A Killing of Angels (20 page)

‘I’ve got a job, Al. It’s unbelievable. They’ve asked me to run the kids’ drama programme at the Riverside. It’s three days a week.’

My first reaction was to wonder if Andrew had been using his influence at the theatre, but I silenced the idea immediately. Lola was more than capable of getting a job on her own merits. I congratulated her, and she enthused about the joys of a regular salary, hands gesticulating wildly. After a while I grabbed her arm and led her up the steps to the National Gallery. It crossed my mind to hunt for Dr Gillick in his underground lair.

‘Let’s start with the Middle Ages,’ I said.

‘What are we looking for?’

‘Angels. If you see anything with wings or a halo, give me a shout.’

I tried to imagine the killer making regular visits, to stock up on postcards for his enemies. The paintings changed as we walked through the centuries. The earliest angels were like children’s drawings − simple daubs on sheets of wood, with stiff blue robes and gold smears for halos. By the time we reached the fifteenth century they were more believable, androgynous, with luminous skin, hovering above the earth. It was the blankness of their faces that bothered me. Maybe the artists wanted to show that they were just emissaries, sent down to earth with tasks to complete, but it was hard to imagine more beautiful go-betweens. After six hundred years their blond hair still shone; their feathered wings glossy with health.

Lola insisted on going to the café after half an hour. She chatted non-stop while we stood in the queue, but my thoughts kept slipping back to the pictures.

‘Who would kill people, then leave pictures of angels by the bodies?’ I stared into the depths of my iced coffee.

‘God, you live in a dark world.’

‘Do you think he loves the angels, or hates them? Maybe he defaces them because they scare him.’

‘You worry me, Al. You really do.’

Lola seized the opportunity to fill me in on her romance. Life with the Greek god was still blissful − her existence seemed almost as mythical as the pictures we’d been admiring. For the time being she was the poster girl for passionate love affairs.

‘The poor boy must be exhausted,’ I commented.

As usual she was hurling herself into the relationship, like diving from a cliff blindfolded. Suddenly she focused on me, green eyes sharp as lasers. Lola’s always been uncomfortably good at interpreting my body language.

‘How are things going with Andrew?’

‘Okay, thanks.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘God, you’re uptight. I should have brought my tin opener.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. We’ve got a date tomorrow, if you must know.’

‘And?’

‘And I’m bricking it. The poor bloke doesn’t know what he’s getting into.’

She grabbed my hand. ‘It’ll be fine, Al, honestly. The guy’s crazy about you. How much do you actually know about him?’

‘Not a lot.’ I gave a shaky laugh. ‘He loves Chinese food, he lives in the City, and he works for a charity.’

‘Andrew set up the Ryland Foundation – he’s amazing. I can’t believe he hasn’t told you about it.’

Fortunately she soon flicked on to the next subject, which was one of her greatest skills. In a single breath she told me her view of the
X Factor
finalists, and the result of her audition for a cameo role in
EastEnders.

‘The sodding BBC,’ she groaned. ‘I still haven’t heard. I’m sure they’ve got my name on a file somewhere saying “do not employ”.’

We parted after an hour. I was determined to sunbathe and Lola was going flat hunting with Neal. We came to a halt in the middle of Trafalgar Square and she gave me a hug. Her feline grin stretched even wider as she watched the pigeons milling at our feet.

‘You’ve got to love them, haven’t you? Everything they see is a potential meal.’

Lola rushed away, her dress blazing a trail through the crowd. The next few hours were idyllic. I lay on the grass, drowsing in Southwark Park, then strolled home, determined not to notice any unwelcome admirers. My body felt so heavy and relaxed that I fell asleep on the sofa with the radio on. But something woke me just after midnight. I thought the weather had broken at last, claps of thunder detonating outside my window. But someone was kicking the front door so hard that the hinges threatened to break at any minute. My heart thumped painfully against my ribs. By the time I reached the door, the landing was empty. When I peered through the spy-hole, my neighbour was standing there, looking furious. I didn’t blame her; the racket must have woken the whole block.

