The Winter Foundlings (15 page)

I bypassed the first level and headed for the top floor. The gallery was filled with information about the hospital’s founders. I was gazing at a portrait of the composer Handel, when someone tapped me on the shoulder and my heart sank. Brian Knowles was towering over me, beaming, as if we were old friends. He seemed to have forgotten the suspicion he’d shown the last time we met.

‘Back so soon, Dr Quentin? You’re my first visitor today. I’ve been stuck on this floor all afternoon.’

I tried to muster some sympathy, but felt like asking why he spent so much time locked inside a museum, memorising the names of every visitor. Maybe it was his loneliness that drove him out of the house. There was something unnerving about his immaculate appearance; hair so slick it looked like it had been coated with dark brown Shellac. He launched into a lecture before I could get away.

‘Let me show you the portrait of our founder, Captain Thomas Coram.’ He led me to a picture of a portly eighteenth-century gentleman in a powdered wig, with weather-beaten skin. ‘When he retired from seafaring, he gave his riches to the city’s poor. He was the Bill Gates of his day; his wealthy friends all supported London’s first orphanage, and the charity was a favourite of King George II. Charles Dickens later gave generous amounts of time and money too, even though he had ten children of his own.’

Knowles’s eyes glittered and I wondered why the place excited his passion. After listening for another ten minutes, I was an expert on Victorian philanthropy, but no closer to understanding why the killer had abandoned a child’s body on the forecourt outside. Maybe he’d done it purely to impress Kinsella. When Brian finally stopped talking, he peered down at me expectantly, as though he hoped I would sign up as a full-time volunteer.

‘Would you like to see our archive?’ he asked. ‘We keep all the original documents there.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling.

He led me into a large, windowless office. The walls were lined with manila folders, carefully named and dated. ‘We’ve got records of every single foundling from the 1850s onwards,’ he said proudly. ‘I spend a lot of time here; I’m writing a book about the place.’

The air smelled of dust, old paper, and obsession. It made me desperate to get outside into natural light, but Knowles looked regretful when I said goodbye. He peered down at my face, as though he was imprinting my features on his memory, and it was a relief to leave him fussing over his exhibits.

I spotted a stack of information sheets on the first floor, and when I scanned a paragraph about the hospital’s history, my jaw dropped. Brian hadn’t told me about the hospital’s terrifying mortality rates. In the eighteenth century, seventy-five per cent of the foundlings died within months of arriving, from typhoid and scarlet fever. They were already sick when their mothers gave them up, and there were no antibiotics to treat them. When I reached the bottom of the page, the story grew even darker. Women had paid runners to bring their children to the Foundling Hospital, but hundreds never arrived. The infants were murdered, and their bodies sold to teaching hospitals for students to dissect. I shuddered as a vital fact slipped into place. Kinsella was bound to be an expert on the history of the place, the dead children fascinating him more than the living. That was why he gazed at the building every night before he went to sleep.

The dimly lit rooms were starting to feel airless, and I was in a hurry to leave, but I did a double take when I reached the exhibition hall. Someone familiar was standing by the window, his white hair unmistakeable. Tom Jensen was staring into one of the glass cabinets. He was so absorbed that he stood motionless, gazing at the tokens that had been left with the abandoned children. It took me a while to decide whether to say hello or sprint for the exit. He looked startled when I walked up to him, then his face relaxed into a smile.

‘Alice, what are you doing here?’

‘I could ask the same question.’

‘I’ve been wondering about this place ever since you told me about it.’

‘So you braved the big freeze and hopped on a train?’

He nodded. ‘I’m meeting friends later, so I thought I’d do a tour. I’ve been to the British Museum too.’ His gaze returned to the display of keepsakes. ‘This place is amazing, isn’t it?’

‘Amazing’s not the right word. I’d say sad or creepy.’ When I looked at him again, a question slipped from my mouth before I could edit it. ‘Why did you go through my things, Tom? I saw you looking through my papers at the cottage.’

He didn’t even blink. ‘I told you, I was curious. You never tell me about yourself.’

‘All you had to do was ask.’

‘That wouldn’t help.’ His smile wavered. ‘You’re worse than me at personal detail.’

‘I’d better go. I should be at a dinner party.’

