Blood Symmetry (28 page)

T
he laboratory is colder than before. The man huddles on a stool, failing to keep warm; his fever's worse today, ice water chasing through his veins. The child lies hog-tied on the tiled floor, a hood over his face. His mother is too weak to stir, only her eyes fully alive. They burned like lasers when the boy's inert body was dragged through the door. Her shoulders jerk as she coughs against her gag. The woman told him not to give her water, but small acts of cruelty only make him feel worse. He picks up the bottle and releases the gag. Riordan's almost too weak to swallow, liquid splashing across her cheek.

‘Let him go, please.' She chokes out the words.

‘It's too late, Clare.'

Her voice is a low growl. ‘You evil bastard.'

The man jerks the gag back into place. Her eyes are darker now, dull brown instead of amber, tarnished by everything she's seen.

He settles on the stool again, scanning the room. The porcelain sink has stood in the corner since Victorian times. A hundred years ago, gaslight would have fallen on test tubes and specimen jars, the pallid faces of human guinea pigs. He shuts his eyes and imagines the sufferers, too weak to fight for their lives.

The room is prepared for the last punishment, drip line suspended from a metal stand. Mother and son will lie side by side, her blood flowing into his arm. If their blood types are
incompatible, the child will die in agony. First his lungs will fail, then his heart. The man rubs his hand across his face. He understands now that their campaign will achieve nothing. Even though doctors like Clare Riordan caused his illness, he lacks the strength to witness more suffering. The sky outside the frosted windows is absurdly celebratory, pulsing with red, silver and gold. Only his loyalty keeps him there, waiting for the woman to return.

R
ain fell as we scoured the neighbourhood. Hussein was still following me doggedly, even though he was soaked to the skin. My hopes faded as I scanned the recreation ground at the end of Alvey Street. Inside the park's neat privet hedges, three homeless men were huddled under a tree, passing a bottle to keep warm. Lights burned in the houses nearby, families keeping warm in front of the TV, instead of braving the rain to watch the Guy Fawkes display. Mikey was galaxies away from such ordinary pleasures, and it struck me again that he might already be dead, the killers grabbing the prize they'd been chasing from day one. The most devastating fact was that there was nothing I could do.

Burns finally called back at nine p.m., voices grumbling in the background. ‘Where the hell are you?'

‘Walworth, doing a street search.'

‘You should be here.' He let out an exasperated sigh. ‘The commissioner needs briefing.'

‘Give me one more hour.'

His tone sharpened. ‘Are you listening? You're wanted at the station, pronto.'

‘Tough. Only Christine gives me orders.'

Hussein smirked as I hit the mute button, the snappy exchange certain to fuel fresh gossip. My phone vibrated in my pocket again: Burns would be leaving an irate message, but I didn't care. Stopping my search would feel negligent,
even if I was proved wrong. We had half a dozen more streets to check before I could call it quits. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, pavements slick with litter and fallen leaves.

‘Let's take a look at that church,' I said.

The Baptist chapel ahead had seen better days. The oak door was so dented it looked like someone had tried to kick it down, each blow more forceful than the last. Hussein disappeared to check the grounds and I peered through the window at orderly rows of pews, a simple altar and pulpit. I was still standing there when a shout went up. The sound made me break into a jog, torchlight leading me to where Hussein lay sprawled on the asphalt.

‘Don't try to move. What happened?'

‘I slipped, banged my head.' His voice was groggy, a shallow gash on his forehead.

‘You'll live.' His injury reminded me that the chase might be pointless, my urge to find Mikey producing nothing except a headache for my new colleague. ‘Can you walk to the car?'

‘Of course.' He swayed drunkenly, then steadied himself.

When we reached Portland Street I paused by a streetlamp to study the map again. We'd checked all the streets linking with Walworth Road, but found nowhere suitable for a hiding place. Maybe I'd been wrong all along. The killers were holding him in a lock-up or a cellar, the location unconnected to the theme of blood. I had just helped Hussein into the car when my eyes caught on a passageway we'd missed. He rolled down the window when I tapped the glass.

‘There's one more alley to check.'

