by Kate Rhodes
The WPC scribbled my name on her list then handed me a sterile suit and plastic overshoes.
‘Put these on please,’ she said. ‘And watch the stairs, they’re a tight squeeze.’
I understood what she meant when I began the dizzying climb through the atrium to the garret above. The museum was dimly lit and ill-suited to dozens of police officers and SOCOs trampling between the low rafters. Bunches of herbs hung from wooden beams, showing how the place would have looked in Georgian times. Over the centuries their scent had impregnated the walls with eucalyptus, camphor, and a faint reek of formaldehyde. Glass display cabinets held equipment from the earliest days of surgery. I stared at a row of lint-lined masks which would have been used during operations. Anaesthetics were simpler then, a teaspoon of ether sending patients into oblivion, but the technique had been hit and miss; a few drops too many meant the patient would never wake up. The obstetrics section seemed packed with instruments of torture. One case held batons as narrow as walking sticks; in the days before pain relief, mothers in labour bit on them to stifle their screams, hundreds of teeth marks imprinted on the wood.
Tania strode towards me when I straightened up, glamorous as ever, even in crime scene overalls. She would have looked elegant in a paper bag, but today her expression was blank.
‘It’s Jordan Adebayo,’ she said. ‘Someone cut the padlock off the back entrance; it looks like they brought him in from the car park.’
‘That would take strength, wouldn’t it?’
‘Not if they frogmarched the poor sod up the steps.’ Tania’s Tower Hamlets accent had grown more pronounced, distress sending her back to her roots. I followed her down a narrow passageway, a flurry of SOCOs pushing past in their white suits. ‘It’s like Piccadilly fucking Circus in here.’
‘Has Eleanor Riordan been picked up?’
‘Not yet. She hasn’t been home since you saw her on the common.’
Tania was so grim-faced I put my questions on hold. The passageway opened into a wood-lined amphitheatre, light falling from windows that studded the ceiling of the circular room. A skeleton hung on a wire beside the entrance, perfect teeth trapped in its jaw, grinning in welcome. He had probably stood there for centuries, teaching generations of medical students the laws of anatomy. The amphitheatre had been preserved in its original state too. Its raked seats would have allowed hundreds of trainee surgeons to spectate. So far I’d seen no sign of the body, but the room swarmed with activity. The air was sharp with unpleasant odours: meat left to fester, excrement, and the bitter tang of antiseptic. To distract myself I scanned the walls again. Someone had daubed Pure’s logo on the wooden door: the familiar white and black smears, a supersized version of the marks left beside the blood packs on Gina Adebayo’s doorstep.
Burns stood on the far side of the room, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, making me wonder if he’d been home at all. He was deep in conversation with Hancock, a head taller than the officers buzzing around him, as if he was the only adult in the room. His feelings were well concealed, but I knew he’d be blaming himself for the latest death. Guilt was obvious in his posture, every muscle locked in place.
‘Ready?’ Tania was hovering next to me.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Except I wasn’t, of course. I’d always preferred to witness a killer’s approach first hand, but this time I was out of my depth. I’d seen plenty of crime scenes since becoming a forensic psychologist, but Jordan Adebayo bore little resemblance to the handsome man in his wedding photos. He was strapped to a wooden operating table, shirt hanging open to reveal a grossly distended torso. The colour had drained from his skin. And the reason was obvious: the pool of blood lying below his body extended for two metres.
Stale air was making my head swim. When my eyes blinked open again I forced myself to study the man’s face. His throat had been cut so deeply that the pale tissue of his windpipe was exposed, jaundiced eyes protruding from their sockets. Tania’s turquoise gaze was glassy when I turned round.
‘Is that how he was found?’
‘Covered by a surgical gown.’ She nodded at a row of cotton robes, hanging from hooks on the wall. ‘The curator says it’s from here.’
‘He died on the operating table?’
‘The police surgeon said it would have taken seconds, once his jugular was cut.’
