Blood Symmetry (14 page)

I opened my laptop and searched for the organisation Fenton had mentioned. Pure was such a common brand name that I had to trawl through listings for soap and baby milk before finding the group's website. When I finally opened the
page, their logo made my jaw drop. It was the sign that had been left at each crime scene: a black droplet beside a white one. Now that I saw the two thin teardrops in context, the message was easy to read: one blood supply was dirty, the other clean. My eyes scanned the site rapidly, hunting for more facts about the organisation. They described the tainted blood scandal as an act of state-sponsored mass murder; Pure's main aim was to win fair compensation for the surviving patients and improve their quality of life. There was a chat room where sufferers could share their thoughts. Some of the messages were poignant: one woman had shared pictures from her husband's memorial service; another described the horrible side effects of anti-viral drugs. The fact that the logo had been left at each crime scene meant that I would have to disregard Roger Fenton's warning and meet Ian Passmore. I checked the organisation's contact details again before scribbling them in my notebook. I tried to call Burns to pass on the news, but had no luck. From past experience I knew he often worked around the clock while a case was at its height, but tonight I couldn't follow suit. After another hour my back was aching and I was desperate for a break.

I wandered round his chaotic flat to stretch my legs, my gaze landing on his bookshelf: a thick volume on
Flemish Art of the Seventeenth Century
sat beside a biography of Leonard Cohen and the latest John Grisham. His CDs were just as eclectic. Stravinsky concertos, hard-core American rock, and the Proclaimers' album he played to annoy me. I came to a halt in front of a framed photo of Burns with his two sons. It had been taken that summer on their camping trip to Somerset. The three of them stood in front of a tent, big-boned and dark-haired, grinning for the camera. The picture made me feel uneasy. With Mikey I knew where I stood: a temporary replacement for his mother; his conduit to the outside world. These kids looked
strong enough to fend for themselves. Meeting me might throw the whole picture off balance.

Burns's landline rang while I was still studying the photo. I hesitated before answering, then reminded myself I was entitled to be there. The female caller issued an order before I could speak.

‘Liam's got flu. Get round here, can you?' She had a broad Scottish accent, her tone cold with anger.

‘Don's not here, I'm afraid. Is that Julie?'

The woman's voice chilled by another degree. ‘You must be the famous Alice.'

‘I'm sorry to hear your son's ill.'

‘Are the pair of you living together now?' She spat out the words.

‘I'm just visiting.'

‘Send him over. His son needs him.'

The call ended with an abrupt click. Burns and his wife had gone through a trial separation, then he'd returned for his kids' sake, only for it to break down again months later. Judging by her angry tone, Julie held me responsible, even though I'd refused to get involved until they'd separated. The raw pain in her voice made me wonder if the whole thing had been a colossal mistake. I let my thoughts settle before calling Burns again, surprised that he finally answered after two rings, voices buzzing in the background.

‘Where are you?' I asked.

‘Where do you think? Still at the chalk face.'

‘I've found their signature. Look up Pure, it's a medical campaign group.'

‘For what?'

‘Patients who caught blood viruses from NHS treatments during the tainted blood scandal.'

He let out a gush of breath. ‘You're a wonder, Alice. I'll get someone on it now. Are you coming in?'

‘I'm at yours, with a ton of Vietnamese food.'

‘Stay there, I'll be ten minutes.'

‘Your son's got flu. You need to go and see him first.'

‘Julie spoke to you?'

‘It wasn't exactly a conversation.'

He choked out a laugh. ‘I can imagine.'

‘You didn't tell me she was Scottish.'

‘That's the least of her worries. Look, I'll see him, then come straight back.'

‘No rush. I'm going back to mine soon.'

His voice cooled. ‘We're never under the same roof.'

‘I miss you too, for what it's worth.'

‘Tomorrow we'll have lunch. I'll arrange a meeting with Pure too. Do you want to meet the head honcho?'

‘Definitely, his name's Passmore. He could unlock the case for us.'

‘It's time we had some luck.' There was silence before he spoke again. ‘You're in my head, Alice. I can't change it.'

‘You too.'

‘I'll pick you up tomorrow, sweetheart.'

