A Killing of Angels (5 page)

I stood by the bedroom mirror and pulled up my top. Half of my ribcage had become a rainbow, emanating from a black centre through shades of blue, to mottled red at the edges. But at least the inflammation was going down, and it was easier to breathe. I lay on the bed with an icepack over my sternum. When the phone woke me, I shivered; the cold had lowered my body temperature.

‘You haven’t forgotten about the bankers’ do, have you?’ Burns sounded even more uptight than before. ‘I’ll be round in half an hour. Put your glad rags on, Alice. The Champagne Charlies will be out in force.’

I hunted through my wardrobe for something suitable, feeling curious about the evening ahead, because Gresham’s world was new territory. I’d never stood in a room full of millionaires before. It was a behaviourist’s dream, and it had to beat an evening of crappy takeaway food, watching my brother doze on the settee. I put on some lipstick and squeezed into my only cocktail dress. It was a relic from a summer wedding, pale green silk, tight enough to accentuate every curve.

‘Blimey.’ Burns peered at me from the doorstep. ‘You scrub up well.’

‘Cheers, Don. You’ve got a real way with words.’

He’d unearthed a dinner jacket from somewhere, his bowtie slightly off kilter. I resisted the urge to reach up and straighten it for him. His profile had come into focus since he’d lost weight, with a newly defined jawline − Mrs Burns must have been thanking her lucky stars.

‘Where is the Albion Club anyway?’ I asked.

‘St James’s Park.’ Burns’s lip curled. ‘It’s the oldest gentlemen’s club in town. You need serious cash to join, unless you’re Prince Charles. It gives the banking boys a break from their wives. Women are barred most of the year.’

‘You’re kidding.’

He didn’t seem to hear me. He was staring straight ahead, as though the killer might step into the road at any moment. ‘Why are you so keen to go?’

‘Everyone from the banking world will be there. A lot of them must have known Gresham,’ I said.

‘They won’t tell us anything. They’ll think we’re journalists, sniffing for a story.’

When I glanced at Burns, his face was tense with anxiety, and I made an instant diagnosis. His shyness must have been crippling as a child. These days he was doing a good job of hiding it, but gatherings of strangers clearly filled him with dread.

The early-evening traffic brought the car to a halt at Piccadilly Circus. Gangs of teenagers were chatting on the steps of the Eros statue, oblivious to the traffic fumes. When we finally pulled up on St James’s Square, a doorman rushed over to relieve Burns of his car keys, his jacket glittering with brocade. The Albion Club was a huge neoclassical eyesore. I spotted Richard Branson at the top of the stairs, a crowd of chinless wonders in tuxedos queuing behind him on a strip of red carpet. Several faces were instantly recognisable: Tory MPs, financial pundits and the governor of the Bank of England. In their shoes I’d have felt vulnerable. Given the state of the economy, a few unhinged members of the population must dream about strafing them with a machine gun.

‘Not my cup of tea,’ Burns muttered.

‘Relax, Don. All you have to do is take a look around.’

The club’s interior was even grander than its façade, the hallway lined with portraits of former members decked out in military regalia. Female guests were gathering in cliques, displaying the family heirlooms. Burns’s eyes were fixed on the girl beside me; she was so encrusted with emeralds it was a wonder she could move.

‘It’s rude to stare,’ I whispered. ‘Let’s split up. We’ll see more that way.’

He vanished into the crowd, leaving me stranded in the middle of the room, as a waiter sailed by with a tray of champagne. Burns’s shyness must have rubbed off on me because I’d been intending to drink orange juice, but I grabbed a glass and knocked back a large gulp.

‘Steady, young lady, or you’ll sleep through the speeches.’

The man peering down at me had a thin, expressive face. He was a little too tall, with curly chestnut brown hair and freckled skin stretched tight across his cheekbones. It was his smile that brought the whole ensemble together, snaggle-toothed and sincere. His voice was interesting too − it sounded permanently amused, and each word took ages to produce, as if his cheeks were packed with marbles.

‘Ever been to Albie’s before?’ he asked.

‘Never,’ I replied.

‘Andrew Piernan.’ He held out a fragile, long-fingered hand. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’ He leant closer to whisper in my ear. ‘This lot are harmless, and don’t worry, you’re easily the prettiest girl here.’

Piernan was an impressive gossip. He had the lowdown on almost every guest. ‘That guy’s a shipping tycoon, between wives.’ He nodded at an elderly man with a pronounced stoop. ‘Rich as Croesus, and a rampant foot fetishist, by all accounts. If he asks for your shoe size you’re in luck.’

