The Winter Foundlings (27 page)

‘He’ll get the same care as the rest of my patients. If they’re sick, I try and fix them, no matter what they’ve done.’

Her name badge told me she was called Moira, and her voice had a soft Irish lilt. I wondered how many rapists and mass murderers she’d rescued from the brink of death during her long career.

‘Can you tell me what happened?’

‘Louis was brought in with chest pain, extending through his jaw. His trace shows an irregular heartbeat. He may need an angiogram or bypass surgery at a specialist unit, but I can’t move him.’

‘No?’

‘He’s refusing treatment.’ She gave me a searching look. ‘The outside world must seem daunting after all this time.’

The theory struck me as unlikely. Kinsella had spent years campaigning to return to prison. He probably fantasised every day about Northwood’s gates swinging open to release him.

‘Can I see him?’ I asked.

She led me upstairs, and I peered through the observation hatch into Kinsella’s room. I did a double take when I saw Judith sitting by his bed. The rise and fall of her voice was musical and rhythmic. She seemed to be reading poetry from a book resting on her lap. The alarm bells I’d heard when she’d defended her reasons for keeping Kinsella’s letters a secret were ringing even louder. Either she was closer to him than she’d claimed, or her supply of sympathy was never-ending.

It was doubtful that Kinsella knew he had a visitor. He looked years older, lines carved deeper into his skin, and he was hooked to a cardiogram. The numbers on the monitor were too distant to read, but the bleeps were erratic, the intervals between heartbeats much too quick. He seemed to be in a light sleep, eyelids fluttering, and his wrist was handcuffed to the metal bed-frame. Even in his weakened condition they were taking no chances.

I was surprised to find myself shaking. If Kinsella died, he would take his information about Ella Williams with him, but there was a more personal reason too. He looked like my father after his stroke. I’d found him lying on the kitchen floor when I got back from school, gasping for air. When he returned from hospital my mother employed a full-time nurse to feed and bathe him. She spent her evenings at her prayer group or at the theatre, while his wheelchair stayed in front of the TV, and he couldn’t complain, because he’d lost the power of speech. It was the opposite of Kinsella’s spells of silence, which only increased his strength – my father must have longed to scream his frustration at the world.

Moira reappeared as I headed for the exit. She spoke gently, as though I was a distressed relative. ‘He’ll recover, if he takes our help. But he’s written a note asking not to be treated.’

‘Is he allowed to refuse medication?’

‘The governors say we’ll have to intervene if his condition becomes critical.’ She gave another gentle smile. ‘At least he’s popular. He’s already had plenty of visitors.’

I checked the visitor log on my way out. The list of names started with Garfield Ellis, who’d rushed Kinsella to the infirmary that afternoon, but some of the others surprised me. Gorski, Alan Nash, Tom and Pru, as well as Judith. The infirmary’s smell of sickness, damp woollen blankets and bleach seemed to cling to the air. Or maybe it was the memory of Kinsella that made me want to scrub my skin. I ducked into the nearest toilet and reached for the soap, but then an unexpected sound came from one of the cubicles. A woman was crying bitterly, ragged breaths between each sob. I was drying my hands when Pru Fielding finally stepped out. She didn’t see me at first, too busy wiping her eyes. The livid birthmark that covered half her face looked even darker, her eyes bloodshot, as though she’d been crying for hours.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

She looked startled. ‘I didn’t think anyone was here.’

‘I’ve been to see Louis Kinsella. Is that why you came over too?’

She shook her head. ‘A man from my art class has got pancreatic cancer, but he still likes to draw, so we meet here one-to-one.’

‘Is that why you’re upset?’

‘He hasn’t got long to go. God, this place is bleak, isn’t it?’

Maybe it had only just dawned on her that most inmates at the Laurels would never be freed. Tears carried on leaking from Pru’s eyes as she hid her scar behind a paper towel.

My mind was whirring as I crossed the hospital campus. It interested me that the staff at the Laurels felt so much compassion. All I’d taken from my meetings with Kinsella was a blast of pent-up fury, and the memory of his eyes crawling across my skin. Alan Nash’s visit was easy to interpret. It was pure self-interest; a deathbed confession would increase his book sales out of sight. But I wondered what Tom had gained from sitting beside Kinsella’s sickbed. Perhaps it was a hangover from his days as a priest – a need to comfort the afflicted, whatever their sins.

