The Winter Foundlings (5 page)

Kinsella’s likeness to my father was even more unsettling up close, and I had to swallow my panic. He had the same high forehead and ascetic features, but he exuded an energy I couldn’t identify. He sat motionless, observing me through his reading glasses. The nurse didn’t seem to notice my discomfort, but Kinsella had picked up on it immediately, his expression growing smugger by the minute.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mr Kinsella.’

His mouth widened into a hawkish smile, and he manoeuvred his shackled hands to produce a notebook from his pocket. He was wearing black trousers and a brown corduroy jacket. With a little imagination, he could still have passed as a headmaster with a blameless reputation, dressed casually for the weekend.

‘I’d like to ask you some questions, if you’re prepared to answer.’

His expression changed to amusement, and I got the impression that he could have sat in silence all day, watching me. There was something mesmerising about his smile. Even though I wanted to ignore it, I couldn’t look away. He seemed to be studying my eyes with particular interest. I tried not to think about the man he’d blinded at Highpoint. No doubt Kinsella watched the news with equal fascination, keeping track of every detail surrounding the girls’ disappearance.

‘The police have asked me to help investigate the abductions in London. They think the killer is someone you know. What do you think of that theory?’

Kinsella shook his head, then rested his bound hands on the table to scribble a few lines before shunting the notebook towards me. His writing was a spiky copperplate, every T sharply crossed.

A poor start, Dr Quentin, worth B minus, at best. Try some subtlety please. I’ve always hated crude overtures.

‘Forgive me. I could have invented a pretext for our meeting, but you’d have seen straight through it. I’ve read your file. Your IQ’s a hundred and eighty, isn’t it? That puts you up there with Einstein and Garry Kasparov.’

Kinsella seemed to enjoy the flattery. His grin twitched wider as his eyes scanned every detail of my outfit, from my black dress and turquoise scarf to my scuffed suede boots. He even scrutinised the jacket I’d hung behind the door, as though he was making an inventory of my wardrobe. His eyes were a dark unblinking brown, and his gaze was like my father’s in the moment before his mood soured. A drop of sweat chased down my backbone.

‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Kinsella. The man we’re searching for is an expert on your crimes. Any help you give would be gratefully received.’

His face registered no response at all. He carried on studying me intently, as though I was a laboratory specimen.

‘I saw on your file that you’re a jazz fan, but there’s none in the library, is there? I’ve brought you a couple of CDs: Miles Davis and Jack Pescod. They’re favourites of mine.’ Kinsella reached again for his notebook, but I raised my hands before he could scribble another message. ‘A clumsy bribe, I know, but you’re not giving me much option. Ask for me if you decide to talk, Mr Kinsella, or send me a note. I can see you’re a keen writer.’

He adopted the smile that teachers use to patronise dimwitted students, pointedly leaving the CDs on the table. The nurse gave me a look of sympathy as he led him away. Garfield must have seen dozens of psychologists flounder under the weight of Kinsella’s silence.

My defeat rankled when I returned to my office. It bothered me that I’d failed to squeeze a single syllable out of him. But at least there was an email from Judith, inviting me to the pub in Charndale that evening. It would save me from sitting alone at the cottage, with the memory of Kinsella’s gaze crawling across my skin like a colony of flies.

*   *   *

There were no new footprints when I got back to the cottage that evening, so I told myself that the problem had disappeared. In a village as small as Charndale, people were bound to be curious about new arrivals. Someone from a neighbouring house must have called by to introduce themselves. I grabbed a torch and set off for the pub. It was called the Rookery, and from the outside it looked uninviting. The sign showed an ominous blur of birds hovering in the sky. But when I opened the door, the place was heaving with Northwood staff, every table loaded with glasses. The volume of conversation was deafening as I pushed through the crowd. Judith was surrounded by companions, and I recognised some of the faces from the Laurels. Chris Steadman, the young man who’d fixed my computer, was quietly nursing his beer. He looked even more like a teen idol in his battered leather jacket, cheekbones too prominent, as though he existed on starvation rations and very little sleep. Pru, the art therapist, was beside him, listening intently as he spoke, hiding behind her mask of blonde curls. Away from the pressures of his job, Garfield Ellis looked more relaxed, but the group struck me as an odd assemblage. No one seemed comfortable in their skin. Perhaps we had all wound up at Northwood because we were running from something.

