The Winter Foundlings (19 page)

‘Another time then.’

When he kissed me I almost changed my mind. It took the entire walk back to the cottage to steady myself. Affairs seemed to be blossoming in every department at Northwood, people snatching at happiness to neutralise the madness and despair. I made myself concentrate on the patterns my torch made as I trudged down the lane, light bouncing across icy tyre tracks. When I reached the cottage there were new footprints in the snow. Someone had stamped all the way to the front door, then disappeared round the side of the house. I came to a halt, too frightened to move. The prints could have been there since that morning, because there had been no fresh snow all day. My pulse ticked faster at the base of my throat. Maybe Tom had come looking for me earlier that evening. When I got inside I paced from room to room, checking the locks on every window. Paranoid ideas kept intruding into my thoughts. The cause was probably completely innocent, but the idea that my visitor might be hiding somewhere in the dark garden refused to go away.

26

Amita’s head rests heavily on Ella’s knees. She looks like an angel in her white dress, but she’s refusing to surface, even though morning light is flowing through the crack in the door. It shows how pale she is, her brown skin turning grey. The man’s scraping around outside, but still she won’t open her eyes. She mutters a few words when she hears her name, then sinks back into her dreams. The man’s eyes are hidden behind thick sunglasses, and his scowl is frightening.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ He’s blocking the sunlight, staring down at the girl.

‘She just needs more sleep.’ Ella stretches her face into a hopeful smile, but this time it doesn’t work.

The man shifts from foot to foot, his eyes burning through the thin cotton of her dress. It’s a relief when he returns his attention to Amita. Her eyes are still closed, thin arms covered in goose bumps. The man lifts her hair from her face so he can see her more clearly, then his gaze settles on Ella, his fingers curling into fists.

‘Which one do I choose?’ He whispers the words to himself and suddenly his movements speed up, like a cartoon on fast-forward. He grabs Ella’s wrists, then he’s dragging her through the snow.

‘Forgive me. I’m sorry.’

He keeps repeating the words under his breath as he strides towards the big house. Ella’s hip catches on something sharp, her legs kicking against the cold, but she can’t shake free. He doesn’t even react when she screams. It’s like she’s already ceased to exist.

27

Press vans were clustered outside Northwood on New Year’s Eve. A gang of photographers surrounded my car as I waited at the barrier, their long lenses making me yearn for tinted windows. Their presence didn’t surprise me. One of the tabloids was promising fifty grand to anyone with information about the missing girls, while the rest of the country collapsed into panic. News bulletins kept reporting that parents were becoming paranoid, keeping their daughters locked inside, even though security had failed to help Amita.

The red light was flashing on my phone in the broom cupboard. But before I could check the messages, I noticed an envelope lying on the floor. The copperplate handwriting was instantly recognisable, each letter racing to its destination. Kinsella must have used Garfield as his messenger. I perched on the edge of my desk to read it.

Dear Alice,

I see you sometimes from my window, scurrying like a lost mouse. You’ll grow smaller than your namesake if you carry on sipping from the wrong bottle.

I have some new information. The next girl will be delivered tomorrow, and this time, much closer to home. Everything’s running smoothly in all bar one respect. But I mustn’t grumble. It’s an imperfect world, and there’s already so much to celebrate.

Would you do me a favour? Tell your Scottish friend that I’ve changed my mind. You are the one I’ll talk to, no one else. Professor Nash can return to his vulgar yellow-brick palace with its dreary, mock-Rococo garden. I look forward to seeing you this morning.

Affectionately,

Louis

I shoved the paper back in its envelope and set off for the Campbell Building without bothering to listen to my messages. The makeshift incident room was a hive of activity, and several dozen officers were busy inside. The note Kinsella had sent me earlier was clipped to an evidence board, beside a map marking the Foundling Hospital, and the sites of the abductions. I noticed Chris running a cable along a wall, hooking up some new computers. He looked more tense than normal, probably because he had enough work to do without the additional responsibility of sorting out the Met’s IT.

Burns was working in an anteroom, crouched over a table that looked much too small for him, Alan Nash and Tania standing by the door. The professor recoiled when he saw me, as though he’d swallowed something sour.