Hussein gave a quiet groan as he lurched from the car. We passed a sign advertising artists' studios, but it was hard to imagine people tapping into their creativity at the end of a dank alley. I was about to turn back when something loomed out of the darkness. An old man stood directly ahead,
clutching a broom. He must have been seventy at least, thin and slightly stooped in his waterproof coat, his gaze as inquisitive as a child's. I did my best to return his smile.

‘You gave me a fright,' he said.

‘Sorry. We're looking for old buildings in the area.'

‘At this time of night?'

‘It's a long story. We work for the police,' I said, flashing my ID card.

His eyebrows rose. ‘Most went in the slum clearances, but the place where I work's Victorian.' He pointed at the end of alley. ‘It's down there.'

‘Can we take a look?'

The old man gave a nod of agreement, his pronounced limp slowing our progress across ground that reeked of urine and spilled beer. His name turned out to be Stanley Moorfield – a Walworth native, born and bred.

‘It's listed, so no developer wants it. They'd need a fortune to do it up.'

‘And you keep an eye on the building?'

‘Each morning and last thing at night. I clean up and do repairs.'

The old man hit a light switch and a square two-storey building appeared in front of us. Its name was carved into the stone lintel above the door: The Health Laboratories. The place looked solid as a Gothic fortress, towers at each of its four corners. An odd chill travelled across the back of my neck. It was just like the structure Mikey had built from cardboard and glue, but how could he have seen it?

‘What was it used for?'

‘Experiments, I think, testing vaccines for the government.'

A faint light shone from the back of the building. ‘Is anyone using it now?'

‘Just one bloke since the heating broke down. He rents a double unit at the back. I can't remember his name; he and his wife are photographers.'

‘Have you spoken to them?'

‘They're not the friendly type. He's put a lock on the door so I can't go in and sweep up.'

Hussein was starting to look bored. ‘Shouldn't we get back?'

I shook my head firmly. ‘Not till we've seen inside.'

The old man seemed pleased. ‘I'll show you the entrance hall, if you like.'

‘Do the windows open, Stanley?'

‘Not any more. The ones at the back are barred; we had a break-in last year.'

‘Do you know much about the couple who're renting?'

‘Nothing, except they often work late.'

There were broken tiles on the floor of the entrance hall and wood panels splintering from the walls. But it was the smell that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. It was like the Old Operating Theatre, a faint reek of antiseptic combined with the bitterness of chloroform.

‘Call the Armed Response Unit,' I told Hussein quietly as Stanley walked ahead.

‘What?'

‘Just do it,' I hissed. ‘Then block the fire exits outside. Make sure no one escapes.'

The old man hadn't heard our exchange. Hussein was already heading away, muttering into his radio. At the end of the corridor, light seeped from below a locked door. There were no other sounds apart from the old man's murmur as he played tour guide.

‘Go home now, Stanley. The police will arrive soon; there's going to be a lot of noise.'

‘The owners won't like it if I don't clean up.'

‘Don't worry, I'll take the blame.'

Luckily he didn't argue, limping back down the dark alley, sheltered under his umbrella. I waited for the armed unit with mixed feelings. I could be about to disturb a photographer at work, or to find Mikey. Thank God the windows were sealed. If the killers were closeted inside, their only exit would be via the front door.

My call to Angie got no reply; she was probably at the commissioner's briefing with the rest of the team. But two anonymous grey vans had already arrived. The sergeant's vicious crew cut would have suited a marine, his calm, grey-eyed stare at odds with the weapons strapped across his chest. He listened to my explanation, then issued a string of curt orders before escorting me and Hussein outside.

‘Stay in your vehicle,' he said. ‘Don't move till we give the all clear.'

Hussein wouldn't stop babbling. Concussion or an overload of excitement seemed to be getting to him. My muscles felt like they'd been pulled taut. Cascades of silver and gold were still showering the horizon. If I was wrong, ten highly skilled officers would have wasted their time, and the blame would fall on me. When I scanned the street again an ambulance was arriving, reminding me that a third of armed call-outs ended in bloodshed. A second later there was a loud blast, then a stutter of gunfire, followed by a deafening silence. My hands clutched into fists. Instinct told me to run into the building, but armed officers would only haul me out again.

