A Killing of Angels (4 page)

‘Gresham wasn’t getting his kicks at home, that’s for sure. Have you checked his emails and his phone?’

‘The IT guys are looking into it.’

It was eleven by the time Burns dropped me at work. The usual rush of stale air greeted me when I stepped into my consulting room. Almost before I could peel off my linen jacket, three depressives arrived in quick succession. Two were making a good recovery, but the other was refusing to take medication, convinced it played havoc with his mind. After twenty minutes of listening to his despair, my alarm bells were ringing. At the end of the session I asked him to reconsider, but he looked horrified, as though I’d advised him to go out and buy crack cocaine.

The lift didn’t appeal when I left work. My painkillers were starting to wear off, and I couldn’t face people pressing against me from all sides. The air conditioning kept me artificially cool as I made my way down the twenty-four flights, but outside it must have been forty degrees. A heat haze shimmered above the tarmac, the buildings across the street wavering like a mirage.

The front door was hanging wide open when I reached the flat. I stood on the threshold and called Will’s name, but there was no reply. The door was still intact – at least the burglars had done a tidy job of picking the lock. I forced myself to march from room to room, but nothing had been taken. My pulse had almost returned to normal when I got back to the kitchen, and I remembered Will telling me he was going to his NA meeting. He must have forgotten to shut the door, happy to let any passing opportunist rob us blind. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine him sitting in a group, repeating the Narcotics Anonymous mantra: ‘My name is Will and I’m a drug addict.’ The picture refused to take shape, and when I opened my eyes again, my gaze fell on his VW van, hogging my parking space outside. Even though it was falling apart, he still saw it as a refuge. There was no point in nagging him to sell it before the council towed it away.

Will came home just after I finished dinner, and I was primed to deliver my lecture on home security. But he seemed in no mood to listen. He was clutching a slip of paper, a broad smile plastered across his face. He hobbled straight past me into his room − my stern advice would have to wait for another day. An hour later I heard him humming to himself; a contented sound, like a child discovering a brand-new toy. The scrap of orange paper lay on the hall table with his keys. It was an entrance pass to The Great Escape festival, with a phone number scrawled on the back. God knows who the number belonged to. I had visions of hippies lying on Brighton beach in a drug-addled haze − all the progress he’d made would vanish in the space of one weekend. My first instinct was to rip the ticket to shreds, but I forced myself to put it back.

When I got back to the living room, I saw the pile of reports on the table, and realised I’d forgotten to fax my licence to Lorraine Brotherton. For some reason the thought cheered me up. It would be fascinating to see her reaction if someone stepped out of line. The shock might tear down her mantle of invisibility, just for a second or two.

5

By Thursday morning confidentiality had become a thing of the past. The air conditioning still wasn’t working, and I couldn’t shut the door in case my patients collapsed from asphyxiation. I tried to concentrate on my case notes, but when I heard a sound in the corridor, Darren was standing there. An odd, prickling feeling travelled across the back of my neck. I don’t know why he unnerved me so much. It wasn’t just the fact that he’d attacked me − there was something unpredictable about his body language, as if he could implode at any minute. He was having trouble meeting my eye, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His shaved hair was beginning to grow back, a few millimetres of black stubble blurring the outline of his skull. My finger hovered over the panic button under my desk.

‘You’re two days late, Darren. Dr Chadha was expecting you on Tuesday.’

‘It’s you I need to see,’ he mumbled, ‘to say thanks for not dobbing me in. I owe you one.’

‘The only thing you owe me is to stop using your fists.’

He stared back at me with an odd, fixed gaze. ‘You’re different from the rest, aren’t you?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You did me a favour. I look after people like you.’

The smile had disappeared from Darren’s face. He seemed to be growing more agitated, his mouth opening then closing again, as if the power of speech was deserting him. I was about to press the panic button when he crossed the room. I stood up to defend myself and time flicked into slow motion. It felt like I had hours to study the spider’s web tattoo spinning across his neck. When his fingertips brushed my hand they felt unnaturally hot, and his face was so close, I could see the sharp line between his pupils and dark irises.

‘Nothing’s going to hurt you again,’ he whispered, ‘I promise.’

