The Winter Foundlings (13 page)

I left a voicemail for Burns when I unlocked my office, passing on Kinsella’s cryptic remarks. The next hour was spent chasing central heating engineers. I lost track of how many begging messages I left, imploring them to call me back. Through the barred window in my office, the infirmary roof glinted in the last rays of sun. Gathering shadows made the buildings look bleaker than before, but at least my next call to Burns finally reached him.

‘Did you get my message?’

‘Slow down, Alice. I’ve been in a press briefing.’ Burns sounded like he’d emerged from a long hibernation. I explained Kinsella’s claims, and when Burns spoke again his voice was a low mumble. ‘So he’s known the killer twenty-four years, and the next abduction might be on Saturday. Except the whole thing could be nonsense.’

‘Kinsella doesn’t get any visitors, Don. Can you imagine how lonely that is? He knows he won’t see me again if he lies.’

‘But how would they communicate? Kinsella isn’t exactly a free agent, is he?’

‘He could be talking to someone in here.’

‘Like I said, the staff at Northwood are CRB checked to stage two. There’s no one with a criminal record.’ The tetchiness in his voice forced me to drop the issue.

‘How did the interview with Roy Layton go?’

Burns sighed loudly. ‘He’s got himself a smart solicitor. She insisted we let him go, pending charges, because the house search found nothing. The lab’s still checking out his van and Hancock’s taken boxes of stuff from his place to sample. We’re keeping him under surveillance.’ There was a ponderous silence before he said goodbye.

The last thing I saw before I left the office was Chris Steadman’s address, still stuck to my desk on a yellow Post-it note: 21 Edgemoor Road. It had been weeks since I let my hair down, but my meeting with Kinsella had dampened my party spirit. The idea of facing a room full of strangers felt exhausting. I dropped the scrap of paper into the bin and immersed myself in diagnostic reports, keen to catch up on my research, because working for Burns had consumed most of my time.

*   *   *

Back at the cottage that evening, I trudged outside to collect more logs. There was no sign of footprints, which filled me with relief. My would-be burglar must have switched his attention to another property. I ate a hasty microwave meal straight from the container, standing in front of the fire. Afterwards I needed a glass of wine to wash away the salt and E numbers, then I settled down to study psychiatric profile reports on inmates at the Laurels. I don’t know how long I’d been reading when something moved at the edge of my line of vision. When I looked again the room was empty, and I chided myself for being so jumpy that even a flickering light bulb could spook me. But next time I looked up, someone was outside, peering through the gap in the curtains. A kick of adrenaline brought me to my feet. The face belonged to Tom Jensen, and it flashed through my head that he might be responsible for the footprints, but the idea seemed ridiculous. My heart was still pounding as I opened the front door.

‘You scared the life out of me.’

‘It’s your own fault. The doorbell’s not working.’

I got the sense that he would have marched straight past me, even if I’d blocked his way. I caught a trace of his smell as he stepped inside, a whiff of pine forests and freezing cold air. He looked irritatingly perfect, ash-blond hair spilling across his forehead.

‘Do you want a drink?’

He shook his head. ‘The party’s already started. Come on, we should get moving.’

‘I wasn’t planning on going.’

‘You’d rather stay here with your ghosts?’

‘I’m not dressed.’

‘You look fine to me.’

He was leaning against the wall, surveying me, and I felt irritated that he’d just assumed I’d have nothing better to do.

‘Wait there,’ I said.

I swapped my jeans for a short knitted dress and knee-high boots. My hair was beginning to curl, so I pulled it into a ponytail, then drew on a line of dark pink lipstick and hurried back to the living room. My papers from the investigation were stacked on the table, but Tom was standing by the fire, leafing through the pages of a Karin Alvtegen novel I’d left on the coffee table.

‘Pulp fiction.’ He sounded mildly disgusted.

‘It’s brilliant, actually. Reading foreign books satisfies my wanderlust; I never get time for holidays.’

A slow smile appeared on his face. ‘You’ll need one after the Laurels.’

The cold was breathtaking when we got outside, and I remembered that personal conversation wasn’t Tom’s forte. Eye contact ceased when I asked how he’d spent Christmas Day.

