Blood Symmetry (8 page)

‘That's three more languages than I've got.'

It still seemed odd that someone with a first-class Cambridge degree in economics had ended up in a café in Covent Garden, but any job was better than none. When his illness was at its height, it had seemed like he might never work again.

‘How's the FPU?'

Telling the truth was off limits. If he knew I was working on a brutal abduction case, it would trigger an all-out panic. ‘It's full of boffins with no social skills.'

‘You'll fit right in.'

‘Charmer.' His upbeat mood made me chance a risky question. ‘Have you seen Mum lately?'

His smile faded. ‘We went on Saturday.'

‘God, you're good. It's my turn this Saturday. How was she?'

‘Bitchy as hell, but I managed not to hurl anything at her.'

‘Admirable self-control.'

Tension eased from his face. ‘Have dinner with us. Nina's made chicken casserole.'

‘You don't have to ask twice. It smells heavenly.'

The evening turned out to be a pleasure. Will's first relationship for a decade fitted him like a glove, his connection with Nina stronger than ever. They even linked hands under the table as we drank coffee. It was only at the end of the
evening that she volunteered the news that she had enrolled at London University to do a PhD on Romantic Poetry.

‘That's wonderful,' I said. ‘Can you stay on the boat?'

‘We've got it for another year. My friend's contract in New York's been extended.'

Will's gaze had slipped out of focus, his arm settled round Nina's shoulders. Witnessing their happiness made me want to shut my eyes, in case I tempted fate.

‘Lola says your new boyfriend's a cop,' he said.

‘She's such a gossip. You met him years ago. It's Don Burns.'

‘I don't remember him. Is it serious?'

‘How would I know? The idea terrifies me.'

Nina leant forwards, revealing a tattoo below her jaw, a line of blue-black words too small to read. ‘You deserve some happiness, Alice. Maybe it's time for a leap of faith.' Her soft French accent almost had me convinced.

I walked home across Tower Bridge reflecting on her advice. Until now I'd kept my feet firmly on the ground, and that could have been my mistake. I made up my mind to call Burns when I got home. If Will could form a relationship after watching our parents' marriage implode, it must be possible, even if it would be an uphill journey. I walked faster as I passed a pub on Tower Bridge Road, two drunks catcalling from across the street, begging me to take them home. Taking men home had never been my problem; it was letting them stay that provided the challenge – unlike for Burns, whose marriage had lasted fifteen years. By the time I reached Providence Square, the brisk stroll had blunted my fear. I listened to his Scottish burr on his answering service but hung up without leaving a message. Telling him how I felt would need to be done face to face. My thoughts switched back to work as I prepared for bed, turning Mikey's words over in my mind: ‘almost there,
not far now.' The phrase seemed hopelessly over-optimistic while no sign of his mother had been found.

T
he man drives through the city's empty streets, peering into the darkness. The woman sits beside him, a package balanced on her lap.

‘Are you okay, sweetheart?' she asks, her tone irritating him.

‘Better than yesterday.'

‘Less pain?'

‘For God's sake, stop nursing me. It's not your job.'

He rarely complains when his symptoms are bad; there would be no point. Most days it feels like ice water's coursing through his veins. The side effects are growing harder to ignore, weight falling from him, his skin paler than before.

‘What are we going to do about the boy?' he asks.

‘Leave him for now. It won't be hard to track him down; the child protection service is pretty lax. I phoned to ask where toys for Mikey Riordan should be sent, pretending to be a delivery company. They told me to ring the psychiatric care team in Southwark.'

‘That's a start.'

‘The borough's got forty community psychiatric nurses. Any of them could be looking after him.'

He studies her while they wait at a red light, feeling a mixture of love and fear. Her excitement fills the car like cigarette smoke, their mission keeping her rage in check.

‘Park here,' she says. ‘If I'm not back in ten minutes, don't wait.'

‘Let me do it. I've got nothing to lose.'

