The Winter Foundlings Read Online Free Page A

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