The Winter Foundlings (26 page)

‘That’s enough, darling. You mustn’t tire yourself.’

Evans looked irritated for a moment, like a teenager being told to turn his music down, then a wave of relief crossed his face. Thinking about Kinsella must have forced him back into territory he’d fought hard to escape. Jon’s mother smiled politely as he led us back along the hallway, and I turned to him again as we stood in the porch.

‘Can I ask where the letters are now, Jon?’

He nodded. ‘Judith kept them when I left.’

The idea refused to sink in. Judith’s consulting room felt like an oasis of calm, yet an archive of the world’s sickest correspondence was stored there. The thought stayed with me as we said goodbye. It seemed unbelievable that I’d asked her for help in understanding Kinsella’s mindset, yet she’d never mentioned his letters. The openness that I’d admired in her might be nothing more than an act. What reason could she possibly have for hiding Kinsella’s sick messages from the world?

39

Tom’s mood had darkened when we got into his car.

‘Jon’s lucky to have a mother like that,’ he commented. ‘She’s so supportive.’

‘Isn’t your mother the same?’

‘She died when I was thirteen.’

‘I’m sorry, that must have been terrible.’

He stared at the dark road as if he was searching for something. When he spoke again his voice was almost too low to hear. ‘There was a plane crash in Germany, in the Nineties. Did you hear about it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘It was flying from London to Hamburg. I was on a football scholarship in Germany that summer. My mother was collecting me. She wanted to see the Black Forest before we flew home.’

‘She was by herself?’

‘My father and brother were with her. No one survived.’

I was too stunned to reply. I pictured the photo of his perfect blond family, all gone in an instant. Patients had described horrifying losses in the safety of my consulting room, but rarely on that scale. It explained why he kept their picture hidden inside a novel, so no one could pry. His hands twitched on the steering wheel.

‘Why don’t you pull over?’ I said.

‘There’s no need.’

‘Do it anyway, Tom, just for a minute.’

He stopped on the hard shoulder and I waited in silence. It was a technique I’d used for years. Once a revelation begins, all you need do is sit still and let it finish. His voice was a quiet monotone, as though he was reporting someone else’s tragedy.

‘The metal was torn in pieces like paper, a crater on the beach where the fire took hold. The investigators said the impact was so quick, no one would have suffered. The pilots ditched on purpose to avoid the town.’

‘What happened after that?’

‘My grandparents raised me in London. It was a struggle for them; they weren’t the most demonstrative people in the world. After the funerals, they hardly ever talked about what happened.’

‘And they took you to church?’

He shook his head. ‘They were atheists. I went by myself, but it started to feel hollow after I became a priest.’

‘Do you want to tell me about your family?’

‘It’s too long ago,’ he murmured. ‘I can’t remember.’

It was obvious that he was lying. He must remember them every day, blasts of unresolved grief hitting him from all sides. At least his coping mechanisms would help: constant exercise, one-night stands, the adrenaline rush of working in a dangerous environment. The story explained his fear of intimacy – no one ever got close enough to pry, his survivor guilt shaping every nightmare. I wanted to ask whether he’d received counselling at the time, but the question would have sounded patronising. When I touched his shoulder he jumped, as though he’d received a hundred volts. I’d forgotten that he could only accept intimacy that he initiated himself.

I still felt shaken when we set off, but at least Tom was less morose. Maybe it had done him good to open up.

‘What did you think of Jon?’ he asked.

‘It’s like he’s spent too long staring at the sun.’

He choked out a laugh. ‘Kinsella isn’t exactly sunny, Alice.’

‘You’re right. It’s more like peering into a black hole.’ I looked across at him. ‘Did you know Judith had kept Kinsella’s letters?’

Tom shook his head. ‘If he sent me one, I’d use it for a bonfire.’

It was still early as we approached Charndale, but the houses were already sealed, curtains closed to lock out the cold. When we reached Ivy Cottage, Tom left the engine running, hands balanced on the wheel, like a taxi driver desperate for his next fare. It was so obvious that he wanted to be alone that I thanked him quickly and said goodbye. I watched his Jeep navigate back to the main road, snow flying as it piled through the drifts.

