The Winter Foundlings (12 page)

16

I fell asleep worrying about Will, and my nightmares took a long time to clear the next morning. A young girl was trapped inside a block of ice, screaming for help, fingernails scratching at the frozen water. Kicking and beating the ice made no difference; the solid wall of cold refused to break. All I could do was hurl myself at it, like the inmate I’d seen, bouncing from the walls of his padded cell. None of my efforts worked – the child was fading, her pale blue mouth gasping for air.

I launched myself out of bed as fast as possible, shivering in the cold. The boiler was groaning like a man in his death throes so I went downstairs to investigate. When I fiddled with the temperature dial, the pilot light went out and refused to reignite. I swore loudly to myself. The cottage seemed determined to make life difficult. The prospect of a freezing cold shower didn’t entice me, so I packed soap and a towel into my gym bag before phoning the letting agent. Muzak blared in my ear, then an automated message informed me that the office was shut until New Year’s Day.

I slammed the door hard on my way out, then drove to Northwood, with the temperature dial stuck on −5°C. One of the security guards gave a grudging smile as she nodded me through the turnstiles. Now that I had a valid ID card, I could have carried a chainsaw into the building without anyone turning a hair.

I picked up a newspaper on my way through the day room. The photo on the front page was of Suzanne Williams clutching her grandfather’s arm, so frail that a breeze would carry her away. The picture had been taken inside a church, hundreds of people packing the aisles, and I hoped the service had given them comfort. The memory of Suzanne’s fingernails cutting my palm as she begged me to find her sister had stayed with me. No wonder she was clinging to her grandfather as if he was the only solid fact left in her universe. If Ella wasn’t brought home soon, the psychological damage would be irreversible.

Louis Kinsella’s letter lay in my in-tray, exactly where I’d left it. I pulled the paper from the envelope and studied it again: ‘The killer is more astute than either of us, with good reasons to continue.’ I let the sheet drop back onto my desk. The list of questions I needed to ask was as long as my arm, even though the chance of a straight reply from Kinsella was negligible. The prospect of seeing him made my skin crawl, but the photo of Suzanne was forcing me to try again.

Garfield Ellis was making himself a drink when I found him in the staff common room. The tension in his face suggested that he struggled to switch off, the pressure of his job trapped deep inside his skin. But even on a bad day he had the kind of physical presence that’s hard to ignore; over six feet tall, muscular as a bodybuilder. His expression lightened for a moment when he saw me.

‘Like one?’ He held up the coffee jar for me to inspect.

‘Thanks, I could use some caffeine.’

‘How was your Christmas?’ His voice sounded deeper than before; a rich baritone ideal for TV voiceovers, advertising chocolates and liqueurs.

‘Quiet. How about you?’

‘It was crazy. Fourteen of us crammed into the house – my kids screaming the place down.’

‘Sounds like hard work.’ I smiled in sympathy. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’

‘Fire away.’

‘I need to see Kinsella.’

‘Today?’ His eyebrows shot up.

‘You don’t think he’ll agree?’

‘Of course he will. Seeing you was the highlight of his week. But you’ll need Gorski’s permission, won’t you?’

I shook my head. ‘He knows I have to see Kinsella on police business.’

‘You want me to bring him to the therapy room?’

‘Can you keep him there for ten minutes? I want to see his cell.’

Garfield looked uncomfortable. ‘You’ll get me fired. Only prison officers are authorised for cell searches.’

‘It’s not a search, just a quick visit.’

‘No one’s meant to see Kinsella without the boss’s permission.’

I wondered why he was so afraid. Gorski’s bullying seemed to have infected every corner of the Laurels. Maybe he had a history of firing anyone who stepped out of line.

‘I’ll take the blame if anything goes wrong, I promise.’

He walked away slowly, shoulders down, as if he’d completed a marathon.

There was no sign of Gorski when I went to inform him about the meeting. His assistant said that he was still on leave, which surprised me. It took a massive leap of imagination to picture him settling down with his family to watch
It’s a Wonderful Life.

I climbed six flights of stairs to the top floor where the long-term inmates were housed, pausing to take in the view. The hospital site was crammed inside a thick perimeter wall with only a hair’s breadth between buildings, like a medieval city, the grey roof of the infirmary slick with ice. After a minute’s wait, the guard pressed a touchpad and a sheet of reinforced glass slid back to admit me.

