by Kate Rhodes
He shakes his head. ‘Of course I do. A child’s life is nothing compared to everything I’ve lost.’
The woman is unconvinced, even though his voice sounds forceful. He plans the attacks and organises every detail, yet he’s too squeamish to hurt the victims. Torn between anger and a desire to comfort him, she drops the needle into a jar of sterilising fluid, as Riordan’s whimper rises to a scream.
4
Tuesday 14 October
The FPU was empty when I arrived at eight a.m. the next day. I’d slept badly, fretting about Mikey Riordan, restlessness driving me from my flat too early. I dumped my newspaper on the desk and studied the picture on the front page. His mother gazed back at me with a wide-eyed smile, as if she’d never performed a single bad deed. I sat at my desk and tried to focus. My head felt muzzy, but time alone in a calm environment was my best chance of forming an image of her abductor. I logged on to the Police National Computer, then typed key features into HOLMES 2, aware that there would be a long wait before it spat out facts. The Home Office’s major incident software was in dire need of an overhaul. It held details of every recorded crime for decades, but moved at a snail’s pace. The search category I chose was for similar fact evidence. The overarching theme was blood; a haematologist had been targeted, her own blood left as a calling card. My computer buzzed loudly as it sifted through past cases.
I stood by the window gazing towards St James’s Park. Scarlet leaves on a distant copse of trees danced above the rooftops, a trick of the eye making it look like the entire terrace was on fire. So far my morning hadn’t been a great success. Two consultants were holding a heated debate in the office next door, their outbursts filtering through the wall. I thought about Mikey Riordan, pining in a house without comforts. My determination to find his mother was rising steadily.
The printout spewed from my computer an hour later. One case was so grisly it would have been better to read about it on an empty stomach. Five years ago a man had killed a rent boy in Paddington, drinking some of his blood before sending samples to the victim’s relatives. The senior investigating officer had been so traumatised by the murder scene that he’d had a breakdown. I rubbed my eyes, unwilling to burden my brain with more horror. Several other cases held similarities, although the perpetrators were already behind bars. I laid the report on my desk and compared details from previous attacks with Clare Riordan’s abduction, but soon had to admit defeat. In the past twenty years there had been no direct parallels. Riordan’s abductor had struck an original note by using her blood as his calling card, which made me wonder if he was motivated by posterity – maybe he didn’t just enjoy hurting his victim, he wanted a place in the annals of true crime.
When I looked up again Christine was at my door. Her off-white dress gave her a ghostly appearance; even her smile was insubstantial.
‘How’s the Riordan boy?’ she asked.
‘Still in the first stage of trauma: speechless with shock, prone to violent outbursts and panic attacks.’
‘You’ve done great work with child victims on previous cases.’
‘Mikey’s under more pressure; everything hinges on what he saw. There’s no family supporting him.’
Christine gave a slow smile. ‘He’s in safe hands, Alice.’
She vanished without another word. Her communication style was so cryptic that even her encouragement sounded threatening.
I sifted through the interview transcripts with Clare Riordan’s friends and colleagues, but they yielded frustratingly little. Her CV showed a woman who had worked tirelessly, becoming a consultant at thirty, serving on a dozen ethics panels and the drug advisory board. It intrigued me that there seemed to be no flaw in her glossy professional record. Her only known conflict had been with her younger sister, Eleanor. They had been locked in a legal battle for two years, cause unspecified. The blank space surrounding Clare Riordan’s life needed to be filled before I could find the reason for her disappearance.
It was a relief to escape from the office at one thirty. I had arranged to visit the victim’s house in Clapham, hoping the place would reveal details of her personality. I drove south through light midday traffic, my car slipping past Mayfair’s upmarket shops and the mansions of Chelsea. The tone changed when I crossed the river to Battersea. Elegant Georgian squares were replaced by an ocean of glass, high-rise apartment blocks sprawling as far west as the eye could see, testament to the developers’ belief that a river view was worth a king’s ransom.