I made three calls as soon as I got back inside. My brother didn’t pick up, so I left a message saying how much I missed him and that I planned to visit Brighton soon. Then I had a short, breezy chat with Lola. She told me that her waistline was already two inches bigger.

‘No way, Lo, it’s too early. You’ve been overdoing the chocolate.’

‘I could ask someone else to be godmother, you know.’

‘Too late. I’ve got a verbal contract.’

‘So sue me,’ she purred. ‘When can I see that haunted house of yours?’

‘Next week?’

‘I’ll text you a day. Night, night, sweetheart.’

There was no reply when I called my mother. She was probably in bed already, but I preferred to imagine her on deck, cocktail in hand, gazing at the sea.

The fire had almost expired, but I sat on the sofa and watched the cinders glowing in the grate. The evening had given me too much to consider. Jon Evans’s discomfort was easiest to understand. His breakdown had robbed him of his job and left him dependent on his mother’s protection. But Tom’s revelation had caught me unawares. Maybe his grief was so unmediated that the smallest memory could open the floodgates. The thing that angered me most was Judith’s secrecy.

There was no point in going to bed while my mind was still racing, so I dug out my research notes and started to work. It was a small consolation that I would be able to dazzle Northwood’s governors with a polished presentation, even though my interviews with Kinsella were going nowhere fast.

40

Judith looked like the ideal therapist when I found her the next morning – relaxed but attentive, clear-sighted enough to spot any symptom. Patients would assume that her life was perfectly balanced. I noticed that the vantage point from the window of her consulting room was even better than Kinsella’s, allowing her to monitor every arrival and departure at the Laurels.

‘Are you okay? You look distracted.’

‘I need your help, Judith.’

She closed the case file she’d been reading. ‘Of course, fire away.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d kept Kinsella’s letters? You know I need to get inside how his mind works.’

Her serenity evaporated, bangles clicking frantically as her hands fluttered. ‘I thought about destroying them, but Jon might need them some day, for his research.’

‘That’s not likely, is it? His contact with Kinsella triggered his breakdown.’

She shifted awkwardly in her chair. ‘Alan Nash would get access if I put them in the archive. Kinsella wrote the letters as part of his treatment; we have a duty of care to keep them confidential.’

‘You’re trying to protect him?’

‘It’s my job to safeguard his rights, as I do every other inmate’s at the Laurels.’ The look on Judith’s face set my alarm bells ringing. She had come out fighting to protect Kinsella, her softness replaced by ferocity, but maybe she would have done the same for any of her patients.

‘Would you let me read the letters?’

She stood by her filing cabinet, arms folded. ‘Why? They didn’t do Jon much good, did they?’

‘It might help the investigation.’

‘And you won’t tell anyone they’re here?’

‘I’ll try. But if there’s anything important, I’ll have to share it.’

She gave a grudging nod, then unlocked one of her cupboards, revealing a plastic box, crammed with sheaves of white paper. The sight was daunting. Over the course of a year Kinsella had written the equivalent of several novels, his spiky handwriting zigzagging across hundreds of pages. Judith looked tense as I sorted through them.

‘Can I take them to my office?’

‘If you think they’ll help.’ She spoke again as I was about to leave, and it fascinated me that the harshness had left her voice. ‘Do you want to meet for a drink later?’

‘Can I call you? I don’t know how long this’ll take.’

The letters felt heavy in my arms as I walked away, and when I got back to the broom cupboard my breath quickened as I sifted through them. At first I felt squeamish about handling the pages, but soon I was too immersed to care. The dark complexity of his world fascinated me. Kinsella was so erudite that quotes from poetry and philosophy littered his stories. But the most disturbing thing was the breezy, matter-of-fact tone he used to describe his crimes.

I feel more alive while others are dying. I’m sure you’ve tasted that pleasure yourself, when you drive past an accident on the motorway or a friend describes the death of a relative.

Someone has yielded their life, to allow you to glow more brightly. Imagine the intensity of that feeling when you are responsible for the killing. Birds of prey have no qualms about attacking weaklings, and I follow the same principle. My crimes have made me nine times stronger than before.