‘What are you drinking, Alice?’ Judith asked.

‘Coffee, please. It’s bloody freezing out there.’

I waited beside her at the bar, but my coffee never materialised. She ordered two brandies instead.

‘You’ll need this if you’re going to survive at the Laurels.’ She saluted me with her glass. ‘How did it go with Kinsella?’

‘Not great. He just scribbled in his notebook.’

‘Count yourself lucky. He only gives notes to the chosen few.’

Judith’s serenity was still intact, but she took a long gulp from her drink. The stress of the hospital seemed to be impacting on everyone. I followed her back to the table, and her openness made me warm to her immediately. She told me that work had dominated her life since her divorce, and she missed her kids terribly now they’d left home. Her oldest son was studying in the US, and her daughter was taking a gap year in Indonesia.

‘Maybe I’ll follow her,’ she said. ‘I could do with a month in an exotic health spa.’

The dreamy look on her face made me laugh. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tom Jensen standing by the bar, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. Judith looked amused when she spotted him.

‘The world’s most over-qualified fitness coach,’ she whispered. ‘He’s a sweetheart, but don’t ask him about God, whatever you do.’

Jensen arrived before I could find out what she meant. He sat down beside me in the only empty chair, and embarked on a long conversation with the man opposite. Judith was busy talking to someone else, so I had time to observe him. His hair was so blond it was almost white, and he was wearing faded jeans and a shirt with a worn collar. I got the impression that although his good looks confronted him every day in the mirrors at the gym, he chose to ignore them. His accent was hard to place, either Home Counties or west London, each word perfectly pronounced. When he finished his beer he caught me studying him, but didn’t seem fazed. People must have been admiring him ever since he was a lean, suntanned schoolboy, winning every trophy and dating the prettiest girls.

‘How’s the car?’ he asked.

‘Running perfectly. Let me buy you a drink to say thanks.’

Jensen’s expression was difficult to read, his eyes studying my face. He looked so serious, I couldn’t help smiling.

‘What’s funny?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. You’re staring, that’s all.’

‘I’m considering your offer.’

‘It’s a beer, not a marriage proposal.’

‘One thing leads to another.’ The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. ‘Go on then, twist my arm.’

He waited beside me at the bar while I bought a round, which was disconcerting. It had been months since I’d flirted with anyone.

‘Did anyone tell you about Jon Evans?’ he asked. When I shook my head, his smile vanished. ‘He’s a therapist. He was at the Laurels last year, working with Kinsella.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘Gorski found him locked in his office, talking to himself. He hasn’t worked since his breakdown.’

‘Jesus. I need another drink.’

His face gave nothing away. ‘Are you renting locally?’

‘Just round the corner, Ivy Cottage.’

‘I know the place. It’s been vacant for years; the locals say it’s haunted.’

‘Thanks for sharing that with me. My house is ghost-ridden and my predecessor went crazy. Got any more good news?’

He looked amused. ‘You don’t seem the type to scare easily.’

Jensen turned away to carry drinks back to the table, leaving me wondering why he’d tried so hard to unnerve me. The noise level in the pub had risen by a few decibels, Bruno Mars thumping in the background, the Northwood crowd yelling just to be heard. The place had a pressure-cooker atmosphere. If it got any wilder they’d be dancing on the tables, necking tequila straight from the bottle. I was about to pick up the tray of drinks when I spotted the TV above the bar. The picture must have been high definition, because I noticed new details when Ella Williams’s picture appeared. There was a red daisy on her hairclip, almost hidden by ringlets, a rash of freckles scattered across her nose. I stood by the bar and studied her gap-toothed smile until she disappeared.

7

It could be a nightmare, but it never stops. It’s worse than the ones that seized her when her mother died. And it can’t be a dream, because pain is shooting through her feet and hands. Sitting on the metal floor, Ella rubs warmth back into her toes, but it only lasts a few seconds. It drains away when she stands up, every muscle twitching with cold.