Stormont Road was a genteel row of Victorian semis, the green expanse of Clapham Common unfurling in the distance. A police cordon surrounded Clare Riordan’s house and the road was a hive of activity, uniformed officers standing on doorsteps, still conducting house-to-house interviews. I wondered whether Mikey would ever return to the home his mother had maintained so carefully. Limestone steps climbed to a wrought-iron porch, the front door an elegant pale blue, sash windows gleaming. I was opening the gate when a woman of around sixty appeared at my side. She had a hard-eyed stare, the skin around her mouth deeply furrowed, suggesting that her first action each morning was to light a cigarette.
‘Are you with the police?’ she asked.
‘My name’s Alice Quentin, I’m an advisor on the investigation. Do you need to see a detective?’
‘One came by yesterday; I didn’t like his attitude. Disrespectful, I’d say.’ Her small eyes blinked rapidly. ‘Can you spare a minute?’
She led me into the house next door to Riordan’s. Her lounge was overfilled with furniture, the air too sweet, as if someone had spilled a bottle of cheap scent.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ I said.
‘Pauline Rowe. I’ve lived here forty years.’
‘And you’ve got some information, Pauline?’
‘It could be nothing.’
‘Don’t worry – small things are often helpful.’
Her gaze drifted to the floor. ‘It said on the news that Clare was single, but she was seeing someone. I heard them in the garden.’
‘They were talking?’
‘It was more like a full-blown row.’ Her breath rattled as she inhaled.
‘Did you hear what it was about?’
‘Clare was sobbing her heart out. She kept saying “it has to end,” but the bloke was having none of it.’
‘Was this recent?’
‘Two or three weeks ago.’
‘Did you see the man?’
She shook her head. ‘It had to be her boyfriend. Arguments like that only happen when you’ve got strong feelings.’
‘Do many other people visit her house?’
‘Not really. I saw this couple on her steps a few times. The bloke was smartly dressed, but they could have been Jehovah’s witnesses.’ She paused to light a cigarette.
‘No one else she rowed with?’
‘Just her sister, but she hasn’t been round in a while. That girl’s a headcase.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Forever causing trouble, yelling, then slamming out the front door. Mental problems, if you ask me.’
‘Is there anything else I should know?’
‘Mikey worships his mum. They’re always together, except when she’s at work.’
‘They sound very close.’
‘He’s a sweet kid.’ Her gaze locked on to mine. ‘Is there any news?’
‘The police are making good progress. Thanks for the information, Mrs Rowe.’
Pauline seemed reluctant to say goodbye, chattering as she walked me back to the front door, wafting cigarette smoke. I wondered about her lifestyle as I approached Clare Riordan’s house: maybe retirement hadn’t turned out like she’d hoped, boredom sending her outside to eavesdrop on her neighbour.
The first person I saw at Riordan’s house was Pete Hancock, Burns’s chief scenes of crime officer. My heart sank. He stood in the hallway scribbling on a clipboard as I donned my sterile suit, his expression unreadable.
‘This is the worst
time to visit.’ His words were delivered in a monotone.
‘You always say that, Pete. I know we’re looking for different things, but it would help to compare notes. When’s your next break?’
‘I’m not taking one.’
‘Give me half an hour, I’ll buy you a cappuccino.’
‘I don’t drink coffee.’
‘Tea then.’ I checked my watch. ‘At three o’clock.’
Hancock looked stunned, but didn’t refuse. For the first time in years he forgot to bark at me as I toured his crime scene. I took care to stay on the plastic sheeting, avoiding rooms that were still cordoned. My concern rose as I explored the ground floor. Everything about the decor spoke of an exclusive mother-son relationship. A row of black and white portrait photos in the hallway had been taken at yearly intervals, starting when Mikey was an infant, cradled in his mother’s arms. The boy grew taller in each image but the intimacy never weakened; in the final picture they stood arm in arm, beaming at the camera with identical smiles. Every room in the house confirmed my sense that few people had encroached on them. Maybe losing her husband had bonded Clare to her son so closely that no one else mattered.