I felt uncomfortable after we said goodbye. Endearments had been in short supply when I was a child, but that was no excuse; sooner or later I would have to voice my feelings. It seemed ridiculous that I'd reached my thirties without even making an attempt. I bundled my things back into my bag with a sense of frustration. The walk home through Borough took me along quiet, floodlit streets, but the cool air did me good. One of the things I loved about London was the way it kept one eye open at night, its history of apocalyptic floods, plagues and fires keeping it alert. I thought about Mikey Riordan as I reached Providence Square. With luck his night would be peaceful, with no bad dreams to spoil his sleep.

I
an Passmore's profile confronted me when I turned on my computer the next morning. One of Burns's team had sent an encrypted email overnight. He was fifty-eight years old, with just one criminal conviction for affray in 2012, and was currently working at the Courtauld Institute. He had agreed to report to the station at nine a.m. According to the report, he lived alone and didn't own a car, devoting his spare time to Pure. I felt a stab of disappointment. Given that he was single, his details were a poor match for my profile, and the group's logo appearing at the crime scenes didn't make him a direct suspect.

Burns's Audi arrived on the forecourt earlier than expected. Even from a distance it was clear he was feeling the strain, but his smile had its usual effect. It made me wish we could go back upstairs for a few hours and forget about the case.

‘You're a sight for sore eyes,' he said.

‘Flatterer.' I slipped into the passenger seat, planting a kiss on his cheek.

‘It beats staring at a bunch of ugly, bad-tempered cops.'

It was obvious that things weren't going to plan. He'd spent hours with Angie and her team the evening before, digging for information on Pure, but his seniors at Scotland Yard held him responsible for the officers who had blabbed to the press, creating a breach of security. He growled about the reprimand they'd passed down all the way to King's Cross.

Passmore had arrived at the station before us. A tall man with a cloud of unkempt grey curls rose to his feet when we reached the interview room. He was dressed in threadbare cords and a tweed jacket, holding my gaze for a beat too long when we shook hands. His face looked pallid and careworn, as if he'd been working too hard for months.

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet us,' Burns said. ‘You work at the Courtauld, don't you?'

‘For my sins. I'm a fundraiser,' Passmore replied in a slow, north London drawl.

‘That can't be easy in this climate.'

‘Even in a financial meltdown the rich stay rich, believe me.' His gaze flickered between me and Burns. ‘I assume this is about Pure?'

‘Partly, yes.' I took my notebook from my bag. ‘Can you tell us how it began?'

‘It's all on our website,' he said calmly. ‘After the blood scandal we wanted justice for the victims, but the Health Department have never accepted responsibility. At least we panicked them into offering a few thousand pounds to each patient. But the most seriously ill still live on a pittance that doesn't cover their medical care. The government pays them less than the average UK wage, even though they're dying from AIDS and hepatitis C.'

‘Some died before the money came, didn't they?'

‘The tragedy continues, thirty years on.' His tone grew bitter. ‘Factor Eight's not used any more, thank God. But people like me relied on it back then. Without it, even a small injury could have been fatal.'

‘You're a haemophiliac?'

He nodded. ‘My older brother was too. He got HIV from tainted blood. Retroviral drugs were crude back in the Eighties; he died at twenty-one.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Haemophilia passes from mother to son. If a woman carries the gene, there's a fifty per cent chance her sons will get it.'

‘But in your case you both did?'

‘The luck of the draw.'

Despite his hostility, Passmore's story spilled out easily, as though it was always at the forefront of his mind. I realised he must have been striking in his youth. Stress and exhaustion had caught up with him, but he had the chiselled features you see in adverts for whisky and aftershave – handsome men gazing into the middle distance. The fact that he lived alone made me wonder if decades of campaigning had left him isolated.

Burns leant forward in his seat. ‘I won't beat around the bush, Mr Passmore. I need to find out if someone from Pure is carrying out a vendetta against medics who specialise in blood illnesses.'

He shook his head dismissively. ‘That's ridiculous. We've got over a thousand members, but most are too sick to leave their homes.'

‘Being given a life-threatening disease from a blood transfusion would make a lot of people want to lash out.'

‘Don't you think they've seen enough suffering?'

