Blood Symmetry (18 page)

P
ress photographers' flashbulbs snapped at me as I climbed the steps to the station on Sunday morning. Tania's hostile expression let me know that Don had already tackled her about our conversation; she was in the meeting room, beating a tattoo on her notepad with a biro. Angie offered me a subdued version of her pixie-like smile.

‘The great man's been delayed,' she said.

‘Is there any news?'

‘We're still looking for Eleanor Riordan's car, but there's no sign.'

‘I'm seeing her boyfriend later,' I said. ‘I'll find out what he knows.'

Tania's eyes narrowed. ‘Good luck with that. The bloke's a pisshead.'

Burns strode through the door before I could reply, excitement emanating through his pores. ‘Hancock's team turned over Clare Riordan's department at the Royal Free. They found a shirt in her deputy's locker with a stain on the sleeve; the lab just sent in the results. It's Riordan's blood.'

I felt a quick surge of shock. Despite Adele Novak's suggestion that Pietersen had strong feelings for his boss, I hadn't believed the doctor was capable of harming her. His emotions seemed too rigidly controlled.

‘Are you bringing him here?' Angie strained forwards in her chair, like an eager schoolgirl.

‘I'm going to his house first.' He turned to me. ‘You'd better come, Alice, to see how he reacts.'

The news had thrown me off course. I'd been convinced that the killers had a political axe to grind, the victims of medical negligence. But I remembered the gentle classical music playing in Pietersen's consulting room, so at odds with his tense manner.

I listened carefully while Angie reported on her team's work at the Barbican. Hundreds of home visits had built a composite picture of the killers' actions. An old man had seen a couple hanging around the garage block just before midnight from the window of his flat, but site security had arrived too late. So far Adebayo's computers and phone had revealed little apart from his affection for his wife. Their texts ranged from romantic to pornographic, as if they were still newlyweds. I wondered how Gina Adebayo was dealing with the fact that he would never return from his last night shift.

‘The killers are adapting their approach as they gain confidence,' I said. ‘Their style's faster and more sophisticated. The sites they're choosing are important in the history of blood treatments, and using Pure's logo tells us they're getting even for the tainted blood scandal. I think you should check all the group's members, and widen the search to everyone who received infected blood in the UK.'

‘That could take a while. The NHS are slow to find information, and the patients will have scattered far and wide. The logo could be a blind alley anyway,' Burns said. ‘Hancock's discovery blows everything sky-high. Pietersen's got Riordan's blood on his shirt, and it sounds like he's got anger management problems too. It's never pretty when a doctor loses the plot. Remember the Leonard Newman case? He killed fifteen patients in one year. Maybe he's getting even with colleagues who're more successful; we just need to find the links.'

‘I knew there was something dodgy about him.' Angie's smug smile suggested the doctor had already been jailed.

I stepped out of the office to call Christine and let her know that I would miss our catch-up meeting at the FPU, but was distracted by noise spilling from the incident room. A dozen members of the team were thronging round Pete Hancock, who looked pleased but embarrassed, clearly enjoying his newfound hero status. I remembered his complaint about his work going unnoticed and shot him a wide smile. Whether or not his find turned out to be vital, his commitment deserved recognition.

It was eleven a.m. when Burns and I left via the back exit, photographers snapping our departure. His brisk pace made me rush to keep up, but he calmed down as we escaped the scrum of journalists.

‘Fancy a week in Rome when this is over?' he said, unlocking the car.

‘I'd prefer somewhere warmer.'

‘Who cares, if we've got room service and a Jacuzzi?'

I was too preoccupied to quibble during the drive. Until now I'd been sure that the killers were patients with a grievance, but my judgement could have been flawed. My concern for Mikey might be blinding me to obvious clues: the use of hospital equipment and the killers' love of administering injections. My mind clicked through possibilities like it was twisting a Rubik's cube. I stared out of the window at my old stamping ground. The Maudsley Hospital's façade looked as grand as when I'd trained there thirteen years before; classic late imperial architecture, the Victorians blowing their cash on lavish building projects. Burns's Audi followed the light traffic up Denmark Hill before swinging left towards Dulwich. I'd always loved the neighbourhood, but couldn't afford to rent there as a student, settling for a rundown flat on a railway
siding in Camberwell. It would require serious money to buy one of the gorgeous Regency villas near the common, covered in wedding-cake stucco.

