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Authors: Kate Rhodes
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key.’
‘And that attitude is why Scottish men die young.’
Burns had promised to take me to meet some of Gresham’s business contacts. The Angel Bank was being tight-lipped, so I was keen to meet anyone who was prepared to talk. So far Burns had been as good as his word, granting all my requests. I got the sense that he appreciated the company, because his colleagues had left him isolated. For the time being he was treating me like an honorary cop. The arrangement suited me, partly because I needed to know more about the world the victims inhabited, but also because I was worried about him. I watched him square his shoulders as we crossed the car park. His voice sounded calmer once he started driving.
‘I saw the lad’s widow, from Gutter Lane. She’s in bits. Wilcox had only been at the Angel Bank a few months. Now she’s stuck in a high rise on Commercial Road with a one-year-old kid, twenty grand’s worth of debt, and a view of the railway.’
‘Do you know what Wilcox was doing on Friday night?’
Burns’s obsessive frown was back in place. ‘He went to the Counting House after work, but the place was so rammed, the bar staff didn’t see who was with him. The pathologist says there’s no sign he tried to fight his attacker, but we’ll have to wait for the PM.’
‘Is there any news on Gresham?’
‘The results came back from the UV test on his jacket. There was a trace of saliva on the back, but there’s no DNA match on the database.’
I glanced across at him. ‘Last time I saw Taylor, he had a bee in his bonnet about Gresham’s deputy.’
‘Stephen Rayner? Forget about it. Taylor’s like a dog with a bone when he thinks he’s onto something. We’ve got no evidence he’s involved.’
‘Does he have an alibi?’
Burns shook his head. ‘He says he was at home on his own, both nights. Okay, he’s a loner, but he’s clean as a whistle. He got cautioned for punching someone in a pub fight when he was a youngster, but since then he’s done an MA in Finance and worked his way up the ladder. He’s not serial killer material, is he?’
I wanted to argue, but Burns was too morose for conversation as the car headed west. In less than twenty minutes we were passing through neighbourhoods with solid gold postcodes.
‘Do all bankers live in Mayfair?’ I asked.
‘Looks like it, the lucky buggers. Nicole Morgan’s place is out of this world. She does PR for the Angel Bank.’
The name rang a bell for some reason. Whoever Morgan was, she couldn’t be short of a penny. Her home was a minute’s walk from the designer shops on Bond Street, protected by a line of fir trees. A flash of turquoise glittered as we drove through the security gates. It was still so airless, I was fantasising about stripping off and diving into her pool. The house was an estate agent’s dream, with rows of gleaming sash windows and a fuchsia-pink front door.
When Nicole Morgan appeared I did a double-take. I recognised her from breakfast TV. She had a regular slot, advising women how to run their lives. According to her it was possible to make cupcakes, have a great career and still find time to get your nails done. Her hair fell across her shoulders in immaculate dark brown waves, and she was wearing a Fifties-style summer dress, perfect for her hourglass figure. She treated Burns to a lingering smile, but her gaze was laser-sharp. I didn’t even appear on her radar − clearly she had no time for other people’s minions.
‘Come through.’
She sashayed along the hallway to a conservatory lined with olive trees in granite pots. Her garden was so vast that no boundaries were visible. Two small boys were playing on the lawn with their nanny, and I wondered how frequently they got to see their mother. Morgan pressed a buzzer then turned to us.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got long. A film crew’s coming in half an hour.’
A man in black trousers and a crisp white shirt arrived with a jug of coffee. He
‘And that attitude is why Scottish men die young.’
Burns had promised to take me to meet some of Gresham’s business contacts. The Angel Bank was being tight-lipped, so I was keen to meet anyone who was prepared to talk. So far Burns had been as good as his word, granting all my requests. I got the sense that he appreciated the company, because his colleagues had left him isolated. For the time being he was treating me like an honorary cop. The arrangement suited me, partly because I needed to know more about the world the victims inhabited, but also because I was worried about him. I watched him square his shoulders as we crossed the car park. His voice sounded calmer once he started driving.
‘I saw the lad’s widow, from Gutter Lane. She’s in bits. Wilcox had only been at the Angel Bank a few months. Now she’s stuck in a high rise on Commercial Road with a one-year-old kid, twenty grand’s worth of debt, and a view of the railway.’
‘Do you know what Wilcox was doing on Friday night?’
Burns’s obsessive frown was back in place. ‘He went to the Counting House after work, but the place was so rammed, the bar staff didn’t see who was with him. The pathologist says there’s no sign he tried to fight his attacker, but we’ll have to wait for the PM.’
‘Is there any news on Gresham?’
‘The results came back from the UV test on his jacket. There was a trace of saliva on the back, but there’s no DNA match on the database.’
I glanced across at him. ‘Last time I saw Taylor, he had a bee in his bonnet about Gresham’s deputy.’
‘Stephen Rayner? Forget about it. Taylor’s like a dog with a bone when he thinks he’s onto something. We’ve got no evidence he’s involved.’
‘Does he have an alibi?’
Burns shook his head. ‘He says he was at home on his own, both nights. Okay, he’s a loner, but he’s clean as a whistle. He got cautioned for punching someone in a pub fight when he was a youngster, but since then he’s done an MA in Finance and worked his way up the ladder. He’s not serial killer material, is he?’
I wanted to argue, but Burns was too morose for conversation as the car headed west. In less than twenty minutes we were passing through neighbourhoods with solid gold postcodes.
‘Do all bankers live in Mayfair?’ I asked.
‘Looks like it, the lucky buggers. Nicole Morgan’s place is out of this world. She does PR for the Angel Bank.’
The name rang a bell for some reason. Whoever Morgan was, she couldn’t be short of a penny. Her home was a minute’s walk from the designer shops on Bond Street, protected by a line of fir trees. A flash of turquoise glittered as we drove through the security gates. It was still so airless, I was fantasising about stripping off and diving into her pool. The house was an estate agent’s dream, with rows of gleaming sash windows and a fuchsia-pink front door.
When Nicole Morgan appeared I did a double-take. I recognised her from breakfast TV. She had a regular slot, advising women how to run their lives. According to her it was possible to make cupcakes, have a great career and still find time to get your nails done. Her hair fell across her shoulders in immaculate dark brown waves, and she was wearing a Fifties-style summer dress, perfect for her hourglass figure. She treated Burns to a lingering smile, but her gaze was laser-sharp. I didn’t even appear on her radar − clearly she had no time for other people’s minions.
‘Come through.’
She sashayed along the hallway to a conservatory lined with olive trees in granite pots. Her garden was so vast that no boundaries were visible. Two small boys were playing on the lawn with their nanny, and I wondered how frequently they got to see their mother. Morgan pressed a buzzer then turned to us.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got long. A film crew’s coming in half an hour.’
A man in black trousers and a crisp white shirt arrived with a jug of coffee. He
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