‘I think you should read this,’ I said, dropping Kinsella’s letter on the table.

Tania peered over Burns’s shoulder as he read it. She looked awkward as she passed it to Nash. Maybe the insult about his home embarrassed her, but he seemed amused.

‘My garden was featured in the
Sunday Times
recently. Kinsella’s probably seething with jealousy.’

Tania shook her head. ‘He predicted that Amita would be taken, and now he says one of the girls will be found tonight. We have to take this seriously, don’t we?’

‘It’s likely she’s dead already. We know he kept the first two in the deep freeze until he was ready to let them go,’ Nash said.

Burns gave a reluctant nod. ‘We’ve been searching waste ground inside his catchment. A man was seen dropping a cardboard box into Wenlock Basin, near where Kinsella used to live. A dive team are dragging the canal today.’

‘You won’t find anything. He leaves them where they’ll be easy to see,’ I said firmly. ‘We have to assume they’re still alive until he sends the next token to Kinsella.’

Nash looked contemptuous. ‘We mustn’t pander to his demands. It’s best if I conduct the interview, despite what he says. Could you give me a hand, Tania?’

Burns remained hunched at his table after they left. He carried on staring at the letter, chin propped in his hands, mumbling quietly to himself.

‘The
Alice in Wonderland
connection isn’t surprising.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Sorry, I was thinking aloud. I just meant you’re blonde and very petite, aren’t you? Like the girl in the story.’

I gritted my teeth, and didn’t reply. People had been commenting on my size since I was five years old: school nurses advising me to eat more, kids in the playground calling me shrimp. The last thing I needed was Burns telling me I looked like a child.

He gave a sheepish smile, then launched into a description of the team’s work since Amita went missing, as if he’d suddenly recalled that I was an adult after all. Usha Dhaliwal’s family, friends, and colleagues at her accountancy firm had all been interviewed, and it was clear that the girl’s abduction had been meticulously planned. The unmarked white van had only been caught once on CCTV.

‘He knows north London inside out. Ether he’s a local boy, or he memorised his route through the back streets.’

‘Have you spoken to Brian Knowles yet?’ I asked.

Burns’s eyebrows rose. ‘I ran his name through the box. The bloke’s darker than you thought. He’s avoided the sex offenders’ register by the skin of his teeth. He was cautioned last year for loitering by a kids’ playground. Uniforms have been to his flat twice in the last few days, but he’s never there. It looks like he knew Kinsella well; Knowles used to be secretary to the trustees.’

The information took time to register. I had assumed that Brian Knowles was creepy but harmless, devoted to a good cause. His interest in the museum seemed more sinister than I’d realised.

Burns checked his watch. ‘Kinsella’s being brought over now, and you’ll be the one doing the interview, not Nash.’

I waited in the observation room while he delivered the bad news. The professor was already facing the blank wall of glass, the room so brightly lit he seemed to be dissolving into whiteness. I watched the two men communicate but couldn’t hear their words. Nash’s arms flailed in protest, miming his displeasure. After a few seconds he exited the suite wearing an outraged expression.

In an ideal world I’d have fled the building too, but Kinsella was just arriving. His appearance was as irreproachable as ever, immaculately groomed, his half-moon spectacles poised on the tip of his nose. He still looked uncomfortably like my father. But this time his gaze was less benevolent, so focused it would scorch any surface it touched. It made me grateful for the inch of reinforced glass that protected me.

‘Thanks for coming, Mr Kinsella.’ The quake in my voice annoyed me – he was bound to capitalise on any sign of weakness.

‘You know I enjoy our meetings, Alice. You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

‘Can you tell me what you miss most from the outside world?’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Everything. The freedom to follow my destiny, art galleries, good French food.’

‘But you feel better now someone’s finishing what you started?’

His hawkish smile widened. ‘Do you really have time for small talk, Alice?’

‘If you help us prevent another death, I can arrange a visit to one of those exhibitions you miss so much.’

He looked amused. ‘In a charabanc, with five burly guards? Not really my style. But we can trade facts if you like, a truth for a truth.’

‘If I can go first.’

