The Winter Foundlings (32 page)

‘No, why?’

‘What car do you drive?’

‘I haven’t got one. I get the bus.’

‘But you used to drive a van to work.’

‘It cost too much to run. I sold it last year.’

‘You’ve got proof, have you?’

‘The papers are somewhere at home.’ His gaze trailed towards the window again.

‘Listen, Steve, I’d like to do something called a warrantless search on your flat. Would you agree to that?’

‘You want to go through my things?’ His eyes widened in outrage.

‘If you agree, you can sign a consent form for me now.’

‘What’s the alternative?’

‘You wait here until I get a warrant, then I go ahead and do it anyway.’

A single expletive escaped from Higham’s lips. ‘And if I sign, I can go back to work?’

‘Straight away, if you like.’

Higham fished in his pocket then dropped his keys on the table with a sullen frown. Burns gave a low whistle when the door shut behind him.

‘Some people would describe that as coercion,’ I said. But he was already striding away to sort out the search, leaving me to scan my assessment form. Higham had manifested acute anxiety right from the start, his body language changing from open to defensive as soon as Kinsella’s name was mentioned. Burns had good reason to be concerned.

‘Are you coming with us?’ Burns had reappeared with the senior SOCO in tow.

The drive to Steve Higham’s address took twenty minutes. Pete Hancock sat in the passenger seat while Burns drove, leaving me free to watch the snowy fields slip by. Higham lived beside the main road to Reading. From a distance the tower blocks were no better than the grim municipal estates that had sprung up everywhere in the Sixties, but at least the planners had shown a touch of irony; the hulking blocks were named after spring flowers. Higham’s rented apartment was on the eighth floor of Primrose House. The balconies that hung from the concrete monolith looked purely decorative, too frail to sustain more than a pot of geraniums.

The flat was unusually tidy for a bachelor pad. Every wall was drenched in magnolia paint, as though the landlord had seen too many episodes of
House Doctor
and opted for complete neutrality. From the bedroom doorway I noticed that Higham had even found time to make his bed that morning. Pete was sorting through his cabinets, drawer by drawer; when I tried to cross the threshold, he growled so loudly that I backed away.

The kitchen looked blameless too, washing up lying on the drainer, surfaces clean enough to shine. I found Burns in the living room, scanning Higham’s DVD collection.

‘There’s enough porn here to keep him happy for months.’ He brandished one of the cases at me. A model in a schoolgirl’s outfit was straddling a chair, her pigtails tied with scarlet ribbons.

‘She can’t be sixteen.’

‘This one’s geriatric compared to the rest.’ He carried on inspecting the shelves.

Higham’s books revealed a different range of interests: Formula One, extreme sports and true crime. Books about the exploits of Doctor Crippen and Harold Shipman were sandwiched between
Surf Hawaii
and
Learning to Hang-glide.
When I reached the last shelf I spotted Alan Nash’s book on Kinsella,
The Kill Principle.
When I handed it to Burns, his eyes glittered with relief.

‘Unbelievable,’ he murmured.

‘But it’s not evidence, is it? It’s too good to be true: an isolated young man with poor social skills, obsessed by sex and violence. It’s like he’s staged it, to make himself seem like the perfect serial killer.’

Hancock appeared before he could reply, with a set of keys dangling from his hand. His black monobrow hovered half an inch above his eyes, making him look sterner than ever. ‘These were in his cupboard, with an MOT certificate for a white Luton van. There’s no evidence it’s been sold.’

‘That’s good enough for me.’ Burns shoved the book back onto the shelf.

‘Do you want me to set up a cordon?’ Hancock asked.

Burns’s eyes were strained a little too wide. ‘Leave everything be. He’s coming back tonight, so we can keep watch. If it’s him, he’s only got till midnight to take the next girl.’

54

The man’s left her upstairs with a list of things to do: wash the dishes, scrub the kitchen floor, clean the sink. But now the tasks are done, it’s hard to settle, and he’s hidden the remote control. Eventually she finds it in the kitchen, concealed behind a stack of bowls.

