The Winter Foundlings (10 page)

‘Of course. I’ve made an appointment.’

‘I’ll come with you, if you like.’

She looked exasperated. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Alice. I’ve been overdoing it, that’s all. I’m taking a holiday after Christmas.’

‘With Sheila?’

‘On my own this time. I’m going on a cruise. It starts in Cyprus, crosses the Med, then through the Red Sea to the Indian Ocean.’

I tried to disguise my amazement. Normally my mother took short holidays on the Greek islands with a friend from the library. She’d never mentioned a burning desire to circumnavigate the world.

‘That sounds wonderful. How long will you be gone?’

‘Three months.’

I watched her as she described each destination. The tremor was still there, and I flicked through a list of potential illnesses: a brain tumour, Parkinson’s, multiple sclerosis. Until that moment I’d assumed that we had forever to fix our relationship. I’d made an effort to see her more often, hoping we’d reach a point where we could talk honestly, instead of our endless bickering. As a child I’d been convinced she was superhuman. No matter how hard my father hit her, she always got out of bed the next morning, styled her hair and dragged herself to work. The idea that she might be ill made my own hands unsteady as I lifted my glass. But she was avoiding the subject, picking at her meal, keeping the conversation inside safe limits.

My mother produced a thin package from her handbag as soon as we’d finished our main courses. Part of our Christmas routine involved exchanging presents while we waited for dessert. I watched her unwrap my gift: a charcoal grey scarf from Liberty’s, with a simple Art Deco design.

‘It’s beautiful, darling.’ She looked stunned that I’d chosen something so tasteful. ‘Try not to be angry when you open yours.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

I tore the wrapping paper and drew out a large gold envelope. It looked like the ones TV presenters use to announce Oscar nominees. I expected a voucher for a health spa, or some theatre tickets. But when I studied the company logo, I realised she had bought me a year’s membership of a dating agency in Knightsbridge called Introductions Unlimited. I scanned the brochure quickly, trying not to look appalled. The pictures showed couples beaming adoringly at each other. All of the men looked athletic and confident, and the women’s smiles must have required countless trips to Harley Street. When I reached the last page, I couldn’t believe my eyes. My mother had left the receipt in the envelope – she was so desperate to find me a suitable husband that she’d parted with two and a half thousand pounds.

‘This is too much, Mum. I can’t accept it.’

‘Nonsense. For the right person, it’s worth every penny.’

I put down the envelope in a state of amazement. I’d never seen my mother cry, but her eyes were brimming. She must have spent days locating an agency that specialised in well-heeled stockbrokers. She blinked rapidly then looked me in the eye.

‘You could still find someone special, Alice, if you’d only start looking.’

I wanted to tell her not to worry. My friends and my job were enough to satisfy me, but she was too distressed to talk. When I touched her hand it was trembling, like a butterfly struggling to get away.

*   *   *

I spent the next hour in a frenzy of shopping. Retail therapy doesn’t usually work for me, but it took the edge off my anxiety about my mother. I found the ideal dress for Lola in a vintage clothes shop, a cashmere scarf for Will, and some shocking pink coral earrings for my friend Yvette. At three o’clock I slogged through the crowds to Tottenham Court Road, catching a northbound Tube to meet Burns. His Audi was parked opposite the station, and a jolt of attraction hit me when I saw him, like an unexpected punch. I had to blink hard to ignore it.

‘Has Alan agreed I can help interview Layton?’ I asked.

‘Of course. He wants you doing the legwork, then he’ll swoop in when we start arresting suspects and collect the kudos.’

‘And you’re letting him get away with it?’

Burns rolled his eyes. ‘The guy’s spending Christmas with the commissioner, Alice. He’s godfather to the top man’s kids.’

There was no sense in labouring the point; his irritation with the situation was obvious. My main concern was that evidence could be lost in the yawning procedural gap between Nash and myself. I’d submitted a crime analysis report and entered the locations of all four abductions into the Home Office mapping software to create a geo-profile, but so far Alan had contributed nothing to the investigation apart from his eminence.

‘Have you been investigating the staff at Northwood?’ I asked.

‘Not yet. The searches for the first two girls were local, and the leads in Sarah and Ella’s cases centre round Camden.’

