The Winter Foundlings (3 page)

‘Smile at him,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t scream, it makes him angry. Do everything he says.’

Ella squeezes her hand as Sarah’s eyes close. The gurgling sound still rattles in her throat, like she’s breathing under water. All Ella can do is carry on talking and holding her hand. She describes her estate, the meals her granddad cooks, and the way her sister believes in ghosts. But soon the cold freezes her to sleep, and when she wakes up, metal is scraping over metal as the door creaks open. The man reaches inside and grabs Sarah from the floor. When the bolt slams back into place, Ella can’t help calling out. She yells until her throat aches.

It’s impossible not to cry, because Sarah’s gone and the dark presses in from all sides. Now the torch has died, there’s no brightness anywhere. All she can do is wait and think, but only two ideas give her comfort. Last week her teacher said she was the smartest girl in school. The memory of her praise makes a light inside her burn for a few seconds. Sarah’s advice repeats itself too, but it will be hard not to scream, because the sound keeps building in her throat. But next time he opens the door she won’t make a sound. She’ll widen her lips and try to smile; she can’t manage it yet, but it’s something she can practise.

Suddenly Ella’s so cold, she has to find a way to warm herself. The crown of her head grazes the ceiling when she stands, but she flings back her arms, bare feet jittering on the metal floor. The sound of her footfall echoes from the walls of the box. She runs on the spot until feeling returns to her hands, and winter sunlight seeps through the crack in the door.

4

Someone had reached my office before me the next morning. The man fiddling with my computer looked like a guitarist from an obscure grunge band forced to dress like an office clerk. Ill-fitting black trousers and a white shirt hung from his gangly frame, dark roots visible in his bleached blond hair, a network of fine scars across one of his cheekbones. He must have been in his late twenties, and his smile was awkward, as though I’d caught him trespassing.

‘I’m Chris Steadman from the IT unit. You left me a message.’ His voice was so quiet I could hardly hear him.

‘Thanks for coming, I couldn’t get online.’

‘That’s because your modem’s defunct.’ He gave the box a gentle shake, loose connections rattling against the casing. ‘I’m afraid most of our kit’s past its sell-by. I’ll bring you a new one.’

‘Thanks, that would be great.’

‘I heard about your car. Did you get home okay?’

‘Eventually. It’ll take me a while to adjust to Charndale, though. Pretty sleepy, isn’t it?’

His face relaxed into a grin. ‘It’s barely got a pulse. Give me a shout if you get stuck again, I’ll give you a lift.’

Steadman held my gaze for a beat too long, but it didn’t feel predatory. It reminded me of the way kids size each other up in the playground. The dark smudges below his eyes suggested that he might be a party animal under that shy exterior, spending his weekends falling out of nightclubs. He gave another tentative smile then slipped away, the broken modem cradled in his hand.

At nine thirty I made my way to the art room on the first floor. At first I thought I’d come to the wrong place, because a burst of Erik Satie’s piano music drifted along the corridor. I checked my information sheet. The name of the art therapist was Pru Fielding, and she was running a session for three long-term inmates. The music grew louder when I approached the open doorway. A woman with a cloud of blonde curls was lifting a piece of clay from a barrel, and laying it carefully on a table. In profile she looked around my own age, a Pre-Raphaelite beauty, with delicate features and an intent frown. She carried on smothering the clay with wet cloths until she finally spotted me and turned around. Shock made me take an extra breath; her disfigurement was so unexpected, it took a beat too long to replace my smile. At first I thought her face had been scarred by deep burns, but a second glance revealed that the discoloration was a dark red birthmark. The stain covered half of her face, extending down her forehead, cheek and neck, as though a can of paint had been flung at her.

‘Are you the observer?’ she asked.

‘My name’s Alice. Thanks for letting me visit today.’

‘I’d shake your hand, but you might regret it.’ She raised a clay-covered hand in greeting. ‘The guys should be here in ten minutes. This music always calms them.’ Her voice was breathless and high-pitched, and I noticed that she used her blonde curls for camouflage, locks of hair shielding her face.

‘How long have you worked here, Pru?’

‘Two years. I came here after doing an MA in painting at the Slade.’

