Blood Symmetry (17 page)

I
used the taxi ride to University College Hospital on Saturday morning to prepare myself for what lay ahead. Pedestrians were making slow progress up the Euston Road, taking leisurely strolls towards Bloomsbury and the British Museum. I would have preferred to join them instead of attending Jordan Adebayo's autopsy, but with luck it would explain how he'd died. Tania was waiting outside the mortuary at eleven a.m., her smart navy coat slung across her arm.

‘Lindstrop's running late,' she said. ‘Typical despot behaviour. She files a complaint if we're a minute behind, but it's fine to keep us waiting.'

‘Don't expect pathologists to be rational. Anyone who chops people up for a living has to be unhinged.'

She shook her head. ‘I'm dreading this.'

‘At least we're in it together.'

The mortuary assistant ushered us in before she could reply. Lindstrop had reverted to type since my last visit, red-faced and belligerent, voice one decibel short of a scream.

‘Morning, ladies,' she said, dragging on fresh surgical gloves. ‘I see you drew the short straw for weekend duty. Let me remind you of theatre protocol: backs to the wall, no fainting, questions at the end.'

The room was full of sharp odours: ammonia, bodily fluids, and a whiff of my own fear. I watched Lindstrop circling the operating table. A microphone hung from a wire overhead,
waiting for her pronouncements. Jordan Adebayo's skin had paled from brown to grey. Someone had shown enough sensitivity to close his eyes, so his wife wouldn't have to confront his terrified stare. The suffering he'd experienced in captivity showed in the deep bruises on his arms and face. Lindstrop was examining his hands, her voice dropping to a murmur.

‘Someone's made a mess of you, my friend.' She flicked on the microphone and snapped back into professional mode. ‘Puncture marks consistent with wide needle injections to left and right forearms, chest, neck and face; oedema and subdermal bleeding to the left wrist.'

The pathologist examined the man's skin through a looking glass.

‘Blisters,' she commented. ‘Your last hours were no fun at all.'

Lindstrop swabbed his skin with lint and took scrapings from his nails. Then she examined each limb, recording every mark, before turning her attention to his throat. My stomach churned as she dabbled her fingers in the wide gash. After a few seconds she turned in our direction.

‘The carotid artery's been cut. It's the quickest way to kill someone; the blood loss would have been phenomenal. We can replace up to forty per cent of our body's supply, if we bleed slowly, but he would have died in two or three minutes.'

Tania groaned quietly as I tried to concentrate. Why was Riordan's blood being released over a period of days, while Adebayo had been exsanguinated in moments? I needed all my self-control to keep watching as Lindstrop performed a Y-section on the man's chest and removed his major organs one by one. Technical terms flew over my head, but she mentioned ventricular damage, clotting and arterial obstruction. The pathologist had reached the end of the procedure when she turned to us again.

‘Do either of you want to see something interesting?'

‘Not today, thanks,' Tania muttered.

Lindstrop smiled when I stepped forwards. ‘Nerves of steel, Alice. Good for you. Do you know which organ this is?' She held out a wide metal dish.

‘The liver.' I blinked at the dark red mass, surrounded by a pink foam of blood.

‘But something's wrong, isn't it?'

‘It's too big.'

‘Quite so.' Her smile widened. ‘Mine's half this size, and I've been abusing it for forty years.'

‘He was poisoned?'

‘In several different ways. The toxicology reports just arrived.' She peeled off her gloves and collected a printout from the table. ‘There was interferon and ribavirin in his blood, like in Riordan's samples – traces of heroin, too. The wounds show that they plunged the needle at random wherever they liked.'

‘Remind me what interferon's used for?'

‘It slows the progress of blood-borne viruses like hepatitis.'

‘Would it have enlarged his liver that much?'

She shook her head. ‘It would have made him nauseous. Something else caused the organ damage; the report shows massive coagulation. He would have died quickly, even without the cut to his throat.'

‘Why?' Tania asked. Now the ordeal was ending, she seemed to be recovering.

‘It looks like he received an injection of the wrong blood type. Needle marks lead straight into major veins, like you'd see after a transfusion.'

‘Would you need medical knowledge to do that?'

Lindstrop shook her head. ‘Injections are easy; you just need to insert the needle into a vein.'

‘What happens when someone's given blood that doesn't match their own?'

‘The body shuts down,' Lindstrop said. ‘Blood antigens reject the foreign fluid, leading to massive clotting, then heart failure. Even the skin blisters. Perhaps it's a blessing his throat was cut. It would have saved him the agony.'

