face, and it was a relief to escape into the corridor.

‘God almighty,’ Burns murmured. ‘What did he have for breakfast?’

‘Cannabis resin, probably, or a couple of lorazepam.’

He shook his head. ‘That’s prison for you. They go in clean as a whistle and come out grubby as fuck.’

Thinking about Fairfield’s drug habit made me remember Jamie Wilcox, his blood loaded with Rohypnol when he died. The anaesthetic had been the killer’s one gesture of mercy. I stared at the wall ahead, gathering my thoughts.

‘There’s no way this is political,’ I murmured.

‘It could be.’ Burns looked across at me. ‘For all we know, the bank’s been laundering money for arms dealers.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s about morality. He thinks anyone who works at the Angel is corrupt. He believes it’s his duty to hand out punishments.’

Burns seemed to be on information overload. He dropped onto a bench in the quadrangle and studied the list Fairfield had given him. A few grey faces peered down from the windows above, and I wondered how many hours the inmates spent locked inside. Within a week I’d have been like Fairfield, gulping Xanax like they were going out of fashion. I looked up at the mildewed walls towering over us. The place must have been built around the same time as the Bank of England, but for the opposite purpose. This fortress was designed to lock danger safely inside its walls.

‘Someone’s trying to dismantle the Angel Bank’s kingdom, piece by piece,’ I said.

Burns polished his glasses on his sleeve. ‘You think that’s how they see it?’

‘It’s not the money they hate, it’s the people. If the killer wanted to rip the finance system apart, he’d be dropping bombs on Threadneedle Street.’

‘And Kingsmith’s the top man.’

A chorus of wolf whistles drifted down from the barred windows, but Burns was oblivious. He was so preoccupied that his gaze had slipped out of focus. Eventually he stuffed the sheet of paper back into his pocket, and dragged himself to his feet.

20

The next morning there was a note from Will on the kitchen table. It told me that he’d left for Brighton, his door key abandoned beside the scrap of paper. I can’t explain why I was so upset. Maybe it was because he hadn’t bothered to say goodbye, or because my first reaction was relief. Will’s problems had been mine for so long, I couldn’t remember being free of worry. I peered into his bedroom and found it completely empty, apart from a few items of furniture. But when I went into the bathroom to get ready for work, the first thing I saw was his medication: lithium and chlorpromazine in a row of plastic containers on the top shelf of the cabinet. He’d forgotten everything he needed to stay on an even keel. My first instinct was to jump into my car and head for Brighton, but another part of me felt overcome by relief that I was no longer responsible for him. My phone rang just as I was about to leave, and Piernan’s voice sounded as breezy as ever.

‘Sorry I’ve been incommunicado. I had three events back to back, a logistical nightmare.’

‘I was calling about your present. I can’t accept it, Andrew, I’m sorry.’

He laughed quietly. ‘Why? Doesn’t it match your wallpaper?’

‘It’s too valuable. You should sell it for one of your good causes.’

There was a shocked silence. ‘It was free, Alice. I told Giles you liked it and he gave it to me for nothing. He gets a cut from our charity auctions at the gallery – I’m one of his best customers.’

I couldn’t think of a reply. The gift still felt complicated, even though no money had changed hands. It crossed my mind that a normal person might just say thank you, and accept his claim that there were no strings attached.

‘Look, Alice, we’re meeting tonight, aren’t we? Let’s talk then.’

By the time I reached Kensington I’d put the butterfly from my mind, and Steve Taylor was standing at the end of Marloes Road, topping up his tan. He looked even more thrilled with himself than normal.

‘The boss lady’s got Burns in for a mauling,’ he said, grinning widely. ‘Between you and me, his days are numbered.’

‘That’s your opinion, is it?’

‘The bloke’s not up to it. She needs someone who’s on the ball. I mean, the Crossbones case was a real cock-up, wasn’t it?’

I held my breath and counted to ten. Taylor had been doing his research, and no doubt he was rushing into Brotherton’s office constantly, feeding her misinformation. As we walked towards the hospital, he carried on explaining why he was uniquely suited to do Burns’s job. All the DSI had to do was wake up and smell the coffee.

I tuned him out and prepared myself to see Nicole Morgan. She’d requested a meeting with me, because she hoped to remember more details to help the investigation – but I had misgivings. The attack had happened too recently. People bury memories for good reasons. Dragging them into the daylight can be dangerous; it’s best to let them drift to the surface in their own time.

The press were thronging on the steps outside the Cromwell. I kept my head down, but Dean Simons had already spotted me.

‘I’ve written a story for you, Alice,’ he yelled. ‘Give my best to Nicole.’ His face was ruddy from booze or sunburn, his clothes so creased he must have slept in his car.

Taylor shot me a look of disgust. ‘One of your mates from the last case, is he?’

I did my best to ignore him as I marched up the steps. Nicole Morgan had chosen one of the most exclusive hospitals in London for her plastic surgery. The Cromwell was more like a deluxe hotel than a hospital. Patients could visit the cinema or beauty salon, then take a dip in the pool. When we arrived at Morgan’s suite, two uniforms were standing sentry. They nodded Taylor through immediately, but one of them kept me waiting forever, studying my ID card. Maybe he’d been told to keep a look out for small blonde assassins masquerading as psychologists.

Morgan had made a remarkable recovery since her attack; she was sitting in an armchair, issuing orders into her BlackBerry. Most of her face was obscured by dressings, but her dark hair was carefully styled, nails newly manicured. Taylor receded into the background, happy to let me do all the work. A cameraman was setting up equipment in the corner.

‘They’re filming you?’ I asked in amazement.

‘Channel 5’s doing a series about my recovery. They’ve even got the gory bits, in the operating theatre.’

I couldn’t help staring. Indomitability has always fascinated me − there’s something impressive about people who refuse to lie down. But the reason behind Morgan’s request for a meeting was becoming crystal clear. An interview with a shrink while she struggled heroically to remember her attacker would make brilliant TV. It might even help her become a national treasure. I noticed that her speech was still shallow and rasping, her voice box bruised from the attack.

‘I’m afraid the camera has to go.’

Morgan looked outraged. ‘Why? The viewers can’t miss this. It’s part of my story.’

‘You’ll need privacy, if you want to remember who attacked you.’

‘Of course I do.’ Her one visible eye flashed at me.

The cameraman argued long and hard before finally agreeing to leave. Morgan’s behaviour changed instantly. Her radiance faded by fifty per cent, like swapping a flashlight for a low-energy light bulb; but at least she was still willing to talk.

‘The Angel Killer’s got to be an insider,’ she told me.

‘You think so?’

‘Of course.’ The bandages shifted around her throat when she nodded. ‘Jobs in finance are like gold dust. There are dozens of people out there, nursing grudges, and I bet Leo trod on some heads to get to the top.’

I got the impression that self-preservation was driving her desire to remember, and I couldn’t blame her. She must have been afraid her attacker might return to finish the job. It was fifteen minutes before she started to relax.

‘What’s the last thing you remember before the attack?’ I asked.

‘Talking to Liam on my phone. He told me not to walk to the car by myself. I’d parked a few minutes away, on Staining Lane. It was eleven by then.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I told him to get a grip.’ Morgan looked irritated by her husband’s concern, even though he’d been proved right. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we?’

I nodded. ‘You can stop at any time, but I want you to try and tell me what your senses were picking up as you walked to the car. Everything you saw and smelled and heard.’

Morgan took my instruction at face value, relaxing in her chair, as though she was hypnotising herself. My concern intensified. Very few victims are strong enough to relive such a brutal attack so soon afterwards.