by Kate Rhodes
‘Heavy night?’ I asked.
‘A late one, that’s for sure. We kept Pietersen in a holding cell and arrested him on suspicion this morning, but we need more time. Another pint of blood was left outside the Institute for Biomedical Science in Kensington last night.’
‘So that rules Pietersen out?’
‘But not his wife. The surveillance guys lost her car when she went out last night. I’m about to arrest her. We’ve got a warrant for a full house search; Hancock’s there now.’
I felt a twitch of sympathy. Imako Pietersen’s immaculate home would be comprehensively turned over, even if she was innocent, crime scene officers ransacking every cupboard. For someone so house proud, it would be the ultimate punishment. I showed Burns the card that had been sent to Lisa Stuart, and heard him take a sharp breath.
‘The link to Pure keeps getting stronger.’
‘Have you got the membership list from Ian Passmore?’
‘He’s given us eight hundred names, but there are more. We’re chasing it up.’
I nodded in reply. ‘What’s the news on Luke Mann and Clare’s sister?’
‘Tania’s handling it,’ Burns said. ‘Pietersen’s our top priority. I’ve been at the Health Ministry, grilling them about the advisors on the Tainted Blood enquiry, but they’re not budging.’
‘Can I observe your interview with Imako?’
‘Feel free,’ he replied. ‘I’ve made an appointment for you and Tania to see Ian Passmore later.’
Burns’s body language was upbeat despite long days and blind alleys. He seemed to believe victory was near, but I felt less certain as we approached the interview room. I wondered how the leading light of Pure would react to another interview, but there was no time to speculate. Imako Pietersen was already being escorted through the door, a thunderous expression on her face. By contrast her solicitor was cheerful and avuncular, his paunch straining the buttons of his shirt, working hard to compensate for his client’s gloom. Her eyes looked cold enough to freeze any surface within ten metres. She snapped out her first request before Burns had finished reading her rights.
‘I want to see my husband.’
‘That’s not possible, I’m afraid,’ he replied.
‘If he gets sick, you’ll be to blame.’
‘Crimes have to be investigated, Mrs Pietersen. Your husband knows several of the victims, including his boss.’
‘My husband heals people. Why would he hurt anyone?’
Burns gazed at her steadily. ‘We asked for your whereabouts on the morning of Clare Riordan’s abduction. No one can verify that you were at home; maybe you and your husband went to Clapham Common, picking up a car along the way.’
‘Ed went to work and I did housework. Is that so hard to believe?’ Imako’s voice was rising to a shout.
‘What did you do last night?’
‘I visited friends in Kensington; I didn’t want to be alone. Neither of my kids live in London.’
‘You were told to stay at home. I’ll need the time you left home and your friends’ contact details.’
She scribbled words on the paper Burns pushed across the table. The impression she gave was of rigid self-control, too many emotions trapped inside her skin. Her unquestioning loyalty to her husband was a feature of most violent partnerships. Serial killers shared a sense of exclusion, pitting themselves against all-comers like Bonnie and Clyde. Maybe both of the Pietersens had felt overlooked. She had been a housewife in a foreign culture for two decades, and her husband’s CV showed him switching jobs regularly, never progressing past the rank of deputy. It was easy to imagine them railing against the world’s injustices over dinner. The only time Imako’s softer side revealed itself was when she spoke of personal matters.
‘How long has your husband been ill?’ I asked.
‘Years.’ Her voice faltered. ‘From stress and overwork. He doesn’t take care of himself.’
Burns leant closer, his arms resting on the table. ‘Mrs Pietersen, I’m afraid your husband’s been charged with abducting Clare Riordan. I’m arresting you as his accessory.’
‘I don’t believe it. You can’t keep us here.’
Her solicitor made a hushing sound. ‘On what grounds?’
‘Primary evidence links Dr Pietersen to Clare Riordan’s abduction. We know the abductor works with a female accomplice, and Mrs Pietersen has no confirmed alibi. She’ll be taken to a holding cell then questioned again later.’
