Blood Symmetry (30 page)

I
'd been working for hours by the time Burns joined me for breakfast, pages from my profile report scattered across his kitchen table.

‘You never quit, do you?'

‘I'm certain Denise Thorpe's innocent, Don.'

He took a swig from my coffee mug. ‘What makes you so sure?'

‘It could be any of her husband's female clients. You should be checking the case notes on his computer.'

He cast me a long-suffering look. ‘People don't always confess, Alice. Maybe he forced her to help; she feels guilty about the effect on her daughter. In her shoes I'd play innocent too.'

‘Why not look at other suspects?'

‘Like who?' His eyes narrowed. ‘We've covered every avenue.'

‘Thorpe might know someone affected by the tainted blood scandal.'

Burns's face was deadpan as he put on his coat; there was no way to guess whether he would follow my suggestion. ‘What are you up to today?'

‘Visiting the hospital with Mikey at midday.'

‘I'll meet you there. When Riordan comes round, we'll check her story.'

He made a swift exit, leaving me convinced that I was the only person questioning Denise Thorpe's involvement.

I travelled to the Royal Free at ten o'clock, hoping that revisiting Clare Riordan's haunts a final time might reveal the identity of the second killer, but aware that I might be clutching at straws. The hospital still looked like a grand architectural mistake, a drab hunk of concrete wreathed in traffic fumes. Patients were queuing in the haematology department as I waited for the receptionist to unlock Riordan's office. I saw one of them disappear through Dr Novak's half-open door as Brenda Madison turned to me. She looked even more flamboyant than the first time we'd met: lacquered nails long as talons, hair a startling traffic-light red. She smiled widely as she reported how thrilled everyone was that Clare had been found, then offered me a cup of tea.

‘I'll be back in two ticks. Make yourself at home.'

Riordan's consulting room was still in disarray; the same Post-it notes stuck on her jotter, reminding her to book holiday flights, a pair of running shoes hidden in a drawer. The overall picture was of someone who raced through life without looking back. Maybe she had travelled forwards so heedlessly she didn't notice all the people she'd trodden on, including her best friend. I carried on sifting Riordan's papers, hoping for a missed clue about the woman who'd abducted her. It still seemed hard to believe that she was clinging to life in the ICU three floors above. A sound disturbed me as I finished thumbing through the list. The receptionist stood there looking apologetic, offering me a cup of tea.

‘Sorry it took ages. The phone wouldn't stop ringing.'

I smiled at her. ‘Can I ask a few questions, Brenda? You must see everything on the front desk.'

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I've been here donkeys' years. Not much gets past me.'

‘Do patients ever complain?'

‘Not often; it's the carers who sometimes lose the plot.'

‘Women as well as men?'

‘A few months ago this lady made a real scene. Michelle De Santis – she was shouting about not getting enough help. She'd been caring for someone at home, doing all his injections. The poor thing must be in an even worse state now.'

‘Why?'

She blinked rapidly. ‘Her bloke died last night. Apparently she was with him at the end.'

‘That's sad.' I felt a rush of sympathy, remembering Gary Lennard staring out at his Oriental garden, dreaming of summer.

‘Dr Novak visited him every week after the complaint.' Her face softened. ‘Most of the others wouldn't bother. Maybe it's because she went through it herself.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘She told me her dad died of a blood virus. Maybe that's why she's so kind to her patients.'

The receptionist's comments stayed with me after she left. I thought about Gary Lennard, his ex-wife's terror of losing him, and Adele Novak's determination to offer him first-rate care. Tania's response was frosty when I called to suggest that De Santis should be monitored. Michelle had reason to hate the people responsible for her ex-husband's illness, and Gary had been one of Clare's patients in the past, but Tania's long silence made it clear that she considered the case closed.

Adele Novak's door was open when I left Clare's office. She was on her feet, listening intently to a patient, white coat buttoned to her throat. The doctor lifted her head when she saw me, gaze sharpening, as though she had something urgent to say. But Mikey was due to arrive in reception any minute, so I raised my hand in recognition before hurrying away.

