A Killing of Angels (27 page)

The discussion failed to reassure me. I had to remind myself that Darren was just a distressed young man with mental health problems. He was unlikely to return with an AK-47 strapped to his back.

The temperature was still tropical when Steve Taylor called me on my mobile.

‘You’re needed at the station, pronto.’ He rang off before I could ask why.

In the taxi I kept hoping that the case was closed; the Angel Killer was banged up in a holding cell somewhere. But Taylor looked even shiftier than normal when he met me in reception. He led me to Brotherton’s office with an unpleasant smile stretched across his face, like a mask that could be peeled off at any minute.

‘The boss is in a meeting, and Burns is out running errands.’ He threw himself into Brotherton’s chair like it was his rightful throne.

‘Why did you call me?’

Taylor observed me through half-closed eyes. ‘To give you the chance to explain yourself.’

‘Sorry?’

‘If people knew what you’ve been up to, you’d be struck off. You were picking blokes up at a dinner we paid you to attend.’

‘You’ve got your facts wrong. A mutual friend gave Andrew my phone number.’

‘Piernan spent a fortune on you, didn’t he? I bet you got everything you wanted.’

‘What do you mean?’

He waved a piece of paper at me. ‘This is his bank statement. He gave a hundred grand to Guy’s for starters, then he spent twelve grand at the Bruton Gallery. And those flowers he sent you cost two hundred quid.’

I didn’t argue, too busy trying to make sense of it. Andrew must have paid for my therapy groups to continue, insisting that his donation stay anonymous. And he’d lied about the butterfly print being a free gift, to save embarrassment. The experience was beginning to feel unreal. Taylor must have spent days plotting how to get rid of me, to leave Burns without an ally.

‘You’ve been running rings round poor old Don, haven’t you?’ Taylor’s tone was loaded with fake pity. ‘He’s put a hole in our budget, while you went after a rich boyfriend. You’d better tell me exactly what happened.’

In the end I gave him the dates when I’d met Andrew, just to get him off my back, and he made an elaborate show of recording them on an evidence form: Lola’s workshop, running in Regent’s Park, the private view, and dinners we’d shared. I didn’t tell him about Andrew’s late-night visit to my flat, because I had no desire to make his day. He studied the list ponderously.

‘All these dates, but you never suspected a thing. Aren’t you meant to be the big expert on human behaviour?’

‘I’ve already told you, Andrew wasn’t involved.’

‘So it’s a coincidence that the attacks have stopped, even though there’s a shed-load of evidence at his place? Burns told us about your little adventure, by the way. You’ve only got yourself to blame. Muggers are bound to have a go if you wander around by yourself at night.’

I ignored him. ‘It’ll happen again. The bank’s fallen apart, but that won’t satisfy him. He hates the people, not the business itself.’

Taylor lay back in his chair, hands relaxed on the armrests. ‘One more thing, for the record.’ His gaze travelled from my legs to my chest. ‘Was your relationship with Piernan sexual?’

I stood up so fast that my chair bounced off the wall. ‘There are therapy groups for men like you.’

‘Brotherton won’t be thrilled when she hears all this.’ The look on his face was triumphant. ‘You should jump before you’re pushed.’

I gave the door a cathartic slam as I left. The discussion had made me so angry, I felt like smashing something. It was easy to see why kids threw bricks at shop windows − for the shattering noise, and the river of glass flooding across the pavement. I decided to walk home to try to calm down. The temperature was still warm enough to raise a sweat as I reached Victoria Embankment. A sign was inviting tourists to visit HMS
President,
but she didn’t look welcoming. Her hull was the lacklustre grey of a whale’s skin, exposed too long to the air. When I reached Broken Wharf it was clear that the area had repaired itself years ago. The river path was lined with wine bars, and the men sunning themselves were wearing such smart suits that business must have been booming. I was about to call Burns while I queued for a drink, but my phone rang before I could find his name in my contacts list. My brother’s name appeared in the window.

‘You again, sunshine. What are you up to?’

When he finally replied, his words were strung out like beads on a necklace. ‘It’s amazing down here. You don’t need to worry about me.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ A tight knot of distress was forming in my stomach. Will sounded as lost as I felt. I seemed to have lost my ability to protect people, even myself.