‘That’s a long time in an environment like this.’ Gorski’s comment about women at the Laurels being either flirts or lion tamers came to mind. She seemed too self-contained to fit either category, and I realised that the director’s statement said more about his prejudices than the staff who worked for him.

‘I like it here. And weirdly enough, there aren’t many jobs for full-time artists, unless you’re Tracey Emin.’

A grin illuminated Pru’s face and I caught a glimmer of how attractive she’d be if she found some confidence. Her expression was clouded by the engrained anxiety I saw on the faces of abuse victims and recovering drug addicts. But it fascinated me that as soon as her clients arrived, her persona changed. An entourage of orderlies, security guards and psychiatric nurses filed through the door, but her assertiveness flicked on like a light bulb as she settled each man at his own table. There were no sharp implements available, only blunt plastic sculpting tools, and when I read the group’s case notes, the reason was obvious. All three men had been prescribed anti-psychotics to control their violence. One of them had approached a stranger at a bus stop, chatted to him briefly, then stabbed him twenty-seven times. The other two had killed members of their families. I sat in a corner and watched the inmate nearest me. He looked too young to be imprisoned indefinitely, his face closed and inexpressive, as if his emotions were kept under lock and key. But after five minutes he was humming contentedly to himself as he shaped the clay.

Some of the group’s sculptures were arranged on a shelf by the window, and one that caught my attention was a bust of a man’s head and shoulders. It had captured his anatomy perfectly, skull bones prominent on his high forehead, but there was something odd about the model’s features. His mouth gagged open, eye sockets hollow, with nothing to fill the voids. I went over to Pru while the men were busy working and pointed at the sculpture.

‘That’s incredibly lifelike, isn’t it?’

She looked pleased. ‘It’s Louis Kinsella’s. He’s the best sculptor here.’

When she drifted back to her work I looked at the statue again. There was no denying how realistic it was, but no one would want it on their mantelpiece. It would be impossible to relax while that sightless gaze followed you around the room.

*   *   *

The phone was ringing when I returned to my office. It was one of the women from the reception block, her tone sharp with urgency, asking me to report there immediately. She rang off before I could ask why. Snow was falling again in large, uneven flakes as I crossed the grey hospital campus, but the police car by the entrance doors made me forget about the cold. The news must be about my brother. Will hadn’t answered my calls for weeks: maybe he’d fallen asleep in a bus shelter somewhere in his worn-out coat, hypothermia catching him when he closed his eyes.

The woman waiting for me in the foyer looked around my age, primed to deliver bad news. Her lipstick was a glossy crimson, but she didn’t smile as she rose to her feet, long legs slowly unfolding. It was rare to see a policewoman with such a chic haircut, her fringe bisecting her forehead in a precise black line. Relief washed over me when I realised it was the woman who’d stood beside Burns during his broadcast the night before. Any message she was carrying wouldn’t concern Will.

‘DI Tania Goddard.’ She shook my hand briskly. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

Her accent was the opposite of her appearance, a raw, east London drone. She sounded like a native of Tower Hamlets or Poplar, and she would have needed plenty of grit to break the Met’s glass ceiling and forge a senior career. I got the impression that she’d taken no prisoners along the way. Her high heels tapped the lino insistently as we climbed the stairs to an empty meeting room. It smelled of urine and stale air and the woman’s frown deepened.

‘You’re Don Burns’s deputy, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘For my sins.’

‘What happened to Steve Taylor?’

‘He got a security job in Saudi.’

I couldn’t help smiling. A hot country would be ideal for Taylor’s serpentine personality. He’d be happy as a sand-boy, and Burns would be thrilled to escape the thorn in his side. When Goddard reached into her briefcase, I noticed that her fingernails matched her lipstick, everything about her polished to a high shine. I buried my hands in my pockets, aware that my last manicure was a distant memory.

‘What’s brought you here, Tania?’

‘You’ve heard about the missing girls, haven’t you?’

I nodded but didn’t reply, too interested in hearing her proposal.

‘Burns thinks you can help the investigation.’ So far her tone had remained neutral, never shifting to first gear.

‘But you don’t agree?’