Angie had sent a text warning me that Clare Riordan's condition was no better, and it struck me that it would be the
cruellest irony if she died without being properly reunited with her son. Mikey's jubilant smile revealed his certainty his mum would recover, a bunch of yellow roses clutched in his hands as the psychiatric nurse left him with me. My concern increased as we crossed the hospital campus. I had an odd sensation that we were being watched, though there was no one nearby apart from a gaggle of nurses laughing at each other's jokes. I gazed at the windows of the tower, but sunlight reflected too brightly from the glass to tell whether someone was looking down at us.

My anxiety doubled when we reached intensive care. The high-dependency suite was empty, a gurney standing in the corridor outside. I mustered a smile for Mikey when we stopped by the nursing station.

‘Wait here, sunshine. I'll be two minutes.'

The nurse gave me a blank look when she heard Clare Riordan's name, hurrying away to fetch a doctor. My heart was beating a nervous tattoo when the medic finally appeared: a middle-aged Indian woman, long hair woven into a plait. She studied me through thick horn-rimmed glasses before her face relaxed into a smile.

‘Clare's a bit stronger today. She's not fully conscious, but her fever's down; you'll find her in the recovery suite. We'll talk again after your visit.'

I thanked her before turning away. A transfer to recovery didn't put Riordan out of the woods, but it increased her odds. If she could survive without intensive nursing she stood a better chance. Mikey was where I'd left him, hugging his flowers as one of the nurses tried to coax him into talking. His mother was sleeping peacefully, but her appearance was worse than I remembered. She was skin and bone, a stubble of grey hair covering her scalp, deep bruises littering her face. It was hard to believe this was the woman I'd spent the last three
weeks obsessing over; full of complexities, her strong personality affecting everyone she knew. Puncture marks from wide needle injections were still visible on her shoulders and arms, but that didn't stop Mikey from making a beeline for her. A stab of jealousy arrived out of nowhere when he reached for her hand, then whispered a string of words only she could hear. It was an intimacy I couldn't hope to understand. Seeing his mother again had opened the floodgates for Mikey. He was so focused on her sleeping face that a bomb could have detonated nearby without catching his attention. It finally dawned on me that if his mother survived, he would forget about me, and in time I would forget him too. We'd only bonded so quickly because of the danger we'd faced. But that didn't explain the sense of loss that hit me when I thought about losing him. It was sharp as a body blow, forcing me to step outside to catch my breath.

The medic I'd spoken to before was waiting in the corridor. She had that aura of unnatural calm that comes from hauling patients back from the brink every day. She explained that Riordan was being treated with anti-viral drugs and antibiotics to increase her chances. The doctor had moved on to the next room by the time Burns and Pete Hancock appeared.

‘How is she?' Don asked.

‘Better, but not fully conscious.' I turned to Pete. ‘You can buy me that coffee at last.'

‘Why do you drink that filth?' Hancock rolled his eyes. ‘I might. If you give me the diary.'

‘Much good it did me.'

Burns's phone rang loudly as I fished it from my bag. ‘It'll be the
Mail
, Alice. You're front-page news.'

‘God help me. I should get back to Mikey.'

‘We'll get you a coffee from somewhere.'

‘What's wrong with a nice glass of water?' Pete muttered.

I watched them stroll towards a drinks machine, arguing about their choice of beverage. When I turned back, Adele Novak had appeared at the other end of the corridor. For a second I wondered if she had a question about the case, although she was more likely to be seeking reassurance that her boss was recovering. I walked towards her, but the look she gave me was impatient.

‘I need to see Clare.'

‘She's not conscious yet. You might want to come back later.'

Her gaze was trance-like. ‘Are you trying to stop me?'

‘Is something wrong, Adele?'

‘Get out of my way.'