I leant against the wall to steady myself. Clearly Darren hadn’t enjoyed being told to sling his hook. I picked up my phone and started to dial 999, then changed my mind. Someone kicking my door wasn’t a good enough reason to call emergency services. Darren would be riding a night bus through the suburbs by the time they arrived. I was too wired to go to bed, so I switched on the TV. An action film was playing, but it didn’t help my state of mind − the hero had eight minutes to save the world, even though time kept rewinding. I knew I should turn it off, but it was oddly mesmerising. The man couldn’t help himself. He kept boarding the same train, again and again, waiting for it to explode.

26

Sunday was anything but a day of rest. I phoned my brother twice, but there was no reply, and thinking about my date with Andrew made my heart jitter in my chest, like I’d knocked back three double espressos. I ran to Limehouse and back at top speed, but even that didn’t help. By the afternoon I was losing patience with myself. Andrew’s gift was still sitting where I’d left it, on the hall table. I hung it on a hook in my brother’s bedroom. The butterfly made an eye-catching splash of colour against the pale wall, and it made the room feel less empty. All that Will had left behind was the smell of tobacco, and a low-level buzz of worry that grew louder when I was tired.

I arrived at Leicester Square a few minutes early, but at least it gave me time to watch the crowds queuing outside the cinemas. An evening in the dark would be a welcome break from perpetual sunshine, watching other people’s stories flicker across the screen. But Andrew didn’t look like someone who planned to hide indoors when I spotted him on the other side of the road. He gave an exuberant wave as he rushed towards me. When he leant down to kiss my cheek, I caught a tang of the sandalwood aftershave I remembered from the Albion Club.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

Andrew grinned at me. ‘You’re in charge, remember.’

‘I’m starving, but I never remember restaurants’ names.’

‘I know somewhere good – it’s ten minutes by taxi.’

I’ve always loved black cabs. They seemed impossibly glamorous when I moved in from the suburbs; I felt like Audrey Hepburn every time I climbed into one. The Covent Garden streets were packed with couples. Young girls in tiny floral dresses were clinging to their boyfriends, arms woven around their waists. Andrew was studying me intently as the cab headed towards the City. It came to a halt on Queen Victoria Street, and I realised we were a stone’s throw from the spot where Jamie Wilcox’s body had been found on Gutter Lane. The taxi had delivered us right to the heart of the Angel Killer’s territory.

‘This is an odd place for a restaurant,’ I commented.

Andrew smiled. ‘I come here all the time, my place is just round the corner.’

We walked towards an imposing building with a polished silver door. The lift was the kind I always avoid, with clear glass doors, forcing you to watch the floors tick by. Andrew must have noticed my expression, because he put his arm round my shoulders as we rocketed towards the sky. At least the destination justified the anxiety. We emerged into a rooftop garden, complete with fountains and grass lawns. From the edge of the terrace, the city looked like a model village, the Thames a thin brown stream, twisting between landmarks. I could see Monument and Mansion House, trapped inside a necklace of roads.

‘I’m not sure about this,’ I said. ‘It’s too expensive, I always go Dutch.’

‘Treat me next time.’ He shrugged nonchalantly.

Almost every table was full, diners sheltering from the evening sun under white parasols. Handbags were slung across the backs of chairs like pennants, to demonstrate that their owners had taste as well as money: Prada and Gucci, in every colour of the rainbow. People were taking forever to consume their hors d’oeuvres, arranged like gem stones on their plates. Andrew sat beside me on a sofa while we waited for our drinks. His clothes were more relaxed than normal; he was wearing a grey shirt over a white T-shirt, and black linen trousers. His five-o’clock shadow had softened the outline of his face.

‘You’re inspecting me, Alice.’

‘I’m just checking you’re presentable. Otherwise I’d have to go home.’

‘And am I?’

‘You’ll do, I suppose.’

He spent the next half-hour teasing me, while we waited for a table. He admitted pumping Lola for information when she gave him my number.

‘She said you were the smartest girl in school, and I should call you, because it was donkey’s years since you’d been on a date.’

‘You’re lying. There’s no way she’d say that.’

He laughed at me. ‘I made the last bit up.’

The maitre d’ led us to our table, at the edge of the terrace. Lights were coming on across the city, silver chains marking the outline of the river. Andrew asked what I’d been doing at work, listening intently when I told him about receiving the angel card.

