by Kate Rhodes
‘Forgive the delay. We need information about your husband and Clare Riordan.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘They had an affair. What more can I say?’
‘Has your husband ever been violent towards you, Mrs Travers?’
‘Of course not. I’d be back in Berlin.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘At a film workshop in Paris. He proposed three months later; you call it a whirlwind romance over here, don’t you?’ Under the cynicism there was a quake of emotion in her voice.
‘Can you describe your husband’s behaviour this past month?’
‘Distracted, not quite himself.’
‘Did you talk about it?’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Couples don’t just merge into one. If you lose your privacy, you lose everything. I knew he’d explain eventually.’
‘Have you met Clare Riordan?’
‘Twice. She came to dinner, and I met her during the documentary. I found her interesting.’
‘You were involved in the filming?’
‘I was production manager.’
‘But you never guessed about the affair?’
She gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘Suspicion’s pointless. I had my own life to lead.’
The interview yielded little new information. Isabel Travers’s body language was so defensive, her arms remained crossed throughout the discussion, hands clutching her elbows, holding herself together. Once she’d left the room, Angie breathed out a few expletives.
‘Not a happy bunny, is she?’
‘Wounded pride. It’s easier to be angry than humiliated. Her husband’s affair cut her to the quick.’
‘They could have dreamed the story up between them.’ She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘The boss won’t be thrilled, but we can’t detain them without forensic evidence.’
‘Travers told a different story this time, showing us he’s a plausible liar. Maybe his ego couldn’t take Riordan’s rejection, and Lisa Stuart may have turned him down too. But most crimes of passion are quick and brutal. The people who’ve hidden Clare have an obsessive interest in blood; the couple aren’t a perfect fit.’
‘They could have used a different car to pick her up. There’s a chance they’ll lead us to her, if it’s them.’
‘I’d like to see their health records.’
Angie blinked at me. ‘Why?’
‘It’s possible the people holding Riordan hate the medical profession. Maybe one of them’s ill.’
‘I’ll add it to my list. We’re already looking at the records for all of Riordan’s patients.’ The determined set of her jaw suggested that she would complete the task as soon as she left the room. ‘Do you remember Moira Fitzgerald, the senior nurse Riordan sacked?’
‘Of course.’ The Irish woman’s animosity towards Riordan had been too potent to forget.
‘She’s found a new job in Dublin, starting next month. We can’t find anything linking her to Clare’s abduction, so she’s off the suspect list.’
On one level the news pleased me. The frustrated nurse could escape from her minute flat, her anger more likely to fade in a new setting. Riordan seemed to have incited strong feelings in many of her colleagues and acquaintances, but that didn’t make them guilty of harming her.
I spent the next two hours writing up assessments, aware that they could be tested to destruction in a court of law. Sam Travers had shown a tendency towards neurotic self-interest, while his wife’s reaction had been classic sexual jealousy: anger mixed with defensiveness. Her rawness made her more likely to commit a crime of passion. But it didn’t surprise me that the investigation team had found little to implicate them in the crime, apart from Travers’s DNA in Riordan’s house and car. They must have stolen afternoons together, then she’d driven him home; standard behaviour for people having an affair.
Information from the case was still spinning round my head when I visited my favourite Vietnamese takeaway that evening. Fenton’s suggestion the previous day had made me rethink the nature of the crime. I’d assumed that Clare Riordan’s abductors knew her personally because she had received different treatment from the previous victims, but maybe they had a bigger axe to grind. The killers might believe that medical negligence on a grand scale justified attacking doctors. That would explain why they were choosing sites where blood experiments had taken place for their calling cards: a reminder that patients had been used as reluctant guinea pigs right from the start. I wondered how the investigation team would greet the idea that Clare Riordan had been taken because of a medical scandal thirty years before.
When I pressed Burns’s doorbell there was no reply, so I fished his key from my pocket, the mechanism clicking loudly in protest. So much of his personal life was on display that I felt like a voyeur. The crumpled towel slung over his cross-trainer revealed that he’d worked out that morning; a mountain of laundry was waiting to be ironed. A book about Mark Rothko lay open on the settee, and I wondered if reading about artists’ lives helped him escape the tension of the case. But papers stacked on his kitchen table showed that he’d worked most of the previous evening, reports covered in his left-handed scrawl.
I dumped the takeaway bag before studying his notes. Police teams had scoured the area round Clapham Common, chasing possible sightings. The helpline had been busy too, over two hundred members of the public convinced they had seen Clare Riordan in recent days. They varied from credible stories to bizarre claims that she’d faked her own abduction and boarded the Eurostar for Paris, leaving Burns to agonise over which sightings to pursue. I pushed his papers aside and drew up a new chronology. John Mendez had been murdered on his doorstep in January, Lisa Stuart reported missing in April, Clare Riordan abducted in October. It was possible that all three victims had served on the Tainted Blood enquiry. I put down my biro and rubbed the back of my neck. If the three cases were linked, why would the killers change their modus operandi so radically? The first victim had been despatched without ceremony, as though speed was all that mattered. If she had been killed, the cover-up had been so successful that Stuart’s body had never been found. This time they were indulging in elaborate staging, certain to draw the police’s attention, the locations for spilling Clare Riordan’s blood providing a lesson on the history of transfusion. Since talking to Emma Selby and Roger Fenton, I suspected that they weren’t just baiting the police, they were mounting a protest. I would have to find out more about the Tainted Blood enquiry, to see if the journalist’s hunch had been correct.
