A Killing of Angels (32 page)

47

It was hard to tell whether I was shaking because my clothes were soaked, or because shock had finally set in, but it was a struggle to climb the steps to the police station. A crowd of photographers were already heading in my direction, with Dean Simons leading the pack.

‘Been up to your usual tricks, Alice?’ His voice was too loud, roughened by gallons of cheap booze.

Burns cut a swathe through the crowd and I kept my head down, ignoring the voices yelling at me, and the dazzle of flashbulbs. As soon as we got inside I turned to him.

‘Can you arrest that bloke for something, please?’

‘Harassment or invasion of privacy?’ Burns asked.

‘Both.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

When we reached the incident room my hands were fluttering against my sides, and Steve Taylor was refusing to meet my eye. His low spirits must have been due to wounded pride − there was no way on God’s earth that he could claim victory this time. If Brotherton made cuts, he’d be the first one to receive his P45. Burns strutted past and led me to his office. He made me coffee, then passed me a packet of digestives.

‘Get those down you,’ he said. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’

I crammed a biscuit into my mouth, then tackled the mug of coffee, my teeth clattering against the china. I was trying to understand why I still couldn’t cry. Distress was churning in the pit of my stomach but, at this rate, it would be there until the end of time. Hari would say it was Alexithymia – the inability to express emotions – or clinical depression, the nation’s favourite cause of insomnia and eating problems. When Burns finally returned I was staring blankly at the wall, but at least I’d managed to eat half the biscuits.

‘She’s talking already,’ he said. ‘The doctor’s trying to fix her face, but she won’t shut up.’

‘Is her mum okay?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘She’d locked her in a room on the ground floor. She sedated her, and the security guards. The ambulance blokes thought the old girl was having a heart attack when she came round. She hasn’t been told what Sophie’s done yet – they’re waiting till she’s stronger.’

‘And Kingsmith?’

‘She saved him until the end. Maybe she was hoping he’d change. But he wouldn’t apologise for seeing Poppy, so she shot him, point blank.’

I winced. ‘Where did she get the Rohypnol?’

‘It’s not hard, is it? She probably bought a job lot on the internet for less than a hundred quid.’

I rubbed my hand across my eyes. ‘So she killed them all for sleeping with Poppy. But why did Jamie Wilcox go to her? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Peer pressure. I bet the bigwigs took him for a drink, and the next thing you know, they’re having a whip-round to send him to their favourite girl.’

‘An initiation ceremony.’

Burns’s eyebrows rose. ‘Beats biting the head off a chicken, I suppose.’

I stared back at him and his image wavered. I remembered the film clip he’d shown me of the young, broad-shouldered man in a hooded top, coolly pushing Leo Gresham to his death. Sophie must have bought a tracksuit somewhere, and carried out her plan without a flicker of guilt. And when she transformed herself into a long-haired blonde, she became someone else. The kind of woman who could pick up men in a crowded bar, or persuade a prison guard to carry drugs into Wormwood Scrubs.

I was still struggling to understand how she’d got hold of Rayner’s camera. But I remembered her complaining about all the events she had to attend. As the boss’s wife, she would have known all the executives, and overheard plenty of indiscreet conversations at champagne-fuelled dinners. It would have been easy to borrow her husband’s master key to unlock Rayner’s office.

‘Did you know she was mates with Piernan, too?’ Burns asked.

By now my mind was on overload. I closed my eyes but the pictures wouldn’t go away. She must have sedated him, then hauled his body into the bath, slitting his wrists for good measure. The details had been so carefully planned. She’d incriminated him by leaving the angel cards and Rohypnol in his flat. And she’d even sent herself a card, to make sure she looked innocent.

‘It was her who attacked me, wasn’t it?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘You’re not her favourite girl. But at least you got your own back tonight.’

‘Her barrister’s bound to say it was postnatal psychosis.’

Burns shook his head briskly. ‘I reckon she was planning it before she got pregnant. We just got hold of her medical records. She had a psychotic episode in her teens and tried to top herself. But I don’t think that’s the reason. It was just a fucked-up version of love − she got wise to her husband’s tricks, so she made them all suffer.’

