A Killing of Angels (29 page)

‘Wait here, Alice.’

Pete Hancock was checking people in and out of the crime scene. I watched him frowning at Burns as he pulled on his blue suit, then they disappeared behind a row of screens. When Burns finally re-emerged, I could tell that it wouldn’t be pretty. It was his pallor that worried me most. Only his pride was stopping him from dispatching his breakfast behind the nearest pillar.

‘He’s here all right,’ Burns mumbled, his eyes blank with shock. ‘In your shoes, I wouldn’t look. Save yourself a few nightmares.’

I drew in a deep breath and walked past him. I was beginning to hate putting on crime scene overalls, the dry fabric scratching against my skin. Behind the screen, a layer of black smoke hovered below the ceiling, the smell intensifying with each step. It had a sickly edge, like someone had turned the oven on, then forgotten the Sunday roast. It left a salty, chemical taste at the back of my mouth. A few metres away, a burnt-out car was still smouldering. It was impossible to tell whether it was Freiberg’s BMW, because the fire had scorched away every trace of pigment, the chassis stripped to raw metal, windows and tyres melted away. God knows how many gallons it had taken to bring the flames under control. Pools of water were standing on the tarmac, a handful of white feathers drifting on the wet concrete.

‘Where’s Freiberg’s body?’ I asked.

‘Right there.’ Burns gritted his teeth. ‘He hasn’t been moved.’

I bent down to peer inside the car, then straightened up immediately and closed my eyes. Burns was keeping busy, studying the splinters of glass that littered the ground. It was a long time before I could force myself to look again. The body inside the car didn’t seem human. It could have been a sculpture, made from charcoal or black metal. The fire had stolen everything from him: clothes, skin, even his lean tissue. And it must have been fast, because he hadn’t even tried to escape, his bird-like hands melted to the steering wheel. I circled the car slowly, with a handkerchief pressed over my mouth. Freiberg’s empty eye sockets stared at me accusingly. He’d sat in exactly the same position in Knightsbridge, but it was his wife I pitied. Sooner or later she would find out that her husband’s body was unrecognisable, only his dental records could identify him.

‘That’s enough,’ I said, under my breath. I don’t know why I was so angry. Maybe it was grief for Andrew bubbling to the surface, or the fact that another life had been lost. Either way, when we emerged into the fresh air, my legs were trembling, but I didn’t feel weak, just determined to stop it happening again.

‘He left us another message.’ Burns handed me a postcard, wrapped in transparent plastic.

The angel was the sweetest yet. A cherub’s blue eyes shone back at me, skin made of porcelain, his mouth breaking into a smile. He looked as innocent as Freiberg’s legion of grandchildren. I glanced at the back of the card; the picture was a close-up from Filippino Lippi’s
An Angel Adoring,
hanging in the National Gallery. I felt like ripping it to shreds. It crossed my mind that the cards might have no meaning at all. They were just a taunt, reminding us that we were useless guardian angels.

‘I’m going back to the station,’ Burns said when we reached the car. ‘I’ll drop you at home. Taylor’ll go bleating to the boss if he sees you.’

I shook my head. ‘I’m still officially employed – Brotherton hasn’t fired me yet.’

Burns was polishing his glasses. ‘I don’t get it, Alice. Why do it again? He tried to set Piernan up. I thought he’d walk away and get on with his life.’

‘It’s an addiction. He wants to stop, but he can’t. The compulsion’s too strong.’

A row of ghosts was waiting for us at the station. Someone had enlarged the angels’ faces from each crime scene, and the effect was uncanny. They gazed down through clear, inhuman eyes, judging us all unworthy. There was no sign of Brotherton. Maybe it was her policy to turn invisible when the incident room was busy, only materialising again when things calmed down.

My phone rang as Burns was racing from desk to desk, handing out instructions and answering questions. The voice at the end of the line had a broad West African accent. It was Sam Adebayo from the City YMCA, and I remembered asking him to call if he saw Darren.

‘He stayed here last night,’ he said. ‘But he left early this morning.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘For a while. He didn’t make much sense though. He seemed angry − I couldn’t get him to sit still.’

I gave Adebayo the number for the emergency mental health team, and I don’t know what prompted me to ask where Darren had been working when he lost his job. Adebayo didn’t reply immediately. I heard the sound of pages being turned, and realised he was flicking through Darren’s file.

