The Winter Foundlings (25 page)

The man kneels down in front of her. ‘Sometimes I think I’m going crazy, Ella.’

‘Of course you’re not. We’re going to be fine.’

She forces herself to look into his eyes, but there’s nothing there. It’s like staring into an empty tunnel that goes on for miles. The man squeezes her hand so tightly that her knuckles burn.

‘You’re all I need, princess. You know that, don’t you?’

38

Chris Steadman was parking his motorbike when I arrived at Northwood the next day, and I couldn’t help feeling envious. Driving down the West Coast of America on a powerful bike has always been one of my dreams. I’d even taken my proficiency test the year before, more in hope than expectation.

‘She’s perfect,’ I said, gazing at his vintage Triumph.

‘Take her for a spin sometime, if you like.’

He hugged his crash helmet against his chest and grinned at me while I thanked him for his generous offer. Studying or partying too hard had left him dishevelled, stubble covering his jaw and inch-long roots showing in his peroxide hair.

Chris’s expression grew more serious as we walked to the reception block. ‘Have you been okay since your break-in?’

I nodded. ‘I like the place too much to leave, and the damage is fixed now.’

‘Give me a shout if you need anything.’

He gave a mock salute then hurried away, leather jacket draped over his shoulder, like a would-be rock star. It interested me that he’d already heard about the brick-throwing incident. The Northwood grapevine seemed to have a life of its own.

Burns was waiting for me in the Campbell Building, eyes burning with anticipation. ‘We found out about the building, Alice. It was a care home, for kids up to the age of twelve, called Orchard House, and guess who fundraised for them?’

‘Kinsella?’

‘Spot on. He was involved with them for years.’

‘When did the place close?’

‘Eight years ago. There was some kind of scandal.’

I stared at him as pieces of information slotted into place. ‘Kinsella said the place was the killer’s old stamping ground. Maybe he worked there before transferring here.’

‘We’re having trouble getting hold of employees’ details. Most of the paper records were thrown away when the place closed,’ Burns said, studying me intently. ‘Kinsella’s here already. He says he’s got something to tell you.’

Butterflies rioted in my stomach as I walked to the interview suite, but Kinsella looked as cool as ever. He watched me approach from the other side of the glass screen, not moving a muscle. I could feel a dozen sets of eyes gazing down from the observation room too, and the pressure made the muscles in my throat constrict. If I didn’t get under his guard soon, the consequences for Ella Williams would be fatal.

‘Tell me more about the Foundling Museum, Mr Kinsella. Your wife says you volunteered there most Sundays.’ The mention of Lauren made him flinch, and he seemed to slip back behind his wall of silence. ‘I’ll tell you my theory. I think you love the place because hundreds of children died there. The doctors tried hard, but many of the orphans were dying when they arrived, of diphtheria, rickets, and polio. The mortuary was piled high with infants’ bodies. But why’s your follower so fascinated by the foundlings? Did he work at the kids’ home on Orchard Row?’

Kinsella’s reply was little more than a whisper. ‘Your theories are reductive, Alice. I thought you’d learned to avoid crude conclusions. How is my wife? Did she ask after me?’

‘She wanted to know whether you’d expressed any remorse, nothing else.’

His face hardened again. Judith had been correct – his wife was his Achilles heel. Despite so many years of separation, her opinion still mattered. Maybe he’d believed that he could carry on as Jekyll and Hyde forever; the model husband who slaughtered children in his spare time.

‘She said she’d visit if you co-operate,’ I said. ‘You told me you knew the killer twenty-four years ago. I need to know if that’s true.’

Kinsella gave a grudging nod and his gaze flickered across my charcoal grey dress, to the coral necklace round my throat, assessing every detail. The glass screen allowed him to study every inch of me.

‘Are you listening, Mr Kinsella? Roy Layton and your wife both say you could persuade anyone to do anything. And that’s what you’ve done, isn’t it? You’ve brainwashed somebody into doing your work. There’s a man out there who thinks he’s ceased to exist; he’s just an extension of you.’

He leant forwards, revealing the white line of his parting, straight as a surgical incision. ‘These interviews exhaust me, especially when the cameras are rolling. But if you answer a question for me with complete honesty, I may help you.’