‘I saw friends, drank too much. You know how it goes.’

‘You didn’t visit your family?’

He shook his head but didn’t reply. His expression revealed that he had no intention of opening up, so I focused on tramping through the snow. After a few minutes he asked what I’d been up to, so I told him about Will’s ultra-brief visit, and his inability to stay still. Tom came to a halt under a streetlight and gazed down at me.

‘That can’t be easy for him. I was like that for a while.’

The chill sliced through the fabric of my coat. ‘How far is Chris’s place?’

‘We’re already here.’

He pointed at a neat row of detached modern houses, each identical to its neighbour, with garages set back from the road. A beautiful vintage motorbike was parked on the drive outside number twenty-one. It made me wonder why Chris had left it in the open, when it deserved to be protected under lock and key. Music was flooding through the open front door, and most of Northwood’s workforce seemed to be packed into the hallway. We left our coats in a side room and squeezed through the crowd. It was only ten o’clock but people were already dancing to old-style pop music in the lounge; two nurses were reeling drunk, propping each other up in the corner. It struck me again that Northwood’s staff were a community of oddballs. Wallflowers were standing by themselves, swaying to the music, failing to interact with the other guests. An outsider could be forgiven for thinking that it was a boisterous Christmas party for psychiatric patients, not mental health professionals.

I bumped into Pru in the kitchen when I went looking for a drink. She was setting out bottles of wine and cans of beer, her movements so tentative she seemed to be longing for invisibility. Her curtain of blonde curls almost hid her birthmark, and I noticed that she was concealing her figure too, an outsized black shirt and faded jeans drowning her curves. The shrink in me wanted to tell her to get cognitive behavioural therapy to improve her self-esteem. When I said hello she gave me the terrified look of a child being forced to converse with an adult she’d never met before.

‘Do you live in Charndale too?’ I asked.

‘Not far off. My place is in the next village.’ She studied me from the corner of her eye. ‘How’s your research going?’

‘Okay, thanks, except I keep getting distracted. What about you? Do you find enough time for your own work?’

‘Not lately. The phone rings and my concentration’s in bits.’

‘What kind of paintings do you make?’

‘They’re hard to describe. I’ve never had an exhibition.’

‘I wanted to ask how you find working with Kinsella. You have one-to-one sessions with him, don’t you?’

Pru’s shoulders stiffened. ‘Not often. He came twice a week for a while, then he started going to the library instead. I haven’t seen him for a month or two.’

‘Does he speak to you much?’

She stared at me directly for the first time. ‘Only when he’s got something to say.’

I might have imagined it, but I thought she seemed angry. She helped herself to a can of beer, then walked away, as though mentioning Kinsella had upset her. She disappeared into the living room, leaving me to open a new bottle of wine. Chris appeared at my shoulder as I poured myself a glass. He looked more relaxed now that he was liberated from his work uniform. His bleached hair was carefully spiked, a few rips in his skinny black jeans.

‘You made it,’ he said, grinning.

‘That’s a great bike you’ve got outside.’

‘She’s a Triumph seven-fifty. I’ll give you a spin some time.’

From anyone else the statement would have been a come-on, but his face was as guileless as a child sharing a new toy. I still couldn’t guess his age – it could have been anywhere between twenty and thirty-five. The network of thin scars across his cheekbone was more noticeable up close. Maybe his passion for motorbikes had resulted in an accident, but the scars had faded to pale threads, as though he’d carried them for years. We chatted for a few minutes then he left me to go and welcome more guests. When I caught sight of him again, Pru had him cornered in the hallway, talking to him intently. For once she seemed unaware of her disfigurement, standing so close that he looked uncomfortable, his back pressed against the wall.

Tom was in the living room, flirting with a gorgeous dark-haired girl. Clearly now that we’d arrived, it was every man for himself, and it was a relief not to feel jealous. Being forced to watch Burns smooching with Tania would have been another matter. I swallowed a mouthful of wine and looked for someone else to talk to. Judith appeared before I could take another gulp. I was so glad to see a familiar face that I felt like hugging her. She looked stunning in a silver dress, smoky lines around her eyes making them even dreamier than normal. She turned to whisper something in my ear.