‘Anger does strange things to people. It's possible that experts from the Tainted Blood enquiry are being targeted.'

‘How? I tried to get their names so we could lobby them, but the membership's an official secret.'

Passmore's stare blazed across my face, bringing the interview to a halt; long silences opened up between his statements, as if I'd insulted him personally. Burns had little more luck when he checked his alibi for the morning Riordan was taken. He claimed to have been at home with a volunteer from Pure
called Michelle De Santis, contacting members who lived alone as part of their support network.

‘Is Michelle your partner?' I asked.

‘I told you, I live alone.'

‘No need to snap, Mr Passmore,' Burns said, quietly, shunting a piece of paper across the desk. ‘I want you to write down where you were on these dates, and provide names of people who can corroborate each statement. We'll take a copy of your fingerprints before you leave, and we need Pure's membership list too. Email that to me please, by five p.m. today.'

‘This is ridiculous. My organisation's done nothing wrong.' He fell silent, as if the implication that anyone from Pure was capable of violence had removed his power of speech.

I was still thinking about the meeting when Burns drove me to a Greek restaurant on Birdcage Walk. The place was classier than the eateries we normally visited, with dark panelling on the walls and views across St James's Park. The waiter led us to a quiet table, beside a window.

‘What's the special occasion?' I asked.

‘There isn't one. It's to remind us there's life beyond the case.'

‘I'm starting to forget. Did you see your son last night?'

‘Liam's back at school. He had a fever, but today he's fine.'

‘He sounds like a tough kid.'

‘They can shrug anything off at that age.'

I studied the leafless trees outside. ‘Mikey's not that robust. He'll crack if his mum isn't found soon. Even if she's dead, it's better for him to know than to carry on in limbo.'

A muscle ticked in Burns's cheek. ‘We're working round the clock.'

‘I guessed, from the state of your flat.'

‘Maybe I should get a cleaner.'

I touched his forearm. ‘It's a free world. Live like a slob if you choose.'

‘You should have waited for me.'

He gripped my hand, and even though we spent the next half-hour talking about the case, he didn't release it until our orders arrived. Tania had already confirmed that Passmore was correct about the membership of the Tainted Blood panel being an official secret; Whitehall were refusing to disclose the advisors' names. Burns seemed bemused when I mentioned the symbolic locations of the calling cards again.

‘You think they're teaching us about medical history?'

‘Perhaps one of them's sick, which would rule out Sam and Isabel Travers. Their health records came back clean. But life's always been hard for blood patients; half of the earliest treatments were fatal.' I studied his face. ‘If one of them got an infected transfusion, they might be lashing out.'

‘You think they're twisted enough to kill any medic linked to tainted blood?'

‘If it's a husband and wife, sickness could be stealing the person they love most. The killers' relationship's fascinating. The complexity and pace of their actions means they've got a high level of trust.'

‘Could it be a brother and sister?'

‘Possible but rare. Couples always condone each other's violence; it's like fanning a fire till it blazes out of control.'

‘God almighty.' Burns gave a quiet groan.

‘It may burn itself out, but they've accelerated since the first attack, and they're getting a kick from taunting us.' I pushed my plate aside. ‘What's Sam Travers been doing since his release?'

‘Staying with a friend. His marriage is over, apparently.'

‘It's still possible he was involved in taking Riordan, isn't it? Have you got much on John Mendez and Lisa Stuart?'

‘There's still no clear link, apart from their expertise. The NHS computer system isn't helping. Our IT guys are working on it, to see if a patient encountered all three of them.'

‘Or Mendez could have been on the enquiry panel, like Clare and Lisa. We need that membership list from Whitehall urgently.' I checked my watch. ‘I should get moving.'

‘It's days since I saw you.' His expression darkened as we split the bill.

‘What's bothering you, Don?'

His no-bullshit stare settled on my face. ‘I chose the wrong time to fall for you, didn't I?'

‘Are you regretting it?'

‘Not yet. But I'm sick of being kept at arm's length.'

‘It's not deliberate.'

‘You won't even meet my kids.' The anger in his voice took me by surprise.

‘I will, when the time's right.'

‘The Riordan boy's got to you, hasn't he?'