*   *   *

When I got back to the broom cupboard, I switched on my laptop and checked the encrypted files Burns had given me, containing the HR records of every staff member at the Laurels. Judith’s CV showed that she had spent her career specialising in treating violent offenders, and she had excellent references from her previous employers. It seemed odd that she had started at Northwood in the same year Kinsella arrived, but I knew I was just being paranoid. There was nothing to indicate professional malpractice or over-involvement. If she had fallen under Kinsella’s spell, surely she would have restarted his campaign years sooner? My main ally at Northwood seemed to be blameless. Relief washed over me as I got ready to leave.

The solemn policeman who’d driven me to Windsor to interview Kinsella’s wife was waiting beside my car, his gloom heightened by the cold. ‘DI Goddard sent me,’ he said. ‘You’re to leave your car here, then she wants you to pack a bag and go straight to the hotel.’

I gritted my teeth. I’d accepted that I had to leave the cottage, but people’s efforts to help have always irritated me – you could describe it as independence or the worst kind of stubbornness. I tried to be civil, but my tone of voice was a fraction too curt.

‘It sounds like Tania’s got my future all mapped out.’

Reg gave me a bored stare, but maybe I was doing him a disservice. For all I knew, he spent his idle moments contemplating the nature of existence. A few personal details leaked out on the drive to the cottage. He came from Muswell Hill, he supported Arsenal, and he’d spent thirty-two years in the Force.

‘The job’s changed out of sight,’ he said. ‘Too many chiefs, not enough Indians.’

‘The NHS is the exactly same.’

Reg smiled briefly to himself, clearly pleased that we agreed about the decline of public services, and in the end I was grateful for his lift. There had been a fresh fall of snow, and the van passed down the lane with ease, saving me a hike through the cold. I scanned the path outside the cottage for fresh footprints but the snow was unmarked.

After I’d packed my holdall I stood by the bedroom window. The sky was perfectly clear. Miles of black velvet, littered with sequins. Perhaps it was the surfeit of beauty that triggered my anger. My work for the Met had taken over my life again. I should have refused to help Burns, then I could have completed my research in peace and spent my evenings stargazing, but now I was too deeply committed. My mind defaulted to Ella Williams whenever I relaxed. The only way to regain my freedom was to work nonstop until she was found. I took one last glance at the moon, haloed by a fuzz of brightness, then marched back downstairs.

‘Ready when you are.’ I left the hall light burning, even though it was unlikely to help. With a little determination, anyone could smash a window and step inside.

The drive to Charndale Manor took less than ten minutes, and I studied the building as Reg parked the car. The hotel was built on a grand scale, with floodlights picking out Gothic turrets and leaded windows. It would make the ideal venue for murder-mystery weekends, the guests competing to be Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot.

My room was on the second floor. The curtains had seen better days and cigarette burns were dotted across the carpet; a couple in the room next door were having a row, the wall reverberating with each insult. I dropped my bag on the bed and escaped downstairs.

‘A double espresso, please,’ I told the girl behind the bar.

It was ten o’clock but my chances of sleep were minimal until my neighbours calmed down. The best option was to load up on caffeine and get on with some work. The hotel bar was a cavernous tribute to Queen Victoria, mahogany-lined from floor to ceiling, wall lights struggling to penetrate the gloom. I recognised some faces from the incident room. Pete Hanson was killing time further down the bar, browsing through his newspaper, but I couldn’t face making conversation. Luckily there was a private bar, which turned out to be small, empty and warm.

I felt better once I’d engaged my brain. Tania had given me a printout of the latest HOLMES report, detailing every contact and witness statement since the investigation began. My phone rang before I’d reached page six. I considered ignoring it, but it was Lola. We’d sworn never to blank each other when we were twelve years old and, given my current run of luck, I couldn’t afford to jinx myself.

‘Pregnant women need extra sleep,’ I said. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’

‘I had my first scan today.’

The idea jumped like a needle on scratched vinyl. ‘It still doesn’t feel real, Lo.’

‘I’ve got evidence. The baby’s going to be a giant.’

‘Text me the picture, can you?’

