The Winter Foundlings (20 page)

‘The abductions might not be random. Maybe he’s got hold of records from somewhere.’

He looked uncertain. ‘School registers, or medical files.’

‘That’s possible, but the foundling link’s too strong to ignore. He’s getting a kick out of dressing them up like Victorian orphans. The staging’s for him, as well as Kinsella.’

Burns lapsed into silence, as though his mind was refusing to process any more theories. I stayed quiet and focused on the view outside as we headed east into the city.

Brentford Shopping Centre was lit up like a Christmas tree, as though the retailers were determined to milk a profit from the last dregs of festive good cheer. I waited until we reached Chiswick’s expensive suburbs before asking another question.

‘Do you know much about Brian Knowles?’ I asked.

‘He’s sixty-two, widowed in his late forties, worked as a surveyor till he retired. He’s been a volunteer at the Foundling Hospital since Kinsella’s days. One of the trustees said they got on well, but no one mentioned it at the trial. He’s got a clean record, apart from that caution for loitering by the playground in Richmond Park.’

We were pulling up outside a mansion block in Hammersmith, not far from the theatre where Lola worked. Each of the tall Georgian buildings fronting the river was worth millions, which meant that Brian Knowles must be extremely wealthy. It made me wonder whether his money was begged, borrowed, or stolen.

A squad car was parked on the double yellow line outside a block called Wentworth House. It was smaller than some of the others, but beautifully maintained. I waited in the car while Burns spoke to the two uniforms, then followed him up the stairs. The large building had been subdivided into at least a dozen dwellings. Knowles’s flat was on the top floor and the climb explained why he was fit enough to march up the stairs at the museum. Burns was panting when we reached the landing.

‘Let’s hope it’s worth the hike,’ he muttered as he pressed the doorbell.

Knowles was still wearing his yachting blazer. It looked like he’d chosen Pierce Brosnan as style guru, his dyed hair carefully combed. When he caught sight of me his carefully prepared smile froze.

‘What are you doing here, Alice?’

‘I’m helping the investigation into the missing girls, Mr Knowles.’

‘So you lied about being a psychologist. I thought you had a genuine interest in the museum, but you were just spying on me.’

I shook my head. ‘Not at all. Everything you said was helpful.’

Knowles’s expression was grudging as he admitted us to his flat, and it soon became obvious that he had traded space for a glamorous postcode. The place was minute, with a dining table wedged beside the sofa in his living room. But the view gave a touch of grandeur, showing the broad sweep of the river, surging east towards Hammersmith Bridge. Knowles stood by the window, eyeing us with suspicion.

‘What do you want exactly? I told the other officers that I don’t own a vehicle, and I was visiting a friend in Kensington when that poor child was taken.’ Knowles touched the sharp pleat in his trousers, nipping the fabric tightly between his finger and thumb.

‘I’d like to know more about your time at the Foundling Museum, Mr Knowles. You described Louis Kinsella as a monster, but he speaks of you as a friend.’

He adjusted his hair nervously. ‘I thought he was an ally, that’s why I was so disgusted. It’s easy to be clever with hindsight, but at the time he was a pillar of the community, the headmaster of an outstanding school. We shared a passion for the place.’

‘He told me you’re a collector, Mr Knowles.’ I glanced around the room, but all I could see were antique vases, bookshelves stacked with local histories, and two Constable landscapes on the walls. ‘Do you mind telling us what you collect?’

‘I gather information. I’ve interviewed dozens of former foundlings; many are in their seventies and eighties. You could call it my life’s work.’ He pointed at a pile of folders stacked at the end of his table, at least a foot thick.

‘Do you mind if I take a look?’ I asked.

‘Be my guest. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

Burns carried on talking to Knowles while I flicked through one of the folders, which contained dozens of interview transcripts. Underneath it was a plastic wallet marked ‘Newsletter,’ with a sheet of photos tucked inside. I did a double take when I saw my own picture, gazing unsmiling at the camera, with my name and occupation written underneath. Knowles had been very industrious, taking snaps of dozens of museum visitors, including schoolchildren, each one carefully labelled. Beneath that lay a copy of the previous month’s newsletter from the Foundling Museum, the back page packed with faces that all looked as startled as mine. I returned to the armchair beside Burns.

