The Winter Foundlings (9 page)

A dull wave of nausea welled in my chest and when I closed the file, someone had appeared in the doorway. It was the IT guru, Chris Steadman. He still looked like he’d been burning the candle at both ends, shadows hollowing his cheeks. Even his peroxide hair was more unkempt than before, long strands flopping in his eyes.

‘Is your computer behaving itself?’

‘Pretty well thanks, Chris. Shouldn’t you be on holiday?’

‘No such luck. I work shifts, right through the year,’ he said, transferring his toolkit from one hand to the other. ‘I’m having a party on Boxing Day – you’d be welcome.’

‘I think I’ll be in London.’

‘That’s a pity.’ He pulled some Post-it notes from his pocket then leant over and stuck one on my desk. ‘Here’s my address, if you change your mind.’ He gave an awkward smile then slipped away.

I made myself reopen Kinsella’s file and study it for another hour. By mid-morning a headache was throbbing at the base of my skull. Either I was tired, or the horror of his crimes was taking its toll. I grabbed my coat and hurried back to reception. Burns’s text had promised a car at eleven o’clock to take me to see Kinsella’s ex-wife, but it didn’t arrive until quarter past. The driver was called Reg and he was close to retirement age. I got the sense he would have preferred to be at home, eating mince pies and knocking back sherry.

‘The roads are a nightmare,’ he grumbled.

‘How long will it take to get to Windsor?’

‘An hour, with luck.’

Reg didn’t bother to make conversation, which left me free to admire the view as we drove east. The fields were a clear, bluish white, almost matching the sky. Snow had converted the landscape into a blank canvas, with rows of stick-like trees marking boundaries between farms. I concentrated on the questions I needed to ask Lauren French, aware that the police’s focus had been on culpability and involvement when Kinsella was arrested. She was bound to clam up if I revisited old ground, but I needed to discover the location of his Achilles heel.

It struck me as odd that she’d moved from London to the same county as her ex-husband’s jail, even though she never visited him. In her shoes I’d have relocated to the Outer Hebrides. But Windsor seemed the ideal place to reinvent yourself. The whole town was ridiculously picturesque – full of cobbled walkways, and timber-clad medieval buildings. I caught a glimpse of the castle as we crossed the river. It looked like a fairy-tale illustration had been drawn on the sky, battlements outlined in the lightest graphite.

After a few minutes, Reg pulled up at the end of a street lined with small Georgian terraces. ‘You’d better walk from here,’ he said. ‘The boss says the lady doesn’t want police cars outside her house.’

I thanked him and set off in search of number twelve, already curious about the meeting. It would make me the envy of every tabloid journalist in the land. When Kinsella was charged, the papers had vied for an exclusive, trying to uncover whether she’d harboured any suspicions about her husband’s crimes, yet she’d always refused.

Lauren French’s front door was a vivid red, but her appearance was much less colourful, her outfit a tasteful blend of grey and black. She ushered me into her living room, which gave no indication that Christmas was only two days away. A large Chinese vase dominated the mantelpiece and a wooden crucifix hung above the bookcase. I gazed around while she was in the kitchen making coffee, but no family photos were on display.

When Lauren reappeared, I wondered whether she’d had plastic surgery. The mousy, thin-faced creature who’d cowered in front of the cameras seventeen years ago had been replaced by someone else. Her hair was two shades darker, and her face had filled out, her pallor masked by skilfully applied make-up. Only her expression had remained the same. It was so tense that she seemed to be preparing herself for the next attack.

‘Did DCI Burns explain the reason for my visit?’ I asked.

‘To talk about Louis, of course. I refuse, normally. The press hounding me is the reason I left London.’

‘But he told you what’s happened?’

A flare of anger lit her face. ‘The police only contact me when they want help. They didn’t care when someone punched me outside the courtroom. Why on earth would I know about the missing girls? I haven’t seen Louis since he was sentenced.’ Her hands clutched together, trembling in her lap.

‘I’m sorry, I know how difficult this must be for you, but the killer seems to be an expert on Louis’s crimes. Anything you can remember will help us.’ My apology cooled the temperature of our conversation slightly, some of the tension easing from Lauren’s face. ‘Do you mind me asking you how old you were when you met Louis?’