I opened my laptop and searched for the organisation Fenton had mentioned. Pure was such a common brand name that I had to trawl through listings for soap and baby milk before finding the group’s website. When I finally opened the page, their logo made my jaw drop. It was the sign that had been left at each crime scene: a black droplet beside a white one. Now that I saw the two thin teardrops in context, the message was easy to read: one blood supply was dirty, the other clean. My eyes scanned the site rapidly, hunting for more facts about the organisation. They described the tainted blood scandal as an act of state-sponsored mass murder; Pure’s main aim was to win fair compensation for the surviving patients and improve their quality of life. There was a chat room where sufferers could share their thoughts. Some of the messages were poignant: one woman had shared pictures from her husband’s memorial service; another described the horrible side effects of anti-viral drugs. The fact that the logo had been left at each crime scene meant that I would have to disregard Roger Fenton’s warning and meet Ian Passmore. I checked the organisation’s contact details again before scribbling them in my notebook. I tried to call Burns to pass on the news, but had no luck. From past experience I knew he often worked around the clock while a case was at its height, but tonight I couldn’t follow suit. After another hour my back was aching and I was desperate for a break.
I wandered round his chaotic flat to stretch my legs, my gaze landing on his bookshelf: a thick volume on Flemish Art of the Seventeenth Century sa
t beside a biography of Leonard Cohen and the latest John Grisham. His CDs were just as eclectic. Stravinsky concertos, hard-core American rock, and the Proclaimers’ album he played to annoy me. I came to a halt in front of a framed photo of Burns with his two sons. It had been taken that summer on their camping trip to Somerset. The three of them stood in front of a tent, big-boned and dark-haired, grinning for the camera. The picture made me feel uneasy. With Mikey I knew where I stood: a temporary replacement for his mother; his conduit to the outside world. These kids looked strong enough to fend for themselves. Meeting me might throw the whole picture off balance.
Burns’s landline rang while I was still studying the photo. I hesitated before answering, then reminded myself I was entitled to be there. The female caller issued an order before I could speak.
‘Liam’s got flu. Get round here, can you?’ She had a broad Scottish accent, her tone cold with anger.
‘Don’s not here, I’m afraid. Is that Julie?’
The woman’s voice chilled by another degree. ‘You must be the famous Alice.’
‘I’m sorry to hear your son’s ill.’
‘Are the pair of you living together now?’ She spat out the words.
‘I’m just visiting.’
‘Send him over. His son needs him.’
The call ended with an abrupt click. Burns and his wife had gone through a trial separation, then he’d returned for his kids’ sake, only for it to break down again months later. Judging by her angry tone, Julie held me responsible, even though I’d refused to get involved until they’d separated. The raw pain in her voice made me wonder if the whole thing had been a colossal mistake. I let my thoughts settle before calling Burns again, surprised that he finally answered after two rings, voices buzzing in the background.
‘Where are you?’ I asked.
‘Where do you think? Still at the chalk face.’
‘I’ve found their signature. Look up Pure, it’s a medical campaign group.’
‘For what?’
‘Patients who caught blood viruses from NHS treatments during the tainted blood scandal.’
He let out a gush of breath. ‘You’re a wonder, Alice. I’ll get someone on it now. Are you coming in?’
‘I’m at yours, with a ton of Vietnamese food.’
‘Stay there, I’ll be ten minutes.’
‘Your son’s got flu. You need to go and see him first.’
‘Julie spoke to you?’
‘It wasn’t exactly a conversation.’
He choked out a laugh. ‘I can imagine.’
‘You didn’t tell me she was Scottish.’
‘That’s the least of her worries. Look, I’ll see him, then come straight back.’
‘No rush. I’m going back to mine soon.’
His voice cooled. ‘We’re never under the same roof.’
‘I miss you too, for what it’s worth.’
‘Tomorrow we’ll have lunch. I’ll arrange a meeting with Pure too. Do you want to meet the head honcho?’
‘Definitely, his name’s Passmore. He could unlock the case for us.’
‘It’s time we had some luck.’ There was silence before he spoke again. ‘You’re in my head, Alice. I can’t change it.’
‘You too.’
‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow, sweetheart.’
I felt uncomfortable after we said goodbye. Endearments had been in short supply when I was a child, but that was no excuse; sooner or later I would have to voice my feelings. It seemed ridiculous that I’d reached my thirties without even making an attempt. I bundled my things back into my bag with a sense of frustration. The walk home through Borough took me along quiet, floodlit streets, but the cool air did me good. One of the things I loved about London was the way it kept one eye open at night, its history of apocalyptic floods, plagues and fires keeping it alert. I thought about Mikey Riordan as I reached Providence Square. With luck his night would be peaceful, with no bad dreams to spoil his sleep.