‘It’s nothing personal. My first investigation was the Green Lanes case – forty-three rapes and eight murders. One of the bodies was so badly mutilated, even the photographer went off sick with stress. The shrink gave us the wrong steer. We’d have nailed the killer years sooner if we’d ignored him.’

I made no attempt to defend my profession, because she was right; the consultant on the Green Lanes case was struck off for malpractice. But it was Goddard’s manner that fascinated me. Her calmness was impressive, but so far there had been no sign of warmth. It made me wonder what lurked under that slick surface. Perhaps her living room was a chaos of dirty wine glasses, takeaway cartons festering behind the sofa. Judging by the strength of her gaze, she was a woman on a mission, unwilling to let anything slow her down. I was so busy studying her that her next statement caught me unawares.

‘We found Sarah Robinson’s body last night.’

She pressed a photo into my hand. It was a close-up of a young girl’s head and shoulders, her blonde hair thick with ice, lips frozen in a pale blue yawn. The Disney princess who’d starred in every news bulletin for days had become a ghost, puppy fat melted away, collarbones protruding from her skin.

‘It’s the same killer who took Kylie Walsh and Emma Lawrence,’ she said.

‘Are you sure? A committed serial killer wouldn’t normally wait so long.’

‘We’re certain – there are too many connections. Both the first two victims were taken from Camden. He dumped Kylie’s body in an alleyway, then Emma was found on waste ground nearby. They were starved to death, and he kept them in a freezer before dumping the bodies.’

I took a moment to absorb the fact that the killer had stored the girls’ corpses before abandoning them. That degree of planning called for a rare level of self-awareness and premeditation.

‘Who was the SIO when the first two were found?’

Tania’s expression soured. ‘He’s retired. The Murder Squad were running the show, drafting specialists in from all over. A lot slipped through the cracks.’

‘They didn’t get far?’

‘That’s putting it mildly. Three months after Emma’s body was found, the top man went off sick and got a payout to retire.’

My sympathy for Burns increased. It sounded like he’d inherited one of London’s worst unresolved cases. I forced myself to focus on the pictures of Sarah Robinson’s body. She was dressed in a long white nightgown, lying inside a cardboard box that fitted her as neatly as a coffin. Her reed-thin legs were arranged side by side, arms folded across her chest, like a statue on a medieval grave. My gaze settled on another photo of her bare feet. Her toes were raw with frostbite, and a tag had been attached to her right ankle. The number twelve was printed on it in thick black ink, as though she was a museum exhibit.

‘Were the first two tagged as well?’

She nodded. ‘And the dresses were the same.’

I closed my eyes for a second. By the time I was this child’s age, I’d become an expert on hiding places: the cupboard under the stairs, behind the coal bunker in the cellar. I’d squeezed behind every wardrobe and under every bed, waiting for my father’s rage to subside. But it was nothing compared to this.

‘Was she abused?’ I asked.

‘We won’t know till the PM. But he’s getting more violent; she’s covered in bruises.’

‘How did she die?’

‘Cold or starvation probably. They don’t think she’d been in the deep freeze, but it looks like she was kept outside.’

I put down the photos. ‘I still don’t understand why you’re here.’

Goddard’s calm stare settled on my face. ‘We’d like you to interview Louis Kinsella.’

‘Why?’ The idea made my skin tingle with panic.

‘The killer’s carrying on from the exact point where Kinsella stopped. Kylie was taken from the same street, on the same date as his last victim, seventeen years ago. Kinsella killed nine girls before he was caught, so the numbers on the tags give us another link. And the press have already spotted the connection with Ella Williams. She’s a pupil at St Augustine’s School, where he was headmaster.’

I looked down at Sarah Robinson’s face and the pressure in my chest increased. It was impossible to guess how much the girl had suffered, or how many times she’d begged to be set free. If I refused to help, her image would tattoo itself on my conscience permanently.

‘Where was she found?’

‘On the steps of the Foundling Museum, around three this morning,’ Tania replied.

I’d walked past the building dozens of times on my way to King’s Cross, but never gone inside. It was right at the centre of Bloomsbury. The killer must either be crazy or completely fearless to carry a cardboard coffin through the heart of the city. I studied the girl’s face again; her pale blue scream was impossible to ignore. Tania’s strident voice interrupted my thoughts.