The Winter Foundlings (7 page)

9

My head was still spinning when I got outside, which made no sense whatsoever. I’d missed my chance to get to know Burns after the Angel case, but hadn’t regretted it at the time. Maybe that was because the case still gave me nightmares, and I couldn’t face going back over old ground. But now it was obvious that he and Tania were an item, from the possessive way she touched him. My jealousy felt ridiculous. Relationships had always been my Achilles heel. Whenever someone came close, panic set in, and I backed away. I was thirty-three years old, but none of my relationships had lasted more than a year. Even if Burns was madly in love with me, the pattern would stay the same. But there was no denying that I wanted to be the one with my hand on his shoulder. It shocked me that seeing someone else touching him had unsettled me so much.

I found a window seat in a coffee shop nearby, hoping a dose of caffeine would restore my sanity. A flashing sign on the other side of the street was reminding shoppers that there were only four more days until Christmas. A woman traipsed past with her small daughter clinging to her hand, and my thoughts cleared instantly. There was no time for self-pity; my private life was unimportant, compared to finding Ella Williams. I leafed through the notes I’d made during the briefing, and decided to visit the Foundling Museum, where Sarah Robinson’s body had been found.

I headed outside and trudged through the snow, into the back streets of Bloomsbury. I’d always planned to explore London’s literary district, but never found time to visit. The area still had a Dickensian feel, with handsome nineteenth-century townhouses clustered on both sides of the street. It would make the perfect set for
Oliver.
All it needed was a little more grime, some gas lamps and horse-drawn carriages.

The Foundling Museum was hidden on a narrow turning off Hunter Street. The crime scene had already been cleared away, and I stood on the forecourt, trying to picture the killer calmly depositing a child’s body there, in the middle of the night. The Regency building was long and austere, with dozens of sash windows, dark grey bricks and a colonnaded front door. It had a direct view across Coram Fields, which local kids used as a football pitch in the summer. The square of parkland was empty now, apart from a few abandoned snowmen. When I walked inside, the interior was even grander than the facade, with panelled walls and chequered floor tiles. A sign explained that the Foundling Hospital had become London’s first home for abandoned infants in the 1740s.

I was about to walk into the main hall when a tall, well-groomed man approached me. A silk handkerchief peeped from the pocket of his blazer, gold buttons gleaming. His face was so heavily lined that I assumed he must have been sixty at least, but his hair was dark brown, without a strand of grey. The badge on his lapel announced that he was a museum volunteer and his name was Brian Knowles.

‘Have you been here before?’ He gave a welcoming smile.

‘Never.’

‘Would you like a tour?’

I accepted his offer, but would have preferred to wander around on my own. Knowles had an unctuous manner, gazing down at me as though I was visiting royalty. But if I was lucky he might shed light on the reason why the killer was fascinated by the place, and it was obvious he took his role seriously. He launched into a history lecture before we reached the first exhibit.

‘The Foundling Hospital was London’s first orphanage. It cared for thousands of starving children over two centuries, but even more were turned away, because places were limited.’

The man spoke in a reverent tone, but it was doubtful that benevolence had made Louis Kinsella become a trustee. A row of small white pinafores and nightdresses hung from hooks in the main hall, replicas of the uniforms the foundlings wore two hundred years ago. The children’s misery at being parted from their mothers must have seeped into the building’s DNA, and Kinsella would have sensed it. The starched uniforms had probably inspired him to dress his victims in white.

‘How long have you been a volunteer, Brian?’ I asked as we climbed the stairs.

‘Almost as long as I can remember,’ he said, smiling widely, and I caught myself wondering if his teeth were real or false. ‘I’m the archivist here, and a lot of local organisations visit us, so I’m always on the phone, arranging things.’

The first-floor exhibits were even more distressing than the uniforms. Glass cabinets were filled with the tokens mothers left with their children: brooches, scraps of fabric, and a few tarnished thimbles.

‘These were used to identify the foundlings, on the rare occasions when parents came back to claim them. But disease and poverty meant that very few children ever went home,’ Knowles explained.