No one had warned me about the noise. A voice from a cell close by was wailing at ten decibels, while another chanted curses in an endless loop. The warden was relaxing in his chair, immune to the racket. He gave a mock-salute then returned to the sports pages of
The Sun,
and I glanced through the observation hatches as I walked down the corridor. Each cell was arranged differently. Some inmates had displayed drawings and posters above their beds, while others had left their walls completely blank. A face behind one of the hatches snarled like a caged animal, grey hair twisted into ragged dreadlocks. The noise level was increasing, the whole floor pulsing with knowledge that a woman had entered their domain. I felt thankful that the doors were made of four-inch-thick galvanised steel.

The guard unlocked Louis Kinsella’s cell reluctantly, complaining that I should have brought a signed authorisation form from Gorski. The small room was immaculate. Black-and-white pictures of buildings were displayed on the facing wall, and when I looked more closely there was a cluster of London landmarks: Monument, the British Museum, statues in St Paul’s Close. The only items on his desk were a laptop and some notebooks arranged in a neat pile. But it was the view from his window that interested me. From this vantage point he could see the approach road; he had probably watched Tom helping me jump-start my car. No one could arrive or leave without his sharp gaze monitoring them. As I turned away the wailing resumed, followed by fists thumping the wall, and I realised why Kinsella made his sojourns to the library. At least they guaranteed him a few hours’ peace. My gaze landed on the largest photo on his wall. It was a view of the Foundling Hospital, placed directly opposite his bed. Its colonnaded entrance would be the last thing he saw before he fell asleep.

*   *   *

Kinsella’s appearance was as pristine as his cell when I arrived at the therapy room. He was freshly shaven, and from a distance he could have been my father’s body double, dressed neatly for a day at the tax office. Only the look in his eye was different. My father was easily distracted, always forgetting the names of people he’d met. But Kinsella’s gaze was alert to every detail, lingering on the emerald green silk scarf around my throat. Garfield had already secured him in his chair, the other wrist still handcuffed to his own. I wondered how many hours each day the two men spent in close proximity. Perhaps the enforced intimacy explained why the nurse seemed overloaded. I shunted the envelope I’d been clutching across the desk towards Kinsella.

‘I’m afraid this didn’t help me. The police want concrete proof that you know who’s abducting the girls. They won’t let me see you again unless you give solid information. And you promised to speak this time, instead of writing notes.’

His fountain pen flew across the page of his notebook, which Garfield passed to me.
I asked for a private meeting, Dr Quentin. Under those conditions, we can begin.

‘Garfield, could you wait outside while I talk to Mr Kinsella?’

The nurse grumbled about security protocols and being unable to guarantee my safety, but eventually he produced another set of handcuffs, so both of Kinsella’s wrists were locked to the arms of his chair.

The energy in the room changed the moment Kinsella and I were alone. My pulse quickened as he prepared himself to speak. For an irrational moment I expected my father’s voice to emerge from his mouth, still loaded with anger and disappointment, but his tone startled me. It was slightly dry from disuse, far more cultured than my father’s. It had the cool intellectual certainty of a scientist explaining a complex process to a layman, and that’s what chilled me. He could have convinced anyone that he was right. He sounded calmer and more rational than I did, perfectly in command of his actions.

‘It disappoints me that you think I’d waste your time. In my situation, there’s nothing to be gained from lying. Pretending to know the killer won’t improve anything.’

‘But it’s getting you attention. Maybe you think it’ll raise your chance of going back to jail.’

His almond-shaped eyes scanned my body as I crossed my arms, and I couldn’t help remembering the parade of girls he’d dragged into his car. His gaze was so intrusive it felt like he was undressing me.

‘I’m not naive, Alice. I know my campaign’s unlikely to succeed. But if we become friends, I’ll help you in return. It would be a welcome break from listening to the nurses’ tedious gossip.’ His hawkish smile flashed on for a moment. ‘How much do you know about me?’

‘I’ve seen your crime file. And I was still at school during your trial – it made compulsive viewing.’