I stared at him. ‘But the link to Kinsella’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s likely to be someone who’s spent time with him.’

‘Northwood staff all have enhanced security, don’t they?’

‘That only picks up people with previous offences.’

Burns gave a brisk nod. ‘I’ll put it on my list.’

‘What do you know about Roy Layton?’ I asked.

‘He’s been asking too many questions. When my team searched the school, he was all over them.’

‘That could just be natural curiosity.’

Burns frowned. ‘There’s nothing natural about him. He gave us permission to check his computers yesterday. I bet he thought he’d done a good job of cleaning the hard drive, but there are images of young girls on one of them.’

‘Child porn?’

‘The violent kind. The Sex Crime Unit’s looking at it now. You can assess him, then he’ll be taken to the station. I’ve got a warrant for a full search.’

‘Is there anything else?’

‘He’s been caretaker at the school for thirty years, single, no previous convictions. I thought he seemed okay at first, but Tania reckons he’s an oddball.’

Burns glowed slightly at the mention of his girlfriend, and I turned my attention to the council houses outside the window. Miles of Scandinavian forest must have been decimated to provide Christmas trees for so many front rooms. News footage of Louis Kinsella being led from St Augustine’s flashed through my memory as we arrived at the schoolhouse, which was classic, red-brick Victorian. A hundred years ago, boys and girls would have been corralled through different entrances every morning when the bell rang. I peered into a small classroom. The walls were freshly painted, miniature chairs and tables in a range of primary colours, as if the place was determined to banish its dark reputation.

Police officers were swarming round the caretaker’s house. It was a dilapidated building just behind the school, with tiles slipping from the roof, and a view of the playground. Yards of yellow crime-scene tape circled the perimeter, and a gang of SOCOs were erecting a tent over a white Luton van parked on the drive. There was a sour tang of damp when I followed Burns into the hallway, strips of woodchip paper peeling from the walls. The carpet pattern had been stamped into nonexistence years ago. I fished in my bag for a notebook and a psychological assessment form. I’d filled them out so often that I knew the categories by heart: state of mind, evasiveness, and propensity for violence, with a sub-section for observations about whether the interviewee was lying or concealing information.

Roy Layton looked around fifty-five, but the years hadn’t been kind. He was huddled over a two-bar heater, hands clasped over a sizeable beer belly. Buttons were missing from his brown cardigan and, apart from a ruff of grey hair above his ears, narrow as a monk’s tonsure, he was completely bald. When we walked into the room he looked in my direction, but full eye contact was impossible. One of his pupils lit on my face, while the other scanned the ceiling for cracks. Burns loitered by the door, close enough to eavesdrop, but not to interrupt.

‘Hello, Mr Layton, my name’s Alice,’ I said. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

‘You’re the first to ask. The rest just barge in, without a by-your-leave.’

‘Can I ask you a few questions?’

Layton’s good eye assessed me nervously. ‘It’s a free world.’

The man’s shoulders were hunched round his ears, but under his truculence I could sense his anxiety. His home, reputation, and livelihood could vanish in a blink.

‘Can you tell me about your time here, at St Augustine’s?’

I kept my head down and scribbled a few words on the back of my form. People are always more forthcoming when you’re submissive. It interested me that Layton was manifesting the full range of anxiety gestures, tugging at his sparse hair, crossing and uncrossing his legs.

‘Nine head teachers have come and gone in my time. The new one said she’d get this place done up, but it never happened.’

‘You were the last person to see Ella Williams, weren’t you?’ I asked.

‘So they say. I’ve been kicking myself – I spotted her through the kitchen window, I should have waited with her till her granddad came.’

‘How did you know he’d pick her up?’

‘I see the cars arrive every day. Are you having any luck finding her?’

‘There are some strong leads.’

‘But nothing definite?’ His good eye fixed me with an intent stare while the other spun in its socket.

‘Let’s concentrate on the questions I need to ask you, Mr Layton. Can you tell me if you ever invite the schoolchildren into your home?’

His cheeks reddened. ‘What do you mean? I’ve been CRB checked, you know.’

‘Of course, but the police will search your house very thoroughly today. It’s best to tell us now if Ella ever came here.’