I stared at the rows of tokens, neatly labelled and dated. There were buttons, matchboxes, and pincushions, but the one that touched me most deeply was a scrap of red fabric, cut in the shape of a heart. Every mother must have dreamed that her luck would change, and one day she could return to collect her child. I felt sure the killer had stood exactly where I was standing now. But the token he’d sent Kinsella had a different meaning. There was no tenderness in his gift – it was nothing more than a trophy, proof that a child had died.

‘Tragic, aren’t they?’ Knowles was standing a little too close. ‘Would you like to see the top floor?’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to come back another day.’

He looked disappointed, but accompanied me downstairs, pointing out drawings of the foundlings displayed in the stairwell. When we reached the exit he pulled a camera from his pocket.

‘Could I take your photo? I keep a record of visitors for our newsletter.’ He took the snap before I had time to reply. ‘Can you tell me your name and occupation too?’

‘Alice Quentin, I’m a psychologist.’

‘Fascinating,’ Knowles murmured. ‘An expert on the dark corners of our minds.’

There was something so creepy about him that I felt desperate to get away. ‘Could I ask one more question?’

‘Of course, anything at all.’

‘Louis Kinsella was a trustee here, wasn’t he? Did your paths ever cross?’

His unnaturally white smile vanished. ‘That monster almost got this place closed down, and now his ghost has come back to haunt us.’

Knowles’s manner had changed completely. His extravagant courtesy had been replaced by suspicion, so I thanked him and said goodbye. So many things about the man had struck a false note, including his dyed hair and veneered teeth. But maybe he’d formed the same impression of me. For all he knew I could be a journalist, looking for the inside story on one of London’s grisliest crime locations.

*   *   *

I found myself thinking about Burns on the way back to Charndale. The train took forty-five minutes, rattling through the suburbs, then crossing miles of dark fields. The idea of his new relationship still smarted, but I forced myself to leave a business-like message on his phone, apologising for my quick departure. There was no way I could reveal my feelings. I knew how he’d react – comfort was Burns’s speciality. He’d pat me on the shoulder, then lend me a hankie to weep into.

The cottage was freezing when I got back. The temperature had fallen even lower, so I laid a fire, then went outside to collect more logs. There were new footsteps on the snow and I felt a surge of panic. I collected a torch to look at them more closely. A fresh set of boot prints formed a necklace around the house. Someone had circled it, peering through every window. It crossed my mind to call the police, but they would think I was crazy to bother them with something so insubstantial. Surely there had to be a legitimate reason? If someone wanted to burgle the place they’d have done it by now, because it had stood empty all day. It was probably the letting agent, wanting to speak to me about my request to get the heating fixed.

When I got back inside I tried to quell my anxiety. I’d been afraid too many times in the last few years, and I was determined not to let fear dominate me again. I peered into the fridge, but my appetite had gone. The prospect of waiting an hour for the fire to warm the living room did nothing to improve my morale, so I made a snap decision to go out, hoping that the pub’s hectic atmosphere would stop me thinking about Burns. I pulled on my boots and padded coat and set off, shining my torch on the icy ground. When I reached the end of the lane I looked back at the cottage. The downstairs lights glowed like beacons, warding off would-be thieves.

The Rookery was quieter than normal. I’d hoped to see Judith but there was no sign of her, so I sat at the bar and studied the menu. Someone appeared beside me before I’d made my choice. It was Tom Jensen, and he was standing so close I could almost taste the cold air trapped in his clothes.

‘Great minds think alike,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t face cooking.’

‘What do you recommend?’

‘Nothing. Eating here’s an act of desperation.’

I ordered pasta and a glass of wine, and Tom sat opposite me at a table by the window. Clearly we were sharing dinner, whether I liked it or not. I watched him take off his coat. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, and he had a muscular tennis player’s build, hard ridges of muscle standing out on his forearms. His good looks were undeniable but he was tough company. Long silences didn’t concern him, and he made no attempt to fill the gaps between statements. Whenever conversation flagged he sat back and observed me. His interest only flickered into life when I mentioned my running.

‘You finished a marathon?’ he sounded incredulous. ‘In what time?’

‘Four hours thirty-nine minutes.’

His gaze skimmed across my body. ‘Not bad. Do you still train?’

‘Not much since the freeze started. I’m going stir crazy.’

‘You should come to my lunchtime sessions. They’re staff only.’

