by Kate Rhodes
‘He sounds like a tough kid.’
‘They can shrug anything off at that age.’
I studied the leafless trees outside. ‘Mikey’s not that robust. He’ll crack if his mum isn’t found soon. Even if she’s dead, it’s better for him to know than to carry on in limbo.’
A muscle ticked in Burns’s cheek. ‘We’re working round the clock.’
‘I guessed, from the state of your flat.’
‘Maybe I should get a cleaner.’
I touched his forearm. ‘It’s a free world. Live like a slob if you choose.’
‘You should have waited for me.’
He gripped my hand, and even though we spent the next half-hour talking about the case, he didn’t release it until our orders arrived. Tania had already confirmed that Passmore was correct about the membership of the Tainted Blood panel being an official secret; Whitehall were refusing to disclose the advisors’ names. Burns seemed bemused when I mentioned the symbolic locations of the calling cards again.
‘You think they’re teaching us about medical history?’
‘Perhaps one of them’s sick, which would rule out Sam and Isabel Travers. Their health records came back clean. But life’s always been hard for blood patients; half of the earliest treatments were fatal.’ I studied his face. ‘If one of them got an infected transfusion, they might be lashing out.’
‘You think they’re twisted enough to kill any medic linked to tainted blood?’
‘If it’s a husband and wife, sickness could be stealing the person they love most. The killers’ relationship’s fascinating. The complexity and pace of their actions means they’ve got a high level of trust.’
‘Could it be a brother and sister?’
‘Possible but rare. Couples always condone each other’s violence; it’s like fanning a fire till it blazes out of control.’
‘God almighty.’ Burns gave a quiet groan.
‘It may burn itself out, but they’ve accelerated since the first attack, and they’re getting a kick from taunting us.’ I pushed my plate aside. ‘What’s Sam Travers been doing since his release?’
‘Staying with a friend. His marriage is over, apparently.’
‘It’s still possible he was involved in taking Riordan, isn’t it? Have you got much on John Mendez and Lisa Stuart?’
‘There’s still no clear link, apart from their expertise. The NHS computer system isn’t helping. Our IT guys are working on it, to see if a patient encountered all three of them.’
‘Or Mendez could have been on the enquiry panel, like Clare and Lisa. We need that membership list from Whitehall urgently.’ I checked my watch. ‘I should get moving.’
‘It’s days since I saw you.’ His expression darkened as we split the bill.
‘What’s bothering you, Don?’
His no-bullshit stare settled on my face. ‘I chose the wrong time to fall for you, didn’t I?’
‘Are you regretting it?’
‘Not yet. But I’m sick of being kept at arm’s length.’
‘It’s not deliberate.’
‘You won’t even meet my kids.’ The anger in his voice took me by surprise.
‘I will, when the time’s right.’
‘The Riordan boy’s got to you, hasn’t he?’
‘On a professional level, yes,’ I said quietly. ‘We’d better leave.’
When we stood outside on the pavement, Burns’s closed expression showed that he was still nursing his wounds.
‘This is new territory for me, Don. I’ve never let myself need anyone before.’
His smile slowly flickered into life. ‘Everyone has to start somewhere.’
My walk to the FPU was a blur after we said goodbye. Either the case was getting to me, or the intensity of his stare.
Mike Donnelly was the first person I bumped into when I arrived. He was wearing a smart jacket, white hair shorter than before, his beard neatly trimmed.
‘You’re looking spruce,’ I commented.
‘I’ve got my appraisal with Christine. I’d hate to get sacked.’
‘I think she’ll keep you.’ It was an open secret that he had been a key member of the CO’s team for twenty years. The only reason Christine had chosen me to work with Mikey over Donnelly was the need for a female therapist. ‘Can you help me for a minute?’
‘For you, anything.’
We sat in my office, flicking through Mikey’s case file. Donnelly had acted as forensic consultant on dozens of juvenile cases. I was sure he could help me form a strategy to help the child speak again. His fingers tugged at his beard as he pored over my notes.