Things happened fast after that. One of the men in bulletproof gear told us that victims had been found. I didn't stop to ask whether they were dead or alive before dashing down the corridor behind the paramedics. The door at the end of the corridor had burst from its hinges. The woman strapped to a chair had to be Clare Riordan, bruises littering her neck,
wrists chafed raw by leather cuffs. Her face was so bone white that I thought she was dead, until her eyes blinked open. One of the ambulance crew was already leaning down to untie her restraints. Relief surged through me when I saw Mikey lying on the floor. I was determined not to cry as I undid his gag. When the cotton fell away, his raw howl echoed from the walls, so loud and heart-rending it sounded as if he was releasing all the pent-up fear he'd bottled for weeks.

‘You're safe now, sweetheart.'

He clung to me as his mother was stretchered away. It was only after they were both in the ambulance that I noticed my surroundings again. Maybe it was shock that made the air taste bitter, each mouthful loaded with chemicals. An elaborate system of ropes and pulleys dangled from the ceiling, ties and buckles to hold the victims in place. A table by the wall carried transfusion bags, syringes and phials of unidentified fluids. I pulled on sterile gloves and opened the fridge in the corner. Two blood packs full of red liquid lay on a shelf, neatly printed with Riordan's name. My stomach tightened with nausea as I scanned the white walls and scrubbed tiles. The place was as clean and orderly as a dentist's surgery, yet it had been a torture chamber. Suddenly my head swum with the reality that Mikey might never have been found.

All I could do was sit on the concrete step outside with my head between my knees, waiting for the dizziness to clear. When I straightened up again, Hussein stood in front of me, a euphoric look on his face, as if he'd already been promoted.

‘They're holding the bloke in the van. Do you want to see him?'

‘Who is it?'

‘He's not talking. No ID on him either.'

I stood up too quickly, the ground shifting below my feet, but curiosity dragged me back towards the van. Gary Lennard
came to mind first; few people had suffered more because of tainted blood. Maybe he'd exaggerated his illness to throw us off track? My head felt woozy again, shock and exhaustion catching up with me as I struggled to put one foot in front of the other.

T
he woman's panic rises as she reaches Portland Street. Three squad cars sit at the mouth of the alley, blue lights flashing as she drives past, her hands shaking on the wheel. She parks two blocks away and walks back slowly, hiding between buildings; he may still be in the laboratory, facing a barrage of questions. Anger floods her system. Her main regret is not killing the boy when she had the chance. Drizzle mists her face as she stands there watching.

When she lowers herself back into the driver's seat, her power has vanished. The idea of returning home to wait for the knock on her door is horrifying, but there's no point in running, with no one to help her escape. She takes the gun from her pocket and places its cold muzzle against her lips, tastes the steel with her tongue, but her finger refuses to pull the trigger. The gun falls back into her lap as she stares blank-eyed through the window.

T
ania arrived while I was preparing myself to look inside the van. For a second I thought she might hug me, but she converted the gesture into a pat on my arm.

‘Maybe shrinks have a purpose after all.'

‘High praise, Tania. I don't know who he is yet.'

‘Are you up to seeing him?'

‘Just about. Let's do it.'

My legs still felt unsteady as we approached the vehicle, its doors firmly closed. When one of the officers unlocked it, a man was hunched inside the metal cage, handcuffs round his wrists. Shock hit me when his gaunt face came into view. Simon Thorpe's skin was paler than before against the dense black of his hair; he looked exhausted, dark grey circles under his eyes.

‘Where's your wife, Simon?' I asked.

No answer arrived; his face was expressionless. I watched in disbelief as he turned his face away. The man who had killed four medics and spent weeks torturing another was a qualified psychotherapist, and one of Clare Riordan's closest friends.

Tania answered a string of calls on her radio as we drove to the station. It sounded like Burns was suppressing the news that Riordan had been found until Denise Thorpe was arrested. I gazed out of the car window at the night-time streets, too numb to feel anything but relief.