I couldn’t help giggling. He kept up a brilliant running commentary for the next twenty minutes, as though it was his job to keep me amused. His pale brown eyes flickered across my face, making sure my smile was intact. It was hard to guess his age. His curls made him look like a child, but his mouth was bracketed by deep lines. He could have been anywhere between thirty and forty-five.

On the other side of the room I spotted a man circulating from guest to guest, patting backs and flirting with every woman he passed. He was one of those men who don’t follow the usual rules, like George Clooney or Clint Eastwood. A combination of good looks and brash confidence meant that women were turning round for a better look, even though he must have been in his sixties. His grey hair was glossy with health, and he had the weather-beaten tan that comes from years of tropical holidays.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

‘Max Kingsmith, head of the Angel Bank, and eternally young. He’s got a new baby, believe it or not.’ Piernan was standing close enough for me to count his freckles.

‘How can a bank call itself angelic?’ I asked.

‘It was founded by a Quaker family. They used their profits to support the poor.’

‘And now you lot squander them on Lamborghinis.’

‘So young and yet so cynical.’ His smile widened. ‘But don’t blame me. I’m a con artist, not a moneylender.’

‘Who do you con?’

He wafted a thin hand at the crowd. ‘This lot mainly. I’ve swindled millions out of them over the years.’

‘Good for you. They probably deserve it.’

Piernan stared down at me. ‘You’re very forthright, aren’t you?’

‘Blunt, you mean.’

His eyes were fixed on my mouth, as though he was waiting for the next insult. I remembered Lola’s advice about practising my flirting skills. This man seemed like the ideal target, because he was confident enough to walk up to a complete stranger, with nothing to recommend him except his Charlie Chaplin smile. But Burns was scowling on the other side of the room and I felt a pang of guilt. He held up his wrist and tapped his watch urgently, reminding me to get on with the task in hand.

‘Did you know Leo Gresham?’ I asked.

Piernan looked taken aback. ‘Pretty well – our paths crossed at events like these. I have to go to a lot of mind-numbing fundraisers. What about you?’

I shook my head. ‘What was he like?’

‘Put it this way, the man certainly knew how to have a good time.’ He watched me drain my glass of champagne. ‘Another?’

‘Better not. I’d hate to fall over before the food arrives.’

‘Tell me about yourself.’ He was observing me minutely. Maybe he’d never seen a woman in a cheap outfit, with a bag that failed to match her shoes.

‘My name’s Alice, my favourite colour’s turquoise, and I’m a psychologist.’

‘A shrink, in a room full of bankers?’

‘It’s a long story. I’d hate to bore you.’

‘You couldn’t.’ He was standing so close that I could smell his aftershave, an odd blend of cinnamon and sandalwood. ‘But I bet you’ve got a husband in the bar somewhere, cutting deals.’

‘Wrong.’ I smiled at him. ‘The truth is, I’m a spy.’

The champagne was beginning to take hold, and after six months of avoiding men completely, the attention was going to my head. Piernan was about to ask me another question when a dinner gong clanged and an elderly woman seized my elbow. She propelled me towards the dining room, chattering loudly, as though we’d been friends for years. Piernan’s eyes were trailing me when I glanced back. He’d been absorbed by a huddle of businessmen, and no doubt he was charming them too. I got the impression that he was on a mission to collect secrets from everyone in the room.

7

Every female guest was marching in the same direction, observing the club’s tradition of seating ladies first. It felt like I’d arrived at Hogwarts as I gazed at the five-tier chandeliers, hovering over the dining tables. My companion was busy describing her ailments. Fortunately I didn’t need to speak, because the list was so extensive: diabetes, rheumatism and gout. It made my bruises seem insignificant, and it gave me time to study the frescos in the dining hall. Huntsmen were galloping round the edges of the room, the fox’s tail just visible between painted trees.

Burns was nowhere to be seen, and I was seated at a table full of elderly aristocrats. Their conversation fascinated me; they were bemoaning the increases in inheritance tax, the decline of Conservatism and the state of the Middle East. The menu was straight out of Mrs Beeton: potted shrimps under a thick layer of butter, then a plate of overcooked turbot. I asked the man to my right if he’d worked with Leo Gresham, but he looked straight through me.

‘Nasty business,’ he muttered. ‘Pass the wine, can you?’

