by Kate Rhodes
‘My name’s Alice Quentin. I’m so sorry your husband’s missing.’ She ignored me, turning her back to stare out of the window, but I stepped towards her. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
‘What difference would that make?’ Her fierce gaze lit on my face. ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’
‘I work for the Forensic Psychology Unit.’
Her hands clenched at her sides. ‘I’m not cracking up, for God’s sake. Why isn’t anyone down there looking for him?’
‘Dozens are, believe me. It’s my job to profile the people who’ve taken Jordan.’
‘Don’t use his first name,’ she snapped. ‘You don’t know him.’
I perched on a stool, making sure she could see me. ‘Can you tell me about your husband, Gina? It would help us get a clearer picture.’
‘He only got back from a conference in Paris yesterday. I told him to take the day off but he wouldn’t listen.’ A tear rolled down her face, splashing on to the floor, some of her tension finally releasing. ‘Jordan’s forty-six, passionate about his job. He never complains about the long hours.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘At work. I’m a team leader at the blood bank. We got married two years ago.’
A framed photo on the wall showed that the Adebayos’ wedding ceremony had taken place on an exotic beach, a strip of turquoise sea sparkling in the background. Jordan was a tall, good-looking black guy, giving the camera a wide-eyed grin, as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
‘Do you know if your husband was on the panel for the Tainted Blood enquiry, Gina?’
She kept her gaze fixed on the square below. ‘He was meant to keep it secret. Has that got something to do with him going missing?’
‘We need to find out. Did he say who else was on the panel?’
‘He didn’t mention it.’ Gina pointed at the view through her window. People were scurrying across fields of concrete, collars up against the breeze. ‘I keep expecting to see him. His walk’s more of a swagger; I can always spot him in a crowd.’
Angie took a step closer. ‘Is it okay to ask a few more questions?’
Gina refused to meet her eye. ‘If it brings him home.’
‘Has your husband always worked shifts?’
‘It’s a requirement. We supply all the London hospitals, twenty-four seven.’
‘You send out thousands of units every week?’ Angie asked.
She nodded. ‘Plasma and blood products. Jordan doesn’t just oversee the service; he runs campaigns and advises the government.’
I looked at her again. ‘Did you hear that a haematologist called Clare Riordan was abducted last week?’
She turned in my direction. ‘Jordan knows her, but I can’t remember where they met.’
‘Can you tell us what drew your husband to his job?’
She stared at me as though I’d lost my mind. ‘Do you know how many units of blood a liver-transplant patient needs?’ When I shook my head she carried on. ‘Fifty. Without the blood bank, thousands of people would die each week.’
I looked at her hands, twisting together as if she was wringing liquid from a piece of cloth. ‘Can you think of anyone who dislikes your husband, Gina?’
‘He lives for his work. Why would he have enemies?’
When the doorbell rang I left Angie with Mrs Adebayo. Millie Evans – a family liaison officer from Burns’s team – stood on the doorstep, wavy chestnut hair escaping from her ponytail, her stout figure dressed in black trousers and a dark red jumper. Millie’s round face opened into a smile.
‘Back with us, Alice? You’re a glutton for punishment.’
I explained the details as we waited for Angie to finish. Her eyes widened as she heard that Jordan Adebayo had been taken the night before, blood spattered across the doorstep for his wife to find.
‘And it might be her husband’s?’
‘It’s likely,’ I said, nodding. ‘She’s still in shock; ring me if she gets agitated.’
‘Of course. Jesus, there are some sick bastards about.’
Once she’d gone inside, I put on the sterile gloves Angie had given me, then lifted the plastic sheet. A blood pack lay on the doorstep, bigger this time and full to the brim, printed with Adebayo’s name. My head swam as I looked at it. The bag must have held at least a litre. But did it mean that Clare Riordan’s body had been dumped somewhere, or was she still alive, even though they’d taken a new victim? I spotted something else as I replaced the cover. Two small marks had been chalked on the doorstep – one black, one white. Pure’s logo: two drops of blood side by side. I took a photo with my phone, then rocked back on my heels. Whether or not someone from the campaign was carrying out the attacks, their logo lay at the heart of the investigation. The need to investigate the group’s members had just grown even more urgent.
