Blood Symmetry (6 page)

‘Jesus, you're nosey.'

She gaped at me. ‘You're not getting cold feet, are you?'

‘How is that any of your business?'

‘He's six foot four, built like a brick wall, and he's crazy about you. What's the problem?'

‘There isn't one.' I stared at my hands. ‘I don't want to screw it up, that's all.'

‘Why would you?'

‘Think about it, Lo. How would you describe my boyfriends so far?'

Her smile returned. ‘Mad, bad, or dangerous to know.'

‘Exactly.'

‘Burns is different. You'll both survive if you fall for him.'

‘It's moving too fast. He wants me to meet his kids, for God's sake.'

‘Because he's super keen,' she said, squeezing my hand.

As if on cue, Neve gave a heart-rending scream, freeing me from Lola's cross-examination. The next hour was spent cooing over her. She was growing more alert every day, green eyes watchful as she wriggled in the crook of my arm. Her smell was a heady blend of milk, talcum powder and ripe peaches. But the thing that amazed me was Lola's transformation from gin-swilling party girl to doting mother. She breezed around the flat with Neve balanced on her hip, taking it all in her stride. Her high spirits were still there, but until now her gentleness had been concealed. It was dark outside by the time I kissed them both goodbye.

‘When are you seeing Burns again?' Lola asked.

‘Saturday, probably.'

‘Want my advice?'

‘No thanks.'

‘Tell him your deepest, darkest fears, then move on.'

‘I'm the shrink, Lo, remember? I can handle my own love life.'

I was still envying the simplicity of her world-view when I got home. Too edgy to sleep, I switched on the TV. After flicking through a dozen satellite channels I came eye to eye with Burns. He was standing outside the station on St Pancras Way, asking the public for information about Clare Riordan. He looked nothing like the man who'd spent the last few months scaring and delighting me by equal measure. He addressed the camera with a hard-edged stare, as though he'd never experienced a moment's self-doubt in his life. I turned off the TV and made an effort to focus my mind. The blood theme was inescapable; Clare Riordan's abductors had extracted a full pint from their victim. Not only was the doctor a haematologist by profession, Pete Hancock had discovered traces of the substance on her kitchen floor that couldn't be bleached away.

I stood by the living-room window, searching the city's floodlit skyline. All I could hope was that Mikey Riordan's mother was out there somewhere, being kept alive.

T
he woman is alone in the laboratory, the man's illness keeping him at home. Even though she misses him, her work is easier without his interference. She's spent the past hour tending to Riordan: giving her a hunk of bread, forcing her to swallow enough water to keep her alive, then piss in the bucket by the door. It's taking a long time to gain her secrets, but the outcome will be worth the effort.

She pulls on surgical gloves before lifting the plastic bag from the fridge and holding it to the light. The liquid is cool in her hands, the truest shade of crimson. Blood still fascinates her, despite the damage it's caused. It's as individual as a signature, revealing every human trait. Thirty years ago, no one fought hard enough to keep it pure, her family torn apart. Now it's her responsibility to right the wrongs. A dozen more transfusion packs lie in a cardboard box in the corner, waiting to be filled. She crosses the room to gaze at Riordan, suspended upside down like a chrysalis, arms jerking at her sides, too exhausted to scream.

‘Ready to give me a name, Clare?'

No sound emerges from her mouth, apart from another ragged breath. When the rope unwinds, her body thumps back on to the chair. The woman leans closer until their faces are inches apart.

‘Tell me, then I'll let you rest. I want you to betray each other, just like you betrayed us.'

‘Let me go, you mad bitch,' Riordan hisses.

‘You're not helping yourself.'

The woman feels a rush of anger. This is nothing like the other victims, who each yielded a name quickly before they were sacrificed. Silence will worsen Riordan's punishments. She pulls the lever, until the doctor's body is suspended once more from the ceiling, blood dripping from an incision on her throat. She would prefer to use a scalpel and despatch her fast, but her information is essential; Riordan may have to spend months in this room, atoning for her crime. Her hair has worked loose from its ponytail, long tresses splayed across the ground. The woman grabs a pair of scissors and makes the first cut, hacking close to her scalp. Riordan's crowning glory falls at her feet in handfuls, filthy and matted with blood.