‘Never.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘Sometimes I open the back of the van and let them play in there. That’s as close as they get.’

‘What made you choose this job?’

‘Variety, I suppose. I’m a jack of all trades – a bit of maintenance work, some painting and decorating.’ His voice faded into silence, as if he’d lost the gist of his argument.

‘Did you know Louis Kinsella well?’

His face clouded. ‘I know it’s terrible, what he did, but it was right out of the blue. He did more for this school than anyone. He’s the only one who treated me like an equal.’

The caretaker grew more confident as he spoke, and I saw Burns shifting in his seat. I waited a moment before asking the next question.

‘The police have found some pictures of children on your computer, Mr Layton. Can you explain that for me?’

His good eye fixed me with an outraged stare, while the other whirled like a marble being sucked down a drain. ‘You lot have got filthy minds. That’s a second-hand computer. If you’ve found something dodgy, it wasn’t me that put it there. This is a witch-hunt.’

Burns rose to his feet. ‘Keep your voice down, Mr Layton. You can explain at the station.’

The playground outside looked identical to the one behind the primary school I’d attended, with a basketball hoop, swings, and a climbing frame loaded with snow. Burns peered over my shoulder as I scanned my notes.

‘He’s tense, and socially inept,’ I said. ‘And he’s displaying a high level of anxiety in his patterns of speech and body language.’

‘The bloke’s pretty fond of Kinsella, isn’t he?’

‘It could be Kinsella’s charisma he remembers, not the violence, but you’re right to investigate him. I know he ticks all the clichéd boxes, a lonely misfit who prefers kids to adults, but stereotypes exist for a reason. Most paedophiles take a defensive stance at first interview stage.’

Burns looked satisfied. ‘I’ll see him again as soon as I get to the station.’

‘Try and find out more about his relationship with Kinsella.’

Twenty yards away, Layton was waiting outside his house, and I felt a twitch of sympathy, even though there was a possibility he was the killer. People must have shunned him for years. Mothers would drag their kids across the road, simply because of his appearance. His walk was shambling and he was wearing a duffel coat that looked twenty years old, faded trousers a few inches too short.

‘I’ll fax my report to you.’

Burns glanced down at me. ‘How are you spending Christmas, Alice?’

‘Doing as little as possible.’

‘Lucky you. My place’ll be mayhem.’

A half-smile appeared on his face. I could picture Tania wrapping his gift, then she’d arrive at his flat wearing something glossy to dazzle his kids.

‘Can I give you a lift?’ he asked.

‘No, thanks. I need the fresh air.’

I’d expected the school to be in darkness as I walked past, but the art room was brightly lit. A pretty middle-aged black woman was loading packages into a cardboard box on one of the tables. She hurried to the fire exit when she caught sight of me through the window. Her hair was cropped short, revealing strong cheekbones.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

‘I’m working on the police search for Ella Williams. My name’s Alice Quentin.’ I dug my ID card out of my pocket and showed it to her. ‘I wasn’t expecting to find anyone here on Christmas Eve.’

‘I’m Ella’s teacher, Lynette Milsom.’ She took a step backwards to let me in. ‘I just came to collect my grandson’s presents; he always finds things I hide at home.’

I noticed a pile of paintings stacked on a table nearby. ‘Did Ella’s form do those?’

‘Would you like to see them?’

‘If you don’t mind.’

She spread the papers out, taking care not to damage them. ‘They were drawing outside last term.’ Lynette gazed at the images, then shook her head. ‘Ella’s suffered too much already. I always tell myself not to have favourites, but she’s the smartest kid I’ve ever taught. Her SATs scores are unbelievable.’

She seemed to be holding herself together by the skin of her teeth, staring down at the kids’ pictures. Most of them featured skyscrapers and double-deckers, a few stick-limbed families beside garish houses with tumbledown roofs. But one of the paintings was in a league of its own. A sombre grey building filled the page, and I felt sure I’d seen the place before. It looked like the ideal residence for a family of ghosts.

‘Is this Ella’s?’

Lynette nodded. ‘She drew it after our trip to the Foundling Museum.’

I held her gaze. It seemed an odd coincidence that children from Kinsella’s old school were still visiting his favourite museum. ‘Did the kids go there recently?’