A Killing of Angels (30 page)

Burns was knocking back huge swigs of coffee as though it was a universal cure. He was so preoccupied that I had the chance to study his new image. He was an inch away from being handsome. Two more stone and his transformation would be complete: a thin man stepping free of the fat suit he’d dragged around for years, Oliver Hardy morphing into Stan Laurel. I kept expecting his former self to reappear, desperate to vanquish him. Suddenly he strained forwards in his seat.

‘There she is,’ he said.

Sophie Kingsmith was standing in the doorway, chatting to her sentries, offering them mugs of tea and charming them with her anxious smile. Burns gazed at her approvingly.

‘How did that tosser get a girl like her?’ he muttered.

‘It’s a mystery. She must have low self-esteem.’

As soon as the men had finished their drinks, Sophie went back inside and lights appeared in the downstairs windows. I wondered what Max had been doing since the bank closed. He’d been advised to stay safe at home, but being trapped indoors, unable to work or play golf, must have been sending him into meltdown.

I flicked through Burns’s CD box to keep myself occupied: Curtis Mayfield, Ry Cooder, Al Green, Matthew P, Amy Winehouse. There were a few dubious choices hidden under the passenger seat − the Proclaimers and Adam Ant – but it was the wrong moment for criticism. When I looked up again, the house was a blaze of light. Maybe it was part of the family’s game plan. If the killer was lurking nearby, it gave the impression that the place was a fortress, and everyone inside was wide awake. Burns seemed determined to stay all night.

‘You’ll have to talk, to keep my eyes open,’ I said.

‘About what?’

‘Anything. What made you leave Edinburgh and come here?’

Burns’s shoulders twitched irritably, and I wondered if he disliked talking about his past as much as I did. ‘I grew up in Midlothian. There’s nothing in my village except miners’ cottages, a graveyard and a Spar, with everything past its sell-by. The pub was full to the rafters on Mondays when the dole cheques came, empty the rest of the week.’

‘So you escaped?’

‘I made a crap job of it.’ He kept his gaze fixed on the house. ‘Edinburgh Art College gave me a scholarship, but they chucked me out after a year for bad behaviour. I got the train down here with my tail between my legs. My father wouldn’t let me back in the house.’

I was too surprised to reply. My image of Burns didn’t include a wayward past, or a talent for life drawing. ‘Why did you choose the police?’

‘There weren’t many options. It was the army, the navy or the force. All I had to offer was my immaturity and a couple of highers.’

‘But you didn’t have to stay in, did you?’

He looked across at me. ‘What is this? Late-night psychoanalysis with Dr Alice Quentin?’

‘I’m just trying not to sleep.’

‘Okay then. Here’s my dirty little secret. I thought I’d hate the job, but it fits me to a T. Someone’s got to slap these monsters behind bars. And what would I be doing now if I’d gone to art school? I’d be grinding my soul to dust, teaching kids to draw in some shite school in Midlothian.’

‘And what’s your biggest ambition?’

‘Man alive. You don’t let up, do you?’ He thought for a moment. ‘I want my boys to have more choices. They can be deckchair attendants for all I care. I won’t pressure them.’ Burns looked stunned by his own candour. ‘Go on then. What’s your big dream?’

‘To learn to dive, on the Barrier Reef preferably.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Go and see
Open Water.
That’ll cure you.’

Burns’s fingers jittered across the steering wheel, and it was clear that the conversation was over. God knows how many shots he’d put in his coffee. I felt like pointing out that the killer was unlikely to approach a building with guards at every entrance. The 007s must be armed to the teeth. If he came anywhere near, he’d be riddled with bullets. When I looked up again, the front door had swung open, light spilling across the pavement. Max Kingsmith stomped over to us, wearing a furious expression. Burns groaned quietly as he got out of the car.

‘Go home, Inspector, before I call Scotland Yard,’ Kingsmith snarled. ‘You’ve done nothing to protect us, and you’re stopping my men from doing their work.’

He didn’t wait for a reply before pacing back up the steps.

‘Charming,’ Burns muttered.

Kingsmith’s order made me furious, but it was a blessing in disguise. Nothing had changed in the past two hours, and Burns looked like he was hallucinating, his eyes stretched uncomfortably wide. Maybe he was afraid to shut them in case his body lapsed into sleep. Lights were still blazing in every window, and the bodyguards had been replaced by clones in identical suits. Even the radio had fallen silent.