‘The restraints are classic sadism, but this level of staging means they’re enjoying themselves.’ A fresh wave of sickness hit me as I studied the body again.
‘You need fresh air.’ Her hand cupped my elbow.
‘I’ll be okay.’ I hated to admit defeat but my head was swimming. My eyes swept the scene again, then I stumbled out through the fire exit, suppressing my nausea. All I could hope was that Clare Riordan hadn’t met the same fate.
When my eyes opened again the weakness was passing and Burns was leaning against the wall nearby.
‘Are you all right, Alice?’
‘I’ll live. Has his wife been told?’
‘That’s where I’m heading.’ His frown showed his reluctance to share the news.
‘What do you know so far?’
‘He was injured before they arrived. There’s a blood trail on the concrete.’
‘It’s gathering speed. Adebayo was only kept a few days, delivered to a central London location, and killed with a theatrical flourish. They’ll act again soon.’ I spoke the words more for my own benefit than his. ‘We have to find out who was on that panel.’
‘Whitehall’s still saying the information’s classified by the Department of Health, but they’ll have to give it to us now.’ He took a step closer. ‘You look ill, why don’t you go home for a few hours?’
‘I’m fine,’ I snapped. My fears for Mikey wouldn’t allow me to give up, no matter how weak I felt. ‘I’ll need the crime scene analysis today, and I want to be at the autopsy.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive. I’m still concerned about Eleanor Riordan; Mikey had a panic attack when he saw her on the common yesterday.’
‘We’re looking for her car.’ He carried on studying me. ‘When this is over, we’re taking a serious holiday.’
I attempted a smile. ‘Holidays aren’t meant to be serious.’
He looked so bleak that I wanted to comfort him, but a noise rumbled behind me before I could move. A BBC press van was pulling into the car park. For once the reputable journalists had beaten the paparazzi; they must have been waiting outside the police station for the first flurry of activity. Two cameramen climbed out, followed by Roger Fenton, who cast a cool gaze across the melee of the crime scene. It made me wonder why he’d chosen a job which involved chasing ambulances; either he had a genuine belief in freedom of information, or a vicarious love of danger. Of all the journalists pursuing the story, he seemed most obsessive, but I pushed my concern aside. If Fenton was involved in any way, why would he have tipped us off about the link to tainted blood? Burns traipsed down the steps to face them with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man.
I spent that afternoon working at home, but the scene at the operating theatre kept returning whenever I slowed down. A dozen emails had arrived from colleagues at the FPU, reminding me that my day job was being neglected. Consultants were begging for funding decisions, increasing my guilt about neglecting my new role. My time with Mikey had knocked everything else aside. But, despite my best efforts, my profile report still wasn’t conclusive. Only the hallmarks of two distinct personalities remained clear: one was measured and academic, the other daring and vicious enough to take huge risks. If I was correct, they were the perfect double act, compensating for each other’s flaws. But I still couldn’t fathom why Riordan had been kept alive so long, while Jordan Adebayo had died within hours. Leaving Pure’s logo at the murder scene could be a double bluff or a telling signature. If the link was genuine, the killers were members of a group that was over a thousand strong. The final possibility was that Eleanor Riordan had a murderous
axe to grind. I could understand her rage against her sister turning violent, but why would she attack other blood specialists? I needed to question her boyfriend, the novelist Luke Mann, even though he’d already been interviewed. Eleanor matched the profile for the impulsive, emotional side of the partnership. If Mann was involved, I would expect to meet a calm intellectual, capable of objectivity, even if his moral compass was broken.
I was still working when my phone rang at seven. It took me a while to realise that the woman’s cultured London accent belonged to Emma Selby. I wondered whether she was calling from her office at the Wellcome Institute, its walls lined with books on the history of blood treatments.
‘I hope it’s okay to call out of hours,’ she said.
‘Of course, I was working anyway.’
‘Could we meet? I’ve been thinking about your case.’