It was eleven a.m. by the time Angie and I shared a taxi back to the station. She seemed to be digesting the information slowly, staring at my photo of the signature in silence, as if her thoughts were on overload. The panic on Gina Adebayo’s face kept returning to me as we reached St Pancras Way. It was an adult version of Mikey’s – disbelief, combined with full-blown rage.
Tania and Pete Hancock had already joined Burns in the meeting room. The atmosphere was grim, and it didn’t take a mind-reader to sense that everyone was anxious. The series had escalated from three victims to four, the intervals shortening.
‘I need all of your updates.’ Burns said, scanning our faces. ‘You first, Tania.’
‘My lot’s been looking at John Mendez and Lisa Stuart’s cases. The doctors both worked at Bart’s Hospital, five years apart, but it’s possible they knew each other. We’ve been interviewing colleagues, relatives, friends. Both were well respected in their field. The big frustration is that the NHS can only give records for the past year. We’re looking to see if any patients were treated by Stuart, Mendez and Riordan, but so far there are no overlaps. The Ministry for Health are still refusing to hand over details of the Tainted Blood enquiry, so we don’t know if Mendez served on it too.’
Angie flicked her notebook open. ‘Professor Adebayo’s wife has confirmed that he was on the panel. He was abducted in his black Subaru around midnight last night. A street camera picked it up as he reached the Barbican, then leaving again about quarter past. You can see the outlines of two figures in the front seats. We think his abductors changed the plates before joining the main road. Pete’s team are looking at his garage to see if they broke in. The blood at the scene hasn’t been tested, but they’ve used a bigger plasma pack this time. His doorway’s one hell of a mess.’
‘Have you got a picture?’ Burns said, frowning.
Angie flicked on the computer on the table and brought up an image of the blood pack, full to bursting. Beside it two small chalk marks were visible. I was still staring at the image when my turn came to speak.
‘We know that three of our four victims were on the Tainted Blood enquiry. We need the membership list urgently.’
‘You think they’re working their way through it?’ Angie’s small eyes focused on me, sharp as gimlets.
‘It seems likely, when all of the killers’ actions are linked to blood treatments. Last night there was an unusual degree of premeditation. They extracted pints of Adebayo’s blood, before returning to the Barbican to splash it across his door. It’s the opposite of the normal pattern of quick, sexually motivated abductions. I still think we’ve got two opposing personalities working together, one weak, one strong, making up for each other’s deficits, united by a sense of mission. They’ve upped the ante since taking Clare; they may be keeping Adebayo alive to torture him too. The pair seem to adapt their methods with each victim, but the signature never changes.’
Tania stared at me. ‘Why are they using the Pure logo?’
‘The group campaigns for people who received infected blood from NHS treatments back in the Eighties.’ I studied the picture of the blood pack, full of dark red liquid.
‘One of them could be a patient with a grievance. They’re taunting us with their knowledge of medical history, and they won’t just let Adebayo and Riordan go. They’ll hurt them in a way that links to their theme; it’s possible they’re being held in a location connected to blood history. Mikey’s my main concern. His visual recall’s extraordinary, so I’m sure he’s got buried memories about the abduction. He’s agreed to go back to Clapham Common this afternoon, but the visit has to be low key.’
Burns stared at me across the table. ‘Do you believe Riordan’s still alive?’
‘I think so, but it’s unusual for a victim to be held captive so long. Either she has vital information, or they’re enjoying watching her suffer. She’s being treated so differently from the other victims, she may know them. They may even be reluctant to kill her.’