I
went for a jog the next morning to clear my mind. The city was stirring into motion as I cut through Shad Thames, passing factories and warehouses tall enough to block out the light, the names of Victorian tea importers ghosted on their walls. My mood lifted when I found my stride as I ran east along the river from Cherry Garden Pier. Trees glowed on Shadwell bank, red dots of brightness punctuating the grey.

The rush of endorphins was still boosting me when I switched on the TV after my shower. Clare Riordan's disappearance remained the top news story, the picture a reminder that we had plenty of interests in common. It showed her completing the Race for Life, tanned and long legged as she crossed the finishing line; like her, too, I had served as a hospital consultant. She looked resilient enough to deal with the toughest challenges. In the next image her arm was wrapped tightly around her son's shoulders, his face blurred into anonymity. She was being depicted as a beauty with a heart of gold, but soon the age-old pattern would re-establish itself: journalists might already be hunting for secrets to deliver the knockout blow and topple her from her pedestal.

It was just before nine when my taxi pulled up outside the Royal Free Hospital. I had asked to meet some of Riordan's colleagues, to gain insights into why she and Mikey had been targeted. I still had a sense that Clare might be being held hostage by someone she knew intimately, who understood her
habits. The hospital campus was a wedge of grey concrete slapped down beside Belsize Park, impregnable as a fortress, so vast and featureless the entrance was hard to locate. Angie was sheltering by a turbine of rotating doors. The DS was only a few inches taller than me, several years younger, dark red hair cut short to frame her elfin face. She talked nineteen to the dozen, filling me in on progress as we followed signs for the haematology department.

‘We've searched the common again.' She blew out a long breath. ‘I spent most of yesterday waist-deep in brambles, but there's nothing definite.'

‘Any news on her phone records?'

‘Not yet. We spoke to her neighbour again about that row she overheard, but we've got no evidence Riordan was in a relationship, apart from a number on her mobile we still need to trace. Someone called dozens of times from a pay-as-you-go phone.'

‘Married, probably, covering his back.'

‘More than likely. Have you got time to visit a friend of Riordan's after this? She was too shocked to make sense when I saw her on Monday.'

‘Of course, it'll help me find out more about Mikey.'

Angie came to a halt when we reached haematology. ‘We're meeting her deputy, Dr Pietersen, and a junior consultant called Dr Novak. Pietersen's been seen already, but he was frosty as hell. I need to know why.'

‘You ask the questions, I'll observe him.'

The universal smell of hospitals in winter hit me as we entered the department: wet overcoats, antiseptic and recycled air. The receptionist greeted us warmly. She was a large middle-aged woman who clearly took pride in her appearance, fingernails painted the same deep magenta as her hair. I glanced at her name badge and saw that she was called Brenda
Madison. She gave Angie and me a professional smile as we signed the visitors' book.

‘Step this way, ladies. Anything you need, just ask.'

She led us down the corridor at a smart pace. Ten metres away a young male patient was dragging an IV trolley towards a treatment room. Through an open doorway a woman was flicking through a magazine while medication dripped from a plastic bag into her bloodstream. Brenda rapped on Dr Pietersen's office door then left us to wait. A tall, bald-headed man of indeterminate age stood on the threshold. His face was so gaunt that I wondered if he was ill. He considered us through muddy green eyes then stepped back into his consulting room, where classical music was playing at low volume.

‘Debussy,' Angie said. ‘“Clair de Lune”.'

‘You're a classical fan?' The doctor's expression brightened. ‘I often listen to Radio Three between appointments. It's a great stress-buster.'

She returned his smile. ‘I had that piece at my wedding.'

I stood back to admire her technique. Angie had mellowed in the last year, no longer blundering ahead for a quick result. Judging by Pietersen's reaction, she had relaxed him enough to lower his guard.

‘It's hard to imagine something like this happening,' he said quietly. ‘Clare's incredibly hard working.'