‘On a professional level, yes,' I said quietly. ‘We'd better leave.'

When we stood outside on the pavement, Burns's closed expression showed that he was still nursing his wounds.

‘This is new territory for me, Don. I've never let myself need anyone before.'

His smile slowly flickered into life. ‘Everyone has to start somewhere.'

My walk to the FPU was a blur after we said goodbye. Either the case was getting to me, or the intensity of his stare.

Mike Donnelly was the first person I bumped into when I arrived. He was wearing a smart jacket, white hair shorter than before, his beard neatly trimmed.

‘You're looking spruce,' I commented.

‘I've got my appraisal with Christine. I'd hate to get sacked.'

‘I think she'll keep you.' It was an open secret that he had been a key member of the CO's team for twenty years. The only reason Christine had chosen me to work with Mikey over Donnelly was the need for a female therapist. ‘Can you help me for a minute?'

‘For you, anything.'

We sat in my office, flicking through Mikey's case file. Donnelly had acted as forensic consultant on dozens of juvenile cases. I was sure he could help me form a strategy to help the child speak again. His fingers tugged at his beard as he pored over my notes.

‘Talk me through your methods so far, Alice.'

‘Re-enactment, prompts, guided questions, drawings, photos. Every trick in the book.'

‘And you've established trust?'

‘Definitely – he's in tears whenever I leave.'

‘That's tough on you. Kids latch on so fast.' He studied me gravely.

‘It's not me I'm worried about.'

His eyes widened. ‘You should be. Cases like this can leave a mark.'

‘I'll deal with that afterwards.'

‘You've crossed the biggest hurdle; the kid was catatonic, but now he's reactive again.' Donnelly stacked my papers into a pile. ‘You'll have to take him back to the common, guide him through the abduction again.'

‘Won't that push him too far?'

‘Kids are realists. He knows his mother may be dead; that's why he's suffering. This way he'll get the chance to help find her. And if there's a delayed reaction, you'll be there to support him.'

G
urpreet waited until Mikey was settled in the living room before sharing his update that evening. The boy had been reluctant to eat, fidgety and distracted. Childhood trauma often manifested as withdrawal and depressed mood. We both knew that the next phase would be anger, followed by slow acceptance. There was no way to comfort him, apart from offering diversion activities. Mikey seemed to relax as the evening wore on. I was still following my strategy of cooking together to help him relax. I waited until we were side by side in the kitchen before making my suggestion.

‘I'd like us to go back to the common tomorrow, Mikey, so you can show me what happened. Say yes or no, I won't mind. Just nod or shake your head.'

His skin was so paper thin I could see the veins throbbing at his temple. I felt guilty for placing him under pressure, but it was unavoidable. After a minute he nodded his agreement, then clung to my side.

‘It'll be fine, sweetheart.' I gave his shoulders a quick squeeze. ‘We'll be together.'

I let him stay up late that evening, tension easing out of him as we watched an ancient James Bond movie.

‘You'd make a good double-O seven,' I said. ‘Clever and quick on your feet.'

He pulled a face before giving a rare smile, offering a glimpse of the boy he'd been before the abduction: self-mocking and bright. Seeing that past confidence made me even more determined to find his mother. I noticed the dog-eared copy of the
A–Z
lying on the floor at his feet. I'd seen him thumbing through the pages every day, but never found out why. I reached down and picked it up.

‘Is there a street you're looking for, Mikey?'

His body froze, as it had done when I'd asked questions about his mum's disappearance. The boy seemed hardwired
to avoid discussing his trauma, as if he knew it might cause him harm.

It was almost eleven before I was alone again. Too tense to go to bed, I flipped open my laptop and entered my Home Office password to access the Health Ministry's records. I found a record of the ministerial meeting following the Tainted Blood enquiry, the agenda flashing on to the screen. Only two senior civil servants had kept the health minister company while he signed the decision papers to deny culpability. I scrolled down to open the advisory panel's meeting notes, but an ‘access denied' message appeared. When I entered the command again, the same words ran across my screen. It struck me as odd that my level two clearance couldn't break the security code. The panel's findings must be screened by a top-level protection order, just like its membership.