He seized the bottle, then turned his back on me, but the rest of my companions made an effort to be welcoming, even though they were twice my age. The woman sitting opposite looked bemused by the fact I was a psychologist. She told me about her mad uncle, who had enjoyed frolicking naked in his garden until he was carted away to an asylum. An endless succession of courses kept arriving: dishes of braised lamb, silver trays loaded with sliced beef and three new types of wine. My vision was beginning to blur, even though I’d paced myself, and I realised that the evening had been a wild-goose chase. The Albion Club had closed ranks. They had no intention of revealing their secrets to a pair of complete strangers. By the time the Eton Mess came, I was desperate for a strong cup of coffee. It crossed my mind to rush outside and flag down the nearest taxi. People were on their feet, networking before the speeches began. Andrew Piernan materialised while I was planning my escape.

‘Fancy a tour of the building?’

I smiled at him and stood up, head spinning with wine. He put out a hand to steady me, then asked how I planned to spend the weekend. I told him about my promise to visit Lola at the Riverside Theatre. He gave me a wide, uneven smile and started to lead me through the crowd. But before we could go anywhere, Burns came racing towards us, listening avidly to his mobile phone.

‘We need to leave, Alice,’ he insisted.

I turned to Piernan. ‘It’s work, I’m afraid. I’ll have to skip the tour.’

‘Another time, I hope.’ He gazed down at me then walked slowly away.

By now Burns was clutching my elbow, escorting me outside, like a vandal being taken to a holding cell. It was still so warm that it was difficult to breathe, the oxygen replaced by traffic fumes. The radio squawked loudly as soon as we set off. Scratchy voices were barking instructions at each other, and it was hard to know whether my discomfort was the result of worry, or too much booze. I clutched the edge of my seat, trying to control my nausea.

‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

‘The worst-case fucking scenario,’ Burns muttered. ‘He’s done it again, just like I said. I’m taking you home before I go there.’

I shook my head. ‘I need to come with you.’

He didn’t bother to argue, keeping his attention on the road. We were racing along the Embankment past HMS
Wellington,
silver gun towers glittering in the floodlights. By the time we reached Cheapside there wasn’t a soul around. The Square Mile would have been empty since six, every café locking its doors when the banks closed.

Burns parked by Gutter Lane. He took a deep breath, then shunted his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. An ambulance, two squad cars, and a scene-of-crime van were there already, two coppers tying security tape across the mouth of the alley. Taylor strutted towards us. His gaze travelled across my body as he took in my cocktail dress. He gave Burns a curt nod when he finally eyeballed him.

‘Having a night out, boss?’ Taylor tagged the last word to the sentence like the world’s slowest afterthought.

‘We’ve been working,’ Burns replied briskly. ‘What have you got here?’

‘A stabbing. He’s a sick bastard, that’s for sure.’

Pete Hancock made us put on protective suits before we could go any closer. I’d always hated the feel of them. The Tyvek fabric is so thin and scratchy, it’s like wrapping yourself in greaseproof paper, your body heat slowly rising. It was hard to guess Hancock’s state of mind, because his monobrow made him look permanently furious. He didn’t bother to make conversation as he watched me replace my high heels with white plastic boots.

I followed Burns down the alleyway, between industrial rubbish bins with gaping lids. The smell was overpowering, a mixture of rancid beer, urine and rotting food. A paramedic was kneeling inside the inner cordon, blocking my view.

‘Do you know what happened?’ Burns was speaking in a stage whisper, as though he was afraid of waking the victim.

When the paramedic turned round, her skin was the colour of limestone. I realised the man’s wounds must be horrific, because she’d have seen dozens of fatalities every year.

‘It must have been quick,’ she said. ‘This much blood means the knife went through his heart.’

She scuttled back to the safety of her ambulance, and I caught sight of the man’s body for the first time. He was lying in a wide circle of blood, with a black plastic bag over his face. A picture of an angel had been placed beside his head, her halo glittering as torchlight bounced from the walls. A handful of white feathers were scattered across the cobbles. The man was wearing dark trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. A wave of sickness rose in my chest. I wondered where he’d spent his last day. Working in an office, probably, fantasising about the weekend. His body disappeared from view as two uniforms pushed by. The photographer was already hard at work, taking pictures of the body from every conceivable angle. When the passageway cleared again, Burns was squatting down for a closer look, and voices were drifting from the street. The press had arrived, baying for information. Taylor trotted away to deal with them.