‘Talk me through your methods so far, Alice.’
‘Re-enactment, prompts, guided questions, drawings, photos. Every trick in the book.’
‘And you’ve established trust?’
‘Definitely – he’s in tears whenever I leave.’
‘That’s tough on you. Kids latch on so fast.’ He studied me gravely.
‘It’s not me I’m worried about.’
His eyes widened. ‘You should be. Cases like this can leave a mark.’
‘I’ll deal with that afterwards.’
‘You’ve crossed the biggest hurdle; the kid was catatonic, but now he’s reactive again.’ Donnelly stacked my papers into a pile. ‘You’ll have to take him back to the common, guide him through the abduction again.’
‘Won’t that push him too far?’
‘Kids are realists. He knows his mother may be dead; that’s why he’s suffering. This way he’ll get the chance to help find her. And if there’s a delayed reaction, you’ll be there to support him.’
Gurpreet waited until Mikey was settled in the living room before sharing his update that evening. The boy had been reluctant to eat, fidgety and distracted. Childhood trauma often manifested as withdrawal and depressed mood. We both knew that the next phase would be anger, followed by slow acceptance. There was no way to comfort him, apart from offering diversion activities. Mikey seemed to relax as the evening wore on. I was still following my strategy of cooking together to help him relax. I waited until we were side by side in the kitchen before making my suggestion.
‘I’d like us to go back to the common tomorrow, Mikey, so you can show me what happened. Say yes or no, I won’t mind. Just nod or shake your head.’
His skin was so paper thin I could see the veins throbbing at his temple. I felt guilty for placing him under pressure, but it was unavoidable. After a minute he nodded his agreement, then clung to my side.
‘It’ll be fine, sweetheart.’ I gave his shoulders a quick squeeze. ‘We’ll be together.’
I let him stay up late that evening, tension easing out of him as we watched an ancient James Bond movie.
‘You’d make a good double-O seven,’ I said. ‘Clever and quick on your feet.’
He pulled a face before giving a rare smile, offering a glimpse of the boy he’d been before the abduction: self-mocking and bright. Seeing that past confidence made me even more determined to find his mother. I noticed the dog-eared copy of the A–Z lying on the floor at his feet. I’d seen him thumbing through the pages every day, but never found out why. I reached down and picked it up.
‘Is there a street you’re looking for, Mikey?’
His body froze, as it had done when I’d asked questions about his mum’s disappearance. The boy seemed hardwired to avoid discussing his trauma, as if he knew it might cause him harm.
It was almost eleven before I was alone again. Too tense to go to bed, I flipped open my laptop and entered my Home Office password to access the Health Ministry’s records. I found a record of the ministerial meeting following the Tainted Blood enquiry, the agenda flashing on to the screen. Only two senior civil servants had kept the health minister company while he signed the decision papers to deny culpability. I scrolled down to open the advisory panel’s meeting notes, but an ‘access denied’ message appeared. When I entered the command again, the same words ran across my s
creen. It struck me as odd that my level two clearance couldn’t break the security code. The panel’s findings must be screened by a top-level protection order, just like its membership.
The claustrophobia of the house was making it hard to breathe, so I pulled open the French doors to inhale some night air. Clare Riordan had been missing eleven days, her blood spilled at locations where early transfusions had taken place. I shut my eyes and tried to visualise a couple so incensed by fate that they would turn on medical practitioners. Ian Passmore’s face floated into view, followed by Isabel Travers, still outraged by her husband’s infidelity. But it was possible that the people who had abducted Clare Riordan were passing as ordinary Londoners; holding down day jobs, looking after their kids. No one wanted to believe the uncomfortable truth that not all psychopaths were lonely misfits operating at the fringes of society. Sometimes they behaved just like you or me, going undetected for years.
I was about to go back inside when something caught my eye: a movement between the plants at the end of the garden, or was it the play of shadows? When I looked again, there was only a tangle of ferns and spike-leaved palms. I stood on the patio, rubbing my eyes. Exhaustion or the pressure of the case must have been getting to me. I filled my lungs with gritty London air, before stepping back inside and locking the French doors.
