The Winter Foundlings (29 page)

Ella attacks the back door lock with the blade, but this time the trick fails. The handle feels like it’s been set in concrete. The man has hidden the key somewhere. She searches in every cupboard, then her eyes catch on a photo album, fat enough to hold hundreds of pictures. The first pages are filled with newspaper clippings, yellow with age. Someone has written the word KINSELLA at the top of the page. They all show the same man’s face. His hair is short and neat, but his eyes are frightening. They stare across sharp cheekbones, black and penetrating. Then there are pictures of little girls in their white dresses, eyes closed. Ella recognises Sarah and Amita, then her own name printed at the top of the next page. There are enough pages to hold forty or fifty more girls.

A car door slams in the distance and Ella shoves the album back in the cupboard. She races downstairs and pulls the door shut, jiggling the blade frantically in the lock, until it clicks tight. Now there are no sounds at all. The only thing Ella can hear is her heartbeat, drumming with panic, refusing to slow down.

46

The wind roared under the visor of the crash helmet, freezing my grin into place, yet I’d never felt freer. Concentrating on the road had helped me forget about Kinsella’s warped fantasies. Eventually I forced myself to do a U-turn, because Chris would be fretting about his pride and joy. I slowed down to a sensible speed, the engine humming softly.

Chris had turned up the collar of his leather jacket when I got back to the car park, blowing warm air onto his hands. When I finally handed over his keys, he seemed amused.

‘That was amazing. I feel like a new woman.’

‘Go for a burn whenever you like.’

‘You’re a trusting soul. I could sell her to the highest bidder.’

‘I’ll risk it.’ His gaze lingered on my face. ‘Listen, Alice, I’ve been meaning to say something, about Tom.’

‘Have you?’

‘People read him wrong. They think he’s cold, but he isn’t at all. If you give him another chance, you’ll find out.’

I blinked at him in surprise. He didn’t seem the type to offer relationship advice, but it was obvious he was being sincere. ‘Did he ask you to say that?’

‘God, no. He’d kill me if he knew I’d spoken to you.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell him.’

Chris gave an awkward grin then climbed onto his bike. I watched it speed along the exit road, and I found myself re-evaluating him. At first he’d seemed edgy, but he was just ultra-sensitive, attuned to every emotion in the room. And he’d ignited my sense of guilt about Tom. If he had feelings for me, I was in no position to return them. Desire seemed to be the only emotion we had in common.

‘Have you finished playing Evel Knievel?’ Reg looked furious as he walked towards me. ‘I’ve been waiting ages. It’s brass monkeys out here.’

‘Sorry, Reg. That was the chance of a lifetime.’

He scowled. ‘Don’t talk to me about chances. I’ve had one hell of a day.’

‘How come?’

‘DI bloody Goddard chewed my head off on the way to the station. According to her, my driving’s lousy, and so’s my attitude.’

‘Poor you.’

My sympathy was genuine. I was probably increasing Tania’s rage. On top of working on a harrowing case, she thought I was after her boyfriend.

The press had multiplied when we reached the hotel. News vans from Sky and ITV were blocking the hotel entrance, a few hardy photographers braving the cold. Most of the journalists would be propping up the bar by now, trying to buy details from the team for the price of a drink. I thanked Reg for the lift then hurried upstairs.

At least my room felt peaceful. Either my neighbours had gone out for the evening, or the state of their relationship had worsened, and they were locked in a grim silence. I picked up the phone and ordered room service, then spread out my papers. A photo of Ella Williams slipped from my folder. She looked at me expectantly, and I studied her again. Her eyes shone with curiosity, and she seemed to be studying the cameraman, figuring out how he composed his shots.

‘What’s different about you?’ I muttered. ‘Why’s he keeping you alive?’

I looked at the timeline for the investigation. Ella had been gone almost three weeks. If she was still alive, she must have realised that there was a frightened child locked inside the man who was terrorising her. I gazed down at the last date on my list. In forty-eight hours another child would be taken, and this time Kinsella had claimed that she would be blinded before she died.