‘Could you tell us a little about her job here?'

‘Most of our patients are seriously ill. They have blood-borne viruses, like HIV or hepatitis, or illnesses like leukaemia. The majority respond well to treatment, but Clare's role as head of department leaves her with difficult choices. Funding decisions are her responsibility.'

‘Did she get any complaints?'

‘Not as far as I know. But some patients don't receive the treatments they want, due to budget cuts.'

‘That must be frustrating for you all.'

‘It's the worst aspect of the job.'

‘Do you and Dr Riordan see eye to eye, on a personal level?'

He shuffled papers across his desk. ‘We've had conflicts, but it's never affected our work.'

‘Professional differences?' Angie asked.

‘We both applied for the top job in April. I've had more training, served more years, and my record's flawless. I complained about her appointment to the trustees.'

‘Did that make things awkward?'

His frown deepened. ‘I'd never let personal matters affect my patients. Once the issue was resolved she got my full support.'

‘Do you know if Clare had fallen out with anyone?'

‘I don't keep track of my colleagues' disagreements.'

‘Can you tell us how you spent the morning of Saturday the eleventh of October?'

Pietersen's sluggish eyes widened into a stare. ‘Are you suggesting I caused her disappearance?'

‘Everyone will be asked the same question.'

‘I was on weekend duty here, dealing with emergency referrals. The receptionists will confirm I arrived before nine a.m. If you ask around, you'll learn that Clare and I have a sound professional relationship.' His charm had switched off as abruptly as a water supply.

‘Dr Riordan was taken much earlier, at around seven fifteen a.m.'

‘Speak to my wife, if you doubt my word. I was at home until eight, then drove straight here.'

‘That's helpful, thanks.'

‘You'll have to excuse me, I need to prepare for my patients.' He began leafing through his in-tray, as though we'd already vacated his consulting room.

The second doctor was a junior consultant called Adele Novak. Her office stood directly opposite Pietersen's; through the open doorway, I saw a slim woman of around my own age with cropped dark brown hair leaning over her desk, absorbed in a report. When Angie tapped on the door she gave us a calm smile. Novak was attractive and fine boned, pale skin dusted with freckles. Her consulting room was more welcoming than Dr Pietersen's: greeting cards and photos tacked to a pin board, a jug of yellow carnations on her coffee table.

‘Thanks for making time to see us,' Angie said.

‘I'm glad to help.' Her gaze shifted between us.

‘Do you know Clare well?' I asked.

‘Not socially, but I've got her to thank for appointing me. She's been my clinical supervisor since I arrived in January.' Her words were delivered slowly, as if she was considering each statement.

‘How would you describe her?'

‘Professional and committed, but she doesn't suffer fools.'

‘In what way?'

‘She makes quick judgements about people.'

‘Would you say she's well liked?'

‘I enjoy working with her, but I can only speak for myself. Most colleagues respect her, certainly.' She hesitated. ‘Clare tends to see things in black and white.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘She made six people redundant last year. Apparently she didn't lose any sleep over it.'

‘Could you tell us their names?'

‘It was before I arrived. HR will have a list.'

‘Do you know if Clare's close to anyone in the department?'

‘That's not her style. A few of us go for a drink sometimes after work, but she never comes along. She goes home to her
son as soon as her shift finishes.' Novak stopped talking abruptly, as if she had decided not to expose a secret.

‘Anything you share could help us find her, Dr Novak,' I said.

‘Call me Adele, please. Look, I won't beat around the bush. I admire Clare, but she's a strong personality. She's close to the trustees, so her opinion carries a lot of weight. That puts people on edge.' Novak's voice petered out, as if she could be demoted for speaking out of turn.

‘Thanks for being so open.'

She studied me more closely. ‘Is Clare's son okay?'

‘He's shaken, but getting good care.'

‘It's awful for him.' Her eyes abruptly filled with tears. ‘The poor kid must be terrified.'