21
It’s after midnight when the woman stands outside a garage block at the edge of the Barbican complex, dressed in jeans, gloves, a dark winter coat. She’s hoping to avoid a long wait, excitement pounding inside her ribcage.
‘All clear,’ she says quietly.
She waits in silence as the man uses a skeleton key to open one of the garages. Once inside, she shines a torch around the space. Light arcs across the cardboard boxes lining the back wall: there’s nothing to see, except a mess of oil smears on the concrete floor.
‘Let’s get ready.’ She pushes the boxes forwards, then crouches behind them. ‘We can hide here.’
Thirty minutes later a car pulls up outside. She hears a key fumbling in the lock, the engine idling. The woman’s mouth feels dry as sand while she waits for the click of the driver’s door. The victim has no time to fight before they pounce, the anaesthetic rendering him unconscious. She helps to lift him on to the back seat, binding his hands and feet. The woman hums quietly as the car pulls out of the estate, relaxed for the first time in weeks.
It takes all of their combined strength to lift the new victim into the dentist’s chair when they reach the lab. Riordan lies on a pallet on the floor, muffled protests emerging from behind her gag. Once Adebayo’s strapped down, the man retreats to a corner of the room. The woman sets to work draining blood from the new victim’s arm with an extraction needle. His skin pales, but he doesn’t cry out.
‘Give us a name, Jordan, or I’ll have to hurt you,’ she whispers.
‘Keep your hands off me.’ His voice rises to a shout.
‘Let’s see how much pain you can stand.’
‘I’ll never tell you.’
She collects another syringe from the cabinet, determined to prove him wrong.
22
Thursday 23 October
I woke up certain that discovering who had served on the Tainted Blood panel would explain why all three doctors had been targeted. But until Whitehall could be persuaded to disclose the information, that avenue was closed. I decided to revisit Clare’s workplace to see if it held any more clues, dashing out of the safe house at seven thirty, straight after Gurpreet arrived. The haematology department appeared to be empty when I arrived, smells of iodine, floor polish and hospital food lingering from the day before. I managed to persuade a janitor to unlock Riordan’s office after flashing my ID card. It was obvious that Hancock’s team had turned the room inside out. The contents of her filing cabinet were stacked in neat piles, computer missing from her table, every trace of her personality removed. I sat in the doctor’s narrow leather chair, eyes closed, trying to enter her mind-set, but all I caught was a faint hint of jasmine, the last trace of her perfume scenting the air.
‘Who were you afraid of?’ I muttered to myself.
I spent the next hour riffling through her papers, reading messages she’d scribbled on her jotter and in her notebook. The office gave the impression of a woman who had split her life cleanly in two; ruthlessly ambitious, but fond enough of her son to tack half a dozen photos to her pin board so she could keep him always in sight. I flicked through Clare’s desk diary and searched the books on her shelf, looking for notes she might have forgotten to throw away. It still made me uncomfortable that so many similarities had emerged between us: both driven and hardworking, keen on running, and happiest in relationships we could control. But the parallels between us could work in my favour: Riordan’s son had connected with me fast. Once he trusted me completely, he might be able to describe the events he’d witnessed.
My frustration mounted as I prepared to leave, Riordan’s secrets eluding me again. The dark-haired doctor I’d spoken to before was unlocking her door. Adele Novak’s expression was friendly as she greeted me, but behind her welcoming smile she looked tired, her skin fine as wax paper.
‘Looking for someone, Dr Quentin?’ she asked.
‘Call me Alice, please. I’m just trying to connect pieces of information.’
‘Can I help? My clinic doesn’t start till nine.’
‘That would be great, thanks.’
Novak ushered me into her consulting room. I noticed more details this time; she was using the space to put her patients at ease, soft toys piled in the corner to keep youngsters occupied, a rubber plant burgeoning by her desk, colourful cushions on the chairs. She switched on her kettle, making me a cup of tea with the minimum of fuss.