When my meal arrived I was immersed in crime-scene analysis. The waiter made a production of unloading dishes from a silver tray, but the food hardly seemed worth it. The vegetarian lasagne had seen better days, cheese sauce congealed into tasteless lumps. But I was too hungry to complain, flicking through reports as I ate. I was still unclear why the killer had shifted so far west from his original patch, apart from a desire to place his tributes closer to Kinsella. Maybe he’d been unnerved by dozens of uniforms pounding the streets, from Euston to Kentish Town.

By ten o’clock my head was throbbing. I’d leafed through every page of the HOLMES printout, and picked over my notes about the Foundling Museum, but the information had stopped making sense. I hesitated for a moment before picking up my phone. Burns sounded like he’d spent the evening smoking cigars, his Scottish burr even more pronounced than usual.

‘I need a drink, Don.’

‘Downstairs is crawling with hacks. Come to 311.’

Burns’s room was directly above mine, but considerably bigger, the sitting area furnished with leather sofas. I glanced around while he reached into the fridge, selecting miniatures. His room was the direct opposite of Tom’s pristine flat. It could have doubled as an artwork by Tracey Emin, with his whole life on display. A framed photo of his boys on the cabinet, clothes spilling from his suitcase, a book about Jackson Pollock on his bedside table, and a half-eaten meal abandoned on a tray. His evening had obviously followed the same pattern as mine, except the papers on his coffee table were stacked even higher. When he sat beside me, it was there again – the physical draw I always struggled to pin down. It certainly wasn’t inspired by his clothes. He was wearing a faded black T-shirt, worn-out jeans, and trainers that Tesco’s flog for a fiver.

‘I’m glad you rang,’ he said. ‘My brain’s imploding.’

Burns rubbed the back of his neck with the palms of his hands, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to touch him while his eyes were closed. I folded my arms tightly and made myself concentrate.

‘I keep thinking about the foundlings,’ I said. ‘The links are everywhere. The victims’ bodies are tagged, just like the mortuary assistants numbered the corpses at the Foundling Hospital. And Kinsella said the foundlings would come back to him.’

‘If he thinks the foundlings are going to return from the grave, he’s even sicker than we thought.’ Burns met my eye. ‘I’m afraid Alan Nash has got wind of those letters you’ve been reading. He’s asking for access.’

‘So he can write another book, to titillate the copycats?’ I shook my head firmly. ‘Have you found any Northwood staff with childhood links to Kinsella yet?’

‘We’re still having trouble getting records, but so far we haven’t found anyone from St Augustine’s or Orchard House. The whole thing’s pretty hard to believe, Alice. All two and a half thousand staff have been vetted, they’re all squeaky clean.’

I shook my head firmly. ‘The only way Kinsella’s disciples can come back is by visiting the hospital, or getting a job there. The guy’s obsessed, isn’t he? A job in the same building as his hero would be his dream come true.’

‘They’d be breathing the same air,’ he murmured.

We batted theories back and forth for half an hour but didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. The ringing of Burns’s phone broke into our conversation and I realised suddenly that I would need some sleep before I could bring clarity to the proceedings. I waited to say goodnight, but he was too busy issuing complicated instructions into his mobile. He touched my shoulder in gratitude as I headed for the door. A mix of emotions was visible in his eyes: panic, guilt, and something too raw to identify. Disbelief, probably, that five girls had been stolen in front of his eyes.

When I got back to my room, his footsteps were still pounding the floorboards above me, and my phone was buzzing on the coffee table. The first message was from Tom – a terse invitation to go to a party on Monday night. The next was from my mother, describing that day’s trip to a lace museum in Nicosia. The final text contained a miracle. Lola had sent the picture from her scan, and I stared at it for a long time. My godchild shimmered against the black background, a half-moon of tiny silver bones, preparing to take the world by storm.

47

My brother rang at noon the next day. I was in the broom cupboard, poring over the last of Kinsella’s letters. At least the call gave me an excuse to ignore the piles of yellowing paper.

‘How are you, sweetheart?’

‘Not bad. I’m waiting for my bus.’ Will’s voice was lower than before, as though a weight was resting on his chest.

‘What have you been up to?’

‘The usual fun and games. Scrubbing floors, stacking the dishwasher.’

‘At least you’ve got a sea view.’

He made a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. ‘Listen, Al, are you still in that cottage?’

‘Not at the moment. Why?’