Imako gave us an outraged stare. ‘You’ll regret this. I could sue you.’
‘Is there anything else you’d like to say?’
‘We’ve done nothing wrong.’ Her voice was a shrill protest. ‘Plenty of people must hate Clare Riordan. She’s the type to smile at you, then sleep with your husband.’
‘You think they were having an affair?’ Burns asked.
‘Of course not, but I bet she tried.’ Her voice cooled, as if she’d retreated behind a layer of ice.
Burns gave a low whistle after she’d been led away. ‘She’s not crazy about Riordan, is she?’
Imako Pietersen’s outburst fascinated me. When her control had finally ruptured, her true feelings were exposed; Clare Riordan had been a threat. Perhaps her cold fish husband had been drawn to her vibrancy, even though she’d stolen his dream job.
Burns strode away to update his detectives, but I peered out of the window at the red buses hurtling down St Pancras Way, like blood cells borne along the city’s arteries. The Pietersens’ intense feelings towards Clare Riordan could have mutated into violence, but why would they harm Adebayo and the previous victims? Professional jealousy seemed too weak a motive for so much bloodshed, and why would they appropriate Pure’s logo? Burns seemed convinced that he’d found his culprits, but too many pieces of the puzzle were missing.
Tania collected me at two o’clock. It was clear she was in no mood for small talk. She looked as stylish as ever, in a dark blue suit that must have cost a fortune, but her expression was weary. She donned a pair of sunglasses before we faced the press. The attempt at anonymity didn’t work, journalists shouting questions until she raised her hand.
‘The briefing’s at three o’clock, guys. Move aside, please.’ Her strident East End voice parted the crowd like the Red Sea.
‘Impressive,’ I commented as we reached my car.
‘Why take shit from that lot? They’d walk over your dying body for a story.’
‘Roger Fenton seems like an exception.’ I caught sight of him as we drove away, patiently leaning against the railings, waiting for his scoop.
‘The tabloid sleazebags are the worst.’ Her fingertips drummed on the wheel. ‘Passmore’s been causing us grief. It says on Pure’s website they’ve got over a thousand members, but he hasn’t told us all the names. If he doesn’t give us the rest today, he’ll be arrested for withholding evidence.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Cherry Garden Pier.’
The area was familiar terrain, only a stone’s throw from my flat. Tania used the journey to discuss details. I got the sense that she was speaking more for her own benefit than mine, testing different angles and laying her doubts to rest. By the time we’d woven east through the city, I understood how hard Burns had been leaning on Pietersen since he’d been arrested, making him repeat his story, trying to fracture his alibis for the times of the abductions, and expose his wife’s involvement. No doubt Imako’s statement would be tested to destruction. So far there had been little progress on finding Clare’s sister or her elusive boyfriend. Eleanor’s car had vanished, and she hadn’t been seen at work. Mann had left his property in the early hours of the morning carrying only a backpack. Neighbours had seen bailiffs outside his property, and thought that he’d been evading debt collectors. I was still trying to compare Clare’s sister and Imako Pietersen as potential culprits when the car reached Shad Thames.
Ian Passmore’s Victorian house was sandwiched between converted warehouses, so near the river
it must have been worth a fortune. A tall woman with a sweep of long black hair greeted us. It was hard to guess her age, but she could have been anywhere between forty and fifty, strikingly beautiful, with an oval face and smooth olive skin. If I’d had to guess her origins, I’d have said Native American. Her unflinching stance suggested that she’d be a tough opponent in an argument. Slim trousers and a fitted top accentuated her athletic build. A slow smile of welcome lit up her face.
‘Are you looking for me?’
‘We’ve got a meeting with Ian Passmore.’
She stepped back to admit us. ‘I’ll take you to him. I’m Michelle De Santis, a volunteer with Pure.’
I returned her smile. ‘My name’s Alice, and this is Tania.’
‘It’s been a busy morning. We’re doing a mail-out today.’
‘Do you often help out?’
