The Winter Foundlings (23 page)

‘Don’t, Alice,’ she said quietly. ‘There’s no need to fuss.’

My mother has never believed in fussing, her feelings so firmly battened down, you could mistake her for an automaton. But I felt like making one on her behalf. If I’d lived with a man who beat me black and blue, then found myself gripped by a disease like Parkinson’s, I’d have kicked every hard object in sight. But an emotional outburst would have been more than she could bear.

We set off together across the concourse and waited in silence to check in her baggage. She had two hours to wait for her flight to Cyprus.

‘Shall we have a coffee?’ I asked.

‘No, darling, you’ve wasted enough time. I’ll go to duty free and buy some sunglasses.’

‘Enjoy it, Mum. Text me when you’re on the boat.’

She kissed me on the cheek; when I glanced back, she was walking alone through the gateway, surrounded by families and couples walking arm in arm. From a distance she looked the same as ever, straight-backed and invincible.

The tears hit me when I reached my car. I don’t know whether I was crying for my mother, the lost girls, or the knowledge that I was failing every day, but I bawled nonstop for twenty minutes. I remembered the symptoms of Parkinson’s from my days as a medical student: muscle weakness, speech loss, paralysis. I was so deeply preoccupied on the way back that I hardly noticed the route as I cut north through the suburbs to Camden.

Burns was standing by his car looking disgruntled. The area seemed an unlikely spot for a serial killer’s lair – Inkerman Street contained a row of prosperous 1930s semis, front doors glossy with Farrow & Ball.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, gazing down at me.

‘Fine thanks, why?’

‘You don’t look yourself.’

On the rare occasions when I cry, my nose glows like a Belisha beacon, eyes blurry and red-rimmed. Even though I must have looked like a train wreck, the urge to seek his comfort was almost irresistible.

‘I’ve had some bad news, but I’m okay. Have you looked around yet?’

Burns shook his head. ‘I brought the write-up from the house-to-house.’ He pulled a computer printout from his pocket. ‘Every address was checked, plus gardens, garages and sheds. Are you sure you’re okay to do this?’

‘Of course.’

I was beginning to feel foolish for wasting his time. We were standing at the centre of the killer’s territory, but there was nothing here apart from a line of suburban homes that had all been checked. Willis Road was exactly the same. I was about to apologise when I came to a standstill on Orchard Row. The houses on the right-hand side had been demolished. Ten-foot hoardings lined the pavement, advertising a new housing development. Outsized photos of families sitting in show-home kitchens beamed at us as we walked past.

‘There’s nothing behind there.’ Burns studied the printout again. ‘Berkshire Estates have owned the site for eighteen months. Their building plans are on hold because of the downturn.’

‘Did the search team go inside?’

He shook his head. ‘The manager said it’s patrolled regularly.’

We paused by a set of wooden gates, but it was impossible to see inside. ‘It looks like someone’s changed the padlock,’ I said.

Burns turned the shiny new lock over in his hand and sighed loudly. It made a poor match for the rusty chain that held the bolt in place. ‘Stay there, Alice. I’ll take a look.’

He stepped onto the frame then swung himself over; but at five foot nothing, it was a harder climb for me. There was an ominous tearing sound as my coat snagged on a splinter. Burns looked unimpressed when I landed beside him on the icy concrete.

‘What part of “stay there” do you not understand?’

I ignored him and gazed around the site. It was empty apart from a ruined two-storey building, with a few small outbuildings. There were no clues to explain what it had been used for originally, but I guessed it had been part of a Victorian hospital. The structure looked ready to collapse before the wrecking ball attacked it, glass missing from the windows, and holes gaping in the roof.

I left Burns peering through the doorway and skirted round the side of the building. There was a trail of indentations in the snow, and even though they had been buried by a fresh covering, it looked as if footprints were hidden underneath, and my pulse quickened. My eyes caught on a red metal container by the boundary wall, the doors hanging open. A powerful stench hit me when I peered inside. Soiled tissue paper littered the floor; there was a sodden blanket, and two buckets in the corner, reeking of urine and excrement. Maybe I imagined it, but another smell seemed to linger there: the sharp tang of adrenaline and fear.

‘It’s here, Don, quick,’ I yelled.