Ella keeps the volume low, knowing he’ll be back any minute. She flicks past game shows and soap operas until the news channel appears. A dark-haired woman is wearing a serious expression. She explains that an oil spill in the North Sea is causing damage. Pictures of seagulls appear on the screen, feathers rigid with black glue. Tears cloud Ella’s vision. She blinks hard to clear them, and when her eyes open again, her own face has filled the screen.

‘The Metropolitan Police have issued another warning. Families across the UK are advised to take every precaution to keep children safe for the next twenty-four hours. Ella Williams is still missing, and her family has made another appeal.’

Her grandfather peers out from the screen. He’s wearing his one smart jacket, hands shaking as he reads from a sheet of paper. There’s a pleading sound in his voice, and she reaches out to touch him, but her fingers bounce from the cold glass, and her tears drip onto the white cotton of her dress. For once she doesn’t care if the man finds her crying. She wishes she could kick through the brick wall, then run down the street, yelling for help.

A new sound starts in the distance. The woman is singing again, the tune bright and happy, like she’s had a good day. Ella wipes her eyes then rushes to the window. She hammers her fists against the glass, until her wrists begin to bruise
.

55

Information buzzed from the radio when we got back to the car.

‘Tania says Pru Fielding’s back at her house. We can go over there now.’

Burns’s tone suggested that he would prefer to hunt for evidence that might hang Steve Higham out to dry. I’d seen that fervent look on his face before – he was convinced that he’d got his man.

‘She’s worth a visit, Don. Pru comes over as a troubled soul.’

He still looked unenthusiastic as we set off, but Hancock was oblivious, hunched over his folder, filling out a crime-scene report. My mind flitted across everything I’d seen. It was possible that Steve Higham was Kinsella’s disciple, but his flat seemed too sanitised for a killer’s lair. There was no evidence of a disordered mind, only of a lonely man’s unfulfilled desires. When the SOCOs carried out a fingertip search they might find a trace of proof, or a memento from one of the killings, but so far there was no certainty that he was the killer. He seemed to live through vicarious thrills – reading about villains and dangerous sports, but too fearful to put himself in danger. If Kinsella had selected him from the ranks of nine-year-old schoolboys, it would have been because he was unimaginative and eager to please. It would take hours of careful interviewing to discover whether Higham had been groomed. I closed my eyes and pictured Kinsella sitting by a computer with a small boy. The child’s tolerance for violence would have grown day by day, as he was exposed to images that grew steadily more horrifying.

By now we were pulling up outside Pru Fielding’s house. It was in the village next to Charndale, an old-fashioned bungalow, hidden behind a Leylandii hedge. Hancock stayed in the car while Burns and I walked towards the property. The garage doors were in need of paint, window-frames beginning to splinter.

I did a double take when the front door swung open. For a split second I thought that Pru’s birthmark had vanished. Her blonde curls were swept into a ponytail and there was no sign of a blemish on her face, but when I looked again I realised that I was mistaken. This woman’s eyes were a different shade of blue. She must have seen my confusion, because she gave a short laugh.

‘You thought I was Pru, didn’t you? I’m her sister, Denise. Come in, she’s in her studio.’

I smiled in reply, but couldn’t help wondering how Pru felt about her sister’s attractiveness. She must have spent years resenting it. Burns followed me along the corridor, studying the oil paintings that lined the hall. I had no idea whether they showed any talent, but he lingered in front of each one, and I remembered his art school background before he joined the Met. The landscapes were depicted in muted browns and greys, hardly any sunlight filtering through the clouds.

‘Beautiful,’ Burns murmured. ‘They’re so atmospheric.’

Denise turned to him, smiling. ‘Pru won prizes at art school, but she never exhibits. Her work’s changed since she did these. You’ll see for yourself.’

Pru’s studio was in a large outbuilding in the back garden. When Denise opened the door she swung round to face us, and I tried not to stare at the paintings that hung from the walls. Dozens of children stared out from each canvas, so real that you could see their freckles and gaps between their teeth. They frowned down at us, and some of their faces were daubed with scarlet paint, as though they were spattered with blood. It felt like we were surrounded by child warriors, each one primed to attack. I heard Burns swear under his breath.

Pru was wearing an apron to protect her clothes, blotches of colour spattered across her boots. Her curtain of hair almost concealed the dark stain that bisected her face.