‘You seem fascinated by the orphans, Mr Knowles,’ I commented. ‘Do you mind me asking why?’

‘The museum’s our best source of history about their lives.’ Knowles’s lips parted in a tense smile. ‘And I believe in its values. Children should be safeguarded, shouldn’t they? Their innocence is sacred.’

‘I can see that you hold children in very high regard.’

His face quivered as he spoke. ‘That’s why it disgusts me that we can’t even admire them any more. If you so much as look at a child, they want you behind bars. They don’t understand that if you’re elderly and alone, it’s uplifting to watch children happily playing together.’

Knowles’s hands shook with outrage as Burns asked him question after question. He said that he had been travelling to Kensington by Tube at the time of Ella Williams’s abduction, returning late that evening. He described himself as a gentleman of leisure, but his flat held little evidence of a man at ease. There was no TV, and the appliances in his kitchenette must have been there since the Eighties, holes worn through the lino by the sink. When we said goodbye, I caught only a fleeting glimpse of his unnaturally white smile before the door closed abruptly. Burns didn’t say a word until we got back to the car.

‘He’s copying Kinsella, but without the bloodshed,’ I commented. ‘Collecting children’s life stories and keeping them for himself. He’s just a voyeur; he likes to watch children in the park, take photos of them at the museum. That’s how he gets his thrills.’

‘I’ll check the CCTV at Hammersmith Tube, see if his story stacks up.’

‘I’m sure it’s not him, Don. Voyeurism’s a passive condition normally; it’s rare for it to escalate into this kind of violence.’

Burns met my eye. ‘He may not be the killer, but you wouldn’t want him for a babysitter, would you?’

*   *   *

The drive back took an extra half-hour thanks to a juggernaut jackknifing on the M4. Burns drove in an absorbed silence. I could almost hear his brain chunking through the information like a calculator working at full strength.

‘Want to get a meal at the hotel?’ he finally asked when we reached Charndale.

‘I should probably go home.’

The Met team was staying at a hotel I passed on my way to work. Charndale Manor was a stately home that had fallen on hard times, with huge windows and decaying plasterwork, but I had no intention of spending the last few hours of New Year’s Eve playing gooseberry among all that faded grandeur.

‘Let’s have a drink instead,’ he insisted.

Burns pulled up outside the Rookery before I could argue. As usual the bar was packed with all the Northwood regulars, flirting and drowning their sorrows. He left me at a corner table then went outside to answer a call on his mobile, and I couldn’t resist sifting through my notes. The more time I spent with Kinsella, the more certain I felt that anyone he’d met was in danger of succumbing to his messages, including Brian Knowles. I’d felt the draw myself. He had the negative magnetism of a whirlpool, pulling people towards him with the sole aim of destroying them.

Burns reappeared as I was poring over the updated HOLMES report he’d given me earlier. He was wearing his off-kilter smile, and I had to remind myself that we were spending time together for business, not pleasure.

‘What are you drinking, Alice?’

‘Pineapple juice, please.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Very festive.’

I watched him cut a swathe through the crowd, a foot taller and wider than the men around him. He didn’t have to wait long to get served; the barmaid ignored the queue and poured his drinks instantly. When I looked up again, I spotted Garfield through the crowd. He was sitting by himself with two empty glasses at his elbow. His body language looked despairing, as though an invisible weight rested on his shoulders. I wondered if constant contact with Kinsella was making him depressed.

I felt a twitch of discomfort as Burns returned with our drinks. Tom had arrived, and he was watching me without a trace of a smile. He stared at Burns, then turned his head away and joined Garfield at his table.

‘The connection has to be Northwood,’ I said.

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘There’s got to be a link between the Foundling Museum and Northwood. The killer knows all about Kinsella’s obsession with the orphans. He understands subtle things about his style too; I’m sure it’s a staff member.’

‘You seriously think some doctor or nurse is abducting little girls, torturing them, then dumping their bodies in the snow?’ He stifled a laugh. ‘I thought mental health professionals were vetted before being let loose on patients.’

‘And we’re trained to resist manipulation, but Kinsella’s different. Last year he reduced an experienced therapist to a breakdown. He’s an expert, and he’s got all the time in the world to indulge his passion for hurting people.’