Darren disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived. My legs were still trembling, but the only thing he’d left behind was the smell of panic and unwashed clothes. I got the sense that he wanted my help, even if he was incapable of asking for it. The next step would be getting him to agree to a diagnostic meeting. I typed his name into my computer and scanned his record: Darren Campbell, twenty years old, unemployed. He was sent to a Roman Catholic children’s home when he was nine, after his mother died. His father’s identity was unknown. Then he’d spent a year in Feltham for assaulting someone outside a pub. The victim was in a coma for weeks, but Darren had shown no remorse. He claimed that the man had raped a girl he knew; he was only getting what he deserved.

I glanced at the bottom of the report. His address was the City YMCA − shorthand for no fixed abode. I could picture the building on Fann Street, close to Barbican Tube. A featureless box of concrete, studded with minute windows, with no trees in sight. It was hard to imagine anyone flourishing there. I turned off my computer and stared out of the window. No wonder he was disturbed. His past had convinced him that the best way to deal with unfairness was to use his fists, and I could understand why. Watching Will suffering often left me desperate to punch a wall.

At lunchtime I dragged myself out of the building to a Turkish café on Borough High Street. Lola was there already, tucking into a plate of falafel. She had the sleek look of a pampered cat as she savoured each mouthful, and I felt glad I hadn’t cancelled our lunch, even though I had a million things to do. Darren had cast a shadow over my morning, but he wasn’t going to spoil my afternoon.

‘You’ve got news, haven’t you?’

‘He’s perfect, but he’s a bit young.’ She took a gulp of orange juice. ‘He’s nineteen.’

‘Bloody hell, Lo. A teenager.’

She looked embarrassed for a second, then released a peal of laughter that bounced off the café walls. ‘He’s called Neal and he’s adorable. Knowing my luck he’ll dump me for a buxom sixteen-year-old.’ She waxed lyrical about her toyboy, then turned her attention to the reasons why I was single. ‘The trouble is, you’ve forgotten how to flirt, haven’t you?’

‘Honestly, Lo, I’m not even looking.’

‘One smile and blokes are on their knees. Go on, try it on that waiter over there, before you lose your powers.’

I gave her an imploring look, but she wouldn’t give up. ‘The tall one by the door?’

‘Give him the full force of your charm.’

Once I’d made eye contact the rest was easy, because he broke the ice and smiled first. For a moment the pain from my injury disappeared completely.

Lola patted my hand. ‘That wasn’t so tough, was it? I bet you’ve made his day.’

‘Rubbish. He probably grins non-stop, to get bigger tips.’

She entertained me with details of her sex life, while I sipped my bitter Turkish coffee. At least she was happy. She was radiating so much contentment, it would have been churlish to rain on her parade. After half an hour I grabbed my bag to go back to work.

‘Don’t forget about Saturday, will you?’ She eyed me expectantly.

I couldn’t remember what I’d agreed to. ‘Of course not.’

The waiter I’d practised my smile on beamed at me as I left. Maybe Lola was right. The last time I’d flirted with anyone was in the Dark Ages; it might be time to throw caution to the wind.

I spent the rest of the afternoon on autopilot, with rivulets of sweat running between my shoulder-blades. My last appointment was with a middle-aged man who’d been in pain since a car crash two years ago. His face was cadaverous, every bone visible under his skin, and his addiction to painkillers was making the problem worse. He seemed so desperate that I let his appointment overrun by fifteen minutes.

I was running late by the time the cab set off for the police station. Two things had been bothering me since I’d seen the CCTV film from King’s Cross: the way Gresham’s hands had scrabbled at thin air when he fell to his death, and the fact that Burns was so isolated. I felt duty bound not to let him down. Sunlight was still burning through the car window. It had been weeks since the last rainfall, and every time I turned the radio on, farmers were complaining about crop failure and reservoir levels at an all-time low. I peered at the river as we crossed London Bridge. The drought had made no difference. It was the same murky brown as always, churning with secrets.

DSI Brotherton was waiting for me in her office. She was wearing the generic black trouser suit owned by every professional female in the Western world, and even her accent was hard to pin down. It came from somewhere north of Watford, with just a hint of the Black Country.

‘I didn’t receive your licence, Dr Quentin.’ She lowered her pen onto the table.

