The Winter Foundlings (22 page)

‘But why would he go to the trouble of altering the costumes himself?’ I asked. ‘The foundlings must have a personal meaning.’

The two men wore very different expressions. Burns looked open to persuasion, but Nash’s eyes were glazed with contempt. We could have stayed in deadlock for hours, but thankfully a young officer arrived. He was panting, as though he’d sprinted a hundred metres.

‘This just arrived, sir,’ he told Burns.

The white envelope had been sent first class from central London, addressed to Mr Louis Kinsella. I watched Burns shake the contents into an evidence bag. There was nothing inside apart from a scrap of cotton, two inches wide, containing a small red button. It was a direct copy of the tokens I’d seen at the Foundling Hospital, and when I looked more closely, the button was embossed with a teddy bear’s face. All three of us stared at it in silence. The gift was as wide as my palm, and it had clearly been a labour of love. Someone had hemmed the pale pink fabric with dozens of minute stitches, and the shape of the token revealed the killer’s feelings for Kinsella. It was a perfect, neat-edged heart.

31

Kinsella refused to meet me until five o’clock, so I had time to prepare myself. I let my gaze wander around the interview room to keep my mind occupied. Red security lights flashed above the doorway, a plastic chair behind the glass boundary, like a throne waiting for a king’s arrival. The space was so pristine it could have doubled as an operating theatre, and even the smell was the same – disinfectant and anxiety. Hopefully the glass wall would prevent Kinsella from scenting my fear. The stakes had risen even higher since Amita had been found. The wire inside my blouse felt cold against my skin, and the recorder must have been picking up my rapid breathing and the judder of my heartbeat, Burns and his team listening to my discomfort.

Garfield led Kinsella to his chair then retreated. The headmaster wore the smug look my father adopted when he won an argument, flushed with pleasure at grinding his opponent’s ideas into the dust. As usual his wrists lay handcuffed in his lap.

‘I heard the news, Alice,’ he said. ‘My follower’s showing extraordinary tenacity, isn’t he? I thought they’d forget the rules I gave them, but so far not one’s been broken.’

‘The rules?’

He gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Call them guidelines, or a manifesto, if you prefer. It’s amazing how many people love to follow orders. What about you? Do you enjoy being told what to do?’

‘Only by people I respect. If not, I refuse point-blank.’

Kinsella gave a yelp of laughter. ‘Your rebellious spirit is nearly as strong as mine, Alice.’

I pulled the token from its envelope. ‘This arrived from London today to let you know about Amita Dhaliwhal. Either he killed her yesterday, or he sent it ahead of time, knowing that she’d be dead when it arrived.’

‘Superb organisational skills.’ He watched me expectantly as I pushed the scrap of material through the hatch in the glass screen. When it fell into his palm, it balanced there like a piece of gold leaf, the button glittering under the lights.

‘You asked for a keepsake every time, didn’t you?’

His expression remained neutral as he stared at the scrap of cotton, before lowering it gently into the hatch. ‘Thank you for letting me see it. No one else in this place has an ounce of courtesy.’

‘I need more details, Mr Kinsella. If you won’t tell me the killer’s name, you could at least say where he lives.’

‘Poor Alice, always so keen to save everyone.’ He leant forwards in his chair, until I could see the grey sheen of his five-o’clock shadow. ‘Why don’t you use those exquisite eyes of yours? It’s at the centre of the whole affair. If you can’t see where the girls were kept, you’ve got the wrong map.’

His disturbing grin flickered for a second, then the headmaster rose to his feet and nodded at Garfield to lead him away. I found myself gritting my teeth, and it was fortunate that the glass screen was in place – for his protection, not mine. Kinsella had got everything he wanted from our meeting, and his stare had been so intrusive it felt like he had X-ray vision. He’d seized the opportunity to make us all look like fools, because he was the only one who understood the rules of the game.

When the room emptied I turned to face the observation window. All I could see was an expanse of opaque grey glass, but Burns was sure to be watching. I raised the palms of my hands in a gesture of apology. My relationship with Kinsella felt like a tennis match with a far stronger opponent, but the consequence of losing would be far worse than missing out on a trophy, and it was clear that I was already two sets down.

