by Kate Rhodes
‘Get a fucking grip,’ I muttered to myself.
Burns appeared before I could wipe my eyes. It always surprised me that someone so large could move soundlessly. His arms closed round me before I could push him away. To his credit he didn’t flinch, as if holding a woman while she sobbed was something he did every day. After a few minutes I was calm enough to listen when he spoke again.
‘Put your stuff anywhere you like. The guard’ll be here till I get back.’
His thumb rubbed across my cheek, wiping it dry, then he was gone, leaving me to adjust. It occurred to me that I hadn’t even thanked him for letting me stay.
I helped myself to a bowl of cornflakes and waited for the shock to subside. The rush of sugar helped stop my hands shaking, my mind steadying too. I flipped open my laptop to compile a list of suspects. It was depressingly clear that anyone with enough motivation could have found my address; the article in the Mail had exposed my role at the FPU. They could have waited outside head office and followed me home from St James’s Park; I’d been so preoccupied that I wouldn’t have noticed someone trailing me to the Underground. I still felt certain that the killers had an intellectual interest in blood transfusion. Some of the people I’d interviewed had close links to Clare Riordan. But why would they target other blood specialists, unless they had a bigger point to prove about the Tainted Blood enquiry? Despite the ministry’s refusal to reveal the members, the killers could somehow have tracked down the names and be working their way through the list. And the sites chosen for the blood deposits were no longer just places with historic relevance to blood medicine; now they included personal targets too. Gina Adebayo’s husband had been taken, and I was helping to chase the killers down; blood had been thrown over both our doorsteps. But that took me no closer to finding the culprits. Ed and Imako Pietersen couldn’t have deposited the blood because they’d been in police custody, their names removed from the suspect list. Sam and Isabel Travers might have done it, even though their relationship had broken down. They could have personal reasons for hating the NHS doctors they’d interviewed, Sam’s failed affair with Clare Riordan triggering a rush of violence. Denise and Simon Thorpe both had medical backgrounds, but Burns was adamant that their alibis stacked up. And then there was Eleanor Riordan, running from the furore ever since I’d spotted her at the scene of her sister’s abduction. The last on my list was Ian Passmore, whose righteous anger had become his modus operandi. I scanned the names again. Whoever was carrying out the crimes was calm enough to stroll past security into the Health Ministry’s compound, while their partner was capable of unparalleled violence.
I kept working until everyone I’d met since the start of the case was included on my list, then sent an encrypted email to Angie. Too edgy to relax, I ran another search into Pure and found a Times article from 2012: PROTESTERS REJECT TAINTED BLOOD FINDINGS. The first thing that caught my eye was a picture of Ian Passmore being dragged along Downing Street by two policemen. His expression was calm but defiant, as though his crusade could last for ever. It had seemed too obvious that his campaign logo had been left at the crime scenes, but maybe he had uncovered the names of the government’s advisors, his grief for his brother turning into violence. The article gave a measured account of the government’s decision. A panel of experts had been consulted, but the health minister had denied guilt for allowing infected blood into the country, refusing to increase the victims’ compensation. The story explained the situation coolly, but left no doubt that the patients deserved justice. When I scanned the report, the journalist’s name jumped at me: Roger Fenton. I felt another pulse of concern. The journalist had shown a fascination with the case from the start, hanging around the station, quizzing me for information, and arriving first at the scene when Jordan Adebayo’s body was found. But he was only doing his job as an investigative journalist, and it sounded like his injury had put him out of action at the time of the initial attack in January. I scribbled a reminder to contact him again. My mind still baulked at the idea that I was in personal danger, even though I’d seen the evidence lying in a dark red pool outside my door.
By four o’clock I was exhausted enough to flake out on Burns’s sofa. I read a paragraph of his book on Jackson Pollack, then fell asleep. It was dark when I woke up, streetlight spilling through the windows. Lola had sent a terse message reminding me that Neal’s birthday party would start at nine. I forced myself on to my feet; even in a crisis her temper was best avoided. It blew through her like a whirlwind, uprooting everything in its path.