The living room was an example of tasteful neutrality. Items stacked on the coffee table reflected both their interests: her interior design magazines and copies of The Lancet; his games console and dog-eared comics. Mikey’s room seemed typical of an eleven-year-old boy: football trophies above his bed, a signed poster from the Chelsea squad. It was only on closer inspection that I realised soccer wasn’t his only passion. Several large drawings had been tacked to the wall – exuberant landscapes, with an outsized sun almost filling the sky, breakers lapping a white line of cliffs, full of light and energy. Framed certificates showed that Mikey had won his school’s art competition two years running. The space was unusually tidy for such a young boy; the air smelled of soap and fresh linen. His mother’s room was orderly too. The contents of her wardrobe appealed to me: suits from Ghost and Karen Millen, jeans and silk shirts for the weekend. But her taste was wilder than mine. Tucked at the back were outfits only a femme fatale would choose: skimpy cocktail dresses, a leather skirt, agonisingly high stilettos. The clothes hinted at a woman with two lives. She was a hard-working professional, but confident enough to parade her attractiveness when the chance arose.
My frustration mounted as I reached the hallway. Sometimes a victim’s home speaks volumes about the habits that made them vulnerable but, apart from Clare’s choice of clothing, her domestic life seemed easy to interpret. It revealed good taste, middle-class comfort, and a high degree of trust between parent and child. That intimacy made me even more concerned about how Mikey would fare if his mother never came home.
When I reached the porch, Hancock was standing there. He gave me a baleful stare as I peeled out of my Tyvek suit.
‘There’s a café close by,’ I said.
‘Okay, if you’re buying.’
He said little during the short stroll to Lavender Hill, giving me the chance to observe him from the corner of my eye. His combination of white hair and lowering black eyebrows made him look like a younger, more hostile version of Alistair Darling. My request for a double espresso clearly disgusted him.
‘That stuff’ll give you a stomach ulcer.’
‘It’s a gamble I’m willing to take. Where are you from, Pete?’
‘Tyneside, originally.’
‘I recognised the lilt. So, do you dislike all shrinks, or is it just me?’
His frown deepened. ‘I spend my days on my knees, scooping up fag ends and bodily fluids, so people like you can pontificate about modus operandi. You even get paid more.’
‘And that annoys you?’
‘I solve the cases for you, but most shrinks show me zero respect.’ He took a gulp of mineral water.
‘Then they’re missing a trick. Seeing what the killer touched or the shoes a victim wore tells me more than any photograph. I can’t do that without your help.’
‘You want me to stop moaning when you drop by?’
‘Is that possible?’
He cast me a shrewd glance. ‘Burns says you’re good at your job.’
‘I hear the same about you.’
‘Why aren’t you in some swanky private hospital charging two hundred quid an hour?’
‘I could be crazy, but forensic work trumps a big salary for me.’
The answer seemed to satisfy him. When we got back to Riordan’s house, it was clear Pete’s team had been working hard in his absence. Two white-suited SOCOs squeezed past us on the steps, carrying plastic evidence boxes bound for the lab. But my hour with Pete hadn’t been wasted; for the price of a bottle of mineral water, I’d reversed some of his prejudices. He’d confided that he was a lapsed Catholic, married with two kids in their twenties, a passionate Newcastle supporter with a penchant for jazz. In exchange I’d revealed my desire for a motorbike and confirmed that I was in a relationship with his DCI.
‘That’s old news, Pete. Didn’t you hear?’
‘I’m not one for gossip.’ He was already slipping his feet back into plastic overshoes.
‘Have you found much in there?’
‘The IT boys are checking her computers, but there’s something you should see.’
I donned my sterile suit again reluctantly. I’d always hated the synthetic smell and feel of them, fabric crackling as we walked down the hall.
Hancock came to a halt in the kitchen. ‘Notice anything?’
‘A lot of expensive kit.’ I scanned the bespoke units, granite work surface and black and white floor tiles. It looked typical of a family with money: there was even a top-of-the-range juicer and Gaggia coffee machine sitting on the counter.
‘Look again.’ He shone a blue light on the floor and a shadow emerged, just over a foot wide. ‘Someone’s tried to scrub it away, but we sprayed the floor with Luminol. The UV light’s picking up blood molecules.’
‘It may not be hers.’
‘Whoever it came from, it would have been one hell of a wound. You’d need half a pint to spread that far.’
‘Can the lab tell if it’s hers?’
He nodded. ‘We’ll take a scraping from the floor. They’ll cross-match it with her son’s DNA, but they won’t be able to date it.’
‘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.
5
The 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 we
re 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.