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Authors: Kate Rhodes
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‘It helps me to be there, Don. You know that.’ I smiled at him. ‘I’d like to see someone who can give me some background on the cards he’s leaving.’
‘An expert on angels? There can’t be many of those around.’
I pulled a folder out of my bag. ‘I’ve updated my report for you.’
‘I’ll get Steve. You can give us the headlines.’
I rolled my eyes at him. ‘If you must.’
Burns suppressed a smile then disappeared. When Taylor arrived he looked sulky, like a child disappointed by his birthday presents. Maybe it rankled that his new boss had been right about Gresham’s death being the first in a series, or he was still smarting from my rejection. He checked his watch pointedly as I listed the points in my report.
‘The MO hasn’t changed. He’s still killing men, and leaving the same signature, but this time there was no spontaneity. Everything was stage-managed, with meticulous detail. Even the name of the street reinforces the message: Gutter Lane. An angel couldn’t fall any lower. If a killer mutilates his victim’s face that violently, it normally means he knows them. And he covered the wounds afterwards with the plastic hood. Maybe that’s because he’s ashamed, he couldn’t bear to look at what he’d done. I think it’s someone who’s linked closely to the Angel Bank, or still has a job there. He’s obsessed by the moral status of the place.’
‘He could have good reason.’ Burns peered at me over the top of his glasses. ‘Their lawyers are stonewalling − we can’t get access to their records. Who knows what kind of deals they’re doing?’
My gaze drifted to the window as I tried to concentrate. ‘He’s got to be a Type A psychopath, super-bright, and comfortable wandering round the National Gallery, or reading his Bible stories. The images he leaves are some of the highest examples of Western art. He wants us to know how cultured he is. And he charmed his victim into following him down a dark alley in the middle of the night, which makes me even more sure that Wilcox knew him.’
Taylor gave an exaggerated yawn, as if my theories were a lullaby. I handed him a copy of my report and he marched out without saying goodbye.
Burns looked apologetic. ‘Sorry about that. He’s short on sleep.’
‘And manners.’
I wondered how Taylor’s girlfriend coped with his ego problem, while Burns got ready to leave. He stood by his desk patting the pockets of his jacket.
‘What have I done with my phone?’ he muttered.
I spotted it under a pile of forms and handed it to him. ‘You’ve been losing plenty of stuff lately, haven’t you?’
‘More than I can afford.’
My comment was intended as a joke about his weight loss, but it seemed to hit a raw nerve. Burns crashed back into his chair, and when he started to talk again, his voice sounded like air gushing from a puncture.
‘I’ve been losing things for years. The cardiologist said “drop the weight and quit the fags or you’ll be dead at fifty”, and now it feels like I’m running round in someone else’s body. Then all the crap kicked in at work, and Julie left straight after. She couldn’t handle it.’ He gulped down a huge breath. ‘She got the house, and the kids stay twice a week, if I’m lucky. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.’
I was too shocked to reply. It was the first time I’d heard Burns speak about himself. His head was bowed, and he seemed to be struggling to keep it together. No wonder he was determined to hang onto his job. It must feel like the one thing he had left to lose. Only his machismo made him straighten back up. He polished his glasses frantically, before putting them on again.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Boys are told not to bleat about feelings where I come from.’ He shuffled some papers into a folder, taking care to avoid eye contact.
‘It’s better out than in, Don.’
‘Rubbish.’ He gave a narrow smile. ‘It’s best kept under lock and
‘It helps me to be there, Don. You know that.’ I smiled at him. ‘I’d like to see someone who can give me some background on the cards he’s leaving.’
‘An expert on angels? There can’t be many of those around.’
I pulled a folder out of my bag. ‘I’ve updated my report for you.’
‘I’ll get Steve. You can give us the headlines.’
I rolled my eyes at him. ‘If you must.’
Burns suppressed a smile then disappeared. When Taylor arrived he looked sulky, like a child disappointed by his birthday presents. Maybe it rankled that his new boss had been right about Gresham’s death being the first in a series, or he was still smarting from my rejection. He checked his watch pointedly as I listed the points in my report.
‘The MO hasn’t changed. He’s still killing men, and leaving the same signature, but this time there was no spontaneity. Everything was stage-managed, with meticulous detail. Even the name of the street reinforces the message: Gutter Lane. An angel couldn’t fall any lower. If a killer mutilates his victim’s face that violently, it normally means he knows them. And he covered the wounds afterwards with the plastic hood. Maybe that’s because he’s ashamed, he couldn’t bear to look at what he’d done. I think it’s someone who’s linked closely to the Angel Bank, or still has a job there. He’s obsessed by the moral status of the place.’
‘He could have good reason.’ Burns peered at me over the top of his glasses. ‘Their lawyers are stonewalling − we can’t get access to their records. Who knows what kind of deals they’re doing?’
My gaze drifted to the window as I tried to concentrate. ‘He’s got to be a Type A psychopath, super-bright, and comfortable wandering round the National Gallery, or reading his Bible stories. The images he leaves are some of the highest examples of Western art. He wants us to know how cultured he is. And he charmed his victim into following him down a dark alley in the middle of the night, which makes me even more sure that Wilcox knew him.’
Taylor gave an exaggerated yawn, as if my theories were a lullaby. I handed him a copy of my report and he marched out without saying goodbye.
Burns looked apologetic. ‘Sorry about that. He’s short on sleep.’
‘And manners.’
I wondered how Taylor’s girlfriend coped with his ego problem, while Burns got ready to leave. He stood by his desk patting the pockets of his jacket.
‘What have I done with my phone?’ he muttered.
I spotted it under a pile of forms and handed it to him. ‘You’ve been losing plenty of stuff lately, haven’t you?’
‘More than I can afford.’
My comment was intended as a joke about his weight loss, but it seemed to hit a raw nerve. Burns crashed back into his chair, and when he started to talk again, his voice sounded like air gushing from a puncture.
‘I’ve been losing things for years. The cardiologist said “drop the weight and quit the fags or you’ll be dead at fifty”, and now it feels like I’m running round in someone else’s body. Then all the crap kicked in at work, and Julie left straight after. She couldn’t handle it.’ He gulped down a huge breath. ‘She got the house, and the kids stay twice a week, if I’m lucky. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.’
I was too shocked to reply. It was the first time I’d heard Burns speak about himself. His head was bowed, and he seemed to be struggling to keep it together. No wonder he was determined to hang onto his job. It must feel like the one thing he had left to lose. Only his machismo made him straighten back up. He polished his glasses frantically, before putting them on again.
‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Boys are told not to bleat about feelings where I come from.’ He shuffled some papers into a folder, taking care to avoid eye contact.
‘It’s better out than in, Don.’
‘Rubbish.’ He gave a narrow smile. ‘It’s best kept under lock and
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