The smile reignited. ‘Hopeless misrepresentation by the courts of law. How old were you when I was arrested?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Young enough to be intrigued.’

I nodded. ‘The line between right and wrong is more hazy at that age. You’re still deciding.’

‘But now your moral code’s set in stone, is it?’ He looked amused.

My discomfort was growing. Somehow he’d derailed the conversation, and now he was trying to flirt with me. I forced myself to hold his gaze. ‘I read
The Kill Principle
years ago. It was a set book on my Masters course.’

He gave a dismissive frown. ‘It’s pure fabrication. That book reveals nothing about me.’

‘I visited one of your favourite places recently. The Foundling Museum – it’s a real monument to Victorian misery, isn’t it?’

‘You’re quite wrong. The orphanage was built for salvation: that’s why the original trustees poured money into the place.’

His eyes glowered behind his half-moon spectacles, the muscles in his jaw starting to tense, and I couldn’t summon a reply. Either Kinsella’s illness included a spectacular lack of insight or he was being ironic. Very few child murderers spend their time championing an organisation that saved children’s lives. Thankfully Garfield and the guard were still stationed by the observation hatch, ready to intervene if his temper flared.

‘How long have you known the man who killed the three girls, Mr Kinsella?’

He blinked rapidly. ‘What makes you think it’s a man?’

‘Are you telling me it’s a woman?’

‘I said in my letter that this is guesswork. I could be entirely wrong.’

‘But if it’s who you think it is, how long have you known each other?’

‘Around twenty-four years.’

‘Can you give me more details?’

‘Only if you answer a question for me.’ Kinsella leant forwards in his chair and I could see the surface of his skin. It had a grey sheen, slightly powdery, as though he was covered by a layer of dust.

‘That depends on what you want to ask.’

‘When you were sixteen years old, were you excited by my crimes?’

‘Excited’s not the right word. Horrified, or fascinated, maybe.’

His odd smile flickered back into life. ‘That doesn’t explain why I frighten you so much.’

‘I’m a realist. You don’t scare me while you’re padlocked to a chair, but I’d put another bolt on my door if you ever broke out.’

A loud noise escaped from his mouth, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, as if I’d told the best joke in years. When he spoke again his voice was a dry whisper, forcing me to edge closer to him. Less than two feet of clean air separated us and I could smell his hair oil. It had a sour undercurrent, like citrus fruit picked too early.

‘I hope you’re listening, because I never repeat myself. The killer will take the next girl on the twenty-eighth of December. He will keep her for two days. Tell Detective Burns to look further north this time, and remember, Ella’s been in his care a long time. He’ll tire of her soon. Old toys lose their glitter.’

I was too shocked to reply, and Kinsella had transferred his interest to something else. His eyes narrowed to slits as he stared at the floor.

‘What size shoes do you wear, Alice?’

‘Three,’ I replied without thinking.

‘Child-sized,’ he whispered.

The smallness of my feet had made Kinsella’s day. The smile on his face widened into a rapturous grin.

17

Garfield was still tense when we walked back to my office. He was the opposite of the other psychiatric nurses I knew, who had witnessed enough distress to develop a thick skin. Despite his hulking stature, there was something vulnerable about him. He seemed terrified that the director would hear about my meeting with Kinsella, and he would receive the blame. Apparently Gorski took a dim view of people who broke his rules, but it still seemed odd that he provoked such fear. Garfield only calmed down when he’d got all his worries off his chest.

‘Doesn’t Kinsella’s company get to you?’ I asked.

‘Not any more. I’m used to him by now.’

I wasn’t fully convinced; his heavy walk made him seem loaded with burdens. ‘How come you’re his designated nurse?’

‘I volunteered for the job. I thought it would be a new challenge.’

‘You must have the patience of a saint.’

‘Believe me, I’m definitely a sinner.’ He laughed briefly, then his expression darkened. ‘Louis likes a sparring partner. But it’s water off a duck’s back with me. Judith’s the same – that’s why he respects her.’

It surprised me that he considered Judith tough. She seemed to rely heavily on her wall of thank-you notes, pale with tiredness at the end of every day. Garfield’s demeanour changed as he headed back to the day room. His walk had regained its swagger, as though he was unwilling to expose his frailties.