‘Sixteen. He was almost twice my age.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘At church, believe it or not.’

I smiled at her. ‘Of course I believe it. Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Everyone called me a liar after the trial, but I told the truth. There were no signs. He was romantic, idealistic even, right till the end. He never forgot our anniversary. When we met, Louis wanted to do something good in his career, make his mark on the world. That’s why I fell for him.’ Lauren’s expression was fervent, as though she was intent on changing my point of view.

‘Can you tell me anything about the people Louis socialised with, before his arrest?’

Her lips formed a grim smile. ‘He didn’t have time for a social life. He ran the church choir, fundraised for a local charity, and helped the Foundling Museum.’

‘Do you know why he volunteered at the museum?’

‘I remember him saying that the place was special because it saved so many children’s lives. People don’t understand how caring he was, before the illness took hold.’ Her voice tailed away. The irony of Kinsella’s admiration for an organisation that cared for vulnerable children seemed to hit her with full force.

‘Was he close to many colleagues at school?’

‘Not really. His staff admired him, but he didn’t have favourites.’ She frowned in concentration. ‘The caretaker Roy Layton put him on a pedestal. Louis said he felt sorry for him, he was such a loner. He came to the house almost every week, and they’d sit in his study, talking for hours. Louis told me he was persuading him to go to college. He said Roy was wasted in his job.’

‘How long did Layton’s visits go on?’

‘It’s hard to remember. About a year, I think. He’d come for dinner and stay all evening.’

‘And there was no one else?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Do you mind me asking whether your marriage was happy, before Louis’s arrest?’

‘Very happy. No one was more shocked than me.’ Lauren’s mouth trembled. ‘Louis is the best communicator I’ve ever met. He could persuade anyone to do anything. I didn’t have a clue about life until I met him.’

‘I’m sure you had your own views, even at sixteen.’

She shook her head firmly. ‘I came from a big family, and my parents were strict. We couldn’t speak out of turn. I had to do as I was told.’

An elderly black and white cat appeared and settled at her feet, and I wondered how much comfort her new life contained. Meeting people would be a constant risk. Her fake identity couldn’t shield her forever, and exposure would be dangerous. Some of the victims’ families believed that she knew about her husband’s attacks and should have been thrown in jail too. I swallowed a deep breath. The house seemed to lack oxygen; it was like a cocoon, vacuum-sealed to keep intrusion at bay.

‘How long ago did you and Louis separate, Mrs French?’

Her face tensed. ‘We’re not divorced, I just changed my name after the trial. I’m Catholic, you see. It would be wrong to get an annulment without telling him face to face.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘It’s partly my fault he lost his way, because our plans didn’t work out.’

‘What plans were those?’

Her eyes glistened. ‘We kept trying IVF in the early days, but it came to nothing.’

‘Surely you don’t blame yourself?’ I tried to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

For a moment she was too distressed to reply. ‘There must have been a trigger for what he did. He was in pieces when they told us it wouldn’t work. There’s always a cause, isn’t there?’

‘Not with this kind of illness. Psychosis can make people commit terrible crimes without any reason at all.’ Lauren stared at me, glassy-eyed, as if she was having trouble focusing. ‘Would you be prepared to visit Louis to help the investigation?’

A spasm of anxiety crossed her face. ‘I’ve driven past Northwood hundreds of times, but I can’t make myself go in.’

‘I can understand that. Thanks for your help today.’ I nodded and rose to my feet, but her eyes searched my face anxiously.

‘Would it help the missing girl if I saw him?’

‘I can’t be certain, but it might do.’

Her gaze dropped to the floor. ‘I’d have to think about it.’

My thoughts spun when she closed the door. Lauren still seemed gripped by regret, even though she’d done the world a favour by failing to bear Kinsella’s children. Her statements explained why she’d chosen to live so close to Northwood. On some level she still saw herself as his wife, and the reason why Kinsella had chosen a juvenile bride was obvious. At sixteen she would have been easy to control, conditioned to obey her parents’ commands without question. She still seemed to be in his grip. All the different terms for brainwashing slipped through my head: thought change; mind control; coercive persuasion.