‘Whenever I can.’ She stopped to push open a door. ‘Two ladies for you, Ian.’
I took a sharp intake of breath when we stepped into his living room. Folders and loose papers covered every piece of furniture, manila files lining the walls, dates scrawled on their spines. Passmore sat at the table, looking like his temper could flare at any minute; his wild grey hair couldn’t have been combed in days, elegant clothes dishevelled. He snapped out a terse greeting but his brusqueness softened when he spoke to his assistant.
‘Do you mind waiting in the kitchen, Michelle? This won’t take long.’ Passmore didn’t turn to us again until she had retreated.
Tania perched on the arm of a chair loaded with box files. ‘Mr Passmore, I still need contact details for the rest of Pure’s members.’
‘I told you, they’re not all online. I keep paper records of every family here.’
‘Print off your full circulation list for me now, please.’
Passmore scowled. ‘Contacting them would be an invasion of privacy. Several of them are dying.’
‘You’ve withheld the names of your sickest members?’ Tania asked.
‘Being interrogated now would be the final straw.’
While he defended his position against Tania’s questions, my eyes scanned his living room. Whatever money he earned as a fundraiser wasn’t being spent on home improvements. The carpet was threadbare, curtains fraying, his mantelpiece the only clear surface. It held two framed photographs: one showed two teenaged boys standing on top of a mountain, wearing jubilant smiles. The other was a graduation photo of a young man in a gown and mortarboard, colours so badly faded that the image looked ghostly. Passmore glowered at us while his printer spat out the remaining names.
I gestured at the photographs. ‘Is that you and your brother on Ben Nevis, Mr Passmore?’
He gave an abrupt nod. ‘We climbed it decades ago.’
‘And that’s his graduation photo?’
‘His name was Grant. He died the year after it was taken.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly.
‘Are you?’ he snapped. ‘Then why not take your manhunt elsewhere?’
Tania looked up from her notebook. ‘Pure’s logo is connected with some violent crimes, Mr Passmore. We have to investigate why.’
‘Your killer’s got a sick sense of humour. Thousands of people must know our symbol.’
I nodded at the stacked envelopes to defuse the tension. ‘It looks like we disturbed your work.’
‘We post out bulletins each month.’
‘I’m sure your members are grateful.’ I studied him again. ‘Last time we spoke, you said you’d tried to find out the membership of the Tainted Blood panel. Can you explain why?’
‘It was their job to decide if compensation should be increased. We wanted to petition them, but they refused to tell us. In the end the government refused to act.’ Passmore looked so incensed, I could almost see the anger pulsing through his skin.
‘We may need to contact you again,’ Tania said. ‘It’s possible someone from Pure has taken matters into their own hands.’
‘That’s utter nonsense.’
Passmore was still complaining as we left. At the end of the corridor, I caught sight of Michelle De Santis, half concealed in the kitchen doorway, as if she couldn’t decide whether to join the argument or remain in hiding.
‘What do you think?’ Tania asked as we walked away.
‘He’s got a quick temper, but that doesn’t make him homicidal. He’s an intellectual in a public position, spearheading a campaign group. It would be madness to leave his charity’s symbol at the crime scenes, and he seems fully rational. I’d like to know about his volunteers, though.’
She shook her head dismissively. ‘We’ve already checked them out. They’ve all got alibis for the attacks, but it sounds like Pure’s members have got reason to be angry. My team’ll go through the last names with a fine-tooth comb.’
‘Can you send me an encrypted copy?’
She gave a distracted nod. I’d worked with Tania often enough to tell that she suspected Passmore. He came over as a lonely obsessive, his life dominated by a compulsion to protect those who had suffered his brother’s fate.
‘He ticks every box,’ she said. ‘But does he hate the medical profession enough to murder people?’
‘Pietersen’s not a safe bet?’
She shook her head. ‘All we’ve got is the blood on his shirt, and there’s no sign of him or his wife cracking.’