‘It sounds terrifying,’ he said. ‘I had no idea you worked so closely with the Met.’

‘It’s been too close for comfort lately. Tell me what you’ve been up to, I need distraction.’

He’d organised a lunch meeting with the chief executive of Marks & Spencer. If things went well, the company planned to donate millions to Save the Children. And he’d found time to drive over to Richmond to visit his sister in her new flat. ‘The staff are amazing,’ he said. ‘Someone helped her paint her room, and they’re even teaching her how to cook.’

I shook my head. ‘My brother knows how to make a meal, it’s every other social skill he’s forgotten.’

Andrew seemed too interested in watching me to concentrate on eating. Maybe he was as nervous as I was, because he ordered a second bottle of wine before our entrées arrived.

‘Can I ask a personal question?’ I said.

‘Go on then, if you must.’

‘What made you switch from banking to working for charities?’

The smile dropped from his face. ‘It was the waste. Money leaked through the floorboards − no one cared how much got spilled. It started to keep me awake.’

‘You sound like my friend Yvette. She’s not mad about bankers either.’

‘Who is? Now it’s my turn to ask you something personal.’

‘I’m not great at all that.’

‘Tell me about your last relationship.’

I choked on my mouthful of wine. ‘You’re joking.’

He grinned at me. ‘I’ll give you my full romantic history, if you give me yours.’

‘Go on then, you first.’

‘It’s not very impressive, I’m afraid: some hopeless infatuations at school, one amazing girl in my twenties. My thirties were hopeless, because I worked too hard. And here I am, forty-one, regretting my misspent youth.’

‘What happened to the amazing girl?’

‘Don’t try and wriggle, Alice. It’s your turn.’

I took a slug of wine. ‘One physiotherapist, a tango instructor, and a surgeon I should have hung onto. I’d rather not talk about the last one. He doesn’t deserve the air time.’

He laughed at me. ‘That’s all you’re prepared to say?’

I concentrated on my salad. ‘I’m not drunk enough.’

‘But did you master the art of tango?’

Andrew had a habit of making me laugh, then throwing in a serious question when I least expected it. By the time we’d finished dessert he’d discovered far more than I’d intended to reveal. He picked up our bottle of wine and I followed him across the terrace. We chose two deckchairs with a view to the east. By now the sky was dark blue and I could see past the glitter of Canary Wharf to the shipyards at Tilbury.

‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

‘A stone’s throw from here. I’ll show you tonight, if you like.’

‘You won’t.’ I shook my head.

He grinned. ‘Just as well, probably. I’ve only been there a few months – it’s crying out for some TLC.’

‘Go on then. Where is it?’

‘Why should I say, if you won’t come with me?’ His eyes studied the outline of my mouth.

‘To impress me with your posh address.’

When I turned to him, his face was so close that I noticed his eyes were a mix of amber, gold and brown. I leant across and kissed him. There was a mixture of pleasure and discomfort on his face when I drew back.

‘You’re killing me, Alice.’

‘Sorry.’

‘There are worse ways to go.’

We sat together talking until the restaurant closed, then he walked me back downstairs. The street was deserted as he pulled me into a doorway and kissed me again.

‘You’re not making this easy.’ His hands closed round my waist. ‘You’d better go home, or I’ll end up ravishing you in an alley.’

I was tempted to go with him, but I knew it was too soon. He was already walking away from me, into the Angel Killer’s territory, and I felt like winding the window down to warn him to take care. But the taxi had set off, and my head was spinning so badly, I couldn’t guess what direction we were following.

27

Dean Simons must have spent the weekend camping outside the police station. His grey hair was more dishevelled than ever, eyes red from booze or lack of sleep. It crossed my mind to harangue him for invading my privacy, but he would only misquote me, so I ignored him and marched up the steps. One of the photographers lunged in my direction, his flashbulb blinding me as I passed. The media frenzy must have been fuelling the Angel Killer’s sense of power. While stories about him dominated the front pages, he’d believe the whole city was in his grip.

Lorraine Brotherton was already sitting at the head of the table in her office when I arrived for the senior team briefing. She parted her grey curls and gave me a brief nod of welcome, tension emanating from her in waves. My gaze caught on a picture by her desk of a stone house with bright blue shutters.