When her hand dropped to her pocket, the scene spun into slow motion. In a split second I understood her passionate work ethic, her father affected by tainted blood, all those house calls to the dying. I screamed for help, then heard Burns's heavy footsteps thundering down the corridor.

‘Get down!' I shouted the words at the top of my voice.

There was a blur of movement, then Adele's eyes held mine, charcoal dark, completely focused. I didn't feel any pain, even though the gun's blast echoed from the walls, blood pooling at my feet. Nurses scattered from view, then I saw Novak's hand jerk upwards as another shot rang out. A bloodstain marked her white coat, more bullets ploughing into the ceiling. When I looked back, Hancock was leaning against Clare's door, eyes losing focus as his legs buckled. Burns had shunted Novak against the wall, her gun clattering to the floor. I knelt beside Pete to use my jacket as a pressure pad on his chest wound, but it was a losing battle. Blood soaked through the fabric, welling between my fingers.

‘You stopped her, Pete. Pretty brave, for a scientist.' The terror on his face was slowly turning into acceptance. ‘Don't you dare. Come on, talk to me.'

The red circle spilling from his body kept on expanding. I was so focused on keeping him alive that the shouting and footsteps fell silent; all I could hear was the hiss of his breathing.

‘My wife,' he murmured. ‘Lizzie.'

‘She's coming. You'll be okay, Pete.'

Someone pulled me away. Two doctors were jamming a line into his arm, an oxygen mask over his face. Then he was on a gurney, wheels racing into the distance. My vision blurred then cleared again. I made the mistake of glancing at the blood on my hands, and the ground rocked up to greet me. I didn't lose consciousness completely, aware of Burns's voice rasping out a string of swearwords. When I came round, someone had put me in the recovery position, my cheek cold against the lino; Don's face loomed over me, his grip on my shoulder tight enough to hurt. I insisted on getting to my feet, head still spinning, desperate to check on Mikey. But when I peered through the observation window, he was in the same position as before, still clutching his mother's hand. I wondered why he was smiling, until I saw that his voice had worked its magic. Clare had finally woken up, her eyes trained on his face as if she couldn't bear to look away.

T
he doctors wanted me to rest in a treatment room in case of concussion, but I had to see Adele Novak. I leant against the wall of the lift, feeling worse as the floors ticked by.

‘And you call me macho,' Burns muttered.

‘I fainted, that's all. I'm perfectly fine.'

‘So why are you shaking?'

The image of Hancock lying at my feet was lodged in my head. He'd been rushed to theatre to have a bullet removed from his collapsed lung.

‘I need to know why,' I insisted. ‘Then I can rest.'

Novak was in an isolation room, guarded by a couple of uniforms. She was handcuffed to the metal bedframe, bandages taped to her wounded shoulder. The manic glint had left her eyes, her short hair and thin frame making her look as vulnerable as a child. Pain throbbed at the base of my skull as I sat down, but that didn't matter. I wondered how long her defences would hold out. Silence is always the most powerful trick in a psychologist's book; used to good effect, it can crack even the hardest nut.

She kept her eyes on the window when she finally spoke. ‘I did it for the victims.'

‘Of tainted blood?'

‘Many of them are already dead.' Her voice was a low monotone.

‘You father was a victim, wasn't he? You must have been young when you lost him.'

‘Ten years old. He was a haemophiliac, like all the rest. My mother fell apart after he died.'

‘I'm sorry.'

A burst of hatred crossed her face. ‘Your kind are the worst. You apologise, but do nothing.'

‘Why did you become a doctor?'

‘To help the victims, of course. No one else cares.'

‘But you killed people, Adele.'

‘Just the ones who deserved to die. People with blood illnesses have been experimented on all their lives; the scales are balanced now.' She seemed calm again, satisfied by her actions.

‘How did you meet Simon?'

‘I went to him for counselling. The grief never goes away.' She shut her eyes.

‘That's how you found out he'd received infected blood too?'

She kept her gaze fixed to the wall. ‘Only a liver transplant could save him now.'