I heard his footsteps, then a quick indrawn breath and he was on his mobile, calling for backup. The container explained why Sarah and Amita’s skin had been grimed with rust. Flakes of orange metal were peeling from the walls, and I wondered how the girls had coped. Claustrophobia and terror would have overwhelmed me in minutes. I stared into the bleak interior and tried to imagine Ella cowering there. Then my eyes fell on a piece of cloth. It was almost unrecognisable; the cotton must have been white originally, but now it was pockmarked by dark brown stains. A foundling dress lay abandoned on the container’s floor.

34

I was numb with tiredness by the time I got home. I’d escaped lightly because Burns had stayed at Orchard Row to deal with the influx of SOCOs, still fuming that the search team had taken the site manager at his word. He would probably be there all night while Pete Hancock’s team searched for anything that held the killer’s DNA. I sat by the unlit fire listening to owls dive-bombing the house, screeching at the top of their voices. I was about to go to bed when a text arrived on my phone. My mother had sent a picture of her cabin. I felt a twinge of jealousy. It looked so luxurious, I wished I could teleport myself there, and sit by her panoramic window for a few days watching the sea. It seemed like a good sign that she could muster enough energy to complain – apparently the ship was overcrowded, and the food plentiful but unimaginative.

When I finally crawled into bed, sleep dropped over me like a blackout curtain. But a few hours later, something roused me. I heard an unfamiliar noise, then slipped back into my dream. When it came again, it was much louder – a shattering sound, as if someone was hurling plates at the wall. My tiredness evaporated instantly, eyes straining in the dark. I crept out of bed in silence. From the window all I could see were acres of trees, their branches outlined in white. I was beginning to question my sanity. Maybe I’d imagined the whole thing – Will’s bad spirits gate-crashing my dreams.

I was about to return to bed when there was a cracking noise, loud as a bullet, then a crescendo of glass shattering. I was too terrified to act rationally, dashing from room to room, hitting every light switch, hoping to fool the burglar into believing the house was full of people. The next sound was of footsteps floundering through the snow. But the road was deserted when I reached the front window. Whoever the intruder was, he must be hiding in the woods.

I pulled on my clothes and ran downstairs. The damage was obvious straight away. A brick lay in the middle of the hallway, a ragged hole through the glass pane in the front door. My heart juddered at the base of my throat. This time the burglar had meant business. He’d arrived in the middle of the night, intending to break in, and he’d almost succeeded. But the most frightening thing was that he knew there was little to steal, because he’d been here before, peering through the windows. It could only be me that he’d come for.

My hands shook as I phoned the police. I sat on the edge of the sofa, with an inch of brandy in a shot glass, but it failed to calm me. Louis Kinsella’s face appeared every time I blinked. It felt as though he was the one terrorising me, even though he was locked behind a steel door. The hunch that he might be instructing someone at Northwood was getting stronger all the time. I kept busy until the police arrived, sweeping up broken glass, and tacking hardboard over the hole in the window. It was a relief when a squad car finally pulled up. A female copper and her elderly sidekick sat at the kitchen table. She was so young, it looked like she’d brought her dad along for the ride. He gave me an old-fashioned look when I explained about the footprints in the snow.

‘The postman probably, trying to deliver a parcel. And Christmas is peak season for burglaries,’ he said calmly. ‘You should get an alarm.’

‘I’m renting,’ I replied.

His smile vanished, as if my temporary status explained everything. The young woman handed me the crime number on a slip of paper.

‘You shouldn’t be alone tonight,’ she said. ‘Can we give you a lift somewhere?’

‘Yes, please.’ The look on her face was so sympathetic I felt like advising her to become a social worker, before she grew as jaded as her sidekick.

At least I’d stopped shaking by the time we left, but my nerves were still jangling. It was unlikely that my would-be burglar was lurking in the woods, but I couldn’t calm down. There was no one in sight as I looked out of the window of the squad car. The whole village seemed to be sleeping off the effects of a riotous New Year’s party.

They dropped me outside the Rookery and I crossed the road to Tom’s building with mixed feelings. I didn’t feel comfortable about placing myself at his mercy, but the idea of bothering Burns at the hotel felt even worse. The main entrance was unlocked, so I let myself in. He arrived at the door to his flat wearing nothing except a pair of boxer shorts and a puzzled expression. His face was so inscrutable it was hard to know whether he was pleased or annoyed, but after a few seconds he stepped backwards to let me in.

‘It’s unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Nothing like that happens here.’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘And you say someone’s been poking around?’