*   *   *

Kinsella’s words rang in my ears when I returned to the incident room and studied the crime scene map, each one marked with a red drawing pin. I was still standing there, glassy-eyed, searching for a pattern between the dots of colour, when Tania sashayed across the room. Her expression hovered somewhere between professionalism and hostility.

‘Burns said you’d give us a list of staff who see Kinsella one-to-one.’

‘I’ll finish it now.’

She turned on her heel and left me to it. The next hour was spent studying the staff rosters I’d collected from the HR department. They showed that Garfield saw more of Kinsella than anyone else. As his designated nurse, he was responsible for conducting him from his cell to the refectory, to meetings and therapy sessions. A physio treated Kinsella for back pain, and he had individual art and gym sessions to prevent other inmates from attacking him. At least one security guard always stayed in the room, but there would still be plenty of opportunities for whispered conversations. Half a dozen psychiatrists and psychologists had worked with him at Northwood, including Alan Nash, Gorski, Judith Miller, and a Jon Evans. I racked my brains to remember the name. I’d met so many new people at the Laurels that my memory was stretched to capacity. Then it came to me. He was the guy who’d worked with Kinsella the year before, the one who’d had a breakdown.

Finally I added the names of the security men who regularly guarded him, then went looking for Tania.

I found her in one of the anterooms, absorbed in a phone conversation, but she nodded a curt thank-you as I handed over the sheet of paper. It felt like a spectacular act of disloyalty to include Judith and Tom’s names on a list of potential suspects, but I was sure that the killer had fallen under Kinsella’s influence. Anyone who spent time inside his orbit was in danger of succumbing to his control.

By now it was seven o’clock and I was in need of a meal, but Kinsella’s message still troubled me. He might have been lying about the map holding the key to the killer’s address, but his expression had been unusually serious. He enjoyed the chase most when I was right behind him – it felt like he was offering me the chance to catch up. I opened my laptop and clicked on the map I’d created. It’s a known fact that serial killers worked outwards from an axis, with their own home at the epicentre. Until Amita’s body was found fifty miles from his patch, the killer had been working inside a tight radius. I stared at the screen again: three streets on the outskirts of Camden Town were flashing in traffic-light red. I was still hunched over the computer when Burns appeared in front of me.

‘Found something?’ he asked.

‘You’re sure that Willis Road, Orchard Row and Inkerman Street were all searched?’

Burns studied the map. ‘We went through that area like a dose of salts.’

‘I’d still like to take a look tomorrow.’

He stared down at me. ‘You’d travel there, to look at streets we’ve already checked?’

‘I’ll be in London anyway.’

‘I can meet you at midday. I’ve got to see the commissioner.’

Burns was gone before I could explain that there was no need. I was perfectly capable of exploring the neighbourhood on my own. I knew my hunch was unlikely to lead to anything, but Kinsella had planted a seed of doubt that would blossom into rampant anxiety if I ignored it.

32

It feels like days since the man locked her in the back of the van. Ella’s back aches, and there’s nothing here, except a bucket and a roll of toilet paper, and some torn overalls the man has abandoned. She’s so hungry that her stomach hurts, her ribs covered only by a thin layer of skin.

When the door finally opens again, the light hurts her eyes, and the man’s wearing his black coat, beaming at her. He helps her climb out into a small garage. The walls squeeze the sides of the van so tightly, there’s hardly enough space to walk past. At the end of the garage she spots a large chest freezer and a pile of cardboard boxes – ten or twelve narrow cylinders, stacked inside each other. Ella wants to know what the boxes are for, but some instinct prevents her from asking. She remembers the man standing in the woods with a package balanced in his arms. His hand squeezes her shoulder as he leads her inside. The kitchen looks so like home that tears prick the backs of her eyes. Granddad’s kettle is made of the same dull silver, and she can almost smell the smoke that trails after him wherever he goes. The man’s grip is tight enough to leave a bruise as he pulls her down a narrow stairway.

‘Like it down here, Ella?’

She forces the smile back onto her face. The room is tiny, with a window that’s too high to see through, and it stinks of damp. Circles of mould stain the white paint. There’s a narrow bed pushed against the wall, a small table and a chair with a broken back. Splinters needle her skin when she sits on it, waiting for him to leave. His woollen hat’s so low over his forehead that his eyes are barely visible. But if she had to guess, the look he’s giving her seems to be an apology. Boys give each other that stare in the playground when someone gets hurt in a game of tag, laughter draining away like a cup emptying.

