by Kate Rhodes
‘Could you come over, Dr Quentin? I need your help.’ Her voice was tight with anxiety.
I arranged to call by later that morning. It didn’t take long to reach Wandsworth, but I sat in a café for an hour checking Gurpreet’s case notes, measuring Mikey’s progress. His night terrors were as bad as ever, but he was becoming more interactive. I felt certain he was close to speaking again, although another crisis could shatter his progress. Mikey was still at the forefront of my mind when I reached Denise Thorpe’s house. My sympathy rose when I saw that her eyes shone with repressed tears. She was wearing her usual drab assortment of clothes, so anonymous she almost blended into the pale walls of her kitchen.
‘I wanted to see you while Simon’s out.’ Her words ground to a halt, as if she’d lost her thread.
‘You’ve remembered something?’
‘My husband would call me disloyal. The thing is, Clare’s marriage was on the rocks before her husband died. She had affairs, before and after his death. Normally she met the men at conferences or through work.’
‘Do you know their names?’
She shook her head. ‘She’s casual about it. But one of them could have got angry, couldn’t he? I can’t get it out of my mind.’
The statement echoed Dr Novak’s description of Riordan’s behaviour so directly that my concern grew. ‘You’re doing the right thing telling me. The team will try and track down men who attended the same conferences.’
‘She acts like it’s a joke, but I’d hate being treated that way.’
‘It sounds as if Clare was chasing happiness, but your life seems much calmer.’
‘Things aren’t always as easy as they look.’ Her eyes glistened. ‘Can I see Mikey soon?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not?’ Her tone suddenly sharpened. ‘It’s cruel that he’s so alone.’
She burst into a sudden storm of tears, hands covering her eyes. I sat in silence until she was composed enough to accept a tissue. Over the years I’d seen hundreds of people weep during therapy sessions: young men fighting their emotions, old women releasing a lifetime of sorrows. Denise Thorpe’s outburst was loud and dramatic, racking sobs that made her shoulders heave. But by the time we said goodbye, her outrage had resurfaced.
‘Why can’t you tell us where Mikey’s being kept?’ she snapped.
‘It’s a security issue, Denise.’
‘But we’ve known him since he was born. We’ve got a right to see him.’
‘I promise to contact you as soon as you can visit.’
Her frown hardened. ‘It’s negligent to treat a child this way.’
Denise’s eyes remained cold with disapproval when I said goodbye, as if I was the source of Mikey’s unhappiness. Her husband’s car was pulling up outside as I headed for mine. The confrontation had been so unsettling that I was keen to get away, but he headed straight towards me. Thorpe looked smarter than before in a well-cut suit, his smile widening as he shook my hand. It made me wonder whether he was an effective psychotherapist. To listen to patients fully, his ego would need to accept second place.
‘I seem destined to miss your visits, Dr Quentin.’
‘Your wife’s upset today, I’m afraid.’
‘This business with Clare has affected her terribly.’
‘What about you?’ I noticed how drawn he looked when I studied him more closely.
‘It’s Denise I’m worried about. If Clare doesn’t come home, it’ll put her back to square one.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She’s been battling depression for months. Looking after her mum hasn’t helped, but this has come at the worst possible time.’
Simon Thorpe looked weary as he turned away, as though he was dreading going inside to comfort his wife.
I called Angie from my car en route to the FPU, to let her know that Clare Riordan might have had multiple short affairs with professional acquaintances before her fling with Sam Travers. But it was Denise Thorpe’s state of mind that had triggered my concern. It could be due to anxiety or depression, but she seemed more vulnerable than before. During my visit she had lapsed from rationalism into fierce criticism, then resentment. Her desire to see Mikey struck me as unnaturally strong. There was no evidence to implicate her in Clare Riordan’s abduction, yet I could imagine her going on the attack. The investigation team would be unwilling to look more closely at the Thorpes even though their alibis were weak for the Stuart and Mendez attacks, because there was nothing to implicate them. The couple claimed to have been at home together on both evenings, their neighbours stating that they were a quiet couple who rarely socialised. There was proof that they had visited Denise’s mother at her care home early on the morning of Clare’s abduction, both of their names printed in the visitors’ book.