*   *   *

I called Burns as soon as I got back to the police van. In the background I could make out the hum of the incident room – raised voices and a cacophony of phones.

‘It’s like it happened yesterday. She hasn’t seen him in seventeen years, but she’s still scared to criticise him.’

‘Did she talk about people he knew?’ Burns asked.

‘She struggled with names, but she said he ran the local choir, and volunteered at the Foundling Museum most Saturdays – some evenings, too. The school caretaker was one of his closest contacts.’

‘You sound distracted, Alice. Are you okay?’

‘There’s something odd about her. People don’t often feel that depth of connection after so long apart. He must have controlled her completely.’

‘Maybe she’s just lonely.’

‘It’s more than that. It’s like she wants to appease him, even now.’ I stared out of the window as a scattering of snow drifted past. ‘I should come with you tomorrow to see the caretaker.’

Burns sounded relieved as he said goodbye. Maybe no one else was crazy enough to volunteer to work on Christmas Eve. I watched the outline of Windsor Castle grow smaller through the rear window, and thought about Lauren French, still defending her husband’s reputation. Her mindset fascinated me. If my husband turned out to be a murderous paedophile, I’d have invested in some intensive psychotherapy, then ditched my religious principles and filed for a speedy divorce.

13

I had to race through Covent Garden on Christmas Eve, because lateness would have resulted in an all-out war. The pavements were clogged with tourists queuing for lunch, weighed down by shopping bags, so I trotted along the road instead. My mother had booked a table at an eye-wateringly expensive French restaurant on Garrick Street, and the maître d’ led me through the packed dining hall. She was alone at a table by the window. Even from behind, she was instantly recognisable – grey hair drawn into a chignon above the straight vertical line of her back. It was impossible to imagine her permitting herself to slouch.

‘You’re awfully flushed, darling. Is something wrong?’ She kissed the air above my cheek, making me wish I’d stopped to fix my make-up.

‘The train was late, I had to run.’

My mother has always believed in keeping up appearances; neatly combed hair and fresh lipstick are the sticking plasters that prevent the world from falling apart.

I studied the menu and saw that it was identical to the previous year. We’d been following the same ritual for so many Christmases, I could have placed my order blindfolded. Two Martini cocktails arrived at the table as soon as I sat down.

‘How’s the new job?’ she asked.

‘Interesting. But it’s a steep learning curve.’

My mother’s grey eyes assessed me coolly. ‘I can’t imagine what possessed you, Alice. Those men are monsters.’

‘It’s only for six months, Mum. Guy’s was getting too comfortable.’

‘What’s wrong with comfort, for goodness’ sake?’

Fortunately the waiter arrived before a row could get underway. She ordered her favourite meal: lobster bisque followed by Dover sole, while I chose the full Christmas blow-out.

‘How’s your brother these days?’ She took a minute sip from her Martini.

‘Okay, I think. Still in Brighton, as far as I know.’

My mother pursed her lips silently. She had decided years ago that Will was my responsibility, blaming me for all his mishaps. ‘And what about Lola?’

‘She’s on cloud nine. Her and Neal have found a flat in Borough.’

‘They’ve bought somewhere?’

‘You’re joking. Banks don’t give mortgages to actors.’

She gave me a meaningful look. ‘At least she’s found someone.’

I decided to ignore every brickbat. By now I should have been immune: she always found something to criticise, from my haircut and clothes to my work ethic and lifestyle. On a rational level I knew that she was hypercritical because her own mother had been exactly the same, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. She explained what she’d been up to while we ate our starters. Her schedule hadn’t changed since she retired: flower arranging at church, visits to galleries and lectures, and one day a week volunteering for Help the Homeless. I watched her as she spoke. Her appearance was a triumph of skilful make-up and expensive clothes. She still wore her wedding ring, even though my father died years ago. But when I looked at her hands more closely, I noticed something unexpected. They were trembling so hard that drops of orange liquid splashed back into the bowl when she lifted her soup spoon.

‘Are you okay, Mum? Your hands are shaking.’

‘It’s nothing. Tiredness, probably.’

‘But you’re getting it checked out?’