by Kate Rhodes
‘I don’t even know if Michael got my birthday cards. My boyfriend thinks I should let it go, but blood’s thicker than water, isn’t it?’
Her reference to blood pulled me up short. So far Burns had kept the abductor’s grisly calling card out of the news, by issuing the finders with a gagging order. ‘Can you explain why the property means so much to you, Ms Riordan?’
She stared back at me. ‘My sister was always my parents’ blue-eyed girl – smarter and more confident. But I loved it there, playing on Clapham Common with friends after school, even though Clare acted like I didn’t exist. She did everything in her power to prove she was better than me.’ Riordan’s nonverbal communication continued in the silence that followed. Her jaw had locked so tight it looked as though she might never speak again.
‘Did things improve as you got older?’
‘Mikey brought us together for a while. I loved babysitting for him, but Clare was already angling for the house, putting pressure on Mum.’
‘That sounds painful.’ Her face was tense with anger. ‘Could you tell me about your job, Eleanor?’
‘I advise international pharmaceutical companies on sales strategies.’
‘I bet that keeps you busy.’
‘It does.’ She almost managed a smile. ‘My job involves quite a lot of travelling.’
‘Do you still hope to see your nephew?’
‘Of course, but I’d prefer my sister’s blessing.’ She crumpled forwards in her seat. ‘I’m not stupid, I realise she may not be found. But I won’t accept it till there’s concrete proof.’
‘That makes sense,’ I said, nodding. ‘Is your boyfriend in sales too?’
‘God, no, he’d be hopeless. He’s a novelist.’
‘Would I know him?’
‘His name’s Luke Mann. He hasn’t had the success he deserves.’ Eleanor’s tone gentled when she spoke of her partner, some of her tension slipping away.
‘Can you give me any more details about Mikey, to help me support him?’
‘He never forgets anything you say, and he’s got a mind of his own. Ever since he was small he’s wanted to do things for himself.’
‘You’ve been very helpful. Feel free to contact me if you want to discuss the case. I’m afraid we may need to talk again.’ I handed her my card.
‘I don’t mind.’ Her eyes glistened as she fastened her coat. ‘I want her found as much as anyone.’
‘Thanks again for coming in.’
When I pressed a button on the wall, a fresh-faced uniform arrived to escort Riordan to the exit.
Burns’s hands folded across the back of his neck once we were alone. ‘She’s more uptight each time I see her.’
‘She knows her sister might not come home.’
‘Why would she care? They hate each other’s guts.’
‘Blood’s thicker than water, like she said, and unfinished business is hard to bear. Are you sure her alibi’s sound?’
He looked sceptical. ‘You think she’d abduct her own sister?’
‘Family members are always top of my list, but I’d like to know more about Sam Travers and the Thorpes. Even if her lover and close friends turn out to be innocent, they can give us insights into her life. But right now Eleanor’s our best fit; she seems to be at cracking point. Anxiety about the court case and all that wasted money could have sent her over the edge, or maybe losing access to Mikey made her lash out.’
‘She’d have struggled to hide her sister somewhere, dump the car, then get back to Blackheath for ten a.m. Her neighbours saw her on the forecourt then, briefcase in hand.’
I shook my head. ‘If it’s a couple that abducted Clare, her accomplice could have done the dirty work. Does she live with the boyfriend?’
‘He’s got a place in Camberwell. But we can’t be one hundred per cent sure a couple took her, just because a man and woman were seen nearby. So far we’ve got no concrete proof.’
‘Eleanor seems obsessive enough to plan a campaign, if she had someone helping. Whoever took Clare knew her routine well enough to forecast exactly when she’d leave the house, and her running route.’
‘You think she hates her sister enough to hurt her?’
‘She’s got a high sense of childhood grievance.’ I scanned the notes I’d scribbled on my EF1 form. ‘She sees her sister as the aggressor, but she’s volatile and caught up in family power issues. Clare’s neighbour says Eleanor couldn’t control her temper. Maybe something finally snapped her control.’
‘We’ll keep tabs on her. She doesn’t strike me as strong enough to harm anyone, but with the press crawling everywhere, I can’t miss a trick.’
‘Clare seems like a complex character. She didn’t socialise at work; her colleagues think she put ambition above personal loyalty.’
His gaze settled on my face. ‘Not like you.’
The abrupt shift of topic pulled me up short. ‘How do you mean?’
‘You work hard, but you make time for Lola, your brother, friends.’
‘But not for you?’
‘You read my mind.’ He shot me a grin. ‘Cook for me tonight and all is forgiven.’
‘I’m at the safe house.’