Something odd is happening to the man’s face. His cheeks twitch like he’s trying not laugh. But when Ella looks again, tears are dropping from his eyes. Her gaze switches to the open door. If she had enough strength she’d push past him, but she can hardly stand. The man’s head rests on her shoulder as he gulps out some words.

‘I can’t do it any more. They’re bound to find us, and it’s wrong, what I’m doing. The nightmares are killing me.’

‘Can’t your family help you?’

‘I’ve got no one.’ The man’s voice is scratchy with tears.

‘You’ve got me, haven’t you?’

‘And you’ll never leave?’

‘Never.’ Ella shakes her head slowly. ‘But I want to know why you chose me.’

‘Because we’re the same, you and me. We’ve lost everything, that’s why we understand each other.’ His stubble grazes her palm as he pulls away, but at least he’s calmer. He drops a kiss on her hand then rises to his feet. ‘You know you’re my princess, don’t you?’

She forces herself to smile, then the man steps out of the room. When he returns, he’s carrying a plateful of food. A sandwich wrapped in clingfilm, fruit and a chocolate bar.

‘All my favourites,’ she whispers.

His eyes flick across her face as she eats. She’s so scared he’ll take the food away again, that she gulps down mouthfuls too fast, even though his gaze disturbs her. He seems to be counting each bite, keeping track of everything she owes.

33

The drive to London next morning took longer than I expected, the snow still causing traffic problems. My mother had been incommunicado for days, but she’d sent a text the night before reminding me to be on time. Snow fine as grit fell against the windscreen, but at least concentrating on the road helped me escape the pressures of the case for a few hours. It was seven fifteen by the time I reached Blackheath, and the view plunged me back into childhood memories. My eyes wandered across the heath land; a mile of pure whiteness, rolling away towards Greenwich Park. On a rational level I could see how beautiful it was – a pristine piece of countryside trapped inside the city limits. There’s no explaining why it scared me so much. The landscape sent my internal clock spinning into reverse, as if my childhood might rise up from the ground and claim me again.

My mother was standing outside her apartment building on Wemyss Road, beside two huge suitcases. She was wearing a smart navy-blue coat and an outraged frown.

‘You’re twenty minutes late, Alice. Why didn’t you call?’

I wrenched open the boot of my car. ‘Then I’d have been even later.’

‘I should have called a taxi.’

‘Relax, Mum. You’ll catch your plane, I promise. We can chat on the way.’

My mother’s expression made it clear that chatting wasn’t an option. Her lips were so tightly pursed, it looked like they’d been sealed with superglue. After we’d been underway twenty minutes she seemed calmer, but her tremor was still in evidence, her hands jittering in her lap.

‘How’s the new job going?’ she asked.

I considered telling her everything was fine, but I was too tired to lie. ‘It’s tougher than I imagined. In fact, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Sometimes it’s so upsetting, it makes me want to quit and do something normal like everyone else.’

My mother gaped at me. ‘Goodness, Alice. That’s the first time you’ve admitted to a weakness since you broke your arm at primary school.’

‘I wonder where I get that from?’

A brief smile crossed her face. ‘Have you been on any dates yet?’

‘I will soon, I promise.’

My admission of vulnerability seemed to help, because she talked without pause for the next half-hour. Her voice was almost the same as normal, a slight quake making the words vibrate like notes from a cello. She told me about the cities on her cruise itinerary, and the lectures she could attend on-board. By the time we reached Gatwick, I was an expert on cruise ship etiquette and sites of interest in Dubrovnik and Marrakesh. My mother saved her bombshell until I’d unloaded her luggage onto the trolley at Gatwick.

‘It’s Parkinson’s, by the way.’

‘Sorry?’

‘The neurologist says it’s stage two. There’s not much they can do, except monitor it.’

‘How long have you known?’

‘A few weeks. I didn’t want to spoil your Christmas.’

I couldn’t find a suitable reply, so I hugged her instead. It had been years since we’d embraced and I could feel how thin she was, the tremor running through her like a pulse. After a few seconds she patted my back firmly and withdrew.