Blood Symmetry (19 page)

‘There's a load of post on his doormat. Maybe he's done a runner too.'

‘There could be a simple explanation. He could be out for the day, the appointment forgotten.'

He shook his head. ‘Ten minutes ago I was sure it was Pietersen, now I'm wondering if Eleanor's talked her boyfriend into helping her get even.'

Burns was already punching numbers into his phone, his shoulders hunched. There was nothing I could say to comfort him. My own suspicions about aggrieved patients were fragmenting under the weight of primary evidence. Suddenly an abundance of suspects had come to light: Riordan's deputy carried her blood on his shirtsleeve and her sister's boyfriend had vanished into thin air.

T
here was no sign of Mikey that afternoon, even though he must have heard me carting bags of groceries from the boot of my car. I found him hunched on his bed, eyes glued to the iPad that Gurpreet had borrowed from his office. He hardly looked up when I said hello, his face rigid with anger.

‘Want to come and play cards?' I asked.

He was on his feet before I could move, a cracking noise as the computer bounced from the wall inches above my head, fracturing the plaster. I was too shocked to react as he rushed downstairs, beating his hands on the door's toughened glass. I stood behind him, avoiding his fists. Despite his small frame, a stray punch could still have caused damage.

‘You should stop now, Mikey. You'll hurt yourself.'

Gurpreet emerged from the kitchen, but I motioned for him to stay back. The boy's rage was already fading, his flailing movements weaker than before. When I touched his shoulder he pressed his face against my ribs, tears soaking the fabric of my jumper. I pulled him down beside me until we sat with our backs to the wall, Gurpreet crouching beside us.

‘Today's been tough, hasn't it, Mikey?' the nurse said quietly. ‘His school teacher came round; he was upset when she left.'

‘That's understandable.' Seeing a familiar face would be a reminder that other people's lives were going on as normal.
‘You'll feel better if we keep busy, Mikey. Why don't you help me make dinner?'

I thought he might choose to sleep off his outburst, but after five minutes he struggled to his feet. When we reached the kitchen he helped me chop vegetables for a curry. His hair stood up in tufts, eyes red from crying. It seemed heroic that he was mucking in, even though he was fraying at the seams. I wanted to hug him, but knew it was essential to let children initiate touch. I showed him how to make a dessert instead, more for the therapeutic value than any hope of him eating it. Some of the tension slipped from his face as he mixed berries with cream and meringue for the Eton mess.

‘I bet Gurpreet eats most of this tomorrow,' I said.

I kept my thoughts to myself as we ate. It seemed odd that I was reluctant to meet Burns's sons, yet Mikey's trust felt like the most natural thing in the world. Sooner or later the emotional fall-out from the case would have to be analysed, but not until it was resolved. Until then my priority had to be the child's welfare. By the time I went upstairs to check on Mikey, he was in bed, eyes bleary with exhaustion.

‘Feel like reading?' I asked, but he shook his head. ‘You know Gurpreet and I think you're brilliant, don't you?'

He shifted his head on the pillow, ready for sleep. I dropped a kiss on his forehead, leaving the door open by a fraction, so he could see the hall light if he had a bad dream. I picked up the broken iPad on my way back downstairs. There was a crack in the casing, but it might still be repairable.

Once I was back in the lounge, I wrote up my reports from that day's interviews. Everyone inside Clare Riordan's circle seemed to be nursing complex feelings. The investigation was zoning in on Eleanor, Luke Mann and the Pietersens. I felt sure the doctor had been telling the truth about stitching her wound to save her the trauma of a hospital visit after an attack
at her home. Only the pallor of his skin had made him seem ill at ease during the interview, making me wonder if the stress of Riordan's absence had worsened his health. But the fact that he knew Adebayo because of his connection to the Tainted Blood enquiry was another cause for concern. His wife's manner interested me too, even though Burns had chosen not to bring her to the station. I completed her interview report, marking high scores for denial, repressed anger and hostility. Imako Pietersen reminded me of Marie Benson, a prolific serial killer I'd interviewed during the Crossbones case. She'd had the same quality of stillness, like the sea's calm surface with riptides boiling underneath.

I was about to go to bed when my gaze caught on the iPad. It seemed to have survived intact, the motor grinding into life when I hit the start button. The image I saw made my eyes blink wider. Mikey must have used the wireless pen clipped to the device to draw a row of tightly packed houses, cars and trees scattered along the pavement, a square building that looked like a block of flats. But the feature that made my skin prickle was the dark blue car at the end of the street, passengers in the front seats too small to make out, their faces blurred. One thing was unmissable; a small figure with a mop of dark hair was hiding between two buildings. For a second I felt my pulse quicken, as if I was kneeling beside Mikey, cowering from a threat neither of us could name.