I handed over the envelope and she motioned for me to sit down. Her office was lined with colour-coded files, dating back to the Eighties. Her system looked so robust, she could have located anything within seconds. She filed my envelope in a cabinet and instantly seemed more relaxed. It must have been a relief to catalogue me, between all the other shrinks she’d employed over the decades. Brotherton peered at me through her curtain of grey curls.

‘You know Don Burns well, don’t you?’

‘Not really. I’ve only worked with him once before.’

‘But he trusts your judgement. He was adamant about using you, instead of a specialist from Scotland Yard.’ The lines on her forehead deepened. ‘Are you aware that Burns had quite a reputation at Southwark?’

I shook my head.

‘He didn’t follow procedures. I can’t fault his commitment, but I won’t tolerate that kind of approach here − I hope you’ll reinforce that message for me.’

‘Certainly. But wouldn’t it have more impact if you warned him yourself ?’ I gazed back at her.

‘I have, Dr Quentin. But policemen are lawbreakers by nature, and Burns is no exception. As far as he’s concerned, I’m invisible.’ Her lips trembled with amusement. She obviously knew about her nickname − maybe she’d coined it herself, to give weight to her reputation.

Brotherton ended our conversation by pressing a buzzer on the wall. A young man arrived in seconds, and he marched me along the corridor as if I was guilty of a grievous offence. When I got to the incident room, Taylor was swaggering around like he owned it, his tie hanging loose around his throat. I logged onto the nearest computer and scanned the evidence files. They’d doubled since the day before: dozens of interviews flooding into the system. Gresham’s colleagues, friends from his church and golf club, had all given their opinions. I read a couple of interview forms but no one had reported a change in his behaviour. Taylor’s sickly aftershave hit the back of my throat as soon as he sat down.

‘Are you looking for Burns?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘I’m updating my report.’

‘Forgive me for saying this, but you don’t look much like a shrink to me.’ His full-on eye contact was probably meant to be sexy.

‘I know. Growing a beard’s a struggle for me.’

The joke sailed straight past him and he carried on staring. ‘You can always ask me for help. If anyone gives you a hard time, I’ll deal with them.’

‘I’ll keep that in mind. Have you got some new information for me, DS Taylor?’

He grinned, then lounged back in his chair. ‘I have, as a matter of fact. Gresham’s deputy, Stephen Rayner, was off work the day his boss died. You should have a word with him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s a liar. He told his mates at the bank he’s got a fiancée, but it’s bollocks. She doesn’t exist.’

‘That doesn’t make him a killer. Plenty of people hate admitting they’re single.’

‘He got cautioned for punching a colleague, years ago. The bloke can’t control himself.’ Taylor’s expression hardened. ‘He knows more than he’s saying, I’d put money on it.’

Uncertainty didn’t seem to feature in his emotional repertoire, so I didn’t reply. I got the impression that trying to change Taylor’s opinion should carry a health warning. It would be as risky as slipping your fingers between a pitbull’s jaws.

6

Will was fast asleep on the sofa when I got back, oblivious to the sunlight flooding through the windows. I paused in the doorway to study him. At least he was beginning to look like my brother again, instead of a junkie who didn’t care whether he took ketamine or crack. With my eyes half closed he looked like the golden boy he’d been at sixteen. His hair was exactly the same, thick and unruly, the colour of damp straw. But his features had changed almost beyond recognition. His eyes had settled deeper into their sockets, and his cheekbones were sharp-edged, jutting from his face like the angles of a picture frame. I had to remind myself how much progress he’d made. Six months ago the doctors thought his legs might never mend, but he was walking again and, if he chose to, he could follow a conversation from start to finish. It was hard to believe that he’d ever had a stellar career in finance. But when his bank heard about his bipolar disorder, they dropped him instantly, and none of his so-called friends had bothered to keep in contact. Their reaction had given me a biased view of financiers − I was convinced that most of them had hearts of stone.

There were no messages on the answer-machine in the hall, which always made me suspicious. Will often deleted them without telling me. Strangers whispering secrets seemed to be more than he could bear. I noticed the sound of water dripping when I walked towards the kitchen. The source was easy to find − the sink was overflowing, still loaded with last night’s dishes. Will must have intended to wash up, then forgotten all about it. Luckily most of the water had drained down the overflow, but a puddle had collected beside the fridge. I cursed loudly, then hunted for the mop. Will was still out for the count when I finished rescuing the floor, and the exertion had made my ribs ache.