‘Lucky you. I’ve got two hours to kill.’

I’m not sure why I let him tag along to Lola’s. Maybe it was the shock of finding him in a foreign environment, or because sleeping with him was still fresh in my mind. Either way, he was in no hurry to leave. He took forever to examine a pair of child-sized gloves, pressed behind a layer of glass.

When we got outside, I realised I’d made a mistake. He strolled beside me wearing his enigmatic smile, and it seemed strange that he’d travelled through snow just to drink with friends and visit a museum. I picked up my pace as I marched down Coram Street. Until now the contract between us had been perfectly clear: sex with no questions asked. It irritated me that he seemed to be shifting the goalposts. No matter how gorgeous he was, I didn’t need someone riffling through my belongings whenever I closed my eyes.

The look on Lola’s face was priceless when she opened the door. I could tell she wanted to harangue me for being late, but Tom’s good looks sent her charm mechanism into overdrive. She had managed to squeeze a dozen people round her dinner table, an array of school friends and actors, chatting at high volume. And away from the pressures of Northwood, Tom turned into someone far more sociable. He’d certainly piqued Lola’s interest. She spent the next hour observing him from the corner of her eye.

Neal waited until everyone fell silent to make an announcement, tapping his wine glass with the tines of his fork.

‘A toast please, everyone. After months of begging, Lola has finally agreed to be my wife.’

There was a collective hush, followed by loud cheers. Lola looked ridiculously glamorous as usual, dark red curls clipped back from her face, wearing the vintage dress I’d bought her in Covent Garden. The only sour expression in the room belonged to her drama-school friend Craig. Their relationship fluctuated between passionate commitment and disapproval. Craig had been uncertain about Neal from the start, but tonight their ages were immaterial. The couple looked like the definition of happiness – she was a young thirty-three and he was a wise twenty. I’d have staked large sums of money on their plans succeeding.

Tom announced that he had to leave before the main course was served.

‘Stay,’ Lola purred. ‘Alice will sulk if you go.’

He gave an apologetic smile. ‘I wish I could.’

His kiss goodbye felt cool as dry ice on my cheek. I heard Lola chatting to him courteously in the hallway, but she looked unsettled when she returned.

‘Watch out, Al,’ she whispered. ‘If you can’t melt him, no one can.’

I soon forgot her comment as the evening went on and Tom slipped from my mind. I was sandwiched between a beautiful French actress and a mime artist, who entertained me with funny anecdotes. Fortunately no one asked me what I did for a living. Confessing that I worked with the criminally insane might have put a dampener on things. The rest of the party passed in a blur. I vaguely remember charades and spin the bottle, then a procession of people hugging me goodbye. After they’d gone I stood beside Lola at the sink, drying the glasses she handed me.

‘Do you ever feel out of your depth?’ I asked.

‘All the time.’ Lola’s cat-like eyes peered at me, then she draped her arm round my shoulder. ‘You can always come home, Al, if the psychos are getting to you.’

I squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll be fine in the morning. Go to bed. Let me finish this.’

She gave a grateful smile then raced away to join the Greek God.

When I settled down in the lounge, they were still cooing to each other in the bedroom next door, the rise and fall of their voices lulling me to sleep. But I woke before dawn, desperate for a glass of water. The chaise longue might have been the last word in elegance, but it was as hard as granite, and a car engine was revving at full throttle on the street outside. I stared at the digital clock on the table, its numbers glowing red in the dark. It was four a.m. and Kinsella’s predicted date had arrived. If he was telling the truth, another girl would be taken today. I closed my eyes and tried to get comfortable, but shifting my pillows had no effect. Sleep eluded me for the rest of the night.

20

I made the call at ten the next morning. My mother sounded outraged when she picked up the phone, as though her worst enemy was bombarding her with nuisance calls.

‘Alice, this is a surprise.’

‘It shouldn’t be. I left two messages, but you never got back to me.’

‘I do have a life, you know. Things have been busy.’

‘I know, Mum. I’m just checking how you are.’

‘Fine, darling, absolutely fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’ The quake in her voice was still there, pulsing behind her rage.

‘I’d like to come with you to your hospital appointment.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Alice. You’ve got your own life to lead.’