‘Why did she bother with the angel cards and the feathers?’

‘Her dad was a vicar. Maybe she couldn’t stand all that sin.’

I remembered the discreet crucifix her mother wore, how could a religious upbringing result in so many deaths?

‘She said something else,’ Burns carried on. ‘She was planning to go after Nicole, for having a fling with Max.’

The idea took a moment to register. It made sense that Nicole would aim for a multimillionaire as her next husband, even if they were both still married. It seemed ironic that Liam had saved her life. If Sophie had got there first, dissecting her face wouldn’t have been enough − she’d have slit her throat too.

Burns looked more upbeat than he had in weeks. I could tell from his expression that his confidence was returning. If Taylor had appeared, he’d have hurled him out of the window.

‘Give me a minute then I’ll drive you home,’ he said.

His idea of a minute could stretch to an hour, depending on how many distractions came his way. As I tried to get comfortable on my plastic chair, I noticed Poppy’s appointment book on his desk. I tried to restrain myself, but it was a losing battle. The pages made fascinating reading. Men from all walks of life had used Poppy’s services: a game-show host; my favourite stand-up comedian; even a world-class tennis player. On the second page I saw Andrew’s name, and I realised that Burns had been trying to protect me, as usual, even though it was blindingly obvious. It still hurt to see his surname written in Poppy’s looping scrawl. Andrew had booked a weekly slot in her schedule until a few months ago. I stared out of the window and tried not to judge him. He’d driven himself so hard that there’d been no time for a personal life. In his shoes I might have done the same. I knew how it felt to work yourself into a stupor, then go home to an empty bed.

Outside the window, the sky was lightening, and when I glanced at my watch it was almost seven. The rest of the city would be eating breakfast by now, or taking a shower, preparing for another day at work. I was ready to leave when Burns finally came back. My hands were still shaking, but I was determined to walk to my car unaided, without anyone propping me up. The ground rocked when I got to my feet, and Burns reached out to steady me. He was standing in front of the window, shoulders broad enough to block out the light. There was a mix of emotions in his eyes – surprise, pity, maybe even a hint of admiration. I wondered if he was about to deliver more bad news, because I’d never seen him look so serious.

‘Can I go home now, Don?’

‘Not just yet.’ He was still refusing to smile.

It was a surprise when he put his arms round me, but I should have remembered that comfort is Burns’s speciality. My cheek rested on his shoulder and it felt like trying to embrace a giant. Neither of us pulled away, until someone walked past, heels clicking on the lino outside the door. He was still looking at me as I drew back, with a complicated expression on his face. When I glanced down I noticed a dark stain on the arm of my T-shirt, as big as a fist, beginning to turn brown. My clothes were covered in patches of dried blood. No wonder Burns had taken pity on me. I must have looked like the archetypal pathetic blonde – white-faced and shaking like a leaf, almost too shocked to move.

48

I got some odd looks as I marched through the station, covered in bloodstains, with messy, uncombed hair. Lorraine Brotherton’s office door was half open, and I caught a glimpse of her. She was wearing a dark grey dress, which matched the clouds outside. Luckily she didn’t spot me. She was too busy examining the contents of her filing cabinet to haul me in for a lecture on safety protocols. No doubt she was longing to slip back into anonymity when the furore died down. She’d probably already booked the car ferry to St Malo.

For once the press ignored me when I got outside. They were too busy taking pictures of Dean Simons resisting arrest. He was shrieking about injustice as two uniforms dragged him up the steps.

I skirted round the side of the crowd and got into my car. It was the middle of the morning rush hour, and everything was still coated with a layer of artificial calm. Andrew would have felt the same in the moments before he died, afloat on a sea of Rohypnol. But something changed when I put my hands on the steering wheel. I felt steadier, and even the traffic was soothing, the mechanical routine of driving as easy as running. All I had to do was shift gear and let my instincts protect me − with luck I could avoid knocking anyone down. At first I drove without any sense of purpose, apart from escaping everything I’d seen. I wasn’t ready to go home, even though I was desperate for a shower. It was only when I passed the edge of Regent’s Park that I realised where I wanted to be. The paths were almost empty, rain falling in long, unbroken sheets. Even the most obsessive marathon runners had stayed at home.

