by Kate Rhodes
‘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 gi
ve 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?’
‘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.
6
The 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.
7
Wednesday 15 October
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.’