‘Promise me you won’t go back. I saw a cloud yesterday, over the sea. It was by itself, and it blew apart. When I looked again, the sky was empty.’ His voice was rising with panic.

‘It’s okay, Will. I’m fine, honestly. And you’ll see me soon, won’t you?’

It took forever to calm him down. I reminded him of the date when we’d agreed to meet at Brighton Pavilion to go for dinner, and his voice was steadier when we said goodbye. Outside my window it was snowing again, the flakes so fine and powdery that walking through it would be like facing a sandstorm.

I tried to concentrate again on Kinsella’s letters; the last ones described the killings from start to finish. Each child had been given the chance to repent, but Kinsella was never satisfied. The victims went through hours of torture. One was beaten, cut, and abused over a whole weekend. Yet he claimed repeatedly that the foundlings would return; there would be a reawakening.

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I muttered to myself.

I stacked the letters in their box and locked my office. The engaged sign was displayed on Judith’s door, so I waited in the corridor. Five minutes later, the Shenfield Strangler emerged, handcuffed to his guard. I couldn’t help taking a deep breath. Kinsella’s crimes paled into insignificance compared to his, and there was something startling about coming face to face with such a prolific killer. He was smaller than I’d imagined, too weak to strangle anyone now, his messy black hair shot through with grey. Only his fierce expression reminded me of the newspaper portraits from the day of his sentence. His eyes refused to yield even a glimmer of light.

It surprised me that Judith looked brighter than normal; forty-five minutes in the company of one of the most dangerous men alive hadn’t dented her happiness. Either she’d learned to separate her emotions completely, or her endless well of sympathy never ran dry.

‘You’re a miracle, Judith. How do you keep going?’

Her eyes looked dreamier than ever. ‘Garfield stayed at mine last night. I had him all to myself.’

‘And you still haven’t come down,’ I said, returning her smile. ‘I brought back the letters.’

‘Did they help?’

‘There’s a lot of fantasy in there. Did Kinsella ever talk about the foundlings coming back in your therapy sessions?’

She shook her head. ‘Most of the time he talked about the past, not the future. Who are the foundlings anyway?’

‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you another time.’

‘Are you coming to mine on Monday? I’m throwing a birthday party for Tom.’

‘I didn’t know it was his birthday.’

‘Trust him to be secretive. You’ll come, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

I watched her hide Kinsella’s letters again in her cupboard. It still mystified me that she could live with a testimony of the worst kinds of human evil right beside her chair. The bangles on her wrist clattered merrily as she waved goodbye.

Alan Nash was the first person I saw in the Campbell Building. His tweed jacket and corduroys were more suited to the Chelsea Flower Show than a psychiatric hospital, but he made an effort to look welcoming.

‘I was just on my way to see you, Alice.’ His thousand-watt smile flashed on for a heartbeat.

‘Then I saved you a journey.’

‘I hear you’ve unearthed some of Kinsella’s letters.’

‘One or two. They’re part of an archive.’

‘How do I get access?’ Pound signs were flashing in Nash’s eyes. He’d be sitting on a goldmine if he could print original materials in his book.

‘You’d need permission from Dr Gorski.’

Nash’s face flushed with anger. I didn’t know why I’d headed him off at the pass. Probably because the letters were so toxic. Why release them into the world, if the sole reason was to swell the professor’s bank balance?

A rugby scrum of detectives had gathered around the coffee machine in the incident room and, when I looked more closely, Burns was at the centre, calm as the eye of a storm. One of the detectives gave me a knowing smile, which made me wonder if someone had seen me leaving his hotel room the night before. The intent look on Burns’s face filled me with anxiety.

‘Has something happened, Don?’

‘Kinsella wants to clear his conscience,’ he said.

‘He hasn’t got one. Deathbed confessions don’t apply with psychopaths.’

‘It’s you he wants to see.’

My stomach churned like a concrete mixer grinding into action. Reading Kinsella’s letters had revealed the full depravity of his world-view, and the idea of spending more time with my father’s ghost was more than I could face.

48

Ella can’t guess how much time has passed since the man brought food or water, but her mouth’s so dry her tongue is starting to swell. Every day it’s harder to believe that she’ll escape. She used to imagine running down the street into Suzanne’s arms, but now when she closes her eyes, all she sees is a wall of blackness. She’s forgotten how to dream.