‘But no one spends time alone with him, do they?’

‘Only a handful. I can give you a list tomorrow.’

Burns nodded, then gazed at me intently. ‘Is there anyone else you think we should look at?’

‘His wife still worries me. She wasn’t much more than a child when they met, and she still can’t acknowledge his crimes. How much do you think she knew at the time?’

‘It’s hard to tell. Kinsella protected her during his trial; he said he’d never told her a thing.’

‘But she could have been his sounding board.’ From the corner of my eye I saw Tom shooting me an angry look as he left the bar.

‘Who is that bloke?’ Burns asked. ‘He’s been giving you the evil eye all night.’

‘A colleague from the Laurels. He runs the gym.’

‘Looks like he needs to burn off some stress himself. What’s his name?’

‘Tom Jensen.’

Burns repeated his name silently, like he was committing it to memory, then concentrated on me again. ‘How are you coping, anyway?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Not everyone could handle talking to a freak like Kinsella.’

‘I’m used to psychopaths, Don. I’ve worked with them for years.’

‘You’d let me know if it gets too much?’

‘I’ve been through worse.’

He held my gaze. ‘I know. That’s what worries me.’

Part of me felt like leaving before he dredged up the cases we’d worked on in the past, but instinct was telling me to stay. Sitting beside him gave me more comfort than sleeping with Tom had ever done. There was something reassuring about his scale, so monumental that only a natural disaster could knock him down.

‘It’s late,’ I said. ‘I’d better get home.’

We stood together on the pavement, Burns’s shoulders blocking the streetlight.

‘Let me give you a lift.’

‘It’s okay, I could use the exercise.’

He took a step closer. ‘You’d better kiss me now then.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s what people do on Hogmanay. It’s a custom.’

I stood my ground, but the temptation to hurl myself at him was almost overwhelming. ‘You’re too early, Don. It’s only half past eleven.’

‘Pity.’ He gave a rueful smile then slowly walked away.

Across the street, the lights were burning in Tom’s flat, and I was struggling to think straight. Burns’s request for a kiss was only a joke, but it had increased my confusion. I tried to wipe it from my mind as I trudged down the lane.

When I got back to the cottage, a minor miracle had occurred. The letting agent had finally responded to my phone messages. Someone had fitted a new lock – a heavy-duty mortise that had been left on the latch, the key posted through the door. When I tested it, the mechanism gave a satisfying click. It would be impossible to break, and sleep would come more easily now that the place was secure.

I peered out through the kitchen window at Edgemoor Woods. It was starting to snow, coin-sized flakes gluing themselves to the windowpane. That morning’s meeting with Kinsella was still distracting me, and the frustration of making such slow progress was giving me indigestion. It felt like a pint of concrete was hardening behind my breastbone.

I’d silenced my worries about Burns, but the buzz of anxiety about the missing girls never left me. Even though it was past midnight, I sat down at the living-room table and started to write a list of those staff at the Laurels who worked one to one with Kinsella. I would need to check the contact sheet, but there had been individual meetings with Gorski and Judith. Garfield spent hours ferrying him round the building, Pru worked in the art studio with him, and Tom supervised him in the gym. But surely none of them was capable of killing children under the guise of caring for the mentally ill?

My phone woke me just after one a.m. I was slumped over the table, my cheek pillowed by my writing pad.

‘Happy New Year!’ Lola sounded effervescent as usual, as though she’d been sipping champagne through a straw.

‘And to you, Lo. I hope you haven’t been drinking.’

‘Just cranberry juice, more’s the pity. Where are you?’

‘At home, by the fire.’

‘We’re in Trafalgar Square. You should be here, Al. There are loads of snoggable blokes.’ Klaxons screeched in the background and off-key voices singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. ‘Someone wants to talk to you, hang on.’

I expected to hear Neal, but the voice that greeted me was deeper and more gravelly.

‘Will, this is a surprise.’

‘I thought you’d be here. You’re always with Lo for New Year.’

I couldn’t explain that I was testing my independence, and giving her some space with her new man. Tinny music echoed in the background, followed by a loud caw of laughter.