A Killing of Angels (18 page)

Vanessa Harris’s office was empty, apart from a desk, two computers and a phone. Her expression was uncompromising, and I got the sense that she didn’t suffer fools gladly. She must have been around forty, wearing a smart blue dress, her brown hair so neat it looked like an advert for straightening irons. Her make-up was the kind that Lola describes as war paint: thick foundation a shade darker than her skin, and a slick of red lipstick.

‘You know I can’t say much, don’t you? I signed a gagging order after the tribunal.’ Harris’s tense body language suggested she was regretting her decision to meet me.

‘This is between us, I promise.’

Harris stared at me for an uncomfortably long time, but her need to talk about the Angel Bank must have outweighed her fear of getting sued. ‘I was too green to know better,’ she said. ‘God knows how I stuck it for ten years. The culture was all about public humiliation − they get through staff quicker than anywhere else.’

‘Why do people stay?’

She looked at me like I was born yesterday. ‘The bonuses are incredible. But the hours are crazy, and anyone who misses a key target gets fired the same day.’

‘What was it like for women?’

When she bit her lip, a smear of crimson appeared on her teeth. ‘That’s why I blew the whistle. The bosses were disgusting. They interviewed girls who applied for internships over dinner. They had to use every trick in the book to get on the ladder.’

It was clear from Harris’s expression that she wasn’t prepared to describe the tricks they’d turned, and I felt a pang of sympathy. Her tough times at the Angel Bank explained her severe clothes, and the layers of make-up she hid behind.

‘Did you hear anything about insider dealing or money laundering?’

Harris’s glossy lips sealed themselves. She must have been worrying about writs being thrown at her, because she brought the meeting to an abrupt end. She offered to walk me to the exit, but she came to a halt beside a wall of glass. I could see down to a packed room, with only a handful of women sprinkled through the crowd.

‘That’s our trading floor,’ she said. ‘They’ve got twenty minutes till the FTSE closes, and some of them are up shit creek.’

It was like watching an opera with the sound turned down. The expressions on the traders’ faces were either tragic or comical, with no gradations in between. Most had phones clamped to their ears and were gesticulating wildly. People were racing across the room, checking the red-and-green figures that flashed across an electronic board. I caught a whiff of sweat and testosterone, but it must have been imaginary. The glass was two inches thick.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

‘If they haven’t sold enough stocks by close of play, they’ll lose part of their bonus. And if it carries on, they’re fired.’ Harris looked riveted, as though she was watching gladiators in combat. She prised her eyes away to glance at me. ‘The Angel’s twice as bad. Fights break out on the trading floor.’

Harris turned away abruptly, as though she’d witnessed enough human desperation for one day. I thanked her, then said goodbye.

By the time I set off, my mind was playing tricks on me. The river path was emptier than usual: people must have been staying indoors until the cool of the evening. For some reason I felt sure I was being followed. Footsteps were pacing behind me, but there was no one there, except a woman taking snaps of the river. It was a relief to reach my flat. But when I was getting ready for bed, I heard footsteps again, moving across the landing. The spy-hole was no use, because the outside light had been turned off. For all I knew, some angel-loving maniac was standing in the dark, waiting for me to open the door. I made an effort to steady myself. It crossed my mind to call Andrew, but I didn’t want to come over as a neurotic idiot, fretting about noises in the dark. It reminded me of the weeks after my stay in hospital, when every sound made me jump out of my skin – and there was no way I was going back there. I collected a glass of water and forced myself to go to bed.

23

Hari came looking for me in the canteen on Friday afternoon. I’d escaped from my office for an iced tea, but even from a distance I could see it was bad news. My boss’s range of facial expressions is quite limited. Most of the time he wears his beatific smile, but when calamity strikes, it’s replaced by a mask of absolute calm. He lowered himself cautiously onto the chair next to me.

‘I just saw Darren Campbell,’ he said. ‘I wanted to bring him in straight away, but he ran off before I got the chance. He’s got indicators for psychosis.’

‘Such as?

‘Schizoid symptoms mainly – delusions and auditory hallucinations. Some signs of florid paranoia too.’

‘Great,’ I muttered. ‘And it’s me he’s following around.’