I spent that afternoon at the FPU, riding a wave of guilt, despite doing my best to catch up with voicemail and the notes cramming my in-tray. If the case didn’t get resolved soon, I would fall hopelessly behind.
I was still frazzled when I keyed in the security code at the safe house that evening, but Mikey’s greeting lifted my mood. The boy smelled of lemon soap and childhood when he hugged me, as though he’d been outside in the fresh air instead of stuck indoors. Our evening followed its usual routine. We went to the supermarket, played cards then cooked together. I allowed silences to open up, but no words emerged. He hummed loudly to himself as he stirred the chicken casserole simmering in its pan.
‘Lots of people have been asking about you,’ I said. ‘Your mum’s friends Denise and Simon want to visit soon.’
Mikey’s reaction was intense. His face blanched but I caught him before he could fall, half carrying him to one of the kitchen chairs.
‘Take a breath, sweetheart. That’s it, nice and deep.’
I couldn’t tell whether his reaction meant that he was desperate to see them, or afraid. It had been so extreme he’d almost passed out, his state probably worsened by lack of food. It seemed as though any mention of life before his mother’s abduction could throw him into a state of panic. I had been considering showing him pictures of Pietersen and Ian Passmore, to see if he recognised them, but he seemed too fragile to cope with any more challenges. Gurpreet had told me that his appetite failed whenever I left. It was hugely frustrating that every time I pressed for information, Mikey shut down. I still had the sense that the boy held the key to the whole investigation, if I could only open him up. I waited until he’d gone to bed before calling Burns.
‘You could hear a pin drop in the incident room,’ he said. ‘The Pietersens are in their cells and all’s quiet on the western front.’
‘I just mentioned the Thorpes to Mikey and he almost blacked out.’
‘He must be missing people he knows. The Pietersens look good for it.’
‘You haven’t found the getaway vehicle yet.’
‘Cars are easy to hide.’ He sounded nonchalant.
‘I’d still like a background check on the Thorpes.’
He groaned quietly. ‘I told you, we’ve got nothing linking them to the abductions; the nurses at her mum’s care home say they both visit her three or four times a week, morning and evening, since she had her stroke. It’s Eleanor Riordan we should be worrying about. There’s still no sign of her, but her boyfriend’s back home. He was visiting his dad in hospital.’
‘Good, I need to assess him.’
‘Come with me tomorrow.’
‘Don’t forget it’s Neal’s birthday do in the evening.’
‘I may not make it.’
‘Don’t get Lola angry. It’s a terrifying sight.’
He gave a quiet laugh. ‘I can imagine. A red-haired tornado, spitting out flames.’
‘My brother wants to see you too. It’s years since you met.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ His voice fell to a murmur. ‘Got to go. Love you, bye.’
I stared at my phone after the call ended. Love you, bye. For Burns it really seemed t
o be that simple: a big man with a big heart. He’d loved his wife and now he loved me – maybe Tania and all of his old flames had received pieces of his affection, too – yet I’d never felt more at sea. I wasn’t convinced that the words existed in my vocabulary. I held my phone to my ear and repeated the phrase into a blizzard of white noise.
‘Love you, bye.’
The words sounded dry and unconvincing before they had even passed my lips.
32
Wednesday 29 October
At three a.m. the city slips by in silence. The woman is alone in the car, but she doesn’t have far to travel. Two blood packs lie in a holdall on the back seat as she drives through Southwark, aware that she must complete the next stage alone. If the man was here, he would fill the car with music, but she prefers silence. From now on, it will be her responsibility to carry the burden.
Her first port of call is a quiet neighbourhood in Shad Thames. This is where the shrink lives, blonde and self-righteous, certain that she knows best. She’s the worst kind of apologist: bright enough to sympathise, but too weak to take sides.
