The Winter Foundlings (31 page)

Reg’s transformation into the world’s most conscientious father-figure set my teeth on edge. Something about being blonde and five foot nothing makes men assume you’re in dire need of protection, and there’s nothing you can do, except stand your ground.

Tom was queuing at the bar when I arrived; the pub had a different vibe from the Rookery. There was a murmur of conversation instead of a blaring jukebox and, judging by the Barbours and Wellingtons, the county set had arrived for the evening. A well-behaved red setter was guarding its owner at the end of the bar. Tom and I settled on a narrow bench, backs leaning against the wall. I’d chosen orange juice instead of wine, in an effort to keep my head clear.

‘Work’s taken over,’ I said. ‘It’s like a tsunami.’

His pale eyes examined me. ‘The police were crawling everywhere today. They even came to the gym.’

‘Really?’

‘They asked me about Kinsella, but there wasn’t much I could say.’ His fingers tapped out a rhythm on his beer glass. ‘He’s only spoken a few times. The last time he asked about my family.’

His statement tailed into thin air and I remembered his revelation about the plane crash. The vulnerability he’d shown didn’t match his image. He’d have made an ideal action hero, his face raw-boned and immobile as Daniel Craig’s. Endless sympathy after the air crash must have forced him to hide his weaknesses deep inside his skin.

‘Let’s not talk about work tonight,’ I said.

‘You want to make small talk? That’s not like you.’

‘It’s legal, isn’t it? Tell me about your favourite books.’

His knowledge of literature was encyclopaedic. It made me wish I’d brought a notebook, so I could make better choices next time I visited Waterstones.

‘You’re wasted in that gym,’ I said.

‘I don’t agree. Exercise is the highlight of the week for most of them.’

A flicker of missionary zeal crossed his face, and we spent the next hour discussing our career paths. Mine was more straightforward: I’d started out training to be a medic, but the mind interested me far more than the body. His work had travelled in the opposite direction. He’d started out ministering to people’s souls, and ended up helping them to improve their health. When I checked my watch again, it was almost eleven.

‘They’ll send out a search party if I don’t get back soon.’

‘There’s something I wanted to say, Alice.’ He was twisting his glass between his hands, as though he was reshaping it. ‘Guess how many relationships I’ve had.’

‘That’s tricky. I’d say not that many, three or four long ones, maybe?’

‘Wrong. The answer is zero.’

I stared back at him, open-mouthed. ‘How come?’

‘A couple lasted a few months, but that’s my limit. I was just drifting along.’

He made it sound like he’d been floating in the dark with nothing to navigate by, and I knew how he felt. My longest relationship had lasted a year, which didn’t fill me with pride. But I’d finally met my match – someone who feared commitment even more than me.

‘You don’t need to explain, Tom. Being friends suits me fine.’

‘Does it?’ A muscle in his jaw ticked with anger. ‘It’s not friendship I’m after any more. I thought we could take it slow and see where this takes us.’

I was starting to feel confused. A minute ago he was explaining that commitment was impossible, and now he was canvassing for a relationship. ‘That’s the opposite of what you said at the start. And we’re too similar, aren’t we?’

His eyes darkened to a glacial blue. ‘So why did you sleep with me?’

‘You persuaded me, remember? And I don’t make a habit of it. The last time was two years ago.’

He slammed down his empty glass loudly enough to make the woman at the next table flinch. The drive back to the hotel was so tense, I felt glad it was only a short distance. When he pulled up in the car park, I was eager to escape, but he leant over and kissed me while I fumbled with the seatbelt, the pressure of his hand on my shoulder heavy enough to hurt. His anger was still visible when I pulled away. I felt a twinge of guilt for sleeping with him, but a relationship with someone so troubled would be impossible. It was a relief to watch his Jeep spin away across the rutted snow.

52

The sound of the man returning wakes her, and this time his footsteps sound different. Normally he moves slowly, but tonight his feet jitter like he’s tap dancing. She pulls the covers over her head but the sound refuses to stop. The man crashes down the stairs and light needles through the blanket.

‘Are you asleep, princess?’ the man whispers. His hot breath travels across her cheek. He smells of beer, like granddad does when he comes back from the pub. Sweet as toffee apples and caramel, with something sour under the surface, like milk on the turn. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ He pushes her shoulder until she has no choice but to open her eyes.