‘Pity.’ Burns scanned the wall to check that the door was shut, then his hand closed over my wrist. ‘You’ll need this, sooner or later.’ He placed a key on my palm.
‘You’re giving me an office here?’
He shook his head. ‘It’s for my flat.’
I passed it back to him. ‘There’s no need.’
‘Take it anyway.’
He dropped it into my pocket, then picked up the phone that was jangling on his desk. I wanted to argue, but the station was the wrong place to debate territory. A queue had formed outside while we’d been interviewing Riordan, and I felt a pang of sympathy. Half a dozen members of his team were waiting to offload their worries.
The police presence had lightened when I reached the safe house; just one officer in the squad car outside, immersed in a newspaper. So many uniforms were doing house-to-house in Clapham that every spare human was needed on the streets. The tense expression on Gurpreet’s face told me that he was in need of a break. The house’s dark walls seemed to have squeezed the last breath of oxygen from the air.
‘He had a rough night,’ the nurse said. ‘Bed-wetting and standing by the window for hours. The kid’s so tired he can hardly keep his eyes open.’
‘I’ll do my first night shift tomorrow.’
‘If you think he’s ready. You still want social contact kept to a minimum?’
I nodded. ‘Any demands will put him under more pressure.’
Mikey was hunched in a chair in the lounge, keeping the world at bay; the TV was switched off, no external stimulus to lighten his state of mind. We would need to move to the next level fast, even though he was so vulnerable; if his feelings stayed locked inside, they would fester until his nightmares grew toxic. I knelt on the floor before making direct eye contact.
‘I’d like to stay here tomorrow night, Mikey. If you write down a list of foods you like, we can cook together.’ I drew a notepad from my pocket, and a set of playing cards.
The child ignored me, his body folding in on itself.
‘Want to play Solitaire?’
It felt like a minor victory when he gave a minute nod of agreement. I dealt the cards myself the first time, to show him the rules. It seemed as though he’d ignored me, but he laid new cards on the floor with a shaky hand.
‘Good going,’ I commented. ‘You’re quicker than me.’
I waited until he was absorbed in sequencing the cards before speaking again.
‘It must be hard keeping your feelings to yourself. If you write some of them in the notebook, you’ll feel better. I won’t make you talk till you’re ready. But lots of people would love to visit you: mates from school, your aunt, Denise and Simon.’
His body language changed when he heard the names, shoulders stiffening, the cards spilling f
rom his hand.
‘It’s okay. You don’t have to see anyone yet.’
‘Not far now,’ he whispered.
‘Not far from where, Mikey? Try and tell me what you mean.’
His eyes glazed as he stared at the wall, making me wonder if the names I’d mentioned had triggered his fear. I carried on talking in a soothing voice, but it had no effect; by the time I left he was hunched in his chair once more, like my visit had never happened. I cursed silently as I got into my car, wishing I could pinpoint what had caused such a strong reaction. His traumatised state had me convinced that he’d witnessed something that might lead the investigation directly to his mother.
I walked to St Katharine Docks that evening to clear my head. It was after seven when I arrived, the sight of the marina lifting my spirits. There was something heartening about the garish houseboats, side by side in their moorings, tightly packed as pencils in a box. The boat my brother Will and his girlfriend Nina shared had seen better days. The Bonne Chance was a Dutch barge in need of TLC, moored at the end of a jetty. When the galley door opened, Nina gave me a tentative smile. We’d seen plenty of each other in the last few months, but she still seemed gripped by shyness. Her knitted dress emphasised her slim build, cropped black hair revealing lines of tattooed script tracing the contours of her neck. She stepped back to admit me to the narrow galley. The space had an overcrowded charm, bright enamelware filling every nook and cranny, simple wooden furniture painted in primary colours.
‘Will was just talking about you,’ she said.
‘Nothing scandalous, I hope?’
‘He was speculating about your love life.’
My brother kissed my cheek. ‘You’re cold, Al. You’d better sit here.’
Will made room for me by the log burner. He looked in good shape. The shadows under his eyes had disappeared, and so had the ragged beard he’d worn for years. He was almost as clean cut and handsome as he’d been a decade ago, before his bipolar disorder took hold.
‘Tell us about your new man,’ he said.
‘Not till I’ve had a glass of wine. How’s work going?’
‘Pretty good. I can make smoothies and clean toilets with the best of them.’
‘You still like the people?’
He nodded. ‘The juice bar’s like the United Nations. I can say hello, goodbye and thank you in Russian, Arabic and Swahili.’
‘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.
9
The 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.
10
Thursday 16 October
The 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 wa
s 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.