Dr Pietersen's house turned out to be a bland Thirties semi five minutes from Dulwich village. The house was painted the same inoffensive cream as its neighbour, guaranteed to go unnoticed.

‘Let me speak to his wife,' I said, as we waited in the porch.

‘Okay, but I'll give him the news first.'

Mrs Pietersen was an attractive Asian woman of around fifty, with a watchful gaze, and shoulder-length black hair pinned back from her face. There was no sign of a smile when she opened the door.

‘I'll get my husband,' she said. ‘He's doing paperwork.'

Her absence gave me time to admire her kitchen. The glass worktops glistened as if no one had ever cooked there. Cleanliness and order ruled wherever I looked, from the scrubbed lino to the tea towels folded in an immaculate pile. When I turned round Dr Pietersen was standing by the table. He looked older than I remembered, skin sallow, as if he was sickening for something.

‘Please take a seat,' he said. ‘Has Clare been found?'

‘I'm afraid not.' Burns sat opposite him.

‘Is it okay if Imako stays?'

‘We need to see you alone, please.'

‘I don't keep secrets from my wife.'

‘Like I said, we'll talk to you separately.'

Pietersen's wife shot us a dark look when she exited the room, clearly furious to be sent away. Burns seemed unmoved, draping his coat over the back of his chair like he planned to stay all day.

‘How did you meet your wife, Dr Pietersen?'

‘Why's that relevant?'

‘It may not be,' Burns said. ‘But you don't get on with Dr Riordan, do you? I need to understand your background.'

‘Imako and I worked at a hospital in Saigon. She nursed until the kids arrived, then we came back to the UK.'

‘Adapting to a different culture must have been stressful for her.'

‘That was twenty years ago.' He huffed out the words. ‘I think you should tell me what this is about. My office has been commandeered.'

‘One of your colleagues thinks you're in love with your boss.'

His muddy eyes blinked wide. ‘Clare? That's ridiculous.'

‘An item's been found, linking you to her abduction.'

‘That's impossible.'

‘We found a shirt in your locker with her blood on the sleeve. I'm surprised you kept it. Was it a memento?'

‘It's not connected to her disappearance.'

Burns folded his arms. ‘You'd better explain.'

The doctor's hands clenched in his lap. ‘Clare phoned me in August, begging me to go round. I found her in the kitchen bleeding heavily from a wound on her wrist. She said someone had attacked her. Luckily her son was at a friend's house.'

‘Why didn't you call the police?'

‘She wouldn't hear of it. I had an emergency kit in my car, so I stitched the cut myself – that's how my shirt got stained. It was a present from Imako. I kept meaning to get it dry-cleaned.'

‘Do you know how far-fetched that sounds?'

Pietersen's shoulders jerked upwards. ‘She said the police would make things worse. She seemed terrified about her boy, begging me to keep it secret.'

‘Someone had threatened to hurt her son?'

‘Clare wouldn't say his name.'

‘What did you do after stitching her wound?'

‘I made her a drink then mopped the floor, so her son wouldn't see the blood. I offered to let them stay here, but she refused.'

‘Why didn't you call emergency services?'

‘To honour her wishes.' Pietersen's eyes closed for a moment. ‘The injury seemed like classic self-harm, a deep wound to the inner wrist. It looked like she'd cut herself then regretted it. Not going to hospital meant she could pretend it had never happened.'

‘No one else thought she was depressed.'

‘Maybe the pressure was too much. Clare's a perfectionist; she wants to be the best mother, top of her profession, win every game.' A scowl settled on his face.

‘You concealed evidence. If that's the truth, why didn't you tell us when she went missing?'

‘It wasn't my place.'

‘You were covering your back,' Burns snapped. ‘Did you know Lisa Stuart, John Mendez and Jordan Adebayo?'