He studied me thoughtfully. ‘We need to get him in overnight for a full assessment, and sort out his meds. I’ll call his probation officer.’

Hari left me staring into my empty glass. It was several minutes before I could persuade myself to go back upstairs and prepare for my next appointment. It was at this point that I decided not to be afraid. It was a trick I’d learned in my hospital bed. Every time a wave of anxiety hit me, I trained myself to override it. My fellow shrinks would have lectured me about the dangers of repression, but at least it put me back in control. A point-blank refusal to give in to my fears helped my recovery.

I found myself thinking about Poppy Beckwith when a sex addict came to see me that afternoon. She looked nothing like Poppy − middle-aged and overweight, with unkempt hair and an anxious, nicotine-stained smile. Sex was just one of her addictions, alongside whisky and cannabis, but it was the one that scared her most. It sent her into bars, alone late at night, and it forced her to sleep with her best friend’s husband. Every man she met was a potential conquest, but sex never satisfied her. It just deepened her self-disgust. It made me wonder how women like Poppy coped with the strain of using their bodies to service other people’s addictions. No wonder so many sex workers numbed themselves with drugs and booze. I’d be guzzling gin like it was going out of fashion if I had to sleep with dozens of punters every week. Fallen angels flittered around my head for the rest of the afternoon. It seemed an odd coincidence that Poppy’s flat was on Raphael Street, the name of the archangel that had been sent to Lawrence Fairfield on the day he died.

At five o’clock I got ready to leave. My pigeonhole was heaving with mail, so I grabbed the wad of letters and stuffed them into my briefcase. I tried to call Burns, but his phone was engaged, so I set off for Knightsbridge without his permission. No doubt he would give me a piece of his mind for making an unauthorised visit to Poppy, his accent veering north as the rage set in, but calling Taylor was out of the question. Another dose of his verbal machismo was more than I could stand. I was still convinced that the attacks on the Angel Bank were personal. Maybe Gresham had used Poppy as his confidante, and with the right kind of persuasion, she’d open up to me. The killer might even be one of her clients.

I decided against taking the Tube. It would have been like diving into a frying pan, London Underground’s ancient ventilation system failing to keep the temperature below boiling point. The bus trundled past the Houses of Parliament. There were no movers and shakers to be seen, only a horde of kids, shrieking at each other in Italian. Gangs of elderly ladies were marching through Belgravia, for a rummage through the sales at Fortnum and Mason.

A man emerged from the door of Poppy Beckwith’s building just as I arrived. For a second I thought I knew him. He held the door open and gave me a polite smile, but it wasn’t until I was halfway up the stairs that I realised why he looked familiar. He was a presenter from Will’s favourite adventure sports programme, forever hanging upside down in biplanes and driving sports cars across Nairobi. Beckwith’s client list obviously ran to B-list TV celebrities. I stood on the landing for ten minutes to give her some breathing space before knocking on her door. It opened by a fraction and a perfect eye observed me through the gap.

‘What do you want?’ Her voice sounded rougher than before, as though she’d spent the whole day smoking extra-strength Gauloises.

‘Five minutes of your time, if possible.’

The door closed and I thought she’d decided to ignore me, but I could hear the rattle of chains being undone, and she stepped backwards to let me in. Beckwith’s flat was as stylish as ever, but she looked the worse for wear. She had stepped straight out of the shower into a pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt with a hole in the shoulder, her hair gathered in an untidy braid. Without her layers of expertly applied make-up she was pale as a ghost. There was no sign of her heavyweight minder − she must have let him off his leash for the afternoon. The rage on Poppy’s face was obvious, but I needed to find out whether she was angry enough to plan a campaign of violence against her clients.

‘Why are you here?’ she snapped.

I perched on her settee, but she stayed on her feet, the expression on her face still hostile. Maybe she resented squandering even a moment of her free time.

‘I’ve been concerned about you.’

‘Really? Been keeping you awake, have I?’

I shook my head. ‘Someone’s targeting the Angel Bank.

They’re killing people who work there, and you’re too close for comfort, aren’t you?’ At least I’d caught her interest. She lit a cigarette and waited for me to finish. ‘Leo Gresham was a client of yours, and I’m guessing Lawrence Fairfield was too, wasn’t he?’