Night-time scares her most. She’s never known complete darkness before. At home the glow from the streetlights sifts through her thin curtains, but tonight the dark is absolute. It settles around her, locking the chill deep under her skin. Her eyes hunt for a speck of light. It’s tempting to lie down on the freezing metal and let the dark claim her. But then she’ll end up like Sarah, all her strength gone, struggling to breathe. Ella keeps hoping that the man has taken Sarah back to her family. Soon she’ll look pretty again, like the pictures in the newsagent’s window.

Her mouth feels like it’s full of dust. It’s been ages since she drank anything. The man opened the door and threw in a can of lemonade, and she swallowed the liquid in a few quick gulps, bubbles stinging her throat. Since then there’s been nothing. She imagines the man standing there, and anger makes her lash out. Her hand grazes across the metal, leaving a trail of wetness. Drops of water are running down her skin. She kneels beside the wall, blindly collecting droplets with her tongue, the liquid sour and peppery. It takes an hour to swallow a few mouthfuls, but at least her lips feel comfortable again. She sits cross-legged, massaging warmth back into her feet. It’s important not to give in to sleep. Her sister needs her. Suzanne is six years older, but she relies on Ella to keep her calm. She carries on rubbing the heat back into her toes, until her skin begins to burn.

8

My eyes felt too big for their sockets when I stepped onto the train at Charndale Station the next morning. I kept them closed as the carriage rattled through Berkshire, and by Paddington they were recovering. I knocked back a smoothie from a juice bar when I arrived, promising myself never to drink brandy again.

Burns arrived ten minutes late. I caught sight of him, pacing through the crowd. His wide shoulders strained the seams of his coat, but his clothes looked more expensive, and his thick brown hair was neater than before. He came to a halt by the arrivals board, checking his phone messages. When I tapped him on the shoulder he swung round to face me. I expected him to shake my hand but he leant down and kissed my cheek instead. His stubble left a graze as he pulled away. For an irrational moment I wanted to embrace him, but managed to stop myself, my face hot with embarrassment.

‘You didn’t have to collect me, Don.’

‘The incident room’s a nightmare. We can talk in the car.’

I followed Burns through the crowd, and it was clear that his promotion had restored his confidence. Even the discovery of another child’s body on his patch hadn’t removed the spring from his stride. When we reached the car park he headed straight for a brand-new Audi.

‘Very swish.’

He looked embarrassed. ‘The Mondeo finally bit the dust.’

Despite the upmarket car, Burns still drove like he was piloting a tank through a field of landmines. His Scottish accent came to the fore as he spoke, a sure sign that he was under pressure.

‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘Give me an update.’

He glanced across at me. ‘The press are on us, twenty-four/ seven. The Murder Squad made a pig’s ear of the double murder investigation for Kylie Walsh and Emma Lawrence. Some of the relatives weren’t even interviewed, so we’ve been going back, filling in the gaps. I’ve chucked all my manpower at it since I took over. Uniforms are combing every street in Camden looking for Ella, forty detectives on the case.’

‘Why isn’t Alan Nash here? I thought he was overseeing the profiling.’

Burns grimaced. ‘He says he hasn’t got time for minutiae. Apparently he predicted this would happen in
The Kill Principle.
He won’t get involved until we start interviewing suspects.’

‘Hindsight’s a wonderful thing,’ I muttered. ‘When was Sarah Robinson’s PM?’

‘Yesterday. She died of pneumonia. Her feet and hands were so frostbitten she’d have lost fingers and toes if she’d survived. But this time, he didn’t keep her in a freezer. It looks like he dumped her soon after he killed her. She was starved and beaten, but there’s no sign she was raped.’

‘That’s a surprise.’

‘It’s the only good news so far. Whatever he did to her, she lasted nineteen days.’

I gazed through the window at the snow heaped on the pavement, pedestrians swaddled in hats and scarves. If Ella Williams was being kept outside, she was unlikely to survive much longer.

The traffic had stalled and Burns was staring at the hoardings, as though clues were hidden between the brand names and slogans.

‘The lab’s trying to work out where he’s keeping them,’ he said. ‘The pathologist found fragments of rust under her nails and in her hair.’

‘Meaning what?’

A muscle ticked in his cheek. ‘She was probably kept in the back of an old lorry or a van.’