‘It’s my turn – you’ve already asked a question.’ He leant forwards until his forehead almost touched the glass, voice falling to a whisper. ‘Who do I remind you of?’

‘No one. I’ve seen so many pictures, in books and on TV, it feels like I know you.’

‘You’re lying, Alice. Remember those little girls, all alone in the dark.’

‘You remind me of my father.’ My heart thumped unevenly. ‘Now tell me where they’re being kept.’

‘Near St Augustine’s, but he’s moving closer all the time. Did you love your dad, Alice?’

‘Be more specific please, Mr Kinsella. What part of London are you talking about?’

‘Did you love him?’

‘Yes.’

‘But he frightened you?’

I shook my head. ‘Tell me the killer’s name.’

‘I’d rather hear about your father. He sounds much more intriguing.’

‘Tell me his name.’

He gave an exaggerated yawn. ‘My original theory may be wrong. It could be one of many. I was evangelical in those days, and they all got the same instructions.’ His eyes bored into me. ‘Tell me why your father scared you.’

‘He was unpredictable, kind then cruel.’ I returned his stare. ‘Who are your disciples, Mr Kinsella?’ He sank back into his chair, a sheen of perspiration covering his face, as though the effort of crawling under my skin had exhausted him. ‘I met your friend Brian Knowles at the Foundling Museum. He’s very devoted to the place, isn’t he?’

Kinsella’s eyes glittered. ‘Dear old Brian. I wondered how long you’d take to catch up with him. He’s a collector, you know. Ask him about it some time, I’m sure he’d love to tell you. But that’s enough for today. I hope we’ll meet again soon.’

His smile faded to nothing, and his skin grew even whiter. He made an odd gesture, a cross between a genuflection and a bow, before the guards led him away.

Burns looked concerned when I reached the observation room. ‘There’s more blood in a stone,’ he muttered. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’ll survive.’

‘You did well. He’s starting to trust you.’

‘It’s just cat and mouse, nothing tangible.’

My legs were starting to feel weak. I couldn’t explain what had upset me most: memories of my father resurfacing, or the way Kinsella had assaulted me with his eyes.

28

Burns must have seen the colour draining from my face because he pulled up a chair. ‘Take a seat, Alice.’

‘I’m okay, Don. It’s not the best way to spend New Year’s Eve, but I’ll survive.’

He studied my face for a moment. ‘Kinsella’s mate Brian is at home now. Do you want to assess him for me? We could debrief in the car.’

‘Give me a minute to collect my things.’ Part of me questioned my sanity as I trotted down the stairs. I’d been working nonstop through the Christmas break, but slowing down wasn’t an option until Ella and Amita were found.

I caught sight of Kinsella when I left the Campbell Building. Garfield was taking him back to the Laurels, with two security guards trailing behind. From a distance I could see Kinsella’s lips moving rapidly. The two men were deep in conversation, which didn’t match his reputation for silence. They were too far away for me to hear, but I made a mental note to ask Garfield what Kinsella had been saying next time we met.

I grabbed my briefcase from the broom cupboard before meeting Burns by the reception block. The sky was still leaden with snow, steam rising from the bonnet of his Audi into the freezing air.

‘Where does Knowles live?’ I asked.

‘Hammersmith. We’ll be there in an hour.’

‘Go on then, tell me how’s it’s been going.’

A muscle ticked in his jaw. ‘The team’s done thousands of hours of overtime – scouring Kinsella’s haunts, interviewing staff he worked with, the vicar and choir members, the Foundling Museum’s trustees. We’ve re-interviewed all the relatives and contacts for each victim. It feels like I’ve spoken to every man, woman and child in north London.’

‘What about the prisons where he did time?’

‘He spent most of his stretch in solitary confinement, for his own protection. Hundreds of ex-cons have been checked out, with no links so far.’

I stared out of the window at the passing houses, every lawn a pristine expanse of white. ‘It’s odd that none of the girls come from a conventional family. They were all fostered, adopted, or being cared for by someone other than their biological parents.’

‘And you think that’s relevant?’

‘Maybe he sees them as foundlings. In his eyes they’re abandoned children, waiting for mercy, or to be cleansed from the streets.’

‘But how would he know that before he takes them?’