Burns drove slowly on the way home. When he turned to me, it was too dark to read his expression.

‘Were you keen on that Piernan bloke?’ he asked.

I nodded, but couldn’t reply. When I glanced at him again, he’d never looked more dejected. Going home must feel like admitting defeat; he was probably wishing he’d followed his original destiny to become an artist. He insisted on traipsing up the stairs to my flat, yawning deeply as we reached each landing. I watched him stumble back to his car with an odd, rolling gait. When he got home he’d go out like a light, immune to the loudest alarm clock.

A headache thumped at the base of my skull and I headed for the bathroom in search of Nurofen, tiptoeing past Lola’s door. It took me forever to fall asleep. I tried not to imagine the terror Poppy Beckwith had gone through. All I could hope was that the killer had shown her some mercy and sedated her first, but it seemed unlikely. His violence was escalating out of control.

I must have drifted off eventually, because a shrill, rattling noise woke me just after three. My mobile phone was flashing on the bedside table, but I couldn’t tell who was speaking. For a second I thought it was my mother, calling from Crete to harangue me for some unknown crime. Then I realised it was Sophie Kingsmith. Her voice was somewhere between a whisper and a scream.

‘Help me, please.’

I could hear her uneven breathing, and another voice in the background. She was talking so fast her words tumbled over each other, and by now I was sitting bolt upright.

‘Slow down, Sophie. I can’t hear you.’

‘He’s inside the house,’ she whispered. ‘We can’t get out.’

Noises buzzed behind her voice. Someone was whimpering; it was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. I was about to reply, but there was a loud, shattering noise, like a plate smashing against a wall, then the line went dead.

I went into panic mode, racing to put on my jeans. We should have ignored Kingsmith’s threat and stayed put until morning. I stuffed my phone and car keys into my pocket then ran downstairs to the ground floor. Will’s predictions about the weather had finally come true. Huge raindrops were plummeting from the sky. The smell of rain hitting the parched ground should have been a relief, but I hardly noticed it. Water coursed down my face, like I’d just climbed out of a swimming pool.

When I reached my car I made a hurried call to Burns, but there was no reply. Fortunately there was hardly any traffic, except a straggle of taxis, ferrying the last party-goers home. My windscreen wipers were working overtime as I crossed Tower Bridge − even on the highest setting they were struggling to clear the deluge. I drove west, triggering half a dozen speed cameras. Mooring lights flickered across the surface of the river as I tried to steady my breathing. Hopefully the police would be there already, and Burns would get his moment of glory when Sophie’s family were rescued. But I’d been too optimistic. There were no squad cars in sight when I reached Mayfair, and the black-suited security guards had disappeared. Rain gushed down the windscreen in torrents, as though someone was flinging buckets of water at the car. The house blurred then came into focus again. Sophie and her mother must be locked inside, cowering in their palatial living room.

Then it dawned on me that the killer always acted fast. My stomach contracted as I realised I’d arrived too late. By now the white feathers would have been scattered, yet another angel gazing up at the ceiling. And the bastard would be miles away, congratulating himself on a job well done. My impulse was to run straight up the steps and peer through the letterbox, but I could imagine the rage on Burns’s face. I dialled his number again but there was still no answer, so I left a message, then waited for him to call back. For once the city was keeping its mouth shut. All I could hear was rain pelting the roof of my car, the whine of a solitary motorbike, then silence. I remembered Burns’s unsteady walk. He’d be asleep by now, deaf to even the loudest ring tone. I would have to make my decision without help from anyone.

44

Worst-case scenarios kept running through my head: Sopie could be lying wounded inside the mansion, with Molly in her arms. Or maybe he’d slaughtered them all. My eyelids clamped shut to wipe the images away. The killer must have vanished into the back streets as soon as his work was done. Apart from the light pulsing from the windows of the house, there was no sign of life. It was hard to imagine anyone angry enough to kill a whole family. How could someone get inside, unless one of the Kingsmiths’ guards let him walk through the door? I picked up my phone and called 999. The woman who answered sounded disbelieving when I explained the situation, as though I might be a fantasist. I rang off immediately and climbed out of the car, the rain drenching me again. Anyone looking out of the windows would have seen a drowned rat, scurrying up the steps.