Burns arrived while I was zipping myself into a dark red dress that looked demure from the front, but low enough at the back to expose most of my vertebrae. He stood in the hallway while I put on silver hooped earrings, with a stunned expression on his face.
‘This is how you face a death threat? Dress up and hit the town?’
I studied him over my shoulder. ‘It beats moping indoors.’
‘Don’t you believe in staying safe?’
‘You’re coming too. I’ll have a personal bodyguard.’
‘Can’t we stay here?’ He skimmed his index finger down my back. ‘You look amazing.’
It crossed my mind to call and make an excuse, but the repercussions would have been endless. It took all my powers of persuasion to drag him into the taxi.
‘Is there any news?’ I asked, as his hand closed over mine.
‘The blood at your flat’s definitely Riordan’s. The exit doors in your block weren’t even locked.’ Burns shot me a look of disgust, as if the security lapse was my fault alone.
Lola’s flat was crammed with actors determined to enjoy themselves, which suited me fine. For a few hours I needed to forget that my home had been targeted. By eleven p.m. the party was in full swing, the room so packed that I lost sight of Burns. I chatted to a stunning Portuguese dancer, who made her living in the chorus line of a West End musical. A minute later I caught sight of Don on the other side of the room, absorbing Lola’s chatter. From a distance he was a mass of contradictions: expensive jeans and cheap shoes; hard as nails but capable of tenderness. Someone tapped me on the shoulder while I observed him. When I swung round, my brother stood there, a bottle of beer gripped in his hand. I felt a quick stab of worry. Alcohol mixed badly with his psychoactive drugs – I scanned the room for Nina but couldn’t see her anywhere. There was no point in telling Will what had happened earlier; he lived with enough fears of his own. He looked edgier than I’d seen him in months. The strain showed in the tense set of his shoulders.
‘Let’s get this done,’ he said. ‘Where’s the new boyfriend?’
I smiled. ‘You don’t need to interview him. You met him years ago, remember?’
‘Come on, let’s see if he’s made of the right stuff.’
Lola was still at Don’s side when we crossed the packed room, cooing in his ear, no doubt spilling all my secrets. Burns squared his shoulders when I brought Will over, like he was preparing to be inspected. The two men were polar opposites: my brother slim and fine boned, Burns towering over him.
‘My sister’s quite a handful. You’re a brave man.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Burns replied, laughing.
Will’s expression suddenly turned sombre. ‘But you love her, right? She matters to you?’
Burns looked startled. ‘More than anyone.’
‘Good answer. You passed the test, my friend. We’ll talk another time.’
My brother’s face relaxed before he stepped back into the crowd. I lost sight of him immediately, a surge of dancers and music closing round him like a raging sea.
34
‘You’ll be here months at this rate, Clare.’ The woman breathes into her face.
‘Leave me alone.’ Her words are a dry whisper.
‘Remember, you’ve only got yourself to blame.’
The needle pierces Riordan’s shoulder, her arms jerking sharply as she submits to the pain. The doctor looks ready to give up, cheeks dark with fever, b
ut the woman feels no pity, crooning softly while she injects more interferon.
‘Did you know they experimented on patients here? The medics didn’t care how many died, just like you.’
The woman watches Riordan’s eyes roll back, body jolting against the restraints as she pulls the needle from her arm.
‘You’ll finish her if you carry on like that,’ the man says.
‘Why do you care?’ she snaps, his sympathy grating on her nerves.
‘We need her alive, to tell us another name.’
‘I want her to see the others die.’
When she looks down again, Riordan has lost her beauty, head shaven, her cheeks hollow. Only the flutter of her eyelids proves she’s still alive.
‘I’ll deliver it this time.’ The woman holds the pack to her chest, the liquid warm against her skin.