The man lifts the package from her hands, kissing her to silence any protest. He drops the car keys in her lap then sets off down Newcomen Street, raising the hood of his coat. It doesn't take long to cross the hospital's quadrangle. He stands in the shadows to open the plasma bag, splashing its contents across a locked door. Blood spatters the paintwork, releasing its sour metallic smell – a reminder of the thousands of human guinea pigs killed by medical ignorance. He drops the empty pack on the step outside the pathology department: an appropriate tribute for the experts in white coats who care nothing for their patients. The dark history of the place crowds him as he hurries back to the car. His only comfort is that the murders begun here will soon be wiped clean.

T
he consultants' conversations drifted through my office wall at 8.30 a.m. on Thursday. I made a point of greeting the early arrivals, connecting faces to names. Their replies were pleasant but wary, as if they had made a group decision to withhold judgement. It was a relief to bump into Mike Donnelly in the corridor.

‘How are you settling in among us freaks and psychos?' he asked, winking at me.

‘I'm finding my feet slowly.'

‘Anything I can do?'

‘Keep smiling, it helps no end. Can I run some ideas by you in the fullness of time?'

‘My expertise is yours. All you have to do is buy me lunch.'

The grin buried inside his white beard stretched wider as I said goodbye. Once I got back to my office I studied the new printouts from HOLMES 2; the Clapham team had completed hundreds of house visits and interviews. More eyewitnesses had confirmed seeing a couple in dark winter clothes sitting on a bench in the stand of trees on the morning Clare was taken. The idea worried me; two perpetrators were always more dangerous than one. Partnerships caused rapid escalation, inciting the most extreme violence. I felt sure the computer system must be able to offer more insights, so I typed the word ‘haematology' into the search engine, knowing the results could take hours to arrive.

I scanned the forensic team's report on Clare Riordan's home in the meantime. If her abductor had taken her there he must have used a key; there was no sign of a struggle, no bodily fluids or smears on the walls. The only unexplained factor was the pool of oxidised blood on her kitchen floor. Who would target a hard-working medic? No professional grievances had been raised against Clare. If one of her patients had harboured a homicidal grudge, it seemed odd that I could find no formal complaints on record. Angie had checked out the staff she'd made redundant, and all except a nurse we had yet to interview had cast-iron alibis. So far the only credible suspect was her sister, but Eleanor's volatility made her seem brittle, not strong. She gave the impression of someone who could fly apart at any moment. There was nothing in her background to explain why she would have a blood obsession, or the ability to use an extraction needle; I could imagine her lashing out in a moment of anger, but not planning a campaign of violence. If my theories were correct, she would have to be acting in partnership with someone far more cool-headed and strategic.

My concentration was broken by my printer whirring into action, the HOLMES system yielding results with unexpected speed. It had produced two outcomes, but neither looked promising at first sight. The earliest was a medical researcher called John Mendez, killed on his own doorstep in January, in what the police had recorded as a mugging gone wrong. When I studied the facts again, an odd feeling tingled across the back of my neck; his research specialism had been blood diseases. The next was a missing person's case: a doctor called Lisa Stuart had left work one night in April, never returning home. She had been working as a doctor on the haematology ward at Bart's Hospital. I called Burns immediately and asked him to run searches on both crimes. He sounded polite but sceptical,
as if the idea of someone targeting blood specialists was too far-fetched, but the link felt too strong to ignore. There was no way of proving it yet, but if Riordan's abductors had taken her as part of a series, we had an even bigger job on our hands. There was a low drone of traffic behind Burns's voice when he spoke again.

‘Another blood pack's been found at Guy's Hospital. This time they emptied it outside the path lab. A nurse found it a few hours ago; apparently it was spattered everywhere.'

‘How much was in it?'

‘A pint, like last time; Riordan's name was on the label. Are you coming to the station?'

‘Not yet. I'm seeing Clare Riordan's mystery man with Tania.'

I puzzled over the information as the taxi trailed east towards Islington. Events seemed to be gathering pace. Leaving the blood of an NHS consultant inside a hospital campus had to be symbolic, as if her sins were coming home to roost. Her abductors were taunting us with cryptic clues about their obsession with blood, but the locations must mean something. So far Riordan's career history showed a clean slate, apart from a turf war with her deputy. It seemed more important than ever to find out exactly why the two other blood specialists had come to harm, to see if they were connected, professionally or personally.