I let Angie question her after that, measuring the doctor's reactions. Her distress was obvious, even though she had hinted that Riordan was a difficult boss. When Angie gave her a card she examined it carefully before slipping it into the pocket of her white coat. She came over as a woman who left nothing to chance, a little too sensitive for such a challenging role.

Angie turned to me when we got back to the hospital's crowded foyer. ‘That was an eye-opener. Pietersen's bedside manner stinks, and she made Riordan sound like a toxic force.'

‘That's survivor guilt for you.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Pietersen resented Clare getting the director's job. On a subconscious level he probably feels bad for ill-wishing her, and Novak's scared of her boss. Maybe the whole department feels that way. It's worth finding the people Clare sacked and checking their alibis.'

She nodded. ‘I'll get a background check on Pietersen too, and have his room searched. He had no need to be so defensive.'

I'd seen that glint in Angie's eye before; the senior doctor's brusque manner had raised her antennae. The Debussy refrain stayed with me as she drove south. It seemed odd that Pietersen had described music as a stress-buster, even though his temper was so ill-controlled. Gradually the city's noise replaced the melody. All I could hear were taxis revving, pedestrians' voices, and the drone from Angie's police radio. For once her chatter fell silent. Maybe she was obsessing about Riordan's disappearance too. The doctor seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving only a raft of unanswered questions and a distraught child.

We arrived at Denise Thorpe's house in Wandsworth by half past ten. A plain three-storey box dating from the 1970s, its most striking feature was its proximity to St Mary's Cemetery. Gravestones and weathered statues were visible through the railings ten metres away, sycamore trees guarding the entrance like sentinels. Their scarlet leaves were still so glossy it seemed unthinkable that soon they'd be littering the streets, brittle as cigarette papers.

The woman who opened the door had a dreamy air, as if she'd just risen from a nap. Her frizz of mousy hair flew in all directions, oval face free of makeup. She was dressed in a black turtleneck and shapeless grey skirt, deliberately hiding her attractiveness. Angie and I waited in silence while she prepared tea in the kitchen. Her living room was the opposite of Clare Riordan's stylish lounge. The shelves were full of holiday mementos; two long-haired cats curled on an armchair, beside a basket full of yarns and knitting needles. The place felt like the home of an elderly spinster, even though Denise was married and under forty-five. A packet of co-codamol tablets lay on the table: the strongest pain relief available over the counter. If she was taking them for a chronic illness, that might explain her distracted manner. Denise
soon reappeared, carrying a tray loaded with bone china and packets of biscuits.

‘I wasn't sure which you'd like,' she said, ‘so I brought them all.'

‘That's kind of you.' I smiled at her then pointed at a photo on her mantelpiece. ‘Is this your daughter?'

Her face relaxed. ‘Emma's studying law at York Uni. I'm glad she's not here to face all this.'

‘It must be hard for you too,' Angie commented.

‘I can't seem to concentrate. It hasn't sunk in yet.'

My sympathy increased. If Lola had been taken, I'd be in pieces too. ‘How long have you and Clare been friends?'

‘Since school. Everyone said we were chalk and cheese, but we shared a flat right through university. She even introduced me to my husband.'

‘They worked together?'

She nodded. ‘At the same hospital, years ago. Simon's a psychotherapist. I'm afraid he's upstairs with a client today.'

‘That's not a problem. Did you train for medicine like Clare?'

She gave a vague smile. ‘I only practised for a year. I write exam papers for science students now. Clare's always been the fearless one.'

‘Does she confide in you?'

She looked flustered, cheeks colouring. ‘We know each other's secrets. Or I thought we did.'

‘And you meet regularly?'

‘Her house is ten minutes away. I drop by most weekends, or she brings Mikey here.' Her eyes were welling. ‘Simon and I are the closest thing he has to a family. We offered to look after him, but they wouldn't let us.'

‘Mikey's safest where he is for now. It's possible the abductors targeted him too,' I said quietly. ‘Can you think of anything he'd find comforting right now?'

‘He loves helping Clare in the kitchen. It's his favourite place.'

‘Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.' I put down my cup and saucer. ‘We think Clare was having a relationship with someone. It's important we rule the man out. Do you know his name?'