Someone placed a cup of coffee in my hands in the incident room and my curiosity revived. There was no sign of Burns in the hubbub, my head full of unanswered questions. Why would the Thorpes set out to harm a child they had both professed to love? I still couldn't see a motive, apart from the fact that they were both frustrated medics. Maybe they had felt locked out of their chosen profession, united by bitter resentment. But that didn't explain the elaborate staging, their fascination with the history of blood treatments, or the fact that nurses at Denise's mother's care home had seen them both at the time of Clare's abduction. I was finishing the dregs of my coffee when Angie appeared. Her greeting was the opposite of Tania's restraint. She threw her arms round my neck, bellowing congratulations. The station was erupting with the news that the case was closed, jubilant faces looming at me. The atmosphere was so giddy, it felt as if lead weights had been lifted from the roof. Angie led me to Burns's door, then gave me a gentle shove before anyone else could shake my hand. I forgot my rules about distance at work and walked straight into his arms. I could have stayed there hours, but he eased back, his lopsided smile widening.

‘You'll give me another heart attack at this rate,' he said.

‘That's not my plan.'

‘The tabloids all want a piece of you. Our phone lines are crashing.'

‘Tell them to get lost.'

‘That's my girl.' Burns gave a shaky laugh. ‘A car's waiting for us outside.'

‘I need to assess Thorpe first.'

‘Not till tomorrow. His wife's cool as a cucumber, which is surprising given what she's done.'

I stared up at him. ‘Let me interview her now.'

‘Switch off, Alice. No solicitor's going to work at midnight, even for a case like this.'

I listened as he explained that Clare was in intensive care, high fever and a cocktail of drugs placing her in danger. Mikey had been taken back to the flat in Shadwell to rest. I thought about him as we left Burns's office; his ordeal had been terrifying, from being dragged into Thorpe's car again, to seeing his mother at death's door. I fought my urge to rush to the apartment to check on him. With luck he'd be asleep, and I could see him in the morning. The last face I saw as we headed for the exit belonged to Denise Thorpe, being taken to the holding cells, face blank with shock. Maybe she had believed they could hurt people indefinitely, shielded by middle-class respectability. There was something chilling about her anonymous appearance, which would allow her to walk down any street unnoticed. I ignored the flashbulbs as we trotted down the steps, unable to wipe her from my mind.

Back at the flat I was still jittering with pent-up adrenalin. Burns stood in the kitchen, facing me.

‘Need a drink?'

‘Apple juice please.' The cloying taste of the laboratory's atmosphere was still in my mouth, sour with chemicals.

‘How in God's name did you find him, Alice?' Burns pressed the glass into my hand.

‘Listening skills, logic, and mapping software.'

‘You took one hell of a risk.' His shoulders tensed. ‘And you were wrong about the line of command. While you're my consultant, I'm in charge. I could fire you for insubordination.'

‘Are you too macho to apologise?'

He shook his head. ‘Tell me what happened.'

‘Mikey's clues matched my location analysis. He knew his mum was somewhere in Walworth, and I thought the killers
were so obsessed by blood history that they'd choose a symbolic building. I was wide of the mark; I thought it would be another old church after the previous two sites.'

‘Angie's lot checked out the history of the Health Laboratories. It's pretty dark; the MoD used them to test nerve agents on soldiers in the Thirties. Fifteen men died of blood poisoning, but they kept it hushed up for decades.'

‘How would the Thorpes know?'

He shrugged. ‘From local history websites, like us, probably.'

‘It's their motive I don't get. Serial killers normally fall into three categories: sexual predators, psychopaths or sadists. Simon and Denise were getting even for a past injustice, but the reason's not clear. One of them could be seriously ill.'

‘Just be glad they're off the streets.' Burns hooked his arm round my shoulders, then held out his phone. ‘Take a look at this.'

A large building appeared on the screen, stone bleached pale by intense sunlight. Each room was more sumptuous than the last; the roof terrace had a turquoise swimming pool, surrounded by sun loungers and parasols. ‘It looks amazing.'

‘It's a five-star hotel in Tangiers. We can fly there on Friday for a week if I hit send.'

I reached out and tapped the button for him, to end the debate.

We talked nineteen to the dozen, debating theories about the Thorpes' case. At four in the morning I passed out against his shoulder, still fully dressed.