‘What is it?’

‘I did a practice run, everything’s sorted. It’ll work perfectly tomorrow.’

‘That’s good.’

‘I know how to pick her up without anyone seeing.’

‘But I like having you to myself. We don’t need anyone else.’

‘It’s not my choice, angel. I’ve got to do what he says, one last time. Then he’s setting me free.’

‘Is he?’

He nods excitedly. ‘He says I can go wherever I want after that. My duties are finished.’

‘Am I coming with you tomorrow?’

‘Not this time, princess. Someone from work might see us; you can wait for me here. I’ll say goodbye to him, then I’ll pick her up.’

It’s his stare that frightens her, his eyes wide and comfortless. She resorts to the method that always works best, twisting her mouth into its biggest smile.

53

The dining hall was empty when I woke up. It was only half past six but I was hungry from skipping dinner the night before. I’d planned to order room service but my row with Tom had changed my mind – nothing kills your appetite faster than a dose of unadulterated guilt. I scanned the sea of white tablecloths, and spotted Tania in the far corner, which gave me a dilemma. I could snub her by choosing a different table, or join her for a full English. I helped myself to coffee, and when I turned round she gave a half-hearted wave. It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but at least she’d acknowledged me. I poured another coffee and made my way over.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘Be my guest.’ She gave a thin smile as I placed the cup in front of her.

Tania’s image was firmly back in place, even though it was the crack of dawn. She was wearing scarlet lipstick and an emerald green silk shirt. It made me wish we were on better terms so I could ask her where she bought her clothes.

‘How’s it going?’ I asked.

‘Too slow for my liking. I’m not even sure we’re going in the right direction.’

I wondered why she’d been crying the night before. Maybe they were tears of frustration over all the blind alleys the investigation had chased down. When the waitress finally arrived, Tania ordered grapefruit juice and a bowl of skimmed milk porridge. She looked nauseous when I asked for a bacon sandwich.

‘Sorry, are you vegetarian?’

She shook her head. ‘My appetite’s gone. A lot’s riding on this case for me. There was an incident at Hammersmith last year; I had to make a sideways move.’

‘Was it something serious?’

‘I thought so. Being professionally undermined isn’t my idea of fun.’

I gave her a sympathetic look and tried to regain my balance. Candour was the last thing I’d been expecting.

‘Did you hear that Nash is seeing the headmaster at nine?’ she asked.

‘Good luck to him. Kinsella’s enjoying himself too much to give away any secrets.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘I hope you’re wrong. The next deadline’s almost here.’

‘People must be keeping their daughters under lock and key.’

‘Locks don’t work on mine, my mum’s keeping an eye on her.’ Her phone buzzed loudly on the table. ‘I’d better deal with this. Thanks for the coffee.’

Tania picked up her cup and marched away, leaving me none the wiser about what had upset her the night before. Perhaps it was nothing more than a dispute with Burns. I tucked into my unhealthy breakfast and tried not to think about it.

It was obvious that Reg was under the weather when I met him in the car park. Either he was nursing a hangover or he was still sulking about being dragged into the cold. He gave a grudging nod when we reached Northwood and I headed for the infirmary. Alan Nash was already there, preening himself in front of a group of sycophants.

‘God’s gift to humankind,’ Tania whispered, rolling her eyes.

The last of my animosity went up in smoke. It wasn’t her fault that she was having a relationship with someone I cared about. She busied herself with preparing for the interview, and she did it all with calm, professional grace. Even Alan Nash submitted to her instructions without criticism. I stared down at the monitors, which were still channelling pictures direct from Kinsella’s room. Garfield was sitting at his bedside, eyes half closed, as though he was fighting to stay awake, while a drip fed clear liquid into Kinsella’s arm. He must have agreed to take medication at last. Behind his half-moon glasses his gaze had regained its intensity.

I watched the professor adjusting his wire, as a whine of feedback buzzed through the speakers. Once the settings had been adjusted he gave a mock salute and left the room. Kinsella didn’t move a muscle when Nash arrived. But, through the monitor, I saw his eyes keeping track of his visitor. My attention must have wandered, because everything had changed by the time I looked up from my notes. Tania’s voice was rising to a shout.