It’s a relief to leave the man behind. Despite her love for him, it angers her that he’s losing his resolve, illness diluting his courage. She drives north from the laboratory as drinkers spill from brightly lit bars, then it’s a ten-minute wait outside the museum before the coast’s clear. She picks her way across the car park, chalks the black and white marks on the step, then hurls the plastic pack. She turns away as it explodes, unwilling to see the wasted blood splashing to the ground.
35
Lola seemed reluctant to let us go. Every time we edged towards the door, she pressed another drink into our hands. I didn’t have the heart to say what had happened, knowing it would sour the party’s mood. By now alcohol had numbed the shock of standing in my hallway, knowing I’d been targeted.
‘Stay till midnight, can you?’ she whispered. ‘We’ve got an announcement.’
‘Burns is edgy. We need to leave.’
Lola’s cat-like eyes snapped open. ‘You’re going to tell him how you feel?’
‘Anything’s possible.’
‘On that condition, I’ll let you go.’
‘Tell me the news first.’
Her smile widened. ‘We’re getting married. I’ll need help choosing a dress.’
I gave her a tight hug. Across the room, her boyfriend Neal was living up to his nickname of ‘Greek God’, blond with classic good looks, every inch a mythological hero. It didn’t seem to matter that he was twelve years younger than Lola; he looked like a man who’d landed on his feet, his copper-haired daughter asleep on his shoulder while he chatted to friends. I blew him a kiss as Burns appeared with my coat. It was tempting to stay – while strangers danced around me, my worries fell silent. There was no sign of Will when we finally made our getaway.
Burns seemed glad to escape, dragging me downstairs. When we reached the pavement he stared at me so intently he seemed to be trying to memorise my features.
‘Can’t wait to get you home,’ he murmured.
I smiled in reply but felt a lick of panic. When we got back to his flat, we’d share the same bed for the first time. Sex had never been a problem, but waking up together would be a different matter. ‘It won’t be long. Our chauffeur’s arrived.’
A squad car had pulled up a hundred metres away. We were getting into the back seat when Burns’s phone buzzed. His expression blanked, personal feelings evaporating.
‘What’s happened?’
‘A blood pack’s been found in Euston,’ he said.
‘I’ll come with you.’
The car raced through the night-time streets and I felt a pulse of surprise as we reached the Wellcome Institute. Days ago I’d spoken to my flamboyant ex-colleague there, but the place hadn’t featured on Emma Selby’s list of locations.
When we reached the back of the building, it was clear the killer had acted recently; fresh blood glistened on the building’s pale stone. The security guard stood with one of the first responders. He was in his sixties, balding, expression perplexed, as if his discovery had addled his brain.
‘I got the licence number,’ he said. ‘If I’d run faster I’d have caught her red-handed.’
‘You think it was a woman?’ Burns asked.
‘Seems like it on the CCTV.’
‘I’ll take a look.’
I stayed in the car park with two uniforms guarding the doorway. One of the killers had been there minutes before, and I wanted to breathe the same air. Behind the cordon the Pure symbol was clearly visible, black and white teardrops scrawled on the limestone step, urgency visible in each chalk mark. Their audacity was growing. They had visited three sites in twenty-four hours, desperate to make their point.
‘Why are you so angry?’ I muttered to myself.
Long arcs of blood spattered the museum’s doors. The substance carried its own messages; it would give an update on Riordan’s health, and the conditions she was suffering, revealing how recently it had been drawn. The locations and style of delivery were part of the conversation, but their meaning eluded me. Only the strength of their rage was clear. The blood pack had been hurled at the door with the force of a grenade.
Burns was scowling as he walked back across the car park.
‘Any luck?’
‘The camera only got her from behind. I’m not even convinced it’s a woman; all you can see is someone with a slim build in a hooded coat. I bet the car’s licence plates aren’t registered either.’
‘We should check on Ian Passmore.’
