Blood Symmetry (5 page)

‘Why not?'

‘Bleach in cleaning fluid destroys everything except the genetic profile.'

When I left at two o'clock, Hancock accompanied me to the door, spectral in his white suit as I looked back at the house. Uniformed police were still guarding the copse where Clare Riordan and her son had last been seen. The consultant appeared in my mind again on the drive to King's Cross. She might still be alive, her blood being harvested for reasons unknown. But why would her abductor take her home, then scour the place before removing her body? I gazed through the windscreen. Fallen leaves lay piled on the road; thick daubs of red, staining the tarmac like clots of blood.

T
he police station on St Pancras Way was thronging with uniforms and detectives when I arrived, the air buzzing with energy. Violence had quickened everyone's pulse. For months the humdrum work of crime prevention ticked along, then once or twice a year an abduction or murder case fractured the routine. I could sense the anticipation as the team prepared to raise their game.

Burns was too busy to notice me. He stood by the bank of windows in the incident room, favouring everyone with the same intent stare, his hulking stature giving him a natural advantage. Stress made me fidget, but he grew impassive as a statue, his physical energy locked away. His face had a battered intensity, more like a football manager's before a big match than a detective's. Despite his role as SIO in charge of a huge team, there seemed to be an understanding that anyone could ask a valid question. Officers circled him, all waiting their turn. I made myself look away and focus on the job in hand.

Around thirty detectives and SOCOs had arrived for the overview. Two poster-sized photos of Clare Riordan were tacked to the evidence board. One showed a slender, well-preserved brunette, giving the camera a professional smile. The other image was much more candid. She sat on a sunlit beach in shorts and a sun top looking preoccupied, as if she was fretting about something outside her control. Mikey was sharing her beach towel, beaming at the camera. The boy
looked nothing like the hollow-eyed waif trapped in the safe house, too burdened by terror to make a sound.

Burns called the meeting to order simply by raising his hand. ‘The Riordan case has been allocated to us because we've got the city's best murder conviction rate. We'll be working with officers from Clapham, but it's too soon to forecast whether Clare Riordan's dead or alive. She's an NHS consultant, at the top of her professional game. Her superiors say she's an outstanding department leader, with an impeccable record. What happened the morning she went missing is harder to pin down. A reliable witness saw her and her son run into a copse three days ago on Clapham Common. The same man saw a blue hatchback car pull out of the copse minutes later, around seven fifteen a.m.; it looked like a parks vehicle, with flashing across the bonnet. We think Clare was abducted by the driver of that car. Mikey Riordan was found wandering down Walworth Road that afternoon in a confused state. His mother may be being held hostage, the kidnappers waiting to make contact. So far the only signs that she's been treated violently are a large bloodstain on her kitchen floor, and her blood being left outside an office block on Bishopsgate. I'll hand over to DI Tania Goddard now – she'll be running the operational work, with help from DS Angie Wilcox.'

I studied Tania's appearance when she rose to her feet. Burns's deputy was showing no sign of the physical injuries she'd suffered three months before, after almost drowning in the Thames. Despite a week in hospital, her glamour had survived intact. Her short black hair fell in glossy waves across her forehead, French navy dress accentuating hourglass curves. To the untrained eye she looked invincible, but I wondered how she was faring mentally. She prided herself on being a tough East Ender, but another murder investigation must feel challenging so soon after her own ordeal.

‘The pint of blood was left in a hospital-issue transfusion pack. They're not hard to find: wholesalers sell them to care homes, health centres and hospitals. This one carried a printed label with her name on it. It was wrapped in brown paper, no fingerprints.' She pointed at an enlarged photo on the evidence board. It showed a transparent bag filled with dark red liquid. ‘Whoever we're looking for knows how to extract blood, so we could be looking for someone with a medical background, but it's not hard to learn. There are plenty of training clips on the Internet that show health staff how to tie tourniquets and hit the right vein. You don't need to be a trained nurse to take a sample.'

I thought about my first attempts with a phlebotomy needle at medical school. Calming the patient had required far more concentration than inserting the needle, but whoever had taken Clare Riordan wouldn't care about bedside manner.