‘Ian Passmore fits the pattern for a serial killer: stressed, disaffected, hostile. But he’s smart enough to know that individual doctors aren’t to blame for infected blood hitting the supply chain. It could just be a raging case of unresolved grief. If one of your siblings had died from an NHS treatment, wouldn’t you be angry?’
‘Anyone would. My team will run more searches on him today.’
By now we were standing on the river walk, a clipper heading west at high speed, destined for Westminster. ‘Have you got half an hour?’
‘Why?’
‘My flat’s nearby. We could have coffee.’
Tania came to a standstill. ‘I’d love one, but I should get back.’
‘Take a breather then. Let’s watch the river for a few minutes.’
We leant against the railing as the water oozed by, pewter grey, two shades darker than the sky.
‘You’re not a typical shrink, Alice.’
‘How do you mean?’
She gave a tense smile. ‘Most are arrogant wankers who love the sound of their own voices.’
‘A few are decent human beings.’
‘Not in my experience.’ Tania stared across the river towards Limehouse. ‘Burns gave me hell after we spoke. He called me a cynical cow and told me to back off.’
‘That was harsh.’
‘He was right.’ She kept her eyes fixed on the opposite bank. ‘Did he tell you about him and me?’
I tried not to flinch. ‘Not in so many words.’
‘We had a fling at training school, then he met Julie and we ended up mates.’
‘I guessed as much.’
She turned to face me. ‘I’m sorry you caught me on a bad day. The autopsy followed by neat alcohol turned me into a prize bitch.’
‘How come you know all about my love life, but I don’t have a clue about yours?’
‘There isn’t one. Steve’s put me off men for life.’ Her bleeper buzzed loudly, expression hardening as she pulled it from her bag. ‘No rest for the wicked.’
Tania left in a hurry, a blur of slender limbs trotting across the pavement to her car. For the second time she’d left me flailing. It didn’t require much intuition to know that she still had feelings for Burns, even though he’d kept their fling quiet. It had been there in her tone of voice as well as her body language. I waited until she’d gone before heading for my flat at a rapid march. My system was so overcharged, I needed to release some adrenalin before I blew a fuse.
31
Tuesday 28 October
Lola made me breakfast the next morning. It was a habit we’d adopted sin
ce nights out had become a rarity. We were more likely to eat croissants together at eight a.m. than drink late-night tequila.
‘God, I miss booze,’ Lola sighed. ‘I can’t wait till Neve’s on solids, so we can go clubbing.’
‘Your inner wild child’s alive and kicking?’
‘Hell, yeah. When Mum took Neve to the park yesterday, I put on Rudimental and danced myself sick.’
‘That’s my girl.’
The image seemed incongruous. While telling me about her need to party she was breast-feeding my goddaughter. Neve seemed blissfully unaware of her mother’s conflict of interests, lying in the crook of her arm, so full of milk she looked ready to pass out.
‘You and Don are coming to Neal’s birthday do tomorrow, aren’t you?’
‘Thanks for the reminder. The case has addled my brain.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t let me down.’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Have you told him how you feel?’
‘God, you’re like a cracked record.’
She sighed loudly. ‘Bring him tomorrow, the poor guy needs moral support.’
‘There’s more to worry about than my love life.’
‘Such as?’
‘The boy I’m working with has got under my skin. The other day I found myself googling adoption procedures in case his mother isn’t found.’
Lola gaped at me. ‘You won’t meet your boyfriend’s sons, yet you’ve fallen for a kid you’ve known a few weeks.’
‘I’m all he’s got.’
‘Burns is turning you soft.’
‘You could be right. I found out he had a fling with a colleague and it’s stuck in my head, even though it ended years ago.’
‘You’re jealous, Al.’ She gave a whoop of laughter. ‘That must be a first.’
I changed the subject, unwilling to admit she was right. The tension that had been churning in my gut since Tania made her revelation was still there on my walk back to the car, but my phone rang before my bad mood could worsen. The tense whisper at the end of the line belonged to Denise Thorpe, Clare Riordan’s closest friend.