‘Take a look at the clouds, Al. You should be careful, there’s something weird happening in the sky.’

I wanted to ask more questions, but his voice was breaking up, and then the line went dead. I collected my iced tea, and for some reason I felt obliged to follow his instruction. I scanned the horizon carefully, pivoting on the spot, but there wasn’t a cloud in sight. All I could see was a plane flying overhead, its white vapour trail slicing the sky neatly in two.

38

The air had stopped circulating. It hung motionless above the river, and even the barges looked lethargic, drifting slowly with the tide. The police were in the same position, changing direction with every new current, never making any headway. I sat down on a bench and tried to imagine what would happen if the Angel Killer wasn’t found − more people would die, Taylor would crow about his boss’s failures, and Burns would lose his job. I scanned the pages of my profile report. It was covered in scribbled notes and splashes of highlighter, but it still wasn’t helping. The killer had planned his attacks so coolly, working obsessively to cover his tracks, with no overt sexual motive. His obsession was with all the staff, past and present, who’d worked at the Angel Bank. It seemed like anyone who signed their employment contract was on his hit list.

My mind raced as I stared at my notes. I felt certain of just two things: Stephen Rayner had been concealing something during his interview, and Poppy Beckwith was implicated in some way. Gresham and Fairfield’s pillow talk must hold clues about why they were killed.

When I looked at my watch it was almost seven. Any rational person would have gone home, but the echoes in my flat were still too loud. I made a snap decision and caught a bus heading west. When I finally reached Raphael Street, I knew there was no point in ringing the doorbell – Poppy’s human Rottweiler would savage me if I bothered her again, so I sat on a low wall opposite her building, hoping the branches of a lime tree would hide me if she looked out of her window.

The parade of men going in and out of Poppy’s flat was enough to make a diehard romantic cynical. A careworn businessman marched up the steps at eight o’clock. He looked like he’d worked all day at the Treasury, balancing important sums. When he emerged half an hour later, his demeanour was brighter. He’d abandoned his tie, and a dumb grin covered his face. Poppy’s next client was a musician I vaguely recognised. He glanced around furtively before going inside, and when he reappeared he gazed up at Poppy’s window longingly. Then he lit a cigarette and sauntered away.

By half past nine I was beginning to regret my fool’s errand. I was about to leave when a dark blue BMW pulled up. It parked in a narrow space outside Poppy’s building, and I pretended to check my phone messages. When I looked up again, my jaw dropped. Henrik Freiberg was getting out of the car, still dressed in the ill-fitting suit he’d worn at the Angel Bank, even though the auditors had closed the place. He disappeared into the apartment block before I could react. A red curtain was fluttering from one of the windows of Poppy’s apartment, like a flag of victory.

I dialled Burns’s number but it was constantly engaged. Just as I was about to give up, Freiberg reappeared. For once he had a spring in his stride, as though someone had given him an injection of courage. I crossed the road and stood beside his car. A series of emotions crossed his face: anger and embarrassment, swiftly followed by shame. He tried to dive into his car, but as soon as I heard the click of his central locking, I jumped into the passenger seat. Shock had rendered him speechless, and he shrank behind the steering wheel as though he expected me to attack him.

‘Let’s go somewhere quiet, please, Mr Freiberg,’ I said.

He followed my instructions to the letter, and I realised how he’d hung on to his job as Kingsmith’s deputy. He was a typical beta male, happy to submit to anyone with a stronger personality. Poppy probably walked all over him in six-inch heels. The car smelled of expensive soap. He must have chosen the deluxe service, then taken a shower, so he’d be squeaky-clean when he went home. Freiberg drew up in a cul-de-sac off Albany Street, staring through the front window as though the car was still moving.

‘Why are you following me?’ he mumbled.

‘How long have you been visiting Poppy?’

His gaze bounced from my face, like a tennis ball glancing from a hard surface. ‘I was visiting a business associate, not that it’s any of your business.’ He was beginning to stammer, beads of sweat gathering on his top lip.

‘Look, I’m not doing this to embarrass you. You could be in danger. Some of the victims were Poppy’s clients. You know that, don’t you?’

Freiberg was coming apart at the seams. His mouth opened then snapped shut again, like a mechanical toy, grey hair flopping across his forehead. I was afraid he might be ill, so I leant over and tried to make eye contact.