The cab slowed as we passed the Union Chapel on Upper Street. The air in the café opposite smelled of melted chocolate and fresh baked bread as I reached Tania's table by the window. Her glamour always made me wonder why Burns had chosen me instead of her, especially since they'd been friends for two decades. She wore a dark green dress, cashmere or merino wool, the thin fabric hugging her curves. Her chic haircut helped her blend in with the hipsters who had
turned the district into an intellectual ghetto, her face glossy with makeup and poise.

‘Coffee?' she asked.

‘I'll have camomile tea, I'm on overload.'

‘Very disciplined.' She surveyed me again, her eyes one shade cooler than turquoise. ‘Do you want an update?'

‘Please.'

‘We got Travers in for an interview the day we heard he'd been seeing Clare. He admitted to the affair, but there's no evidence he was near Clapham Common the morning she was taken. We took his prints at the station; the team have just found one of his thumbprints on a kitchen cupboard. I want you to assess him in his home environment, see if there's cause for concern.'

‘Do you know any more about the bloodstain?'

She gave a distracted nod. ‘They think Clare could have been marched to her kitchen, stabbed, then carried outside, but that normally leaves a trail. Hancock says the place is clean as a whistle apart from that one stain.'

‘What about the abduction itself?'

‘We still think Clare and Mikey were attacked in the copse, by The Avenue. It's a local pick-up spot. The SOCOs found needles and condoms galore on their fingertip search.'

‘Pete gets all the fun, doesn't he?'

She managed a smile. ‘We've tracked the getaway car at last, based on the first witness's ID. It had fake plates, caught by a road camera driving south through Wandsworth, two people in the front seat, but the image is too blurred to make out their faces. It's a standard blue Nissan hatchback, with stripes on the bonnet to make it look official. It hasn't been picked up by any other cameras, so they must have changed the plates and removed the stripes soon after that last shot.'

‘At least it clears up that we're looking for two attackers. But they haven't given us much to go on. How are you bearing up anyway?'

She grimaced. ‘Not bad, except Siobhan's a royal pain in the arse.'

‘That's her job. She's thirteen, isn't she?' Tania only ever shared personal details about her independent-minded teenage daughter.

‘She's on a curfew. If that fails I'll need a cattle prod.'

‘I thought she seemed pretty mature.'

‘That's her act for strangers.' She pulled a notebook from her bag. ‘Here's the lowdown on Sam Travers: he's forty-two, a freelance film-maker. He met Clare in the first week of January when he was making a documentary about the health service. He's been married eight years to a German woman, Isabel, who runs a media agency nearby, no kids.'

‘What do you make of him?'

‘I won't prejudice you.' A look of distaste crossed her face. ‘He says he was working at home when Clare was taken. His wife's confirmed it, but they could be protecting each other.'

The entrance to Sam Travers's house was between a bookshop and a vintage clothes store. When I pressed the buzzer the lock clicked loudly and a male voice summoned us to the first floor. Travers met us on the landing, but his home made a bigger impression than its owner. He looked like a typical media executive, blond with a neat beard, dressed in tight jeans, brogues, and a tailored shirt. He seemed to be aiming for an intellectual look, wearing heavy-framed glasses and an aloof expression. His living room had pale blue walls, so much light flooding the space it felt as if autumn had been replaced by summer; every piece of furniture was positioned to best effect, an abstract glass sculpture glowing on the mantelpiece. The computer screen on his table showed a man sprinting
down an alleyway, buildings behind him exploding in flames. The sequence kept repeating in the corner of my eye as I perched on the edge of a sofa. Sam Travers looked irritated, as if we'd interrupted a productive morning's work.

‘I can only spare half an hour, I'm afraid. There's a meeting I have to attend.'

‘We won't take long,' I replied. ‘Would you mind talking me through your relationship with Clare Riordan?'

‘I interviewed her for one of my films. We had lunch, or met at her house sometimes. It was casual. She only came here once, to dinner with friends. Isabel didn't need to know about it.'