The letters all contained the same mixture of fantasy and false pride, and my brain was protesting about being force-fed such vile information. A headache was pounding at the back of my skull but I made myself open the next folder. I was so deeply absorbed that I almost jumped out of my skin when someone knocked on my door.

‘Come in,’ I called.

Tania Goddard stood there, frowning. The wide belt of her suit cinched her figure into an enviable hourglass. ‘I came looking for you earlier.’

‘I’ve been here all morning. Is Kinsella ready to see me?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve got some news about him.’

‘Let me guess. He won’t come out of his cell?’

‘He’s out of his cell all right.’ Tania’s eyes locked onto mine. ‘He’s had a cardiac arrest. The doctors say it’s touch and go.’

41

‘I’ve got a treat for you, Ella.’

The man’s hand locks around hers as he leads her into the living room. Ella has to bite her lip to stop herself crying. There’s a widescreen TV just like the one at home, a packet of biscuits on the coffee table. The room is empty and white-walled, long rows of books on the walls.

‘Damn,’ the man hisses under his breath. ‘I forgot to buy milk.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘I wanted to make you hot chocolate.’

She touches the man’s sleeve, but he’s too agitated to notice, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

‘The shop’s only five minutes away.’

‘That’s okay,’ she murmurs.

‘You won’t do anything daft, will you?’

‘Course not,’ Ella replies, smiling up at him.

Her heart pounds too quickly when the man leaves. She waits for his footsteps to crunch across the snow, then she flies around the room, twisting door handles, hunting for a phone. Her hands flap against the locked window, but there’s nothing heavy enough to break the glass. Her chest aches as she slumps back onto the settee, but she feels better when the TV screen brightens. It’s a relief to see different faces. She flicks through the channels until a blonde woman appears, her cheeks slick with make-up.

‘And now a quick round-up of the news. Hopes are fading for Ella Williams, who’s been missing for two weeks. The bodies of four young girls, abducted from the same part of London, have already been found, and the Metropolitan Police are increasing their search.’

Ella’s breath forms a solid lump in her throat. Faces flash across the screen – two girls she doesn’t recognise, then Sarah and Amita, and an Indian lady crying into her hands. Her thoughts are whirling. She’s the only one left and, any day now, the man could change his mind. Her gaze jitters around the room and settles on a chest of drawers. There’s nothing inside except tablecloths, reels of cotton, and a stack of photo albums. The man’s footsteps are returning along the passageway, and it’s only when she reaches the last drawer that something useful falls into her hands. A pair of kitchen scissors. The man’s closer now, so she slips them inside her white dress.

‘Mission accomplished,’ he says, brandishing a carton of milk. ‘Hot chocolate for my princess?’

‘Yes, please.’

She gives her best smile and he disappears into the kitchen. The scissors are wedged tightly under her arm. The metal blades feel cold, the points snagging against her skin.

42

Tania marched beside me to the Campbell Building, the light already starting to fade. I tried to find out more about Kinsella’s health since he’d been rushed to the infirmary, but she was rationing her words, her chic haircut glinting under the security lights. If I’d had to compare her to a substance, it would have been obsidian; the black gemstone favoured by Victorian widows, hard as granite and polished to a high glitter. It mystified me that she’d chosen someone as sensitive as Burns.

I followed her into an office on the second floor, detectives marching past us towards the incident room. Tania gazed at me as though I belonged to a different species.

‘We need to improve your home security,’ she said. ‘Burns told me your place is near where Amita’s body was found, and you’ve had a break-in recently. From tonight you’re staying with us at the hotel.’ Her face was hard with certainty, and I wanted to protest, but knew there was no point. It struck me again that she had many of the qualities I admired: resilience, style, and zero tolerance for bullshit.

I went straight to the infirmary after seeing Tania. The building was grey and imposing, two hundred years old, but the interior had been updated to the standards of a modern hospital. There were signs for pathology, physiotherapy, and a day centre for outpatient care. The registrar who met me at reception had a youthful face, but she was white-haired and slightly stooped, as though her job had aged her prematurely. I explained that I was working with the police on Kinsella’s case and she nodded calmly.