A Killing of Angels (19 page)

His voice was an irritable whine. ‘No problem. We’ve only got a triple murder investigation to worry about.’

‘I need to see it on Monday.’

He grumbled something inaudible then hung up, and my sympathy for Burns doubled. While he drove himself into the ground, Taylor was busy advancing his career.

*   *   *

I took a portion of chicken jalfrezi from the freezer when I got home and slammed it in the microwave. The meal took precisely six minutes to prepare, and tasted of nothing except salt, sugar and E numbers. Fortunately I was too hungry to care. I was about to settle down on the sofa when I remembered my briefcase. I forced myself back onto my feet and emptied it onto the floor. Most of the letters could be thrown away immediately: invitations to conferences, fliers from medical journals and a thick wad of circulars from drug companies. The last letter had a typed address label and, when I opened it, a postcard dropped into my lap. I stared at it for a few seconds. There was something wrong with the image. The angel’s perfect oval face observed me calmly, unwilling to take sides. But when I looked more closely there was a reason for her vacant stare. Someone had attacked her face with a needle. There were white spaces where her eyes should have been.

‘You bastard,’ I muttered.

The killer had discovered where I worked, and he’d sent me the same Leonardo image of
An Angel in Green
that he’d put in Gresham’s pocket. The message was obvious − he knew exactly where to find me. Panic was twisting my stomach into knots and it took all my concentration to bring it under control. When Andrew called I was still slumped on the floor, surrounded by junk mail.

‘How was your day?’ he asked.

I didn’t reply. For a second I considered telling him that I’d been fretting about psychopaths and ruined angels, but he’d have questioned my sanity. I heard him swallow a breath at the end of the line.

‘I overstepped the mark, didn’t I?’ he said.

‘Not at all. I was about to call you.’

‘Thank God.’ He gave a sharp burst of laughter. ‘I thought I’d blown my chances.’

We agreed to meet on Sunday, and after I’d flirted with him for quarter of an hour, the tension was easing from my shoulders. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a huge glass of wine, my gaze snagging on Will’s van when I glanced out of the window. It looked as dilapidated as ever, circles of rust blossoming across the bonnet. Then I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The curtains were drawn, but someone was moving around inside, using a torch to see what he was doing. I tried to tell myself there was no reason to be afraid. Kids had broken in, or some vagrant, searching for a night’s shelter, but calling the police would have been pointless. Every spare uniform was patrolling the Square Mile, in case the Angel Killer struck again. I dead-locked the front door then sat in the lounge with the lights turned out, refusing to panic. The headlamps of passing cars dragged yellow stains across the walls, until the patterns lulled me, and I fell asleep on the sofa, fully clothed.

24

Brotherton was speaking to me when I woke up. She was explaining in her sternest voice that the killer was only targeting people with a connection to the Angel Bank. I rubbed my eyes and glanced round the room, but she was nowhere to be seen. The clock radio had switched itself on and the Invisible Woman’s tone was even more urgent.

‘But it’s important not to take risks. If you have to visit the Square Mile at night, we’re advising you not to travel alone.’

I felt like telling her to save her breath − hysteria had infected the city days ago. The tabloid stories were getting more lurid every day. The Angel Killer was being compared to Jack the Ripper, stealthy and impossible to track down. They’d even provided maps, because the Ripper’sWhitechapel territory was less than a mile from the Angel Killer’s favourite streets. The papers were milking the anti-bank feeling that had grown even stronger since the last scandal, when yet another rogue trader had wiped billions off the FTSE. Many journalists seemed unconcerned that bankers were being killed − their stories implied that they were getting the retribution they deserved. I switched off the radio as the forecaster announced that the weather system was changing. High pressure was bringing cyclones and freak storms.

I paused beside Will’s van when I left the flat, peering through a gap between the curtains. There was no one inside, and when I slid back the door, nothing had been taken. My brother must have forgotten to lock it, because the door hadn’t been tampered with and his sleeping bag was still rolled up on the bunk. Maybe I’d been imagining things – it could have been exhaustion, or a trick of the light.