‘Clare’s absence must be affecting you all,’ I said.
‘We’re spreading her caseload across the department. I was here till ten last night doing ward duties, but it’s more of an emotional thing. No one can relax.’ She gave me an anxious glance. ‘Is there any news?’
‘Nothing conclusive, I’m afraid.’
‘I was wondering if Clare’s advisory work put her in danger. She wanted me to volunteer for a government committee, but I had no time. It’s unbelievable how much she crams into every day.’
I studied her again. ‘Last time we talked I thought you were being discreet. Were you holding something back, out of loyalty?’
‘You’re very perceptive. It seemed wrong to mention it when something so terrible had happened.’
‘Can you tell me now?’
She hesitated. ‘Clare knows how to manipulate men. My impression is that she charms them, then discards them.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She enjoys attracting whoever she wants, then walking away.’
‘People in the department?’
She nodded. ‘Ed Pietersen fell at her feet. He was outraged about her getting the top job, but within days she’d talked him round.’
‘You think he’s attracted to her?’
‘The men here either adore her or are terrified.’ Her expression grew wistful, as if she was trying to imagine owning that much charisma.
‘That’s what you were going to tell us?’
‘It seemed wrong to criticise, particularly when I owe her my job. But one of her admirers might have grown angry.’ She gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I’m at the opposite end of the spectrum from Clare.’
‘You’re not married?’
She gave a quiet laugh. ‘It’s not high on my agenda.’
We spent a few more minutes together and I got the sense that Novak felt guilty about drawing attention to her colleague’s weakness, even though it was an element of Riordan’s personality that I’d guessed for myself. The doctor seemed relieved to get it off her chest, her expression more relaxed when we said goodbye.
Once I got outside, my mobile rang. I had to cover my ear with my hand to take the call. Traffic was racing through Belsize Park, almost drowning
the voice at the end of the line.
‘Can you come to the Barbican, straight away?’ Angie’s tone sounded urgent.
‘Has something happened?’
‘I’m surrounded, Alice. I’ll explain when you get here.’
The journey gave me time to obsess about what might be waiting five stops away. I tried not to consider the worst-case scenario, that Clare Riordan’s body had been found. Angie’s elfin face looked tense when I surfaced at the Barbican. She set off at a brisk trot, her speech tripping along at the same rapid pace.
‘A guy called Jordan Adebayo’s missing. He runs the London Blood Bank; he never made it home from his late shift. His wife found a blood pack on their step around seven a.m., another splashed over her front door. The uniforms say she’s hysterical. I need you to assess her state of mind, see if she needs mental health support.’
‘The blood might not be her husband’s.’
‘Try telling her that. She yelled abuse at me down the phone; I’ve asked for a family liaison officer to help calm her down.’
Gina Adebayo lived at the heart of the Barbican complex. I had plenty of time to contemplate the architecture because Angie kept lapsing into silence, as if she was rehearsing how to comfort the missing man’s wife. The estate was an empire of beige concrete, a stone’s throw from the Square Mile. Its three huge towers must have enjoyed stunning long-distance views across the city, but the Adebayos’ apartment was in a modest low-rise block. The occupants seemed keen to inject nature into their brutalist landscape; even in autumn, trees and shrubs were flourishing on the balconies.
Someone had placed an opaque plastic sheet over the entrance to the flat, but the smears on the front door were hard to miss. Blood was congealing in long streaks across the woodwork. When no one answered the bell, we stepped through the unlocked door.
‘Who is it?’ A shrill female voice echoed down the hallway.
‘Metropolitan Police.’
‘About fucking time.’ Her tone rose even higher.
Gina Adebayo was pacing beside the panoramic window in her lounge. She was medium height, slim, with short hair dyed a glowing copper, freckled skin blotchy from crying, her eyes raw. She looked fragile enough to fall apart at any moment. Angie was smart enough to keep her distance; dealing with two people was more likely to increase the woman’s stress.