Burns stared at me. ‘The Pure symbol doesn’t make him guilty. He’s already complaining about harassment.’
‘Find out where he is, at least. Not many people carry that much anger.’
Tiredness showed in his face. ‘I’ll take you home, then go to the station.’
‘It’s gaining pace, Don. They’re bound to slip up soon.’
‘Christ, let’s hope so.’
Burns insisted on walking me up to his flat. The uniform sitting outside on a folding chair jumped to attention when we arrived, as if we were visiting royalty. I hated the feeling of being passed between guards like a china doll, but there was no alternative. Once I got inside, I was too wired to go to bed, so I checked my emails on Burns’s computer. Tania had sent through a complete list of Pure’s members, past and present. I spent a fruitless half-hour scanning for alibis and connections to the victims. The details added by her team made grim reading; a quarter of the names had the word ‘deceased’ printed beside them, removed from Ian Passmore’s circulation list. I was about to log off when my eyes caught on a familiar surname: Fenton. When I clicked on it, the first name was Roger, his home address had a Southwark postcode, and he’d been a member since 2012. All my suspicions about the journalist resurfaced. It could be that he had joined for research purposes, but surely he would have told me when he first mentioned Pure? I stabbed the computer’s off button with my thumb with a sense of frustration. I was starting to suspect people with a legitimate interest in the case, and the fact that my fate was tied to Clare Riordan’s was inescapable. I needed to turn over every stone to find her, so Mikey could return home, and I would get my liberty back.
36
Thursday 30 October
The face beside mine on the pillow next morning revealed a history of conflict. Burns had broken his nose in a school rugby match, then his jaw ten years ago during a house arrest, leaving him with a lopsided smile. The effect was still oddly beautiful, like a statue that had stood outside for decades, altered by hard weather. I crept out of bed without waking him. Traffic droned on Southwark Bridge Road as I switched on his cross-trainer. I would have preferred a quick sprint along the river path, but that was off limits until the killers were found, police protection a necessary evil. After stepping off the machine I sent Roger Fenton a text, requesting a meeting. At eight thirty he rang back, his urbane voice wishing me good morning.
‘Could I pick your brains about something?’ I asked.
‘How can I help?’
‘Face to face, if possible. Let’s try a café, like last time.’ I knew he might be recording our conversation, ready to sell my words to the highest bidder. ‘I�
��m afraid I can’t share information in return.’
‘I know, but I’m still hoping for that interview when the case ends. Where do you live?’
‘Southwark.’
‘Let’s meet at Elliot’s, one o’clock.’
It interested me that Fenton would drop everything at such short notice; in my experience journalists were rarely so biddable. Burns appeared in the doorway as I put down the phone, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and an ominous expression.
‘You can’t just disappear, Alice.’
‘I’m an early riser.’
‘Come back to bed, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Aren’t we seeing Luke Mann?’
‘We’re off duty till eleven.’ His hand closed round my wrist, pulling me along the corridor.
‘I’ve been exercising, I need a shower.’
‘I don’t care.’ My shoulders thumped against the wall when he leant down to kiss me.
Desire mixed with panic, threatening to cancel each other out. Maybe it was delayed shock at seeing blood spattered across my door that caused his sudden intensity, but the pace felt reckless. The bed-board clattered against the wall, his gaze locked on to mine. He didn’t even blink when he came, too focused on watching me lose control at exactly the same time. Afterwards he collapsed on the pillows beside me, his expression satisfied.
‘Lola’s right.’ He dropped a kiss on my shoulder.
‘About what?’
‘You’re crazy about me. I saw it just now, plain as day.’
‘God, you’re smug.’
It would have been the ideal time to admit defeat, but the words never arrived. My silence didn’t dent Burns’s good mood. Despite only getting three hours’ sleep, he hummed contentedly as he headed for the bathroom. There was a mismatch between my irritation and the glow lingering on my skin. It was still there when I joined him in the shower before he could drain all the hot water.