T
he woman reaches the lab at midnight. The soft rain gives her an excuse to keep her hood raised as she approaches the alleyway. When she hits the light switch, the neon brightness makes Riordan give a muffled groan, her skin chafed raw by the gag, amber eyes searching for mercy. The woman forces a straw into her mouth, making her gulp down a protein drink, aware that her victim may be needed alive for many more days. She's too exhausted to goad her as she ties the tourniquet, plunging the needle into Riordan's inner arm, ignoring her raw moan.

‘Shut up,' she mutters. ‘No one can hear you.'

Crimson liquid drips slowly into the bag. Maybe it's imaginary, but the fluid looks darker than before, stained by guilt. It makes the woman glad to be wearing surgical gloves, keeping her hands perfectly clean. Once the bag is full, she withdraws the needle. Riordan's eyes roll back as she falls unconscious.

‘Sleep tight, Clare,' the woman whispers.

She wraps the blood pack carefully in brown paper. She doesn't care if Riordan's alive or dead as she slips back along the alleyway, then drives to a quiet west London street. She makes her deposit then glances at the building's façade with a sense of repulsion. None of the scientists who work inside are brave enough to defend their patients.

The woman feels calmer when she's back in the driving seat. She doesn't care if she has to act alone from now on; at least
the man has discovered where the boy's being held. Whatever happens next, she'll keep working on Riordan until the score is settled. The sense of justice when she kills her will be personal as well as political. Riordan's voice carried more weight than any other panel member; she cast away a perfect opportunity to help the victims.

M
ikey was hugging his copy of the London
A–Z
like a security blanket the next morning. A wave of anxiety crossed his face when he saw my print of his picture.

‘This is a really good drawing,' I said. ‘I'm guessing that's the car they took you in, and this is the street where you ran away?'

His nod was so small I almost missed it. ‘Almost there,' he whispered. Fear had returned to the boy's face. There was no point in hurling questions at him. It looked like the first loud noise would send him scuttling back to his room.

‘You've got a brilliant memory, Mikey. If you remember anything else, you can draw more pictures, can't you?'

I felt a wave of guilt when Gurpreet arrived, the child's face blanching. In an ideal world I'd have taken him with me to prove that I had no intention of disappearing from his life.

I arrived for my first appointment early, so I stopped at a café on Borough High Street to browse through a copy of the
Independent
. The front page held a picture of the stand of trees where Clare Riordan had been abducted. Members of the public had turned it into a shrine; enough cards littered the grass to fill a gift shop, hundreds of bouquets choking in cellophane, messages begging her abductors to set her free. The outpouring made me marvel at the English temperament. We repressed affection for our families, yet deified strangers. My fear of intimacy seemed to be shared by everyone in the land.

It was just after nine a.m. when Angie and I called on Lisa Stuart's mother. She had been interviewed once already, to try and establish whether her daughter had known any of the other victims, but had been too upset to comment in detail. I wanted to help Angie tease out any facts lurking in her memory, provided we could keep her calm. Mrs Stuart lived in a narrow house near Borough Market, sandwiched between a pub and a gift shop. The expression on the old woman's face when we arrived was so hopeful, she seemed to be expecting us to say that her daughter had returned safe and sound. She was a plump woman, dressed tidily in a grey skirt and matching twinset, white hair framing her face. She inspected us closely through glasses with thin gold frames.

‘Have you got news?' Her hand settled on Angie's arm as we stood in the hall.

‘I'm afraid not, Mrs Stuart. Why don't we all sit down for a minute?'

It was obvious that her home was her pride and joy. Every surface in her living room glittered with polish, tasteful dark wood furniture, nothing out of place. A cluster of framed photos of Lisa hung on the wall; junior school portraits through to a picture of her looking stunning in an evening dress, strawberry blonde curls swept back from her face. Mrs Stuart watched us avidly, fingers tapping the arm of her chair.

‘This is about those other doctors going missing, isn't it?'

Angie nodded. ‘It may be linked to Lisa's disappearance.'

She studied us so closely it felt like she was measuring each blink. ‘You think she's been killed, don't you?'

‘I'm afraid that's possible, but we don't have proof,' Angie said. ‘Two other doctors have been taken in the past fortnight; one of them has been found dead.'

She let out a gasp. ‘It's not knowing that's hardest. I lost my husband three years ago, and that was terrible, but at
least he got a proper funeral. With Lisa there isn't even a gravestone.'