Everyone round the table looked tense as the meeting progressed. At the end Burns discussed the next stage: the priority was to keep pressuring Whitehall to disclose the membership of the Tainted Blood panel. The professional histories of all four victims would be checked more thoroughly for connections and claims of medical negligence. More patients would be contacted and interviewed. Pure would be investigated thoroughly too. Wherever they were, the couple in question would have been overjoyed to be causing so much debate. The efforts to find Clare Riordan were doubling, media interest spinning out of control. If one of the victims died, Burns would be hounded by every tabloid in the land.
I stayed at the station to update my profile report. The deputy commissioner arrived at lunchtime wearing a thunderous expression, as if the new abduction was Burns’s fault alone. The two were still locked in his office when I fought my way through the press pack. Roger Fenton shot me a sympathetic look from the edge of the crowd, as if he didn’t envy me my job. The feeling was mutual. I’d have hated the tedium of waiting for stories to break, prying into people’s secrets. It took me several minutes to get past them and breathe clean air again.
Mikey looked frail when we set off for Clapham Common that afternoon. In the twelve days since his mum had been taken, he’d deteriorated from an athletic young boy to a pale-cheeked waif. Gurpreet sat on the back seat keeping his expression neutral, but I knew he had his doubts. My high-risk strategy could be cathartic, or it might plunge the child into a lasting silence. The new abduction had me clutching at straws. Any scrap of information might help track the victims down, even if it meant pushing Mikey faster than the care manuals suggested.
In the rear-view mirror a squad car followed at a discreet distance. I kept up a stream of chatter to put Mikey at ease. His shoulders were hunched with tension, even though the common must have looked very different from the morning when he went running with his mum. Now it was heaving with human activity: school teams playing football on the sports ground, kids chasing their dogs, new parents pushing buggies.
‘Are you okay, Mikey? We could do this another day.’ His eyes were terrified, but his expression was determined. Having come this far it was clear he didn’t want to fail. ‘We’ll follow the path, then you can show us where it happened.’
He was trembling as we approached the stand of trees, passing a mound of floral tributes with messages from well-wishers. There was a scurry of activity when we arrived, two men melting into the thickets at the sight of uniforms. Drug exchanges must have been taking place there round the clock, even in broad daylight. The temperature fell by a few degrees as we entered the copse. Under normal circumstances, I would have enjoyed walking through woodland in the middle of autumn, but the place felt tainted; I couldn’t forget that it was the scene of a brutal abduction. Mikey’s steps faltered, like he might keel over at any minute. Gurpreet hovered closer and I crouched down, bringing my face level with the boy’s.
‘Was it here, Mikey?’ He shook his head, pointing further down the path.
Once we got there he seemed calmer, as though his fears had been worse than the reality of seeing the place again. He pointed out where the car had been parked and the spot where the attack happened without saying a word. One of the uniforms took photographs, but the area had already been searched with a fine-tooth comb. I left Gurpreet with the uniforms and led Mikey to a bench.
‘Let’s catch our breath.’ He let me fold my arm round his shoulders when we sat down. I waited for him to speak, but the strategy failed. After a few minutes I attempted another question.
‘Do you know their names, Mikey? If you remember, you’ll help us find her. You can tell me, or you can write them down.’
I pulled a notepad and biro from my pocket, but he sat motionless, eyes blinking rapidly. When his lips opened no sound emerged, exhaustion obvious as he tried to speak. I felt torn between my duty of care and the need to find his mother, but it was clear his ordeal needed to end.
‘You’ve done brilliantly; now let’s get you home.’
Reliving the trauma seemed to have drained him as we returned to the car at a slow pace. I glanced over my shoulder as we walked away and spotted a woman in a dark winter coat at the edge of the clearing, near where the flowers had been laid. Our eyes met when she lifted her face. It was Clare Riordan’s sister, Eleanor, her raised collar almost obscuring her face. There was a high whimpering sound, and when I looked down Mikey was white with panic, eyes riveted to his aunt’s face.
‘It’s okay, sweetheart. She can’t hurt you.’
I tightened my grip on his shoulder, but felt him shaking as Eleanor slipped away into the trees. I alerted the uniforms immediately, telling them to find her and take her to the station. Why she would haunt the spot where her sister had been taken was a mystery, but my first concern had to be the boy’s welfare.