‘The employment agency sent him to the Angel Bank. They fired him for being late, six weeks ago.’

I thanked him and hung up, but the information took a while to sink in. Darren had been one of the cleaners who rose at the crack of dawn to scour the bank’s marble floors. When I glanced around, the room was in motion, people whirling from table to table. It seemed odd that it had taken another death to revive the team. Burns’s face was lit with manic energy when he arrived back at my desk.

‘Did you interview all the temporary workers at the Angel Bank?’ I asked.

‘Almost, but a couple are no fixed abode. Why?’

‘One of my patients got sacked from a cleaning job there, six weeks ago.’

His expression grew more serious when he heard that Darren had served a year for GBH, and that he was a diagnosed schizophrenic, with anger management issues.

‘Let’s get this straight.’ Burns stared at me. ‘The bloke got fired from the Angel, he has a breakdown and starts talking about guns and knives. Then he sets fire to your brother’s van, and you didn’t even tell me about him?’

‘Don’t get carried away, Don. It’s not him. He’s too ill to plan something like this.’

‘We still need to check him out.’

I tried to argue, but he was already typing commands into the computer at a furious speed.

‘Unbelievable,’ he said, staring at the screen. ‘The bank didn’t even log his name.’

‘I’m not surprised. Agencies must send thousands of temps into the City every day.’

‘But they haven’t all been inside for nearly killing someone, have they?’

He started handing out orders to a woman at the table opposite. He asked her to contact Darren’s probation officer, and send a squad car to collect him if he returned to the YMCA. When I looked up again, Steve Taylor was standing on the other side of the room, looking as shifty as ever. Luckily Burns was on the move again, grabbing his car keys. I was glad to escape without facing another showdown, but my relief was short-lived.

Darren had parked his scooter on the yellow lines outside the station and he was staring straight at me. Something in my expression must have triggered alarm bells, because he set off immediately. I caught sight of the number-plate, and Burns repeated the numbers into his phone as we jogged down the steps, but I knew it was pointless. Who could track down one lost soul in a community of eight million? There was no clear suspect, and Burns was clutching at straws. It was beginning to feel like almost anyone in the city could be the Angel Killer.

42

Burns was concentrating on the endless flow of traffic on Baker Street, and I’d already guessed where he was taking me. Our visit would follow the usual pattern. Poppy would be wearing another gorgeous outfit, preparing for her next client, but Raphael Street was deserted. Not a single punter arrived during the fifteen minutes we sat outside, while Burns barked instructions into his phone.

The door to Poppy’s building had been left ajar, and I wondered why she carried on with her work. She could easily have persuaded one of her boyfriends to pay for another bout of rehab. Maybe she couldn’t face being a viscount’s daughter again, condemned to a life in the country and marriage to a chinless wonder. There was no answer when Burns rapped on her front door. He leant down to peer through the letterbox.

‘Something’s wrong,’ he said. ‘The place has been trashed.’ Burns made me stand back before launching himself at the door. There was a sound of wood splintering as the lock broke − not many obstacles could have survived a full-frontal attack from a man of his scale. He massaged his shoulder gingerly as he stepped over the threshold. The hall was a mess. A cabinet had been pushed over; letters, keys and photographs were strewn across the floor.

The place was oddly silent. If Poppy had been at home, she’d have confronted us by now, furious about our intrusion. There was hardly any damage in the lounge, just a few pictures askew, and pieces of broken glass on the floor. Nothing seemed to be missing. The kitchen was undisturbed. Someone had made coffee recently; the red light on the percolator was still glowing.

When I got back to the lounge, Burns was opening the door to Poppy’s bedroom. I saw him recoil, then fumble for his phone, cursing under his breath.

‘Don’t go in there,’ he barked at me.

I heard him asking for back-up: a scene-of-crime team, eight uniforms, a pathologist. It didn’t take a clairvoyant to realise she was dead, but I still wasn’t prepared. Poppy was sprawled across the bed in her favourite pink dress, except it wasn’t pink any more. It looked like it had been tie-dyed in different shades of red. She’d been stabbed dozens of times − the wounds visible through the torn fabric. But he’d saved his energy for her face. It was unrecognisable. There was a hole where her nose should have been, her features a blur of livid flesh. The brown mess on the pillow must have been the remains of her eyes. The scene didn’t seem to bother Filippino Lippi’s angel. He was propped against the headboard, surrounded by white feathers, gazing at me innocently.