The tarmac scorched through the soles of my sandals as I began my walk. Outside the Tower of London a Beefeater was welcoming a group of Saturday visitors. Inside that thick scarlet coat his temperature must have been stratospheric. By St Paul’s the heat was punishing and I sat down on a bench in the square. Pigeons were strutting across the pavements like they owned the place, and the cathedral was basking in sunlight; an expanse of irreproachable white stone. I shaded my eyes to study its outline. It looked eternal, capable of withstanding whatever life threw at it: earthquakes, bombs, millions of visitors desecrating it every year. A new thought occurred to me as I admired it. Churches were the best place to go if you wanted to enjoy the company of angels. I felt increasingly suspicious that two attackers were at work. I visualised a pair of men sitting together on a hard pew, discussing the paintings on the walls. The second man had even downloaded an image from a stained-glass window to leave by Nicole Morgan’s body. I watched some tourists perched on the cathedral steps, writing postcards home, knowing I should tell Burns about the angel I’d received, with its lacerated eyes, but the threat would become real the moment I told him. I forced myself back onto my feet, and a slight breeze skimmed across the river, doing its best to keep me cool.

It was after eleven by the time I reached the Millennium Bridge. I checked my reflection in a restaurant window. There’d been no time to blow-dry my hair, but at least my dark red dress and sandals matched, and my make-up was still intact. The riverside was packed with families, enjoying cakes and artisan bread from the Italian cafés. My mother was sitting at a table outside a coffee shop, opaque sunglasses shielding her eyes. She didn’t smile when I leant down to kiss her cheek.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you were running late, Alice?’

I felt like pointing out that she could have used the spare minutes for people-watching, or browsing through her copy of
The Times.
But there was no point. Punctuality is my mother’s main obsession. She always reported for work at the library at three minutes to nine, even when my father was beating her black and blue. By the time our carrot cake arrived, she’d defrosted enough to make small talk. She told me about her trip to Crete, producing a brochure from her handbag.

‘This is the villa we’ve booked.’

I studied the photos of a restored olive mill, clinging to the side of a mountain. It seemed ridiculously large for two retirees to rattle around in, and when I glanced at the bottom of the page, a set of numbers made me blink rapidly: my mother’s two-week holiday was costing over four thousand pounds.

‘And what have you been up to?’ she asked.

I considered admitting that I was helping the police investigate the killing spree that was filling the front pages. ‘Training,’ I said. ‘The marathon’s in April, I’ve been getting fit.’

My mother put down her fork. Behind her sunglasses it was impossible to tell whether she was shocked or impressed. ‘Is that wise? No wonder you look so drained.’

‘I feel great, Mum. You’re imagining things.’

She took a sip of tea then closed her mouth firmly, like a final judgement. The expression on her face was sour enough to curdle milk, but I took a deep breath and went for it.

‘Will’s moved out, Mum.’

My mother finally removed her sunglasses, revealing her pale grey stare. ‘Who’s looking after him?’

‘No one. He wants to take care of himself.’

‘Don’t use that tone with me, Alice.’

‘I’m not using a tone.’ I managed to keep my voice steady. ‘Will left a week ago. He’s back on the road. I’ve called him every day, but he doesn’t pick up.’

She tutted loudly. ‘Professionals should be looking after him. I told you that months ago.’

‘There’s no way Will’s going into a home.’

‘Some of those places are ideal. They’re in the countryside − he could take exercise. You should have taken him to see one.’

‘You’re not in a good position to lecture me, Mum. You never had Will to stay, not even for a week.’

She replaced her sunglasses, and the sun glinted from the lenses, almost blinding me. After a long silence I steered the conversation back onto safer territory. In between tiny mouthfuls of cake, she told me how disappointing
Top Girls
had been, and that Pilates was reducing her back pain. At one o’clock she kissed the air beside my cheek and set off for the station at a smart pace. No doubt we were equally relieved to say goodbye.

The air was even hotter by the time I got back to Tower Bridge. I kept trying to follow the advice I gave patients with traumatic memories. Limit the amount of conscious time you spend remembering the event, then divert your mind onto something else. I’d given my mother twenty minutes of undivided attention, but I was still struggling to get her out of my head.