‘I’m sorry to disturb your work, Pru,’ I said. ‘We’d like to ask you some questions about Orchard House.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Why? The place closed down years ago.’

‘I know. But we need to find out if Louis Kinsella had contact with any of the children there.’

She dropped eye contact, her arms folded tightly across her chest, as if her whole body was in lockdown.

‘If she won’t tell you, I will.’ Denise was still standing in the doorway.

She led us back into the house, and we sat around the kitchen table. Pru was still refusing to look up, but Denise seemed determined to set the record straight. ‘Pru was twelve and I was thirteen when Mum had her breakdown. Kinsella had gone by the time we arrived at Orchard House, but we heard about him. The older kids were still in shock. He used to take them on outings; most of them couldn’t believe what he’d done.’

‘So you never met Kinsella when you lived there?’ Burns asked.

Denise shook here head. ‘We had other things to worry about. Do you know why the place closed down?’

‘There was an abuse scandal, wasn’t there?’

‘It went on for years. Even senior staff were in on it: there was violence, bullying, sex. Me and Pru got off lightly, because we had each other, but we saw everything. The other kids had no one to protect them.’

Pru’s silence continued. She was studying the splashes of paint on the backs of her hands.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said quietly.

Denise gave a brief smile. ‘There were plenty of apologies, when the story came out. They gave us twenty grand in compensation. That’s how we raised our deposit for this place.’

‘It’s a joke,’ Pru said bitterly. ‘Money doesn’t fix anything.’

I didn’t reply. It’s tempting to console the survivors of abuse, but it never works. The best thing you can do is help them learn how to console themselves.

‘Why did you apply to work at the Laurels, Pru?’ I asked.

Her voice faltered. ‘I thought facing men like that would make me feel more confident.’

‘I have to ask you this. Is anyone else from Orchard House working at the Laurels?’

Finally she looked up, eyes glazed. ‘No one I recognise.’

Burns checked the sisters’ alibis, then thanked them quietly and rose to his feet. He said very little as we walked away, but his expression was sombre. I’m not sure whether he was contemplating the years of abuse the two women had suffered, or how to nail Steve Higham.

‘They arrived the year after Kinsella left Orchard House. There’s nothing to link Pru to the girls’ deaths.’

I thought about the warrior children in Pru’s studio, prepared to fight anyone who came near. ‘I think you’re right, but I’ll have to recommend she goes on sick leave until she’s had a psychiatric assessment. Right now she’s too vulnerable to work at the Laurels.’

Burns’s eyes widened as he turned to me. ‘It’s hardly surprising. I wouldn’t fancy those girls’ nightmares, would you?’

56

It was five by the time I got back to the broom cupboard. I considered phoning Reg for a lift to the hotel, but decided to call at Judith’s consulting room first. Her face lit up when she opened the door. She grabbed my wrist as though she had no intention of letting me go.

‘You’re in luck. I finally got my percolator fixed.’ Her office still felt like an oasis. Even her plants were flourishing, a cheese plant’s leaves brushing the ceiling.

‘Did you hear about Alan Nash?’ I asked.

‘It shows you can’t take chances, doesn’t it? There are dozens of attacks here every year.’ Her tone was matter of fact, as though vicious assaults were to be expected. ‘How are you getting to mine tonight?’

I’d forgotten all about Tom’s birthday party. After our row in the pub I was probably the last person he’d want to see.

‘I’ll have to cry off. Getting a lift back would be tricky.’

‘Stay over. I’ve got plenty of room.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course, you can help me get things ready.’

It was clear she wouldn’t let me off the hook. When she described the catering arrangements, it sounded like she’d plundered Sainsbury’s for their entire stock of party snacks.

‘I’ll need to call at the cottage for something to wear.’

She sprang to her feet immediately. ‘Come on then, we’d better get moving.’

Judith’s car turned out to be a substantial black Volvo, with a collection of bohemian scarves tangled on the back seat. I sent Reg a hurried text as she started the engine and got a terse reply, asking for Judith’s address and phone number. I fired off another message then dropped the phone into my bag.

‘How long do you have to stay at the hotel?’ Judith asked.

‘Until the investigation’s over.’