by Kate Rhodes
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 t
axis 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?’
Her gaze slipped out of focus. ‘She told me not to speak about that.’
‘It might help us find her.’
‘Simon doesn’t even know.’
‘But things are different now, aren’t they?’
Her fingers gripped the handle of her teacup. ‘When she comes home, you mustn’t say I told you. She’d be so angry.’
‘We won’t, I promise.’
‘I’ve never met him, but his name’s Sam Travers. He lives in Islington.’ She looked regretful about her disclosure as Angie scribbled the name down, as if she’d betrayed her friend.
‘You’ve done the right thing, Denise.’ I touched the back of her hand.
Her eyes latched on to mine again, full of anxiety. ‘When can I see Mikey?’
‘I promise to let you know.’
We were about to leave when the living-room door swung open. Simon Thorpe was a very different physical specimen to his wife: medium height, thin, with black hair and penetrating blue eyes. Everything about him was hard-edged and definite, the opposite of her dreamy softness. His pallor and the shadows under his eyes suggested that he spent most of his days indoors. It was only when his smile animated his features like a light bulb that I realised why his wife had been drawn to him.
‘Sorry, I’ve been with a client. Did you want to see me too?’ He had a soft West Coast American accent.
‘Your wife’s helped us already. She’s answered all our questions.’
‘Nothing I can do?’
‘Not today, but thanks for the offer. We’ll come back if we need more information.’
‘To be honest, we were upset about Mikey not staying here. He needs to feel safe until Clare’s found.’ His face tensed with concern.
‘We can’t allow that yet, I’m afraid,’ Angie said.
‘We want the best for him.’ His gaze intensified. ‘Please keep us informed. He should be with people he loves.’
‘Of course, but I promise he’s getting excellent care,’ I replied.
The couple looked anxious as we prepared to leave. Denise’s fingers clutched mine tightly as we shook hands goodbye, her husband’s expression sober. It interested me that the couple hadn’t made eye contact once during the exchange, and I guessed that their relationship was being tested by Clare’s disappearance. It made sense that they would be frantic about the disappearance of such a longstanding friend, and anxious about the welfare of her child. The abduction was having a ripple effect; the people closest to Riordan touched in different ways by her absence.
Angie called in the news about Sam Travers immediately, as if he was bound to be the culprit. She talked nonstop on the drive back, updating me on her private life. She was waiting for the results of her detective inspector exams, her husband’s construction business was booming, and they were planning a holiday to Mauritius. I was an expert on Angie’s home life by the time she dropped me at London Bridge, but why Clare Riordan had been taken remained a mystery.
8
Burns was hunched over his desk when I found him that afternoon. His tie was slung over the back of his chair, dark hair in need of a comb, his jaw rimed with stubble. I did my best to ignore the jolt of attraction that arrived out of nowhere.
‘I hope you called me here for something urgent, Don.’
He rose to his feet. ‘You wanted to see Clare Riordan’s sister. She’s not best pleased about being brought in again.’
‘Has anything else happened?’
‘We’ve had three more sightings of a couple by the copse where Riordan went missing.’
‘Reliable witnesses?’
‘A teacher, a nurse and a fitness trainer, all out walking their dogs or jogging. They were too far off to give much detail; but we know a man and woman in dark clothing were hanging round the spot when Clare was taken. They were seen inside the copse, sitting on a bench.’
‘Life just got more difficult then. Couples are harder to spot; they can pass as normal so easily. You heard the news about Riordan seeing someone called Sam Travers?’
‘Tania’s chasing it.’
‘Have you got anything on her sister?’
He glanced at a computer printout. ‘Clare took an injunction out against her this summer for harassment.’
‘Never a great sign of affection.’
Burns updated me as we walked to the interview room. Tania’s team had been busy checking the records of Clare Riordan’s patients to see if any had complained about malpractice, but nothin
g had emerged yet. The IT boys were still checking her phone and email records, and Angie had been sifting her professional and social contacts for likely suspects. She had also tracked down the six staff Clare had sacked at the Royal Free, but they had scattered across the country looking for work. All except one had firm alibis. Angie had made an appointment for us to interview the only one still living in London at the end of the week.
I shifted my attention back to Eleanor Riordan’s fact sheet while I waited in the corridor. She was thirty-nine, a freelance sales consultant living in south London, a stone’s throw from where I’d grown up; she owned a flat in the Paragon, an elegant sweep of Georgian houses on the edge of Blackheath. The file shed little light on her conflict with Clare, sparking my curiosity when the door finally opened.
Eleanor Riordan looked so eerily like her sister that I did a double take. She had the same sleek brown hair drawn into a ponytail, oval bone structure, and amber eyes that reflected the light. It looked as if she’d been at a business meeting; a well-tailored suit hung from her slim frame. Despite their difficulties, Clare’s abduction seemed to have ruined her peace of mind. Everything about her looked brittle, facial muscles stretched tight over high cheekbones.
‘Thanks for coming, Ms Riordan.’
‘I don’t know why I’m here.’ She shot me a hard stare. ‘They’ve questioned me already. I’ve got nothing more to say.’
‘Mikey’s very upset at the moment; I’m keen to talk to people close to him. Perhaps you could tell me about his relationship with Clare?’
‘How would I know? She stopped me seeing him last year.’
‘Can you explain why?’
‘She told the police I was bothering her, but I just wanted a rational conversation.’ Her arms folded tight across her chest. ‘After our mother died, Clare took over her house – lock, stock and barrel. She said it had been promised to her.’ The anger in her voice rose with each statement. ‘That’s an outright lie. I think she destroyed Mum’s will.’
‘But you own a flat in Blackheath now, don’t you?’
‘That’s irrelevant.’
‘The case has been running for two years?’