‘That would be great.’
Emma was already at Bertorelli’s when I reached Covent Garden, easily the most striking woman in the room. From a distance she still looked like the flamboyant student who’d stood out from the crowd at medical school, over a decade before. She wore a purple silk shirt with a jade necklace, hair a mass of glossy brown ringlets. A bottle of wine stood on the table beside two empty glasses. She was poring over a copy of the British Medical Journal, but abandoned her reading glasses when I arrived.
‘Sorry to drag you across town.’ She smiled apologetically.
‘It’s fine, especially if you’re sharing that wine.’
Emma leant over to pour me a glass. ‘If someone’s obsessed by places linked to blood medicine, there are some more you should consider.’
She handed me a list of nine locations, written in spiky black ink. Most were hospitals or pathology labs, but she’d included the Old Operating Theatre, which made me do a double take. The discovery of Adebayo’s body hadn’t been announced yet.
‘Why’s the operating theatre significant?’
She took a sip of wine. ‘Some of the first surgical transfusions happened there, but techniques were hit and miss. The theatre floor was awash with blood at the end of each day.’
‘Not a great time to fall ill.’ I carried on studying the list. ‘This is helpful, thanks. The investigation team will check them out.’
‘I needed to get it out of my system. I fret about things otherwise.’
‘Me too.’ I topped up her glass. ‘But now you’ve passed it on, you can relax.’
Her smile reappeared. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to since med school.’ There was an intense expression on her face as she listened to an abbreviated version of my transfer to psychology, and my passion for forensic work.
‘The mind interested me more than the body. I’m fascinated by the reasons why people break the rules.’
‘Your forensic work sounds like my research. We’re both peeling back layers to reach the truth.’
Her analogy was spot on. Investigations often felt like stripping wallpaper until I hit a solid wall of fact. I ended up staying until closing time, splitting the bill with Emma, who turned out to be an interesting companion. We covered a lot of territory: family, career, relationships. She told me that she had been seeing someone for years, but they had never lived together.
‘Sometimes I wonder why I care about him so much. He can be incredibly difficult.’
‘Easy options are normally dull,’ I said, raising my glass.
After we parted company, I felt more upbeat. It had been weeks since I’d met a friend for a drink and chatted about something other than work. She reminded me of Lola: stylish and bright, with the same restless energy. Her quick wit and intelligence made me hope that we’d meet again, but there was a layer of secrecy under her extrovert manner. Several times during the evening it had been clear that something was preying on her mind. I could tell that she’d needed to escape from herself that evening, for reasons she hadn’t revealed.
25
Saturday 25 October
I used the taxi ride to University College Hospital on Saturday morning to prepare myself for what lay ahead. Pedestrians were making slow progress up the Euston Road, taking leisurely strolls towards Bloomsbury and the British Museum. I would have preferred to join them instead of attending Jordan Adebayo’s autopsy, but with luck it would explain how he’d died. Tania was waiting outside the mortuary at eleven a.m., her smart navy coat slung across her arm.
‘Lindstrop’s running late,’ she said. ‘Typical despot behaviour. She files a complaint if we’re a minute behind, but it’s fine to keep us waiting.’
‘Don’t expect pathologists to be rational. Anyone who chops people up for a living has to be unhinged.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m dreading this.’
‘At least we’re in it together.’
The mortuary assistant ushered us in before she could reply. Lindstrop had reverted to type since my last visit, red-faced and belligerent, voice one decibel short of a scream.
‘Morning, ladies,’ she said, dragging on fresh surgical gloves. ‘I see you drew the short straw for weekend duty. Let me remind you of theatre protocol: backs to the wall, no fainting, questions at the end.’