20
Wednesday 22 October
Ian Passmore’s profile confronted me when I turned on my computer the next morning. One of Burns’s team had sent an encrypted email overnight. He was fifty-eight years old, with just one criminal conviction for affray in 2012, and was currently working at the Courtauld Institute. He had agreed to report to the station at nine a.m. According to the report, he lived alone and didn’t own a car, devoting his spare time to Pure. I felt a stab of disappointment. Given that he was single, his details were a poor match for my profile, and the group’s logo appearing at the crime scenes didn’t make him a direct suspect.
Burns’s Audi arrived on the forecourt earlier than expected. Even from a distance it was clear he was feeling the strain, but his smile had its usual effect. It made me wish we could go back upstairs for a few hours and forget about the case.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ he said.
‘Flatterer.’ I slipped into the passenger seat, planting a kiss on his cheek.
‘It beats staring at a bunch of ugly, bad-tempered cops.’
It was obvious that things weren’t going to plan. He’d spent hours with Angie and her team the evening before, digging for information on Pure, but his seniors at Scotland Yard held him responsible for the officers who had blabbed to the press, creating a breach of security. He growled about the reprimand they’d passed down all the way to King’s Cross.
Passmore had arrived at the station before us. A tall man with a cloud of unkempt grey curls rose to his feet when we reached the interview room. He was dressed in threadbare cords and a tweed jacket, holding my gaze for a beat too long when we shook hands. His face looked pallid and careworn, as if he’d been working too hard for months.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet us,’ Burns said. ‘You work at the Courtauld, don’t you?’
‘For my sins. I’m a fundraiser,’ Passmore replied in a slow, north London drawl.
‘That can’t be easy in this climate.’
‘Even in a financial meltdown the rich stay rich, believe me.’ His gaze flickered between me and Burns. ‘I assume this is about Pure?’
‘Partly, yes.’ I took my notebook from my bag. ‘Can you tell us how it began?’
‘It’s all on our website,’ he said calmly. ‘After the blood scandal we wanted justice for the victims, but the Health Department have never accepted responsibility. At least we panicked them into offering a few thousand pounds to each patient. But the most seriously ill still live on a pittance that doesn’t cover their medical care. The government pays them less than the average UK wage, even though they’re dying from AIDS and hepatitis C.’
‘Some died before the money came, didn’t they?’
‘The tragedy continues, thirty years on.’ His tone grew bitter. ‘Factor Eight’s not used any more, thank God. But people like me relied on it back then. Without it, even a small injury could have been fatal.’
‘You’re a haemophiliac?’
He nodded. ‘My older brother was too. He got HIV from tainted blood. Retroviral drugs were crude back in the Eighties; he died at twenty-one.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Haemophilia passes from mother to son. If a woman carries the gene, there’s a fifty per cent chance her sons will get it.’
‘But in your case you both did?’
‘The luck of the draw.’
Despite his hostility, Passmore’s story spilled out easily, as though it was always at the forefront of his mind. I realised he must have been striking in his youth. Stress and exhaustion had caught up with him, but he had the chiselled features you see in adverts for whisky and aftershave – handsome men gazing into the middle distance. The fact that he lived alone made me wonder if decades of campaigning had left him isolated.
Burns leant forward in his seat. ‘I won’t beat around the bush, Mr Passmore. I need to find out if someone from Pure is carrying out a vendetta against medics who specialise in blood illnesses.’
He shook his head d
ismissively. ‘That’s ridiculous. We’ve got over a thousand members, but most are too sick to leave their homes.’
‘Being given a life-threatening disease from a blood transfusion would make a lot of people want to lash out.’
‘Don’t you think they’ve seen enough suffering?’
‘Anger does strange things to people. It’s possible that experts from the Tainted Blood enquiry are being targeted.’
‘How? I tried to get their names so we could lobby them, but the membership’s an official secret.’
Passmore’s stare blazed across my face, bringing the interview to a halt; long silences opened up between his statements, as if I’d insulted him personally. Burns had little more luck when he checked his alibi for the morning Riordan was taken. He claimed to have been at home with a volunteer from Pure called Michelle De Santis, contacting members who lived alone as part of their support network.
‘Is Michelle your partner?’ I asked.
‘I told you, I live alone.’
‘No need to snap, Mr Passmore,’ Burns said, quietly, shunting a piece of paper across the desk. ‘I want you to write down where you were on these dates, and provide names of people who can corroborate each statement. We’ll take a copy of your fingerprints before you leave, and we need Pure’s membership list too. Email that to me please, by five p.m. today.’
‘This is ridiculous. My organisation’s done nothing wrong.’ He fell silent, as if the implication that anyone from Pure was capable of violence had removed his power of speech.
I was still thinking about the meeting when Burns drove me to a Greek restaurant on Birdcage Walk. The place was classier than the eateries we normally visited, with dark panelling on the walls and views across St James’s Park. The waiter led us to a quiet table, beside a window.
‘What’s the special occasion?’ I asked.
‘There isn’t one. It’s to remind us there’s life beyond the case.’
‘I’m starting to forget. Did you see your son last night?’
‘Liam’s back at school. He had a fever, but today he’s fine.’