‘You fell in love?'

‘He's too gentle. He lost faith in the end.' Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I wanted them all. We should have taken the health minister too.'

‘Do you feel any regret?'

There was no hesitation before she shook her head. ‘Simon helped me plan each stage, but he didn't hurt any of them. It took me days to force the names out of Riordan.'

Her expression was chilling: pride mixed with elation. She would have tortured her victims all over again, given the chance. The shrink in me was fascinated to find out the exact factors that had made her ill, but Burns brought the interview to a close then escorted me from the room. He bullied me into getting a CAT scan, which revealed nothing more than a soft tissue swelling above my left temple.

We were leaving the hospital when the news came about Hancock. Burns's expression changed as he listened to the phone message.

‘He's out of theatre,' he said. ‘The operation went well.'

‘Want to see him?'

‘Tomorrow. His family's with him now.'

We didn't say much on the drive back to his flat, mute with tiredness and relief. I was still piecing together the reasons for so much human damage. Adele Novak's affair with Simon Thorpe had begun a chain reaction a year ago, but I wanted to know why violence had ignited between them like a struck match. I had suspected so many innocent bystanders; people like Roger Fenton and Emma Selby, who had only been offering me help. I made a mental note to call Emma as I'd promised, and give Fenton his in-depth interview. One more piece of the puzzle clicked into place. ‘Another' in Thorpe's diary must have been shorthand for A. Novak, the first letters of her name buried in the word, in case his wife happened to look inside. The car eased through traffic on Southwark Bridge Road, autumn leaves turning to paste in the gutter. It would be a relief to get back to the FPU and give my job the attention it deserved. I pulled out my phone to call Christine, listened to the relief in her voice when she heard that the case was solved.

I felt a pang of homesickness for my clean white rooms when we got back to Burns's flat, but maybe it would always be like that: the loner in me fighting the part that longed for his company.

‘She won't even go to jail,' he said. ‘She'll end up at Broadmoor.'

‘Not necessarily – she may be perfectly sane. Adele thinks the murders were justified revenge. Falling for someone in the same position as her father triggered all that childhood grief.
I'll assess her tomorrow, then write my recommendation for the court.'

Don raised his hands. ‘Right now I don't care how sick she is. I want her banged up permanently.'

‘That's a balanced view, DCI Burns.'

‘Maybe I should quit my job. We could run a pub instead.'

‘You'd be bored senseless.'

‘Not at all. I'd choose a quiet inn, close to the sea.'

I looked at him steadily. ‘I love you, by the way.'

His eyes blinked wider. ‘Run that by me again?'

‘You heard.'

‘At long last. How do you feel?'

‘Shocked, but relieved.'

The smile on his face expanded by another centimetre. When I returned with two glasses of Merlot, he raised a toast. ‘To Morocco. If Pete's okay, we're going there before another case hits my desk.'

I kissed him, then headed for the shower. My outfit would have to be thrown away, dark brown blood staining my trousers and the cuffs of my cotton shirt. I scoured myself clean until my skin felt polished. Once I was dressed in fresh jeans and a silk jumper I felt human again. Burns was asleep on his outsized sofa, phone buzzing on the coffee table. I covered it with a cushion to silence the noise. He'd drained his glass of wine, but mine was untouched. The sight of it suddenly made me feel nauseous. It reminded me of the garnet-coloured blood pooling on the floor that afternoon, far too much of the precious substance spilled in the last few weeks. I watched it swirl down the plughole in the kitchen sink, then drank a glass of water slowly, feeling my stomach settle.

Burns was still out for the count. I slipped off his shoes then studied him again, heavy and immovable as a carthorse. Even in sleep, the set of his jaw made him look incapable of backing
down, but for once I was too tired to worry about the future. I settled myself beside him, my back cradled against his chest. My last thought was for Mikey, sprinting away to find his mother, the tie between us loosening until he became a speck in the distance. When I fell asleep, no bad dreams disturbed me, my mind wiped clean.