‘That must be hard.'

‘I put my life on hold at the start, waiting for news. Now I make myself see friends each week. My other daughter Jenny's been brilliant.'

‘Do you remember much about the weeks before Lisa went missing?' I asked.

Mrs Stuart peered at me over her glasses. ‘Not really. She came by as usual that Sunday; we cooked lunch together.'

‘Did she mention the work she was doing as an advisor on a panel?'

‘That was something hush-hush. I can't remember what it was about.'

‘Had anything unusual happened to her?'

‘She got these letters, but didn't think it was anything important. She brought one round to show me. I showed it to the police at the time.'

‘Could we see it?'

She reached into her bureau drawer and handed me an envelope. Lisa's name and address were typed on a printed label, when I opened it there was a grey postcard with Pure's logo drawn at the centre.

‘Could we keep this for now, Mrs Stuart?'

‘Of course, dear. But it's just a few scribbles; it doesn't give you much to go on, does it?'

I smiled at her. ‘It could help a great deal. We'll come back if there's any more news.'

Her eyes were flooding with tears. ‘I'm so glad you came. At least I know Lisa hasn't been forgotten.'

I felt choked when we walked away. Angie fell silent for once as we trudged down the road. The woman had spent eight months waiting; there would be no closure until she
could give her daughter a formal burial. The postcard brought a new dimension to the case; in addition to organising and researching each crime, one of the killers was communicating with the victims they singled out. It was likely that the others had received the same cryptic message through the post.

T
he atmosphere had changed when we reached St Pancras Way just after ten. More journalists were massing on the steps, faces alert after days of gloom. Clearly they'd heard that an arrest was imminent. Burns greeted me in the incident room, face drawn as he broke into a smile.

‘Heavy night?' I asked.

‘A late one, that's for sure. We kept Pietersen in a holding cell and arrested him on suspicion this morning, but we need more time. Another pint of blood was left outside the Institute for Biomedical Science in Kensington last night.'

‘So that rules Pietersen out?'

‘But not his wife. The surveillance guys lost her car when she went out last night. I'm about to arrest her. We've got a warrant for a full house search; Hancock's there now.'

I felt a twitch of sympathy. Imako Pietersen's immaculate home would be comprehensively turned over, even if she was innocent, crime scene officers ransacking every cupboard. For someone so house proud, it would be the ultimate punishment. I showed Burns the card that had been sent to Lisa Stuart, and heard him take a sharp breath.

‘The link to Pure keeps getting stronger.'

‘Have you got the membership list from Ian Passmore?'

‘He's given us eight hundred names, but there are more. We're chasing it up.'

I nodded in reply. ‘What's the news on Luke Mann and Clare's sister?'

‘Tania's handling it,' Burns said. ‘Pietersen's our top priority. I've been at the Health Ministry, grilling them about the advisors on the Tainted Blood enquiry, but they're not budging.'

‘Can I observe your interview with Imako?'

‘Feel free,' he replied. ‘I've made an appointment for you and Tania to see Ian Passmore later.'

Burns's body language was upbeat despite long days and blind alleys. He seemed to believe victory was near, but I felt less certain as we approached the interview room. I wondered how the leading light of Pure would react to another interview, but there was no time to speculate. Imako Pietersen was already being escorted through the door, a thunderous expression on her face. By contrast her solicitor was cheerful and avuncular, his paunch straining the buttons of his shirt, working hard to compensate for his client's gloom. Her eyes looked cold enough to freeze any surface within ten metres. She snapped out her first request before Burns had finished reading her rights.

‘I want to see my husband.'

‘That's not possible, I'm afraid,' he replied.

‘If he gets sick, you'll be to blame.'

‘Crimes have to be investigated, Mrs Pietersen. Your husband knows several of the victims, including his boss.'

‘My husband heals people. Why would he hurt anyone?'

Burns gazed at her steadily. ‘We asked for your whereabouts on the morning of Clare Riordan's abduction. No one can verify that you were at home; maybe you and your husband went to Clapham Common, picking up a car along the way.'

‘Ed went to work and I did housework. Is that so hard to believe?' Imako's voice was rising to a shout.

‘What did you do last night?'

‘I visited friends in Kensington; I didn't want to be alone. Neither of my kids live in London.'

‘You were told to stay at home. I'll need the time you left home and your friends' contact details.'