The door was open and there were no sounds coming from inside the house. He must have done his work and vanished, just like the other attacks. I gulped down a deep breath and reminded myself that it was too late for panic − all I had to do was search for survivors. My mouth felt like I’d swallowed a handful of salt as I stepped over the threshold. The first thing I saw was one of the black-suited security guards, slumped against a radiator, as though he was trying to keep warm. I knelt down and pressed two fingers against the artery in his neck. His skin was still warm, but there was no pulse. Blood was dripping from his shirt, and I knew that checking for wounds would be pointless − I had to concentrate on helping the living. Inside the man’s jacket I spotted his empty gun holster, and information started to slot into place. No one could overpower four armed security guards. The killer must have been waiting inside the building, ready to attack.

I knew I should wait outside, in case I contaminated the crime scene, but the sound of a man’s voice stopped me in my tracks. The low, guttural noise drifted from the other end of the hall, where another security guard was lying on the wooden floor. He’d been gagged, hands tied behind his back, a broad gash in the centre of his forehead. The wound was an ugly, inflamed red, but at least he was alive. His eyes kept blinking, as he fought to stay conscious.

‘It’s okay,’ I said quietly. ‘You’re safe now.’

My voice made him panic, his shoulders heaving like he was under attack. His eyes rolled wildly as I tried to undo the ties around his wrists. They were bound together with a length of plastic twine, and I was wrestling with the knots when a sound detonated, loud as a thunderclap. I didn’t register that it was a gunshot until the bullet ploughed into the wall in front of me. The next one came a second later and the guard slumped forwards, gouts of blood dropping to the floor. I set off up the stairs, my heart thudding against my ribs. My phone dropped from my back pocket as I ran, the plastic case clattering down the wooden stairs.

The lights went out as soon as I reached the landing − the killer must have found the fuse box and thrown the switch, and there was nothing to cling to except blackness. I flailed my arms like a windmill, desperate to touch something solid. A seam of light appeared in the dark. I slammed the door shut behind me, but when I reached down there was no lock, and the wooden panels felt flimsy. He could shoulder it down in seconds. I groped around until I found a chair, but when I jammed it under the handle, I knew it wouldn’t save me. All it could give me was a few extra moments to plan my escape. The footsteps had stopped. Maybe he’d tripped in the dark, or he was standing on the other side of the door, biding his time.

The only sounds I could hear were my breathing, raw with panic, and raindrops crashing against the window. For some reason I was convinced there were no survivors. Maybe he’d forced Kingsmith to watch while he shot Louise, then his wife and baby. I pressed my back against the wall. The most important thing was to stand away from the door. A single bullet would convert the wood to matchsticks.

The darkness lifted for a second as moonlight flooded through the window. The only furniture I could make out was a narrow single bed, a cabinet and a cupboard. It looked like I’d chosen one of the Kingsmiths’ spare bedrooms as my hideaway. I did my best to open the sash window but it was locked, and kicking out the panes wasn’t an option. The noise would give me away. He’d be waiting for me when I hit the ground, and I’d be trapped in the garden with nowhere to hide. My claustrophobia was getting the better of me. The oxygen supply seemed to be running down, dizziness overwhelming me. And then I heard it again. His footsteps on the landing, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. A thin beam of light appeared under the door − the bastard must be shining his torch through the gap. I held my breath until it felt like I was drowning, then he set off again, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He was searching for me in another room, peering under beds and tables.

I kept willing the rain clouds to evaporate so I could see again, but all I could rely on was my sense of touch. I wrenched the cupboard door open and inhaled the scent of lavender. It made me pity Sophie. She’d tried to make the place comfortable, putting lavender bags in every wardrobe, but it hadn’t protected her. My thoughts cleared for a second. The killer must know the house like the back of his hand, because he knew where the fuse box was, and he could find his way around with the lights switched off. His footsteps were closer now, gaining momentum, like he owned the place. And then the picture started to sharpen. Maybe the man striding from room to room was Kingsmith himself. That would explain why he’d sent us away. Somewhere along the line, his narcissism had tipped over into psychosis. He was destroying his own empire, because his dreams were about to be destroyed. The world he’d created was riddled with corruption. I remembered Andrew telling me that Kingsmith tried to destroy his enemies. Sacrificing the people closest to him would make him invincible. The power of life or death lay in his gift, like an Egyptian pharaoh.