There was a pause before she spoke again. ‘Is something wrong?’ One of Lola’s best skills is clairvoyance. She can mind-read from a thousand miles, so there’s no point in keeping secrets.

‘Not wrong exactly. My cottage is out of bounds, that’s all.’

Lola listened to my explanation then tutted loudly. ‘I’m still coming for the weekend.’

‘That’s not a great idea.’

‘Of course it is. I’ll stay at the hotel.’

There was no sense in arguing. Once Lola makes up her mind, she’s an unstoppable force.

I put my phone on mute afterwards, espresso fizzing in my bloodstream as I scanned the printout. The Met team had certainly been busy. They’d spent the last week monitoring parks, playgrounds and routes used by the girls, and analysing hundreds of hours of CCTV. I studied the section that profiled the registered sex offenders who’d been interviewed. One of them had seemed like a contender, but the thread was dropped because his alibi was rock solid. I stared at the page until the script blurred. It was possible that the abductions had nothing to do with sex. The killer had simply targeted the most vulnerable children he could find: motherless, fostered, or adopted. In his eyes they were the poorest wretches in society. Maybe he believed that he was exterminating street urchins, or being cruel to be kind. So far there was no clue about how he had tapped into records of the children’s home lives. One of the things that concerned me most was the length of time he had kept his first victims. The post-mortem report on Kylie Walsh showed that her body had lain in a freezer for weeks. Serial killers who retain the corpses of their victims tend to become addicted to killing. They’re so friendless and isolated, they’re reluctant to part with their victims, as though they were lovers or relatives.

Despite all the evidence, I still had a hunch that Ella Williams was alive. No token had arrived for Kinsella, and her teacher described her as the smartest kid she’d ever taught, dragged prematurely into the adult world when her mother died. If she’d found a way to play him, then all I had to do was work out her method. Ideas were shifting into place when I heard the door opening. Burns was standing there, clutching a shot glass in each hand.

‘Pete said you were here, so I got you a nightcap.’ He dropped onto the seat beside me. ‘Do you always work this late?’

‘Why? Do you always drink whisky at midnight?’

‘Once in a blue moon.’ His mouth twitched into a smile, and I tried to quell the surge of attraction that arrived whenever I saw him. ‘What have you been looking at?’

‘The people who’re close to Kinsella: Pru Fielding, Tom Jensen, Judith Miller and Garfield Ellis. And the records say that Aleks Gorski had solo meetings with him before his tribunal.’

‘You seriously think the centre director’s involved?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s got to be someone in a position of trust. He’s spent plenty of time in Kinsella’s company.’

‘Run me through your suspects.’

‘Pru Fielding’s the most vulnerable, she’s the art therapist at the Laurels. Tom Jensen runs the gym. He’s a loner, with no family. Garfield’s Kinsella’s nurse and he sees more of him than anyone else. Judith Miller used to be his counsellor – she defends his rights a bit too strenuously.’

‘I’ll take a look at them.’ Burns scribbled the names in his notebook.

‘Did you find any more evidence at Orchard Row?’

‘Nothing.’ He gazed at his whisky, swirling in its glass. ‘We’ve got DNA from all five girls, but not a trace of him, apart from the tracks of his van. It’s like he lured them there, then disappeared into thin air, like the Pied Piper.’

I returned my attention to my pile of notes, and my thoughts finally clicked into place. ‘That’s it, Don. You’ve hit the nail on the head.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘We’ve been looking in the wrong direction. Kinsella was the Pied Piper. This is about kids, not adults, and Ella’s found the killer’s Achilles heel. She’s found a way to mother him.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Ella’s playing the adult role. It’s someone who’s never progressed beyond the emotional state of childhood. He was probably less than ten when he met Kinsella. Kids are more suggestible than adults – given enough time and effort, you can brainwash them to do anything.’

‘Like child soldiers,’ he murmured.

‘Exactly. Train an eight-year-old to use a machete and he’ll kill for you, without asking why.’

‘So it’s a pupil from St Augustine’s, not a teacher.’

‘Not necessarily. It could be a boy from his choir, or any child he saw regularly. That would make Judith and Garfield too old to be the killer, and put Tom and Pru in the right age bracket. Maybe other kids Kinsella groomed have followed him to Northwood as well.’