She switched off the projector. ‘Riordan's life seems to focus on her son. We need to identify every call made to her mobile and landline. Investigation teams will carry on interviewing neighbours, friends, colleagues and patients. She's widowed, with few close relatives. Her mother died last year and she's fighting a lawsuit against her sister over property. We need to find everyone who's crossed her path.' Tania's cool gaze skimmed the room as she passed the meeting back to Burns.

‘Make sure every public statement goes through me, or the tabloids'll be running vampire stories for months.' His low voice boomed from the walls. ‘Right now, Clare's son is our only witness. Dr Alice Quentin from the FPU will be profiling the abductor for us, and working with the child.' He gestured for me to stand.

Some old-timers smirked when I rose to my feet, as if my opinions were bound to be hokum, but the tide was turning. In the tribal world of the Met I'd won major points that
summer by helping to catch a serial killer on the banks of the Thames and bringing one of their team home alive. ‘Mikey Riordan turned eleven last month. He's small for his age, vulnerable and close to his mother. The boy lost his dad when he was five, and he's suffering from a condition called elective muteness, brought on by trauma. He can't speak, and any more stress could damage him permanently. I'll be helping him find the confidence to tell us what he saw. It's too early to profile the killer, but right now his personality seems to be divided. He's cool enough to plan a complex abduction and leave coded messages, yet he's also a violent risk-taker, prepared to walk through city streets carrying a pack full of his victim's blood.'

When he took over again, it struck me that Burns could act any part he chose. At work his behaviour was macho, the heft of his shoulders making his toughest colleagues believe he was unassailable. But at home chaos reigned; he could sit for hours scribbling in his sketchbook, his voice a quiet Scottish burr.

I waited for a flurry of people to finish bombarding him with questions, then joined him in his office. Once I was inside he pressed his back against the door, as though someone might try to batter it down.

‘The case is the top story on News Unlimited; they're gagging for information,' he said.

‘Riordan may not be as perfect as they think. Her neighbour reckons she was in a bad relationship; she heard her rowing with a man in the back garden.'

His expression brightened. ‘That's interesting. She was single by all accounts; I'll get it checked out.'

‘How's it going here?'

‘Too slowly. We're doing house-to-house all over the neighbourhood. There's no evidence she was being watched, and no reports of anyone hanging around her house or car.'

‘Hancock hasn't found much apart from the bloodstain.'

His jaw dropped. ‘Pete spoke to you?'

‘Miracles do happen. I'd better go, I'm having pizza with Mikey Riordan.'

‘That'll work. Small boys love bribes.'

‘Just like big ones,' I said, nodding. ‘When can I meet Riordan's sister?'

‘Why? Her alibi's solid.'

‘She can tell me about Mikey. Any insight could help me unlock what he knows.'

‘I'll set up a meeting.' He frowned as I backed towards the door. ‘Are you coming round later?'

‘I'm seeing Lola. Better leave it till the weekend.'

‘That's a long wait.'

I said goodbye before he could argue. My only hope of keeping my head above water was to separate personal and professional feelings until the case was closed.

I
exchanged a box containing two family-sized pizzas for a grateful smile from Gurpreet when I reached the safe house.

‘This should cheer Mikey up. It took forever to get him out of his room this morning,' he said.

‘He's bound to be scared at first.'

‘He's been drawing on that pad you gave him.'

‘Much eye contact?'

‘Just a few scowls. I don't want to push him too hard.'

‘That's good, if we rush him, he'll panic.'

Mikey was curled on the sofa, birdlike hands clutching his knees, watching a rerun of
The Tomorrow People
. He made a show of ignoring me. I smiled at him then sat on the floor in the same position as before.

‘Do you feel like talking today?' He hunched his shoulders more tightly round his ears. ‘That's okay, but I'd love to hear
your voice. I hope you're hungry. I got a veggie pizza and a meat one too, just in case.'

His gaze met mine without changing expression; the effect was unnerving, as if he was looking straight through me. After a few seconds he rose to his feet and wandered to the French windows. When I stood beside him his frustration was obvious, his hands were flattened against the glass. The look on his face was pure aggression, jaw set, David ready for Goliath. Scared as he was, his face made me certain he'd find his voice eventually, if only to scream his story to the rafters.

‘Almost there,' he muttered. ‘Not far now.'