‘Relax, Alice; switch off your inner shrink. Why aren’t you dancing?’

I couldn’t help smiling. Most mental health workers have the same attitude to parties: you’re torn between the impulse to cut loose, or to sit back and psychoanalyse. I gazed around the room. The siege mentality was obvious; people had rushed here when their shifts ended, desperate to let off steam. I drained my wine glass then abandoned it on a coffee table.

‘Go on then, I’m persuaded.’

The music was cheesy but great to dance to – a mix of vintage disco, house and Motown. Judith seemed to be in a world of her own, moving easily to a great song by To Be Frank, and I noticed that she had caught someone’s eye. Garfield was standing in the corner, his eyes glued to her. There was a camera in his hands, as though he was waiting for the perfect shot, but Judith seemed oblivious. After we’d danced ourselves breathless, we flopped into some empty chairs.

‘That’s better. I need to sweat Christmas Day out of my system,’ Judith said, laughing.

‘It wasn’t much fun?’

‘With the kids away, it felt like the house was swallowing me alive.’ She put her head on one side. ‘I saw you and Tom arriving together.’

‘It’s nothing. He’s moved on to pastures new.’

‘Maybe that’s just as well. You know he’s trouble, don’t you? I shouldn’t say that, because he’s a friend. But in romance terms, he’s a disaster.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He’s got so much baggage, most people would collapse under the weight.’

I wanted to ask what she meant, but her expression suggested that she had nothing more to say, so I changed the subject.

‘Pru seems keen on our host, doesn’t she?’

She looked sympathetic. ‘Poor thing. She’s so good at her job and her paintings are amazing, but she’s barking up the wrong tree. Chris has a new girlfriend in London who he’s crazy about.’

Judith was on her feet again, and by now I was drunk enough to have a good time. I spent the rest of the evening chatting to people and dancing whenever a song I liked came on, my worries fading into the background. It was one o’clock by the time I noticed Chris collecting empty beer cans and the crowd beginning to thin.

There was no sign of Tom or the pretty brunette when I stumbled out to find my coat. He was probably making coffee for her, or maybe he’d skipped that stage in his routine and taken her straight to bed. I stood in the porch, but the cold was so bitter that I delved into my bag, trying to find my gloves. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark and something glinted on the other side of the street; a sparkle of metal reflecting from a streetlight. I saw the silhouette of a couple, embracing in an alleyway. They must have believed that the shadows were deep enough to hide them, but I recognised Garfield’s hulking shoulders instantly. It took me a moment to figure out who he was kissing. Then I realised it was Judith, the light catching on her silver bangles. Braving the cold showed how keen they were to keep their relationship secret, but it was their body language that interested me. They were so deeply entwined that a bomb explosion would fail to disturb them. Their kiss seemed to last forever, as though releasing each other was unthinkable. I felt a pang of envy, then turned up the collar of my coat, and launched myself into the cold.

*   *   *

I thought about Judith and Garfield as I walked home. She lived alone, but he was married with a young family, and she’d struck me as too wise to look for complications. The stress of working at Northwood made unlikely alliances spring up everywhere. Pru was the one I felt sorry for. She seemed like a child trapped in an adult’s body, obsessed by her flaws and looking for affection where none was available.

When I reached the Rookery I set off down the unlit lane, dreading the prospect of wading through snow. I’d only been going a few minutes when I heard someone floundering behind me in the darkness. When I spun round, Tom was standing there.

‘Why do you keep doing that?’ I snapped.

‘What?’ He’d come to a standstill but it was too dark to see his expression.

‘Scaring the shit out of me.’

‘It’s not intentional. Maybe you’re too sensitive.’

‘Sensitive? People normally say I’m hard as nails. You haven’t got a clue about me, have you?’

‘Guilty as charged.’ He held up his hands in submission. ‘I got bored, so I waited at home till you walked past. It’s your turn to make coffee.’

‘You’re out of luck. I haven’t got a machine.’

‘It’s too late for caffeine anyway.’ The starlight reflecting in his eyes made him look more mercurial than ever.

I should have sent him away, but the Northwood virus had affected me too. I was thinking with my body, not my head. When I fumbled with my key in the lock, he was so close behind me that his breath warmed the back of my neck.