Mikey dissolved into tears as soon as we got indoors. It was clear he needed me to stay, the anxiety locked tight inside him threatening to explode. I swapped night duties with Gurpreet and watched the psychiatric nurse’s battered Volvo drive away, then I called Burns to let him know about Mikey’s panic when he saw his aunt. Dusk was falling when I looked out of the window again, darkness wrapping the house as tightly as a shroud.
23
It’s two a.m. when the man drags Adebayo’s half-conscious body from the lab. Even though his mouth is gagged, the victim’s whimpers are audible as they jostle him into the car.
‘We could give him more sedation,’ the woman says.
‘Not yet. We have to get him inside first.’
They drive south without talking, the man’s heart pounding as he concentrates on the road. The car fills with a soprano’s high aria from La Bohème when he turns on the sound system. It eases his tension, until he hears the victim sobbing on the back seat.
He parks behind a tall building in Southwark. The site is unlit, the man’s stomach tightening at the prospect of being caught. It’s the outcome he fears most – for the woman, not himself.
‘Let’s get this over with,’ he mutters.
The woman leans over, kisses his mouth. ‘We’re doing the right thing.’
The man is so tired when he climbs out of the car, he has to wait for his vision to clear before lifting bolt-cutters from the boot. It doesn’t take long to break the lock. The place is full of ghoulish statues and pictures, obscene objects crammed into glass cabinets. So many lives were lost here, the place feels ghost ridden as he retraces his steps. Together they drag Adebayo on to the asphalt, leaving him slumped against the side of the car. It’s the woman who forces him to stand. She prods his shoulder with her blade, pain making him scramble to his feet then lurch forwards, swaying unsteadily at the centre of the circular room.
‘This is your last chance to tell us,’ she hisses.
Adebayo shakes his head once, before the anaesthetic topples him. The man works quickly, strapping him to the operating table, ankles firmly secured. He stands back, watching the woman calmly putting on a plastic apron, then pressing another chloroform pad over Adebayo’s mouth. His body bucks wildly against the restraints, then falls limp. When she turns to the man again, s
he holds out a scalpel on the palm of her hand.
‘Want to help?’
‘We agreed I’d organise it, you’d take care of the rest.’
‘So I’m the executioner, the guilt’s all mine?’
The man stands motionless, absorbing the accusation in her gaze. It would be cowardly to leave; his fate has reduced them to this, yet he can’t bring himself to look. The first slash of her knife almost brings him to his knees.
24
Friday 24 October
A text arrived early the next day from Tania Goddard. It was a terse request to report to an address in Borough. A wave of anxiety hit me as I hailed a taxi. When I reached St Thomas Street, the crime scene was already behind cordons, the road commandeered. Sunlight glistened from the Shard’s glass walls as I paid the cab driver. The building was less than a decade old, but already absorbed into the city’s skyline, its jagged pinnacle piercing the clouds. Even at the worst of times, the city dazzled, old and new coexisting in harmony. The events unfolding at ground level were much less serene. CSI vans queued beside a Georgian terrace, St Thomas’s Church festooned in yellow and black crime scene tape. My discomfort increased; the police only went to such lengths when a murder had been committed. I made an effort to suppress my fear that Mikey’s mother had been found until the facts were established.
A young WPC instructed me to wait outside the Old Operating Theatre Museum. She wore a harassed expression as she checked people through the inner cordon. I belted my coat tight against the cold and studied the museum’s façade. It was housed inside a narrow nineteenth-century church that I’d often admired when I worked at Guy’s, two blocks away. It seemed odd that an operating theatre could have existed there, but a notice in the foyer explained that the church had once been part of St Thomas’s Hospital. The garret had served as its apothecary, providing hundreds of tinctures and medicines. It had also been the site of London’s first operating theatre: medical students, including the poet John Keats, had packed the aisles to observe groundbreaking surgery.