My heart rate doubled. ‘Anything you like.’

His face pressed close to the glass, until I could see his pallor, sweat glistening on his upper lip. ‘Were you in love with your father, Alice?’

A muscle twitched in my stomach. ‘I spent most of my childhood loathing him.’

‘Hate and love are so close, aren’t they? Sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart.’

‘Tell me what you know about the killer.’

‘Between you and me, I find it touching that he remembers the rules, after all these years. I think he plans to follow them indefinitely.’ His eyes glittered with amusement and I wished the glass wall would dissolve, so I could administer the thumbscrews myself.

‘If you want your wife to visit, write down every name, date and address you can remember. But one more question, before you go. Why did you choose silence for so long when it limits your power?’

He said nothing for several minutes, and the room filled with the hum of air conditioning, as his eyes burned scorch marks through my dress. ‘Emerson was right about silence, Alice. If we listen to it carefully, we can hear the whispers of the gods.’

He pressed his index finger against his lips, as if he was counselling me to hold my tongue, and I stared back at him, unblinking. If deities existed, their message for Kinsella would concern damnation and nothing else.

*   *   *

Burns was replaying the interview when I found him in the observation room. I caught sight of myself on the screen, thin and insignificant in my high-necked dress. He looked up for a moment, then carried on scanning the film.

‘All you have to do is keep going, Alice. He’s in the palm of your hand.’

‘I wish I had your confidence.’ The thought of being Kinsella’s favourite made me feel queasy.

‘Someone called the helpline last night. An old woman saw a van in the woods, with a young girl in the passenger seat, but she couldn’t describe the driver. I’m off to see her now.’

I could tell that he was pinning his hopes on the old woman providing useful information, and I didn’t have the heart to remind him that most callers were unreliable. Too many murder investigations are derailed by lonely fantasists, longing for attention.

‘Did you hear that someone broke into my place, the night after Amita’s body was found?’ I said.

He swung round to face me. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘I tried but you were too busy. I reported it to the local force and got myself a new mortice lock.’

He opened his mouth to speak again, but his phone rang and he gave an apologetic look, before turning away to answer it.

I was so busy planning how to get under Kinsella’s defences that I didn’t notice Tom until we almost collided on the path outside. The high heels of my boots skidded on the ice, and he put out a hand to steady me.

‘Your head’s in the clouds,’ he said.

‘It feels like it’s about to burst. I need to speak to someone who knows Kinsella, inside and out.’

‘I know the right person. I’ll come round later.’ He was so sure-footed as he marched away that the ice didn’t slow him down, even though it was slick as well-oiled glass.

I spent the rest of the day concentrating on my research. I’d promised a preliminary report to Northwood’s governors, but my analysis had hardly begun. I studied the list of mental conditions suffered by inmates at the Laurels: affective disorders, schizophrenia, DSPD. The saddest case was a fifty-eight-year-old with hebephrenia, who’d spent forty years at Northwood, because he’d attacked a neighbour with a crowbar after persistent bullying. The victim only sustained minor injuries, but the inmate was still judged too dangerous for release. I shook my head in disbelief as I read his notes. Hebephrenia is the cruellest mental disease in the whole repertoire. It sends time into reverse before the victim reaches adolescence. People start to regress in their teens, becoming children again, locked inside adult bodies, and in some cases they retain enough awareness to understand the cruelty of their situation. The man’s file showed a parade of annual photos and his pudding-basin hair gradually turned grey, but his confused expression had stayed the same for forty years. There were probably plenty more inmates at the Laurels who would be better suited to community care than a lifetime of incarceration. At five o’clock I jabbed the off button on my computer and pulled on my coat.

*   *   *

It was a relief to return to the cottage. I’d got into the habit of leaving the downstairs lights burning each morning when I left for work. No doubt it was costing a fortune, but it made me feel better. Fixing my eyes on the glowing windows made the freezing walk from the main road easier to bear. The place gave its usual shabby welcome when I opened the door, as though I was visiting an ancient relative who’d stopped decorating generations ago.

Tom’s car arrived at seven. When I peered through the curtains, his expression was impenetrable, and I couldn’t work out why he’d decided to help. He was so resolutely private that connecting with people seemed to distress him.