‘Ever since I arrived.’

‘Maybe you should find somewhere else to stay.’

I shook my head. ‘I like the cottage. No one’s going to scare me away.’

His cool gaze skimmed my face. ‘Is this how you react to danger? Tough it out, and pretend it’s not real?’

‘What other choice is there?’

His hand rested on my shoulder for a second before he turned away, and I watched him moving round the kitchen, as he made me a drink. The physical facts were undeniable. His body was a thing of beauty, muscles taut across his back. The thing I needed most of all was a hug, but I stifled the impulse, knowing that we’d end up in bed. There was no point in complicating things – Burns was still stuck in my head like a bad tune.

‘Who was that bloke you were with at the Rookery?’ he asked.

‘A colleague, from the Met. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason.’ He handed me a mug of tea and his expression softened. ‘I never apologised properly for going through your things.’

‘I wanted to understand why, that’s all.’

‘Every time I ask a question, you stonewall me, Alice. I’ve never met anyone more closed.’

My mouth flapped in outrage. ‘You’re not exactly open yourself.’

‘At least I’m trying. Go on, ask any question you like.’

‘Okay than,’ I said, staring back at him. ‘How do you get on with your family?’

I expected flippancy. I thought he’d say that his mother was overbearing, and his dad was lousy at golf, but his face was blank. ‘That’s hard to answer.’

‘It can’t be that difficult.’

‘Believe me, it is.’

He looked so uncomfortable that I changed the subject. ‘You don’t seem like a fitness instructor to me. Judith said you went to Oxford.’

‘Trust Jude to let that one slip.’

‘You wanted to be an academic?’

‘Do you really want an explanation? It’s not that exciting.’

‘It’s okay. I won’t flog your story to
HELLO!,
unless it’s newsworthy.’

He put down his mug cautiously. ‘I studied divinities. I was a believer back then, like I said, and I thought I had a calling.’ He pulled a face, as though he’d told a lame joke. ‘I worked as a priest for a few years but it didn’t work out, so here I am, helping villains keep fit. A different kind of ministry.’

I gaped at him, shocked that I’d made so many wrong assumptions. ‘What made you leave the church?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s enough revelations for one day.’

‘Pity, it was just getting interesting. There was something else I wanted to ask. Does Kinsella talk to you when he’s in the gym?’

‘Occasionally, when he’s running.’

‘About his crimes?’

‘He asks about my life. I guess he wants to hear about the world outside. Why do you ask?’

‘I saw him talking to Garfield, nineteen to the dozen.’

‘That’s not surprising, is it? How would you cope with round-the-clock isolation?’

‘Badly.’

He held my gaze. ‘Feel free to come back if your door’s not fixed tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, but I’m sure it’ll be okay.’

Tiredness was knocking me sideways, and Tom must have seen my adrenaline draining away, because his expression switched to concern. ‘You should get some sleep.’

‘I’ll be fine on here.’ I pointed at the settee.

Luckily he didn’t try to change my mind. When he leant down to kiss me goodnight, my willpower faltered. It would have been easy to jump into his outsized bed, but I let him walk back into his bedroom alone. His revelation about having been a priest lingered in my head as he closed the door. It struck me as odd that his past was forbidden territory. I wanted to see him as a friend, because he and Judith were my only allies at Northwood, but the layer of secrets that surrounded him was too deep to penetrate.

I tiptoed round the room, scanning Tom’s bookshelves. I had no intention of invading his privacy like he’d done when he riffled through my papers, but I couldn’t suppress my curiosity. The rows of heavyweight novels on his shelves would have impressed a librarian:
Anna Karenina, Middlemarch, Mill on the Floss.
I couldn’t have finished any of them – epics went beyond my concentration span. I was about to quit when I spotted a photo peeping from one of the books. I felt guilty for opening it but couldn’t stop myself. The picture was fading, like a timeworn memory. It was a conventional portrait of a family enjoying their summer holiday. Tom stood on a beach, about twelve years old, beside a younger boy with the same lean build and white-blond hair. His parents looked relaxed and carefree. But Tom was wearing an expression I’d never seen before, beaming at the camera. There was no hint of the adult who’d become so adept at concealing his emotions. I tucked the picture back inside the book, then returned it to the shelf as a sound drifted through the wall. His footsteps were pacing the floor, as if he was completing one last workout before he went to bed.