‘Then let me drive you to the airport instead.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no need.’ Her tone was cooler than antifreeze.

‘I want to, Mum. Text me the date and I’ll pick you up.’

My mother gave no indication that she planned to accept my offer, changing the subject abruptly to a concert she’d heard at Blackheath Halls.

‘Fauré’s
Requiem.
It was extraordinary, I cried from start to finish.’

Despite my mother’s pathological reluctance to reveal her emotions, she could weep like Niagara Falls to a stirring piece of music, and it irritated me that the older I grew, the more her traits became my own. If she was unwell, no one would ever know. She’d dealt with enough pain already – marriage to a violent alcoholic, then Will’s illness. Independence had been her best coping mechanism; she’d pulled up the drawbridge so nothing could hurt her again. I pictured her standing on the deck of a huge ship, surrounded by families and couples, completely alone.

Lola insisted on dragging me to the shops that morning. The first thing I saw when we emerged from the Tube at Oxford Circus was a massive billboard, announcing that it was 28 December, the first day of the sales. A jolt of frustration passed through me – even though Burns had been chasing every lead, Ella Williams was still missing, and another girl could be gone by the end of the day. Lola was too focused on searching for maternity clothes to notice my state of mind. It felt bizarre to watch her selecting leggings with elasticated waistbands while she was still so willowy. The idea of her pushing a pram hadn’t registered yet. Lola had always been joyfully irresponsible, but now she was trying on tops designed to accommodate her growing belly. I watched her admiring herself in a blue dress, patting her tiny bump, as if she was longing for it to grow. She grinned at me in the mirror.

‘It’ll be fine, Al. Trust me.’

‘Sorry, I’m miles away.’

‘Thinking about the wolfish new boyfriend?’

‘Wolfish?’

‘God, yes. He looks like he can’t decide whether to ravish you or eat you alive.’

‘Just as well it’s going nowhere.’

Lola giggled. ‘Pity. He’s sexy as hell, isn’t he?’

By one o’clock I was sick of queues and crowded dressing rooms. We ate a stylish but overpriced lunch at an Italian café on Chandos Street, then I left her to gloat over her bargains.

*   *   *

A crowd of journalists was camped outside the police station when I reached Pancras Way. Their faces were gloomier than the weather, as though waiting for a scoop was the toughest job in the world. There was no sign of Burns when I reached his office. Tania was gathering folders from his desk, black hair shimmering like it had been airbrushed. She gave me a nod of greeting then paused on her way out, clutching a stack of files. Her stare was sharp enough to spot a lie from a hundred miles.

‘Can I ask you something?’ she said.

‘Of course.’

‘What’s your opinion of Alan Nash?’

I tried to gather my thoughts. ‘He’s been top dog for too long. He’s still got a brilliant mind, but his approach is old-fashioned and he makes mistakes. Not that he’d ever admit it.’

‘It’s not just me then.’ Her guard slipped for a nanosecond. ‘I’ve never felt more patronised in my whole life.’

The idea of Nash putting her down surprised me; Tania looked capable of felling him with a single well-aimed punch. I felt an unexpected flicker of liking for her.

‘Do you need a hand with those?’ I nodded at the folders she was carrying.

‘Thanks, I’m not going far. My room’s across the way.’

Tania’s office didn’t match her polished image. A dozen plastic boxes were stacked against the wall, her desk littered with discarded papers. A look of embarrassment appeared on her face.

‘There’s been no time to unpack. The investigation kicked off the day after I arrived.’

I noticed a picture of a smiling dark-haired girl propped beside her phone. ‘She’s a beauty,’ I commented.

For once Tania’s face relaxed. ‘My daughter, Sinéad. She’s a nightmare most of the time – eleven going on twenty-one.’

I realised that having a daughter exactly the same age as the victims must be making the case even harder for her. Tania looked as though she was about to confide something, but the moment passed, leaving me with a sense of confusion. Until now she’d been easy to dislike – Burns’s glossy, hard-as-nails new girlfriend – but now she’d revealed her human side. And she had far more in common with him than I did. They were both single parents, holding down the toughest jobs imaginable. It crossed my mind that maybe I should be grown-up about it and try to be happy for them.