She parks on Providence Square and enters the apartment block through the fire exit. In moments she reaches the third floor. Back pressed to the wall, she approaches the security camera, covering the lens with duct tape. There’s no sound as she hurls the pack against the door. The impact makes a dull thud as it hits the wood, blood arcing across the lintel. Dark red liquid oozes across the tiles as she runs back down the stairs.
The woman’s next destination is higher risk. She threads west through Borough to the Elephant and Castle, crossing the ugly shopping centre bordering the roundabout. It’s not easy to avoid street cameras when she conceals the car between office blocks on Ontario Street. She puts on a blue apron like the ones worn by cleaners in the compound, then takes a bucket and mop from the boot. She adjusts her walk by a fraction, shoulders down, long fringe shading her face. By the time she’s crossed the street, she’s gained ten years, ready to start her second job of the day.
The security guards are deep in conversation when she arrives at the entrance. ‘You’re late tonight, love,’ one of them comments.
‘I got myself some overtime.’ She shoots him a grin. ‘Lucky old me.’
‘Come on then, let’s be having you.’
He presses the button to raise the barrier without a second look. She hurries across the quadrangle as if she knows exactly where she’s going. Night cleaners are two a penny, an invisible workforce scouring the city while the executives dream. She can taste the evil on the air. The decision was rubber-stamped here: ministers agreeing a policy that failed so many, after lifetimes of suffering. She hides in the shadows. No one sees her empty half of the blood through a letterbox, leaving the rest on a wide set of steps.
She exits by a different gate. This time the guard is busy on his phone; releasing the gate when he spots her mop and overalls. The woman is miles away before the alarm goes up, sirens screaming from the compound’s walls.
33
The smell hit me first – that butcher’s-shop stench of meat decaying. I’d jogged up the steps to my flat, intending to collect a fresh set of clothes, but now I was frozen on the landing, choking back nausea as I studied the mess on my doorstep. The Pure symbol had been chalked beside a blood pack imprinted with Clare Riordan’s name. The pulse of anger that hit me was strong enough to make me grit my teeth. Once I’d gathered my senses I grabbed my phone. Angie was a safer bet than Burns, who was bound to have a knee-jerk reaction.
Fifteen minutes later I saw her arriving from the landing window. Angie looked pale in the early morning light, grim-faced as she emerged from her car, Pete Hancock in tow. Reality hit home when two more squad cars appeared. Someone had walked into my apartment block while I slept at the safe house and spattered blood across my doorway. My mind chased back to the start of the investigation, trying to pinpoint who would target me, thoughts travelling too fast to make sense.
‘Causing trouble again, Alice?’ Hancock was already kitted out in his white overalls as he climbed the steps. ‘You did the right thing staying outside. Are you okay waiting here till we finish?’ His thick brows lowered a centimetre above small dark eyes, but today there was a flash of sympathy. Hancock’s attitude had definitely softened since our chat in the café.
‘I’ll survive, Pete.’
‘We’ll talk when this is done.’ His assistant was already securing tape across the stairwell, turning my home into a crime scene.
My legs felt like water as the drama unfolded. Angie was still downstairs organising her team, two uniforms stationed by the gates to the car park. I tried making myself useful by knocking on my neighbour’s door, to find out if she’d heard anything, but there was no reply. My eyes were drawn to the horse chestnut tree at the centre of the square. It had finally shed its leaves, crooked branches poking fingers at the sky. I hugged my arms tighter around my body, feeling like a strong wind had stripped me to the bone. I was still standing by the window when Angie appeared beside me.
‘Cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘Do I look that bad?’
‘Just a bit shocked. Are you up to talking?’ She touched my shoulder. ‘Come on, Pete says we can go inside, if we wear overshoes.’
The tables had already turned. I’d used the same gentle tone on Gina Adebayo a week ago when her husband’s blood had been left outside her Barbican flat, but this time I was the victim. Hancock and two junior SOCOs were still working in silence, dusting the doorframe and taking photographs of the darkening pool of blood. Even with overshoes it turned my stomach to step over it and unlock my door; there were a few red marks on my floorboards that I was desperate to scrub away. Angie’s expression changed as she scribbled my statements in her notebook, a frown bisecting her forehead.