I got an unpleasant surprise when I reached Providence Square. Darren was sitting on the grass opposite my building, with his hood back, enjoying the afternoon sun. For a few seconds it felt like my feet had been welded to the concrete. I couldn’t believe he had the audacity to wait outside my building in broad daylight and, in retrospect, I did exactly the wrong thing. Every psychology textbook tells you to avoid direct contact. Stalkers are so desperate for attention that even the most negative conversation will be read as an invitation, but my common sense had evaporated. Knowing that he’d been following me made me so angry that I marched straight up to him, without considering Hari’s warning. He rose to his feet when he saw me and I tried to bring my voice under control.

‘You shouldn’t be here, Darren. You know that, don’t you?’

He frowned and shook his head vigorously. ‘I can’t leave you on your own. Anything could happen.’

His stare was the most unnerving thing. I’d seen that fixed, obsessive look on patients’ faces before, but it had rarely been directed at me until now. He’d have completed any task I gave him. If I’d asked him to skydive from the tip of The Shard, he’d have followed through, without stopping to find a parachute. But his emotions were so out of control they could flip into violence at any minute.

‘Listen to me, Darren. You need to come to the clinic at nine on Monday to see Dr Chadha. But you have to leave now, or I’ll call the police.’

I stood there with my hands on my hips, like an irate fishwife. Darren’s face reflected a mixture of outrage and disbelief, as though I was yelling at him in a language he didn’t understand.

25

The shock hit me when I got inside. Darren was still standing there when I looked out of my bedroom window. The rejection must have hit home, because his expression was even more furious, and it dawned on me that picking a fight with a man who’d spent a year inside for GBH wasn’t a great idea, but for some reason I felt more pity than fear. He reminded me of my brother, except Darren had nowhere to hide when his symptoms overwhelmed him. I poured myself a glass of juice, and the next time I peered outside, Darren had disappeared.

My decision to go to church that afternoon had nothing to do with religion; it was to satisfy my obsession with angels. Normally I avoided churches at all costs, because they reminded me of being buttoned into a starched dress and made to sit still while the organ howled. Sundays were always the worst day of the week. My father sat through the prayers with his head in his hands, determined to look penitent. But by the afternoon he’d be pissed again, picking fights with my mother.

I had twenty minutes to kill before I met Lola in Trafalgar Square, so I stepped inside St Martin-in-the-Fields. The church smelled like the one my parents dragged me to as a child − dusty hymn books, piety and candle wax. But at least St Martin’s was flooded with sunlight. It streamed from either end of the nave, breaking down into segments of colour. One of the windows was crammed with angels in vivid robes. They looked like a celestial jazz band, blowing bugles and banging drums. I was staring up at them when a man’s voice disturbed me.

‘They’re quite something, aren’t they?’ The man was grey-haired with a pleasant smile. He was wearing a tatty dog collar, and I wondered if it was his job to identify lost souls. ‘Are you a stained-glass enthusiast?’

‘Not really. It’s the angels I’m interested in.’

‘In what way?’

‘I need to understand what they mean.’

‘I think they’re just messengers, sent down to do God’s bidding.’ The priest smiled at me.

‘What about the angels of death?’

He blinked rapidly. ‘If you want to learn about them, you should read the Book of Exodus. They punished the Egyptians for their sins. First they turned the Nile into a river of blood, they started plagues, and they threw the whole country into darkness.’

‘They sound terrifying.’

His smile slowly reappeared. ‘I think the real angels of death are Macmillan nurses. But I like the idea of a guardian angel. Someone to look after you, through thick and thin.’

He walked with me to the wooden doors. On my way out he pressed a flier into my hand, with a schedule of matins and evensongs. He looked deep into my eyes as he said goodbye, as if he was checking the condition of my soul.

Lola was visible from a hundred metres when I reached the square, her crimson dress clashing spectacularly with her hair. She looked amazed to see me leaving a church.

‘Have you seen the light?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m still mired in sin. Why are you beaming?’