‘How do you mean?'

He rolled his shoulders. ‘Even open marriages have rules; it's disrespectful to rub your partner's face in it. Isabel probably protects me the same way.'

‘But your wife knows about the affair now?'

‘How could I hide it? The police called here to take me to the station.'

‘Is your wife at work today?'

He nodded. ‘Her office is round the corner on Liverpool Road.'

‘And she was out the morning Clare was abducted?'

‘Isabel was staying with friends. She got back around ten a.m.'

‘Forgive me for saying this, Mr Travers, but you don't seem very concerned about Clare's situation. Why didn't you report your relationship as soon as she went missing?'

‘Of course I'm concerned.' His expression hardened. ‘But we haven't seen much of each other lately. She was a vulnerable person. If I'd known that, I'd never have got involved.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Clare's sister bullied her, and she had trouble at work. She seemed terrified of losing her job.'

‘Did she say why?'

‘To be honest, I didn't ask.'

When I looked up from my notes, Sam Travers's attention had been diverted. He might have been talking about Clare Riordan, but his gaze lingered on Tania's hourglass figure. His distraction allowed me to glance around his living room. A large black and white photo showed a stunning platinum blonde with a beaming smile twined around him in a flutter of confetti. Travers's expression was neutral, as if his wedding day was no reason to lose his cool. After a few more questions, we took our leave and returned to Tania's car.

‘Either he's suppressing his feelings or he's genuinely cold,' I said. ‘Open marriages only suit people who can compartmentalise their emotions. His body language was tense, though. He's definitely hiding something and, like you said, his wife could be covering for him.'

Tania gave a loud sigh. ‘She doesn't seem the type to lie. Isabel wept buckets when she found out he had a mistress; it's bollocks about their marriage being open.'

‘It's interesting that he said Riordan was having work problems. We know she was unpopular with a few colleagues. Maybe a case of medical negligence came back to haunt her.'

‘Her record's clean, but I'll check her employment history again.'

‘HOLMES 2 brought up a murder and a missing person case earlier this year, both blood specialists. I gave Don the names.'

Her eyes widened. ‘You think it's a series?'

‘It's possible. With the blood link it'd be a big coincidence if there was no connection at all, wouldn't it?'

Tania offered her usual crisp nod when I said goodbye. It would be easy to imagine her with someone like Travers, elegant and polished, unwilling to let emotions break the
surface. But I felt certain Tania was grappling with her passions, while his were neatly locked away.

I spent the rest of the day at the FPU writing up assessments, scheduling meetings and working on my profile report. Eleanor Riordan and Sam Travers made very different case studies; Clare Riordan's estranged sister demonstrated a high degree of agitation, while her lover seemed unnaturally calm. They were both smart enough to conduct a well-organised abduction with its grim calling card. It was too early to rule either of them out of the investigation, although her sister seemed the best fit, given their antagonism ever since childhood. If Travers had been honest about the affair being casual, only Eleanor had a powerful enough motive to trigger an attack. But Riordan's abduction could be the latest in a series, so I needed to discover why either of them would want to hurt other blood specialists.

I
drove to the safe house slowly, making an effort to clear my head. It was important to seem relaxed for Mikey's sake. His trauma was deep enough without absorbing anyone else's concerns. It was six p.m. when I finally relieved Gurpreet, the concern on his face increasing my liking for him.

‘Call me later,' he said. ‘I'll come back if you need me.'

‘You deserve a night off, Gurpreet. We'll be fine.'

It was obvious that he'd grown close to Mikey, despite the child's outbursts. He'd done well on a professional level too, emailing me daily case notes. The boy's hyper-arousal was still intense: loud noises, sudden movement and changes to his routine induced a state of panic. But there were small signs of improvement. His attention span had lengthened, nonverbal communication increasing. He was starting to respond to questions by nodding or shaking his head. But the future could still go either way: he might slip into a silence which
lasted months, or recover fully from the tsunami of shock that had crashed over him. I took a deep breath before tapping on the living-room door. Mikey lay on the floor watching the third
Spider-Man
movie
.