‘Someone get him out of there,’ she yelled.

The computer screens didn’t help, because the security guard’s back had blocked my view. All I could see was Kinsella’s hand clutching the air. A wailing sound came from the corridor, and when I got outside Alan Nash was on his knees, hands covering his face. Blood oozed between his fingers, and a nurse was leaning over him, checking his wounds. Moira came towards us at a brisk trot.

‘Come on, Mr Nash. Let’s get you to triage.’

He moaned softly into his cupped hands, and when I caught sight of his eye, shock brought me to a halt. His eyelid had been sliced in two. So much blood was gushing from the wound I couldn’t tell how badly his eye was damaged. I felt a surge of sympathy, even though there was little I could do. I slipped back into the observation room and replayed the film. Every movement was so seamless, Kinsella must have visualised the scene a hundred times. His free hand ripped the needle from his arm and swiped it across Nash’s face, a gout of blood spraying the air. Afterwards the headmaster gazed directly at the camera, completely at peace. The sharp lines of his bone structure made him look as otherworldly as a monk at prayer.

*   *   *

Burns’s body language revealed that he already knew about the attack on Alan Nash. He was standing in the incident room, his mobile pressed to his ear, shoulders rigid with tension. He thrust a sheet of paper at me then turned away to finish his call. The page was blank, apart from two names printed in block capitals.

‘Take a guess who they are.’

‘I’m not a clairvoyant, Don. You’ll have to enlighten me.’

‘Northwood staff who went to St Augustine’s or lived at Orchard Row. We’re missing a few years’ enrolments, but records came through for these two last night: a trainee chef and the art therapist you told me about.’

I studied the page again: Steve Higham and Prudence Fielding. I was so used to hearing her referred to as Pru that I’d forgotten it was an abbreviation.

‘Pru Fielding went to Kinsella’s school?’

Burns shook his head. ‘The bloke went to St Augustine’s but her record says she spent years at Orchard House. We can’t track her down, it’s her day off.’

I felt a kick of sympathy. Pru’s birthmark was the least of her worries, compared to years of childhood neglect. ‘Have you spoken to the chef?’

‘Higham’s in the meeting room now. Can you do an assessment? His boss says he’s a bit of a loner.’

‘You’re worried about him?’

He nodded vigorously. ‘The uniform who took his details says he can’t remember where he was on the dates of the abductions.’

I rooted around in my briefcase for an EF1, the psychological assessment form that’s used at first interview stage. The young man waiting in the interview room was staring fixedly at the window, as though he was guessing how many injuries he’d incur if he took a running jump. He looked about twenty-five, black hair tied in a thin ponytail, and he was wearing the checked trousers and jacket worn by professional chefs. It was hard to believe that he worked in a kitchen because he looked malnourished, a rash of acne on his cheeks and the pallor that comes from spending every waking moment indoors. Burns greeted him in a pleasant tone of voice.

‘Thanks for coming by, Steve.’

‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ Higham was fiddling with his ponytail, twisting it between his fingers.

‘I don’t think so. You’re just helping us with our enquiries.’ He gave a nervous laugh. ‘That’s okay then. You had me worried.’

‘When did you start working here?’

‘Two years ago. I was cleaning at first, then they put me in the kitchen. I’m halfway through my training.’ Higham’s voice had the singsong quality of a child trying to explain something complicated.

‘Your boss tells me you’ve asked for a transfer to the Laurels.’

‘It’s not just me. Everyone wants to go there.’

‘Really? I’d pay good money to avoid those guys. How well did you know Mr Kinsella when you were at St Augustine’s?’

He blinked rapidly. ‘Not at all. I only saw him at assembly.’

‘So it’s just coincidence that you left London to work here, and you’ve been angling for a job in his building?’

Higham’s small eyes bored into Burns’s face. ‘All the big names are over there, aren’t they? I grew up seeing them on the news.’

‘Your heroes are mass murderers?’

‘They interest me, that’s all. It’s not a crime, is it?’

A minute’s silence unfolded before Burns asked his next question. ‘Have you got a girlfriend at the moment, Steve?’