My first reaction was rage, and most of it was self-directed. I’d failed to convince Poppy to take more care. It made me wish I’d worked harder to convince Burns to give her protection. I couldn’t forget our last conversation, and the dry graze of her fingertips on my wrist when she said goodbye. It sickened me that her death had been more violent than all the others.

I spotted her appointments book lying on a coffee table. ‘His name’ll be in there, won’t it?’

Burns put on plastic gloves and riffled through the pages. ‘There’s nothing under today’s date. She must have taken the day off.’

The SOCOs had already arrived, head to toe in white, tying security tape across the door. I caught a glimpse into the second bedroom, and spotted something new. From a distance the room still looked innocent, with its plain furniture and the crucifix on the wall, but two pairs of handcuffs were locked to the bed frame. I felt a pang of sympathy for Poppy. She must have pretended to be a schoolgirl countless times, for yet another old man to deflower.

‘You shouldn’t be in here.’ One of the SOCOs shooed me along the hallway, as if I was a dangerous contaminant.

Clouds were circling overhead like towels churning in a tumble-drier. I leant against the car and imagined calling the hospital in Seattle to tell them I’d changed my mind. Maybe I could forget everything I’d seen, and go swimming every day after work. Burns’s return neutralised my daydream. His movements were so jerky and unpredictable, it looked as though his nerve endings were hooked to the national grid. Poppy’s appointment book was still clutched to his chest. He slipped into the driving seat and started leafing through the pages, working backwards from today’s date.

‘I knew it,’ he muttered.

‘What?’

He stared back at me. ‘Kingsmith went to see her last month.’

‘You should warn him, Don.’

‘I can’t.’ Burns’s jaw was working overtime, muscles ticking in his cheek. ‘He’s blaming us for the FSA ruling. He’ll sue us if we contact him.’

He dropped the appointment book in an evidence bag then placed it on the back seat, out of my reach.

‘Can I see?’ I asked.

He grunted something inaudible, and his scowl was the equivalent of a point-blank refusal, so I kept my peace and looked out of the window.

‘The tabloids would pay a fortune for that,’ he said.

My curiosity grew even stronger. The pages would be stuffed with famous names – actors, footballers, business magnates. Maybe a few cabinet members had found their way to Poppy’s door. No wonder Burns looked tense. For the first time in his life, he was the guardian of state secrets.

‘We’ve got a predicament, haven’t we?’ he said. ‘Kingsmith’s on the Angel Killer’s list, but he won’t let us anywhere near him.’

I held his gaze. ‘It’s not just him we need to worry about. If he gets attacked, his family are in danger too.’

Burns didn’t bother to reply, but his tyres gave a thin scream as the car pulled away.

43

‘I’ll drop you at a taxi rank,’ Burns said, ‘then I’ll get over there.’ His driving had taken a nosedive. He was taking corners too fast, shoulders hunched over the wheel.

‘I’ll come with you.’

It was the thought of Sophie that made me volunteer. She’d have heard about Freiberg by now − at least the sight of us waiting outside might reassure her. It was after seven when Burns pulled over by a parade of shops. He shoved two jumbo cups of coffee into my hands, then drove the last half-mile to the Kingsmiths’ house.

‘There’s enough caffeine in here to kill a horse,’ I said.

‘It’ll keep us awake.’ From the set of Burns’s jaw, it looked like he was prepared to wait until the next millennium.

Two sentries were still standing either side of the Kingsmiths’ door. They looked like actors auditioning for the next Bond movie. Apart from their presence, the house was the same as its neighbours − prosperous and too large, like an overfed businessman. It dawned on me that Lola was still waiting at my flat, determined to keep an eye on me. I stepped out of the car to call her. The clouds were even darker than before, marking the sky like smudges of charcoal.

‘Have you seen Darren?’ I asked.

‘Not yet.’ Lola sounded disappointed.

‘That’s good news. Call the police if you do. Promise you won’t talk to him.’

I gave her the incident room’s number, but I’m not convinced she wrote it down. Knowing Lola she was more likely to dash outside and minister to him herself.