Tania was speechless when we got outside, cold air failing to revive her.

‘Want to get a drink?' I asked.

‘God, yes. Anything to wash the taste away.'

We ended up in an Irish watering hole on the Euston Road, which was doing a roaring lunchtime trade. Tania slumped at the bar and I bought us both a double shot of Laphroaig. She knocked hers back in a single swallow.

‘How does Lindstrop do that every day?' she asked.

‘For the victims, I suppose. She seems passionate about it.'

Tania shook her head. ‘Most of it went over my head.'

I stared down at my drink. ‘The killers gave Adebayo the strongest opiate you can buy, then a blood transfusion of the wrong type, before his throat was slit.'

‘Agony after the ecstasy,' she muttered.

‘But did they kill Clare Riordan first, or are they experimenting on her somewhere, like an animal in a lab?'

‘Do you think her sister's involved?'

‘Running away doesn't make her guilty. Eleanor was at cracking point when I interviewed her; maybe the press attention got too much. They'd been camping outside her door. We need to find her, but I can't see why she'd harm the others.'

‘Maybe she's been abducted, like her sister?'

I shook my head. ‘She fled from the site of Clare's abduction, and none of her blood's been found. Their MO is to leave a sample as soon as a victim's taken.'

‘It looks like Eleanor's boyfriend was home alone the night Adebayo was taken. Neighbours say the lights were on all evening; no one saw him go out.'

‘I'd still like to speak to him.'

She gave a blank nod. ‘I'll sort it.'

We spent half an hour debriefing, another shot of whisky bringing the colour back to Tania's cheeks. We were about to leave when she spoke again.

‘I heard the news about you and Don,' she said. ‘You know we go way back, don't you?'

‘Twenty years, isn't it?'

‘We joined the Met the same year.' She studied my face. ‘Don't take this the wrong way, but I wouldn't build your hopes. His kids are everything to him. Julie could have him back tomorrow if she clicks her fingers.' She busied herself with buttoning her coat. ‘Sorry, that was probably out of order. Booze always loosens my tongue.'

‘It sounded sincere enough.'

Her face held a mix of pity and sadness. ‘I spent years with a bloke who never put me first. You're too smart to do the same.'

Tania's elegant figure disappeared into the crowd. My thoughts flicked back to Burns's previous desertion. We'd started seeing each other the first time he left his wife, but he'd been drawn back because his kids were suffering, leaving me high and dry. When my phone buzzed in my pocket, his name appeared in the window, but I jabbed the off button with my thumb. The idea that he was unreliable had already taken hold.

I
was in a foul mood when I got back to Shad Thames. Too many ugly images were competing for space in my head: a bag of dark red liquid lying on the ground; Jordan Adebayo's
body on the mortuary slab. All I wanted was to sink into a long bath. But the door to my flat was unlocked and only two people had keys: Lola and Will. Much as I loved them both, I was in no mood for company. It irritated me that my visitors had made themselves at home, Ella Fitzgerald purring from the living room.

When I peered through the doorway, Burns was lounging on my sofa, bare feet propped on my coffee table, staring at his laptop, too immersed to hear me arrive. I was torn between wanting to hurl myself into his arms and an urge to bawl at him to leave.

‘How did you get in?'

The usual stab of attraction hit me when he looked up. He was shabbier than ever in a black sweatshirt and faded jeans, five o'clock shadow turning into a beard. But none of that mattered when he lumbered to his feet, shoulders blocking the light from the window.

‘Your lock was easy to pick.'

‘Is that what they teach you at officer training school?'

‘It pretty much opened itself. Didn't you get my calls?'

‘I've been busy.'

‘You went to an autopsy. I wanted to see you were okay.'

‘I don't need protection, Don.'

Burns folded his arms. ‘What does it take for you to accept help? Do I have to drive over you with a truck?'

‘All I need is three Nurofen and some time alone.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘My flat, my rules.'

‘I'll run you a bath, then you can tell me what's wrong.'

‘I can run my own sodding bath.'

By the time I sank into the hot water, I felt embarrassed. He'd only offered me a shoulder to lean on. My anger stemmed from days of witnessing too much human damage, including
the post mortem. When I finally pulled the plug, the water hadn't rinsed away my cares, but it had restored some of my calm. I padded down the hall to my bedroom, thankful that Burns was nowhere in sight.