The room was full of sharp odours: ammonia, bodily fluids, and a whiff of my own fear. I watched Lindstrop circling the operating table. A microphone hung from a wire overhead, waiting for her pronouncements. Jordan Adebayo’s skin had paled from brown to grey. Someone had shown enough sensitivity to close his eyes, so his wife wouldn’t have to confront his terrified stare. The suffering he’d experienced in captivity showed in the deep bruises on his arms and face. Lindstrop was examining his hands, her voice dropping to a murmur.
‘Someone’s made a mess of you, my friend.’ She flicked on the microphone and snapped back into professional mode. ‘Puncture marks consistent with wide needle injections to left and right forearms, chest, neck and face; oedema and subdermal bleeding to the left wrist.’
The pathologist examined the man’s skin through a looking glass.
‘Blisters,’ she commented. ‘Your last hours were no fun at all.’
Lindstrop swabbed his skin with lint and took scrapings from his nails. Then she examined each limb, recording every mark, before turning her attention to his throat. My stomach churned as she dabbled her fingers in the wide gash. After a few seconds she turned in our direction.
‘The carotid artery’s been cut. It’s the quickest way to kill someone; the blood loss would have been phenomenal. We can replace up to forty per cent of our body’s supply, if we bleed slowly, but he would have died in two or three minutes.’
Tania groaned quietly as I tried to concentrate. Why was Riordan’s blood being released over a period of days, while Adebayo had been exsanguinated in moments? I needed all my self-control to keep watching as Lindstrop performed a Y-section on the man’s chest and removed his major organs one by one. Technical terms flew over my head, but she mentioned ventricular damage, clotting and arterial obstruction. The pathologist had reached the end of the procedure when she turned to us again.
‘Do either of you want to see something interesting?’
‘Not today, thanks,’ Tania muttered.
Lindstrop smiled when I stepped forwards. ‘Nerves of steel, Alice. Good for you. Do you know which organ this is?’ She held out a wide metal dish.
‘The liver.’ I blinked at the dark red mass, surrounded by a pink foam of blood.
‘But something’s wrong, isn’t it?’
‘It’s too big.’
‘Quite so.’ Her smile widened. ‘Mine’s half this size, and I’ve been abusing it for forty years.’
‘He was poisoned?’
‘In several different ways. The toxicology reports just arrived.’ She peeled off her gloves and collected a printout from the table. ‘There was interferon and ribavirin in his blood, like in Riordan’s samples – traces of heroin, too. The wounds show that they plunged the needle at random wherever they liked.’
‘Remind me what
interferon’s used for?’
‘It slows the progress of blood-borne viruses like hepatitis.’
‘Would it have enlarged his liver that much?’
She shook her head. ‘It would have made him nauseous. Something else caused the organ damage; the report shows massive coagulation. He would have died quickly, even without the cut to his throat.’
‘Why?’ Tania asked. Now the ordeal was ending, she seemed to be recovering.
‘It looks like he received an injection of the wrong blood type. Needle marks lead straight into major veins, like you’d see after a transfusion.’
‘Would you need medical knowledge to do that?’
Lindstrop shook her head. ‘Injections are easy; you just need to insert the needle into a vein.’
‘What happens when someone’s given blood that doesn’t match their own?’
‘The body shuts down,’ Lindstrop said. ‘Blood antigens reject the foreign fluid, leading to massive clotting, then heart failure. Even the skin blisters. Perhaps it’s a blessing his throat was cut. It would have saved him the agony.’
Tania was speechless when we got outside, cold air failing to revive her.
‘Want to get a drink?’ I asked.
‘God, yes. Anything to wash the taste away.’
We ended up in an Irish watering hole on the Euston Road, which was doing a roaring lunchtime trade. Tania slumped at the bar and I bought us both a double shot of Laphroaig. She knocked hers back in a single swallow.
‘How does Lindstrop do that every day?’ she asked.
‘For the victims, I suppose. She seems passionate about it.’
Tania shook her head. ‘Most of it went over my head.’
I stared down at my drink. ‘The killers gave Adebayo the strongest opiate you can buy, then a blood transfusion of the wrong type, before his throat was slit.’