I studied Tom’s profile as he steered his Jeep over the drifts of snow. He looked like the archetypal action hero. It was easier to imagine him enduring an Arctic mission than wasting energy in a gym. Once we’d cleared the lane, the car swung left onto the main road.

‘Where are we heading?’ I asked.

‘We’re going to Sedgefield, to see Jon Evans. It’s half an hour from here.’

The name was still fresh in my mind; it had been on the list of people who’d worked with Kinsella at the Laurels. ‘The therapist who had a breakdown,’ I confirmed.

‘That’s him.’ Tom kept his eyes fixed on the road. ‘He was a gym user, so I got to know him pretty well. He’s staying at his mother’s place. I’ve seen him a few times since he left, and he says he’s happy to talk to you.’

I looked out at the dark woodland, a sprinkling of houses peeping through the trees. It seemed strange that Evans had lived with his mother for more than a year. Maybe his breakdown had been so radical that he couldn’t cope alone. I distracted myself by examining the contents of Tom’s glove compartment. There was nothing there apart from a pair of leather gloves and his iPod. I scrolled down his list of albums. One or two of the artists were familiar, like Matthew P and Chase and Status, but most had complicated European names. I listened to a couple of tracks and the music was orchestral, sombre cellos carrying the melody. It provided another reason to be friends, not lovers. The beauty would soon wear off if I heard it regularly, revealing the sadness lurking underneath.

When we arrived at Sedgefield the neighbourhood was much more prosperous than Charndale. Handsome eighteenth-century homes were clustered around a green, and in June the village would transform into the archetypal picture-postcard. Evans’s house had a peaked roof, gabled windows, and a Hansel and Gretel atmosphere; the kind of place where nothing could go wrong.

The man who answered the doorbell was thin to the point of emaciation. The hallway was too shadowy to see his face clearly, but he looked around fifty years old, and his eyes were open a fraction too wide. He reached out to shake our hands.

‘Good to see you again, Tom.’ The spooked look disappeared when the man smiled, but returned the instant he relaxed. ‘And you must be Alice. Come on in.’

Under the bright lights in the kitchen, his frailty was obvious. His red hair was cut as short as a conscript’s, and from the side he looked thin enough to slip through a letterbox. I tried not to stare as he busied himself making drinks.

‘How’ve you been doing?’ Tom asked.

‘There are good days and bad.’ Evans sat down opposite me. ‘Tom tells me you’re working with Kinsella.’

‘I’m following in your footsteps. They’ve given me your old office too.’

‘I don’t envy you; the job was desolate. Or maybe it was fine, and I was the desolate one.’ He gave a gentle smile, and I wondered how many jokes he cracked at his own expense.

‘Can you tell me about your time at the Laurels?’

‘Why I cracked up, you mean?’ His gaze settled on the wall behind me. ‘I’d just got divorced, incipient depression, pressure of work. Plenty of reasons that don’t include Kinsella.’

‘But some that do?’

‘Of course. He sent letters every day. According to him, we were kindred souls.’ His dark eyes widened again and his thousand-mile stare reminded me of the faces of veterans returning from battle zones.

‘Don’t do this if it’s too much, Jon.’

‘It’s probably therapeutic,’ he said, blinking rapidly. ‘I’d been commissioned to write a clinical study, and Kinsella co-operated at first, then he fell silent. He said he’d write down answers to my questions, but his letters never addressed them. He described killing his victims, over and over, in unbelievable detail.’

‘Did he say that his campaign would start again?’

Evans nodded vigorously. ‘He called it the reawakening. His followers were out there, primed to kill on his behalf, using his set of rules. He never said who they were; I thought it was just a fantasy.’

‘Did he ever try and justify himself?’

‘Never. He thinks his world-view is correct, it’s the rest of us who’re blind. He made the same three points over and over: young girls are innately evil, they’re tainted before they’re born, you can see it in their eyes.’

His face wore a stunned expression, as if a barrage of memories was hitting him with full force, and I could see why he’d broken down. Kinsella had twisted his love of killing into a warped narrative of blame. Reading about his delusions could send anyone with a depressive tendency over the edge. I was about to ask another question when an elderly woman appeared in the doorway. She made a beeline for Jon and settled her hand on his shoulder.