Beckwith’s mouth clamped shut, but not before I’d seen a flicker of recognition cross her face. She knew exactly who Fairfield was. And I could guess how they’d been introduced. Leo Gresham would have gone for a drink with him after work. After a few brandies he’d have started bragging about his best call girl. Or maybe Poppy’s skills were famous at the Albion Club. Fairfield would have been intrigued enough to book a string of appointments, before prison put an end to his luxuries.

‘I never discuss my clients,’ Poppy snapped.

‘No one’s asking you to. I’m just warning you to take care, that’s all. You might want to put a camera over your door.’

‘You’re warning me, are you?’ Another flash of anger crossed her face then vanished again. A phone rang in another room and she rose to her feet. ‘I’ll get that, then you’d better leave.’

She disappeared into the hall and I spotted an appointment book lying on her coffee table. I flicked through the pages; each day’s entry was filled with elegant black scrawl. Beckwith’s voice drifted from the hall. Her tone was giggly and charming as a schoolgirl; she sounded ecstatic to hear from the man at the end of the line.

‘Me too, absolutely. I’d love that. Seven o’clock, the same room as before?’

Her whole life must consist of lies, taxi rides and old men forcing themselves on her. Lavish amounts of money must have helped, but I still wondered how she coped. The fact that she could charge thousands was a reminder of the City’s corruption. Compared to her clients’ bonuses, her fees were a drop in the ocean. I heard her say goodbye, but as soon as she put the phone down, it rang again. She cursed loudly before greeting her next client in the same saccharine tone. It gave me the chance to open one of the doors leading from the living room. When I glanced inside, it didn’t look like a typical call girl’s boudoir. There was nothing tawdry about it. The walls glowed in warm terracotta, dozens of cushions scattered across the bed. The only details that gave the game away were a huge mirror on the ceiling, and the collection of Japanese erotic drawings on the wall. Beckwith was still schmoozing on the phone so I opened the door into the next room, then blinked with surprise. All it contained was a single bed covered in a patchwork quilt, a pale carpet, and a crucifix hanging from one of the plain white walls. I managed to pull the door shut just in time to deposit myself on the settee. Beckwith’s expression had softened slightly when she returned.

‘Look, I’m sorry I snapped,’ she said. ‘I never let strangers in normally.’

‘I can understand that. But you’d be a lot safer if you told the police everything you know.’

Her expression indicated that she knew plenty, but she’d crossed swords with too many policemen in her time. I understood how she felt. Coppers have a list of unrepeatable words for sex workers who indulge in drugs, and she must have been called every one of them. Her tough exterior was cracking when she spoke again, her voice little more than a whisper.

‘Leo was different the last time I saw him. He hardly ever mentioned work, but he said there was a problem at the bank. Something that could blow it sky high.’

‘Did he give any details?’

She shook her head. ‘He was scared, but he wouldn’t tell me.’

Tiny lines were appearing beside her eyes, and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. In my job it didn’t matter how quickly I aged, but she would have to invest in Botox before her next birthday, to keep her clients happy. When we reached the landing I turned to say goodbye, and she looked too delicate to hurt anyone. I was beginning to think that my trip across town had been pointless.

‘Take care of yourself,’ I said.

Her hand grazed my arm for a split-second. ‘People are doing that for me. It’s your own back you should be worrying about.’

The chain on her door clicked abruptly into place, and my discomfort grew. Poppy had slept with two of the victims, but she didn’t seem afraid. Either she didn’t realise that proximity could be dangerous, or she knew what was going on. I kept running through the facts, but they refused to slot into place. I gazed out of the bus window and thought about the contrast between Beckwith’s two bedrooms. The small, sparsely decorated room probably reminded her of the rehab centres she’d visited − empty and tranquil enough to calm the mind. Or it could have been a throwback to a Catholic childhood. Either way, it would have suited a nun perfectly. I punched the redial button on my phone to get Burns’s number but the call was patched through to Taylor instead.

‘Burns said he’d get me Poppy Beckwith’s file,’ I said.