It took less than half an hour to double back into the City. I parked my car on Lombard Street, then dug around on the back seat for my mac, buttoning it up to cover my filthy clothes. I felt too weak to use the stairs, which presented me with a problem. The concierge smiled reassuringly as I stepped into the glass-bottomed lift. The first moments were the worst; listening to the doors click shut, knowing it was too late to escape. But the aversion therapists are right − avoidance is not an option. The only way to tackle a phobia is to feel the fear and do it anyway. I tried not to hold my breath as the numbers ticked by.

Luckily there was just one policeman guarding Andrew’s flat, and he looked fresh out of Hendon.

‘DI Burns sent me,’ I told him. ‘I need to go in, please.’

‘Have you got some ID?’

I flashed my NHS card at him and the young man nodded politely. He was so green that yesterday’s lottery ticket would probably have done the trick.

The flat was exactly as I remembered, with a row of huge black-and-white photos lining the hall. The skyscrapers were packed so close together that they looked like schoolkids, standing in line, vying to be the tallest. I felt sure Stephen Rayner had taken them. They had the same sharp-edged beauty as the landscapes in his flat, and I couldn’t help wondering how he’d cope with the fact that the snaps he’d taken of his Angel Bank colleagues had condemned them to death.

I rummaged through the cupboards in Piernan’s kitchen until I found his supply of booze, then filled a shot glass with Irish malt. I stood beside the panoramic window as the alcohol scorched my throat. Rain was pelting the streets, but London was carrying on regardless, executives sheltering under umbrellas as they raced from one transaction to the next. I could see the Angel Bank building, still standing tall, even though it had been shut down and its directors were lying in the mortuary. The Square Mile didn’t seem to give a damn. Soon another bank would take over the lease and start operating again, led by a new financial guru.

I don’t know how long I stood there. But I remember going back for a refill, trying to dissolve the tightness inside my ribcage. All my coping strategies had deserted me for the time being. Normally I worked hard to avoid acknowledging pain: burying myself in work, sprinting for miles or hitting the town with Lola. But today it was inescapable. I closed my eyes but Andrew refused to appear. I’d been wrong to imagine that I could come here and say goodbye to his ghost. It had departed a long time ago. The only things he’d left behind were expensive furniture, a shelf full of adventure stories and the sterile smell of loneliness. But at least the whisky was taking hold. Soon I’d be strong enough to go home and face the inevitable tsunami of sympathy from Lola, and the Warhol butterfly, trapped in its wooden frame. I perched on the edge of a stool and made a string of rash promises to myself. In future I’d work less and see more of my friends, stop worrying about my brother. And I’d run the marathon in a decent time, so no one could ever see me as a weakling again. I gazed at the cupola of St Paul’s, its stone pallid against the dark sky. Burns’s skin had been the same colour today, chalk white with tiredness and relief. I drained the last drops from my glass and forced myself back onto my feet.

The rain was falling more gently when I left the building. My clothes were already so drenched that I didn’t bother to hurry back to the car. I stood on the pavement, letting the droplets massage my face, and a man went by on a scooter, slowing down for a better look. It’s funny how the simplest thing can undo you. His Lambretta was a newer, cleaner version of Darren’s, and suddenly I was kneeling beside him again, watching his eyes lose focus. For once it was easy to cry, and the weather provided the perfect camouflage. The drivers in passing cars would never have guessed. All they’d have seen was a thin blonde in a white coat, with her face to the sky, celebrating the end of a long drought.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Teresa Chris for being a fierce angel and Ruth Tross for being a ministering one; without your excellent help this book would not have been written. Thanks are also due to Andrew Martin for your kind encouragement and a fine glass of wine at Harrogate. Much gratitude to Hope Dellon, Dave Pescod, Miranda Landgraf, Penny Hancock and the 134 club for their readings and sound advice. The helpful staff of the National Gallery gave me some invaluable guidance on angels and art history. Many thanks to DC Laura Shaw for her good company and for setting me straight on police matters.

Also by Kate Rhodes