There was a long pause before Pietersen replied. ‘I met Professor Adebayo a few years ago. We were both invited to a lunch in Whitehall; we'd been asked to serve on an advisory panel.'

‘The Tainted Blood enquiry in 2012?'

‘It looked like being a whitewash, so I turned it down. I don't know whether Adebayo agreed.'

‘Did Clare tell you she was a member?'

‘I had no idea.' Pietersen looked uncomfortable. ‘She probably signed a non-disclosure notice.'

Burns gave a brisk nod. ‘You'll be taken to the station to answer more questions, but we'll speak to your wife first.'

I scribbled notes on an evidence form while he collected the doctor's wife. Not only had Pietersen known another of the
victims, all of his emotional reactions seemed blunted. My overriding impression was of an egotist more upset by professional failure than his colleague's abduction. If he was telling the truth about finding Riordan wounded, she must have exerted considerable power to buy his silence. Maybe he had been in love with her after all. It was becoming clear that Clare had made a profound impact on everyone she'd met.

Imako Pietersen seemed less composed than her husband when she perched on a stool opposite us, her hands twisting in her lap.

‘Are you worried about your husband's mental state, Mrs Pietersen?' I asked.

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Why should I be?'

‘He seems distracted. Have you noticed changes in him?'

‘Only that his diabetes is worse. I want him to retire, but he won't hear of it.'

‘A typical man, in other words?'

She scowled at me. ‘Ed thinks he's indispensable.'

‘Has he spoken much about Clare Riordan?'

‘Often. She sounds too neurotic to run the department, but he's always been loyal. I don't see why you're asking these questions.'

‘Clare's missing, Mrs Pietersen. It's our job to investigate her disappearance. Did you know that your husband asked the hospital trustees twice to demote her?'

Her voice was shrill with anger. ‘A senior doctor with mental health problems is a liability. She could harm patients, couldn't she?'

There was something chilling about her rigid posture, combined with the irritation she couldn't hide. A body language expert would have found her a fascinating case study, immobile as a waxwork from start to finish, anger spilling over in her intense stare and tone of voice. When she
heard that her husband would be taken to the police station, it was obvious she was barely managing to keep her temper in check.

Burns stood on the pavement afterwards, watching Pietersen being driven away. ‘They're not exactly touchy-feely, are they?'

‘I'm surprised you're leaving her here. She's like a bomb, waiting to explode.'

‘We'll be keeping watch. There's more chance of a confession with no contact between them. If he doesn't open up, she'll be brought in next.'

‘They match the profile for Riordan's abductors. He's intellectual, obsessive, highly controlled, and she's the emotional one, struggling to keep her feelings locked down. Pietersen's work could have caused a blood fetish. But his behaviour, speech patterns and eye contact suggest he was telling the truth when he described finding Riordan injured.'

‘Surely Clare would have phoned a close friend if she was hurt?'

‘Maybe she saw Pietersen as an old-fashioned man of his word. He might have been her best chance of keeping it quiet.'

‘He could be attacking other medics out of professional jealousy. The guy had complained about feeling overlooked.'

‘There's a chance it's Clare's sister, working with an accomplice. But why would she be obsessed by blood?'

Burns shook his head. ‘After we talk to her boyfriend, I'll see Pietersen again.'

His gaze was so focused as he drove to Luke Mann's house in Camberwell it looked like he was navigating a tank through a minefield. The investigation had his name printed on it – success or fail, he would carry the can. Stress was evident in his tight clutch on the wheel as we pulled up outside a sprawling nineteenth-century vicarage with leaded windows and a
sagging, slate-tiled roof. The building must have held rural charm before the metropolis swallowed it whole. Now it was hemmed in by grey tower blocks and rows of abandoned garages, with doors coated in graffiti.

‘It's a ruin,' Burns muttered.

The doorbell chimed, but there was no sound of footsteps. After a few minutes I wandered down the side passageway to peer through the window. Luke Mann's living room was in disarray, piles of clothes draped over furniture, as if he'd packed in a hurry, decided to travel light. Burns joined me as I gazed through the window.