I chose black leggings and a silk shirt, unwilling to place anything harsh against my skin. Adrenalin pumped through my system again when I returned to the living room, fight or flight reflex in full swing. It happened every time a man came too close for comfort. Burns dumped his computer on the coffee table when he saw me, but I perched on the edge of an armchair at a safe distance.

‘We should talk about the case, Don, seeing as you're here. Do you know the membership of the Tainted Blood panel yet?'

‘The Department of Health are stonewalling. They've agreed to talk on Monday.'

‘Four medics are gone and they won't hand it over?'

‘The chief commissioner's hounding them, but the answer's always the same. It's classified information.' He studied me again. ‘Tell me what's wrong.'

‘It was a crap day, that's all.'

‘So talk about it.'

I drew in a breath. ‘Mikey's making slow progress. Combine that with watching Jordan Adebayo being sliced apart, and it hasn't been fun. Come to think of it, Tania pissed me off too.'

‘Why?'

‘She thinks you'll go back to your wife any day now.'

Burns swore loudly then crouched in front of me. ‘Listen to me, Alice. She's warped by her own shitty divorce, but mine's almost done. Julie and I are acting like grown-ups for the boys' sake. We fell out of love years ago. And do you know what really pisses me off? I've spent months telling you that. Then Tania makes one snotty remark because she's bitter as fuck,
and you believe her, not me.' He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You're all I think about, but you never believe me.'

His direct stare had its usual effect. I owed him an apology, but couldn't find the words, so I kissed him instead. When I finally pulled back, his pupils were half an inch wide.

‘God almighty. We have our first row, then you kiss the life out of me. You're a total mystery.' He brushed his thumb across my lips.

‘The bath relaxed me.'

‘Rubbish, you're so wired I could play a tune on you.' He pressed one of the tight muscles in my shoulder, making me grit my teeth.

‘You like causing pain, don't you?'

‘And pleasure.' His fingers trailed in circles across my collarbone. ‘God, I love it when you do that.'

‘What?'

‘Shiver when I touch you.' He began exploring again, hands coasting up my back, face nuzzling the side of my neck.

‘Have dinner with me tomorrow. Stay the night.'

‘I can't.' He breathed out a quiet moan. ‘I'll be on duty.'

‘The story of our lives. Hold the thought then.'

‘How could I forget?'

It was a lie, of course. He'd clear me from his mind before he reached the car park, while people with sensible professions relaxed at home with their families. At work he'd be DCI Burns again, calm and implacable, focused only on getting the job done.

I went to the safe house after he'd gone, to relieve Gurpreet until morning. His solemn expression showed that the pressure of Mikey's silence was weighing on him; he lingered for an extra half hour, discussing the strategies he'd been using to help the child open up. None of them seemed to be working; Mikey made little eye contact, taking himself off to bed earlier
than usual. I spent the last few hours of my evening trawling back through witness reports on HOLMES 2. By the time midnight came, my legs were cramping from too long in front of the computer, so I forced myself to do half an hour of yoga. My muscles gradually unknotted, but my mind was still racing when I finally went to bed.

I
t's colder this morning. The man's bones ache as he huddles in his car on a quiet street in Deptford. It has taken time and effort to find Gurpreet Singh. Repeated calls to his employer brought no success, but he has finally tracked him down by the simplest method imaginable; the nurse's number is in the phonebook. Singh's address tallies with details on his Facebook and Twitter pages, stating that he lives in Southwark. Now it's six a.m. and the man is willing himself to stay awake. When Singh emerges from his front door, he must follow him to the safe house without being spotted.

He's relieved to escape from the laboratory. The woman has spent hours working on Clare Riordan with needles and knives, whispering threats in her ear. When he left an hour ago, the doctor was suspended from the ceiling again, body jerking as she fell unconscious. While he feels no shame about his actions, the enjoyment on the woman's face forced him to look away. He stares across the street at the small bungalow, its cheerful yellow façade glowing as the darkness lifts. He wonders how it must feel to lead a blameless life, no blots on your copybook. When their relationship began, the woman's passion drew them together in a common cause. It started as a crusade, but now it's spiralled out of control. Soon he must persuade her that they've taken enough victims. They should make their announcement in an anonymous letter, and end the violence. But the thought fails to
reassure him. The woman seems determined to wipe out every name on the list.

He's deep in thought when the bungalow door swings open. An Indian man rushes to a beaten-up Volvo, the sight steadying the man's nerves. He has a task to complete and it's important to stand firm. He watches Singh's car slip into the morning traffic, then follows him at a measured pace.