‘Almost where, Mikey?'

He didn't reply; too busy staring ahead, as if his worst enemy was waiting in the shadows. But his fighting spirit had faded by the time we reached the kitchen. He only managed a tiny amount of food, chewing each mouthful repeatedly like he was struggling to swallow. The bruises on his face were fading, but his eyes were still jacked open a little too wide.

‘I'd like to stay over soon. Is that okay?' His slice of pizza hovered in the air, eyes fixed on the kitchen wall. ‘Maybe we can cook together.'

He ignored my comment and slipped from the room.

‘This could take for ever,' I muttered.

Gurpreet nodded. ‘I'm worried about him. He calls out in his sleep but by morning he's mute again.'

‘That often happens. It's a dress rehearsal for normal speech.'

‘His catchphrase is all he says. What do you think it means?'

‘The fact that he's repeating it makes me wonder if it's something the abductors said to him. Hopefully it'll come out as he gains confidence.' I studied him again. ‘You'll be able to take a break soon, Gurpreet. He's nearly ready for me to stay over.'

‘I want to stay with him till he's calmer,' he replied. ‘His sketchbook's on the counter. Do you think he wants us to look?'

‘I'd say it's an open invitation.'

Mikey's talent was evident in every drawing. The first one showed cars, buses and trains cruising through open countryside. He'd sketched the flowers in the living room with better results than mine, scarlet blooms spilling across the page. It was the last picture that bothered me. The trees on Clapham Common were a jumble of russet colours, the domed bandstand resting on a vivid field of grass. But the scene had been depopulated. The location where his mother had gone missing was stripped of human activity: no cars, dog walkers or cyclists. The scene had been returned to its pristine condition, as though he'd wiped the attack from his mind.

‘He hardly ate a bite,' Gurpreet commented, loading a slice of pizza on to a plate. ‘I'll give him this.'

I tagged along to say goodbye, but when I stood by the open door of the living room, Mikey jumped to his feet. Something must have upset him – the constant fussing, or his nurse invading his space. He flew at Gurpreet, small arms flailing. I kept my back pressed to the wall, knowing his panic would increase if we both tried to calm him. The nurse held the boy gently by his shoulders while he kicked and threw punches, his voice a quiet murmur. After a minute the tantrum subsided. Mikey's face held a mixture of fury and anguish as he ran upstairs to his room.

‘Are you okay?' I asked.

‘I'll live.' Gurpreet's expression was sober as he studied a new scratch on his arm, a single drop of blood oozing down his wrist.

I
was still processing Mikey's reaction when I reached Morocco Street that evening, aware that soon it would be me facing all that pent-up rage. Lola's cat-like smile was frazzled when she greeted me, auburn curls cascading over her shoulders. Her flat was full of shabby-chic furniture, swathes of velvet festooning the windows in dramatic folds, a look that only a pair of flamboyant actors could pull off.

‘Don't make a sound,' she whispered. ‘The monster's asleep.'

‘Can I see her?'

‘If you wake her, I'll have to kill you.'

My three-month-old goddaughter Neve lay in her Moses basket, arms raised as if she'd just fought fifteen rounds. She was a miniaturised version of her mother, with the same delicate jaw, a lick of coppery hair trailing across her forehead. I quelled my urge to pick her up and joined Lola instead. She was draped across her chaise longue, giving me an exhausted grin.

‘She's beyond gorgeous.'

Lola looked intrigued. ‘Getting broody, Al?'

‘God, no. I haven't got a maternal bone in my body.'

‘That's rubbish. You're great with her.'

I shrugged. ‘Maybe I'll steal her.'

‘Feel free. The little beast kept me up all night.'

‘Didn't Neal help?'

‘We took it in turns.' She studied me thoughtfully. ‘Are you okay? You seem distracted.' Lola had been reading my mind ever since secondary school.

‘I'm working on a nasty abduction case.'

‘There's something else, isn't there? How's Burns?'

‘Same as ever. Still a macho controlling workaholic.'

Her face broke into a grin. ‘He's perfect for you.'

‘You think so?'

‘Last time we had dinner you couldn't keep your hands off each other. How long have you been together now?'

‘A few months.'

‘So it's serious?'