‘I try to stop seeing her, but it never works. Don’t tell my wife, please. I’ll do anything.’ His words came out in a high-pitched whimper. The idea of disclosure seemed to terrify him more than the danger he was in.

‘It’s none of my business. Of course I won’t tell her.’

My reassurance failed to convince him. Freiberg carried on gazing ahead, gripping the wheel like it was his one chance of retaining his sanity. After a few minutes I got out of the car and left him to finish his panic attack. Confronting him had served no purpose. All it told me was that yet another member of the Angel Bank’s staff was enjoying Poppy’s services. I might as well have carried on sitting on the wall, watching the stars come out.

It was after eleven when I finally started the trek home. A half-moon was hovering over the roofs of Knightsbridge, pale and sickly against the light-polluted sky. I had plenty of time to study it, because the bus ride took forever. I was starting to regret confronting Freiberg. The combination of concealing his visits to Poppy and the auditors crawling over the bank seemed to be pushing him to the limits.

The bus ground to a halt at Victoria beside a group of travellers. Their faces had that lost, expectant look that people always wear when they start a long journey. My mind drifted to Andrew’s last trip to Paris, but I managed to silence the thought as soon as it arrived.

When I got back to Providence Square, a fire engine was blocking the road. A summer party must have gone spectacularly wrong, the bonfire raging out of control, because firelight was reflecting from the white faces of the buildings. Locals were hanging around, hoping for a better view. And when I turned the corner, I could see why. Will’s van was alight. It looked like a giant firework, with flames shooting through the windows into the night sky. I tried to push past the crowd, but three officers were holding everyone back. The intensity of the fire was growing, and they must have been afraid it would spread to the cars nearby. My eyes closed as I remembered the years when Will lived on the road, and nothing could persuade him to come inside. When I opened them again, I saw Darren on the other side of the square, sitting on a white scooter. He rode away before I could move a muscle.

It took a long time to find a policeman and explain that the van belonged to my brother. He gave me a disapproving look then made a note of my details.

‘It’ll be kids,’ he grumbled. ‘They do this sort of thing for a dare.’

‘I know who started it.’

I gave him Darren’s name, explaining that he’d escaped from Guy’s. The policeman looked amazed as he scribbled everything down. He seemed to find the story more intriguing than
EastEnders
on a good night. I stared past him at my brother’s van. Water was pouring through the front window, and there was a muffled explosion as the bonnet blew open, the gutters flooding with oily water. I walked back to my flat. I was too tired to worry about potential attackers as I climbed the stairs − Darren would be miles away by now, and it was hard to see why he’d targeted the van. Maybe it was because my name was printed on the sign by the parking bay. It seemed odd that the sight of Will’s van burning like an effigy hadn’t upset me. A young man with a head full of guns and knives was targeting me, but it didn’t seem to matter. The only thing I cared about was finding Andrew’s killer. My emotions were so blunted, my safety mechanism had shut down, and that was a problem. I should have been scared, but warning signs didn’t affect me any more.

39

I called Burns before breakfast the next morning, and left a garbled message, telling him about Freiberg’s visit to Poppy. The morning sky was grey instead of blue when I went down to inspect Will’s van, but it felt more sweltering than ever. The van looked even worse by daylight. All that remained was a blackened shell, the seat cushions reduced to a tangle of charred leather, every window shattered. The heat had been so intense that the tarmac had melted under the front wheels, fusing the axles to the road.

Hari rang as soon as I got back inside, and for once his calm had deserted him. He sounded horrified when I told him it looked as though Darren had started the fire.

‘Why didn’t you call me, Alice? You could have stayed with us.’

‘Maybe I’m overreacting. I don’t think he means any real harm.’

‘How real do you want it? He’s attacked you once already, we can’t take any chances.’

I did my best to keep busy all day. I logged into my work email and found an invitation from a teaching hospital in Seattle to fly over and train their interns. In an ideal world I’d have jumped on a plane immediately. I could stroll by Puget Sound, and spend the evenings listening to music on Jackson Street, pretending nothing had happened. My mobile rang again while I was planning my escape. There was a pause, then a woman’s quiet voice greeted me.