I shook my head. ‘Treadmills don’t do it for me. I need to smell the tarmac.’

Jensen ate the rest of his meal in silence. I couldn’t work out whether my company bored him or the poor cuisine had spoiled his mood. The experience made me wish I was more like Lola. She’d have relished an impromptu dinner date with a gorgeous stranger, whether or not he chose to speak.

‘What were you doing in London anyway?’ he asked.

‘Working for the police.’

‘Really? Doing what?’

He studied my face closely while I told him about interviewing Kinsella, and my visit to the Foundling Museum. When he finally started to talk, he asked so many questions it felt like an onslaught, so I retaliated.

‘Judith gave me some advice. She said it was a bad idea to mention God to you.’

His eyes snapped open. ‘Mention anything you like. I’m a confirmed atheist, that’s all.’

‘I envy your certainty. I think having a faith would be comforting, but church services leave me cold. Everyone else looks so devout, but when I close my eyes there’s nothing there.’

‘That’s how I feel these days.’

‘But you were a believer once?’

‘A long time ago.’ His shoulders tensed and I wondered why the subject made him defensive. Maybe I’d met my match: someone else who hated anyone poking around in his private life.

‘I think I’ll get a coffee,’ I said.

‘That would be a mistake.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s undrinkable.’ He pointed at the window. ‘See that building, set back from the road?’

‘The old school house?’

‘My flat’s on the top floor, and I’ve got a brand-new Gaggia.’

I paused for a microsecond. ‘What are we waiting for?’

The cold was breathtaking as we crossed the road, and I followed him up the steps. Jensen helped me out of my coat once we got inside, his hands skimming my arms. His living room reminded me of my flat in Providence Square: white walls, bleached floorboards, and very few personal items on display. The decor told me nothing about his personality, but his bookshelves were more helpful. His choice of literature seemed unlikely for someone who made a living from the body beautiful. The shelves groaned with novels by Goethe, Stendhal, and Zola, and three different versions of the Bible. I wanted to ask why a committed atheist needed so many copies of the good book, but his reaction earlier had shown that questions were foolhardy. He sat beside me on the sofa, so close that our elbows were touching.

‘How did your chat with Kinsella go?’ he asked.

‘It wasn’t exactly a chat. He didn’t say a word.’

‘After what happened to Jon, I was concerned.’

‘Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.’

‘Is that why I found you freezing to death in the car park?’ He studied my eyes and then my mouth, eyelashes so pale they looked like they’d been dipped in frost. ‘You know, I wanted to invite you here that night.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

He gave a slow shrug. ‘You didn’t need a stranger hassling you on your first day. Would you like another drink?’

‘Not yet, thanks.’

‘You’d better choose your entertainment then.’

‘What are the options?’

‘Depends what you feel like.’ He reached across and pushed a loose strand of hair back from my face. ‘We could talk some more, or drink another coffee, or we could go to bed.’

I choked back a laugh. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Absolutely. But I have to be honest, I’m not looking for complications.’

‘Neither am I.’

He didn’t bother to reply. He was too busy tracing the outline of my mouth with his index finger, and I knew exactly what was on offer: a straightforward one-night stand, with no intimacy whatsoever. My brain was advising me to say no. He was too predatory and Burns was taking up too much space in my head, but my body had already decided.

‘I’ll go for the third option,’ I replied.

It was easy after that. The conversation stopped, and he kissed me instead. My head spun when he finally drew back. His bedroom was as sparsely decorated as the rest of his flat, but I didn’t care, because I was too busy watching him undress. Ropes of muscle were stretched taut across his chest and abdomen. I was so mesmerised that I forgot to be scared, even though it had been two years since I’d slept with anyone. Maybe that’s because the contract was so simple. Nothing emotional was on offer, so I only had myself to consider. And he was intent on giving me pleasure. The first time was over a little too fast, but the second was incredible. It had been so long since anyone had touched me that my skin felt sensitised, every inch gradually catching fire. I had to press my mouth against his shoulder when I came, to stifle my screams. His performance was the opposite of mine, far more controlled and watchful. I got the sense that he was grading me out of ten, but at least he seemed to relax afterwards, lounging back against the pillows.