She scribbled words on the paper Burns pushed across the table. The impression she gave was of rigid self-control, too many emotions trapped inside her skin. Her unquestioning loyalty to her husband was a feature of most violent partnerships. Serial killers shared a sense of exclusion, pitting themselves against all-comers like Bonnie and Clyde. Maybe both of the Pietersens had felt overlooked. She had been a housewife in a foreign culture for two decades, and her husband's CV showed him switching jobs regularly, never progressing past the rank of deputy. It was easy to imagine them railing against the world's injustices over dinner. The only time Imako's softer side revealed itself was when she spoke of personal matters.

‘How long has your husband been ill?' I asked.

‘Years.' Her voice faltered. ‘From stress and overwork. He doesn't take care of himself.'

Burns leant closer, his arms resting on the table. ‘Mrs Pietersen, I'm afraid your husband's been charged with abducting Clare Riordan. I'm arresting you as his accessory.'

‘I don't believe it. You can't keep us here.'

Her solicitor made a hushing sound. ‘On what grounds?'

‘Primary evidence links Dr Pietersen to Clare Riordan's abduction. We know the abductor works with a female accomplice, and Mrs Pietersen has no confirmed alibi. She'll be taken to a holding cell then questioned again later.'

Imako gave us an outraged stare. ‘You'll regret this. I could sue you.'

‘Is there anything else you'd like to say?'

‘We've done nothing wrong.' Her voice was a shrill protest. ‘Plenty of people must hate Clare Riordan. She's the type to smile at you, then sleep with your husband.'

‘You think they were having an affair?' Burns asked.

‘Of course not, but I bet she tried.' Her voice cooled, as if she'd retreated behind a layer of ice.

Burns gave a low whistle after she'd been led away. ‘She's not crazy about Riordan, is she?'

Imako Pietersen's outburst fascinated me. When her control had finally ruptured, her true feelings were exposed; Clare Riordan had been a threat. Perhaps her cold fish husband had been drawn to her vibrancy, even though she'd stolen his dream job.

Burns strode away to update his detectives, but I peered out of the window at the red buses hurtling down St Pancras Way, like blood cells borne along the city's arteries. The Pietersens' intense feelings towards Clare Riordan could have mutated into violence, but why would they harm Adebayo and the previous victims? Professional jealousy seemed too weak a motive for so much bloodshed, and why would they appropriate Pure's logo? Burns seemed convinced that he'd found his culprits, but too many pieces of the puzzle were missing.

T
ania collected me at two o'clock. It was clear she was in no mood for small talk. She looked as stylish as ever, in a dark blue suit that must have cost a fortune, but her expression was weary. She donned a pair of sunglasses before we faced the press. The attempt at anonymity didn't work, journalists shouting questions until she raised her hand.

‘The briefing's at three o'clock, guys. Move aside, please.' Her strident East End voice parted the crowd like the Red Sea.

‘Impressive,' I commented as we reached my car.

‘Why take shit from that lot? They'd walk over your dying body for a story.'

‘Roger Fenton seems like an exception.' I caught sight of him as we drove away, patiently leaning against the railings, waiting for his scoop.

‘The tabloid sleazebags are the worst.' Her fingertips drummed on the wheel. ‘Passmore's been causing us grief. It says on Pure's website they've got over a thousand members, but he hasn't told us all the names. If he doesn't give us the rest today, he'll be arrested for withholding evidence.'

‘Where does he live?'

‘Cherry Garden Pier.'

The area was familiar terrain, only a stone's throw from my flat. Tania used the journey to discuss details. I got the sense that she was speaking more for her own benefit than mine, testing different angles and laying her doubts to rest. By the time we'd woven east through the city, I understood how hard Burns had been leaning on Pietersen since he'd been arrested, making him repeat his story, trying to fracture his alibis for the times of the abductions, and expose his wife's involvement. No doubt Imako's statement would be tested to destruction. So far there had been little progress on finding Clare's sister or her elusive boyfriend. Eleanor's car had vanished, and she hadn't been seen at work. Mann had left his property in the early hours of the morning carrying only a backpack. Neighbours had seen bailiffs outside his property, and thought that he'd been evading debt collectors. I was still trying to compare Clare's sister and Imako Pietersen as potential culprits when the car reached Shad Thames.

Ian Passmore's Victorian house was sandwiched between converted warehouses, so near the river it must have been worth a fortune. A tall woman with a sweep of long black hair greeted us. It was hard to guess her age, but she could have been anywhere between forty and fifty, strikingly beautiful,
with an oval face and smooth olive skin. If I'd had to guess her origins, I'd have said Native American. Her unflinching stance suggested that she'd be a tough opponent in an argument. Slim trousers and a fitted top accentuated her athletic build. A slow smile of welcome lit up her face.