‘It can’t be the Pietersens,’ I said. ‘They’re still in custody.’
Angie nodded. ‘Their house came up clean, so we’re letting them go; they’re off the suspect list. You know how this works, Alice. I need you to name all the people linked to the case who might know where you live.’
‘I’ll do it now. Can you take another look at Denise and Simon Thorpe? They seem obsessed by Clare.’
‘The boss already asked me. I’ll go back over their transcripts.’
‘Did the list of advisors come through yet from Whitehall?’
‘They’re still refusing. Apparently the health minister was sent death threats before the enquiry began, so their names were classified. The civil servants are terrified about the press getting hold of the connection to the murders. The MoD’s putting security in place for the other panel members.’
‘They haven’t done a great job so far.’
Burns’s footsteps announced him before he arrived, thundering across the landing. I heard him barking instructions at Hancock, then he loomed in the kitchen doorway, face chalk white against the black fabric of his coat.
‘Give us a minute, can you?’ he told Angie, without shifting his gaze from my face. The kitchen door clicked shut as his hand gripped my arm. ‘You scared the living shit out of me.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought you’d been hurt.’
‘It’s okay, I’m alive and kicking.’
‘Have you packed your bags?’
‘Sorry?’
His eyebrows rose. ‘They know where you live, Alice. You can’t stay here.’
My mouth suddenly went dry. ‘If I’ve been followed, they’ll know about the safe house too.’
‘We’ve doubled the level of patrol, but they probably don’t even want the kid, it’s medics they’re targeting.’ Burns sat at the kitchen table. ‘You’d better pack enough stuff for a few weeks.’
‘I can stay here, if the place is guarded.’
‘Whoever did this tortured Jordan Adebayo, then cut his throat. You don’t want to be around if they come back, do you?’ His voice had slowed, as if he was explaining something obvious to a five year old.
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‘Don’t patronise me, Don.’
‘Behave like a grown-up, then. Blood was left at Skipton House too, where the health ministry’s civil servants are based. Get your stuff, then we’re leaving.’
I exited the room to avoid a full-scale war. Knowing he had a point made me even more incensed. The stubborn part of me hated being driven from my home, but common sense confirmed that it was better to be safe than sorry. I stuffed clothes, shoes and underwear into a holdall, then grabbed my makeup bag. My foul mood deepened when I found Burns hunched in the same position, tapping out a phone message.
‘I should call Will,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘He’ll let me stay on the boat.’
He didn’t even look up. ‘You’re coming to mine. The security’s set up.’
I forced myself to count to ten. There was no point in haranguing him, even though I was ready to blow a gasket. The next half-hour passed in a blur of activity that left me even more frustrated. Burns and Angie were organising briefings, getting the blood pack couriered to the forensics lab, uniforms guarding the cordon. By the time we left, Hancock had my door key in his pocket and the place was no longer mine.
‘Let me carry those.’ Burns reached for my bags when the lift arrived.
‘I can manage.’
He sighed loudly. ‘Jesus, you’re hard to help.’
We drove through Borough without speaking, the radio on his dashboard bleating out a headache of messages. The turn of events meant that I would have to conquer my fear of intimacy in double-quick time. Burns’s flat had just two bedrooms, one the size of a shoebox, filled by his sons’ twin beds. The only place to sleep would be his king-size bed. When we stood in the hallway, the air felt cold. He stared down at me, hands buried in the pockets of his coat.
‘Whatever it is, get it off your chest, Alice.’
‘I don’t want you making decisions for me.’
‘Is that what this is about?’
‘You never negotiate. You just take over.’
It irritated me hugely that the attraction was still there, even though I felt like punching him; it was yet another thing I couldn’t control. Desperate to do something practical, I carted my holdall to his bedroom and began to unpack. Tears came unannounced, spilling on to the clothes I’d piled on the bed.