by Kate Rhodes
Luke Mann was waiting for us in his dilapidated porch when we arrived. My father’s alcoholism had taught me to recognise a drinker instantly: the telltale tremor was in his hand when he shook mine, a sour tang of booze on his breath. I made an effort to curb my instinctive dislike. The man was suffering enough without anyone casting judgements. He was around my age, with an eager-to-please expression and a fragile, almost feminine face, dark hair a little too long. Mann looked every inch the troubled writer, as if the world battered too heavily on his senses.
‘Sorry I missed you last time. Please come in.’
His voice was gentle, with a cultured Home Counties accent. But it was the interior of his house that caught my attention. The hallway held more reading material than I could have absorbed in a lifetime, niches stuffed with novels and volumes of poetry. A small wooden cross hung above his kitchen door, as though religion trailed him into every room.
‘I’m sorry to hear your father’s ill, Mr Mann,’ I said.
‘He’s recovering, thank God, but I had to drop everything and drive to Norwich.’ He stood by his old-fashioned cooker looking apologetic, then motioned for us to sit down.
‘We’d be grateful for some information about your girlfriend,’ Burns said.
‘I’ve been so worried. Ellie’s not answering my calls.’
‘How did you two meet?’
Mann looked embarrassed. ‘Speed dating, five years ago. I couldn’t believe my luck. Of course I was more successful then; one of my books had been nominated for a prize.’
He was trying hard to seem in control, but I felt sure he’d been knocking back vodka since he woke up. A stack of unopened envelopes lay on his counter, red stamps identifying them as county court judgements. Mann’s neighbours must have been right about his debts.
‘Have you heard from Eleanor recently?’
He shook his head anxiously. ‘I’ve been calling round the clock. She hasn’t been herself since her sister went missing.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Ellie’s a bit obsessed by Clare – an inferiority complex, I suppose.’
‘Why do you say that?’
Mann blinked at me. ‘Their parents made her feel second best, and there’s the baby thing too.’
‘Sorry?’
His gaze dropped. ‘She’s had three miscarriages, the most recent in July. The doctors told her another pregnancy would be dangerous, but she won’t hear about adopting. Losing contact with Mikey hurt her more than the lawsuit. She’s gone off by herself before; for a week last time, without telling me. She said she needed to let off steam.’
‘Can you tell us where she went?’
‘A guest house in Brighton. I called, but they haven’t seen her.’ His voice was raw with anxiety.
‘It sounds like you’ve both had a tough time,’ I replied.
‘It’s worse for Eleanor.’ His eyes glazed. ‘Nothing prepares you.’
‘Has she had support from her doctors?’
‘Not enough. That’s part of why she’s so angry.’
Mann’s exhausted tone revealed that Eleanor’s rage had been all-consuming. So many factors fuelling it: losing her childhood home, her babies, and access to her nephew. Burns continued his questions, patiently noting down Mann’s alibis for the dates of the attacks.
‘You seem to spend a lot of time alone, Mr Mann,’ he commented. ‘Do you and Eleanor plan to live together?’
‘We’re getting married this summer. That’s why I’ve been here, doing it up, but it may have to be sold.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Financial necessity, I’m afraid. Eleanor’s legal fees have cost us a fortune.’
Burns nodded. ‘Do you own a car, Mr Mann?’
‘Not any more. I hire them if I need one.’
‘Where from?’
He hesitated for a moment. ‘National Cars, on Camberwell Road.’
‘Thanks for your time,’ Burns said. ‘Contact us when you hear from Eleanor, please.’
‘You don’t think she’s been taken, do you?’ Mann’s panicked gaze darted across our faces.
‘There’s no proof of that. Clare’s abductors have left an evidence trail around the city, proving that they’re holding her, so this is very different,’ Burns said. ‘We’ll do everything in our power to find Eleanor.’
Mann was still standing on his doorstep looking crestfallen when I slid into the back seat of the squad car.
‘The bloke’s still high from last night,’ Burns commented.
‘Or he had a Bloody Mary for breakfast. He’s a functioning alcoholic, but he knows what he’s doing. He could be shielding Eleanor somewhere.’
‘We’ve tapped his mobile. He’s right about calling her number nonstop.’
‘The guy’s smart. He probably knows his phone’s hot.’
‘We’ll keep an eye on him, but he was at the hospital with his dad when the last blood pack was left.’
Burns was still preoccupied when we reached Borough Market, eyes glassy, as though a showreel of suspects was running through his head. He gave me a distracted kiss then folded himself back into the car, speeding away before I could say goodbye.
The market was heaving with well-dressed shoppers picking through stalls loaded with kumquats, mangoes and limes, selling for exorbitant prices. Elliot’s Café was small and stylish, the window full of artisan bread and cakes. A waft of cinnamon and hot milk hit me when I opened the door. Roger Fenton was dressed casually, in jeans and a dark blue windcheater, browsing through the Guardian when I arrived.
‘Do you write for them?’
‘Rarely.’ His face relaxed into a smile. ‘Just checking out the competition.’
‘Thanks for coming. Let me buy you lunch.’
He shook his head. ‘Tea’s fine. I had a late night with some colleagues.’
Fenton looked under the weather, cheekbones more hollow than before, but his expression hadn’t changed. He seemed alert to every movement, sharp gaze assessing me as I gave the waiter our order.
‘You didn’t tell me you were a member of Pure.’
I saw him flinch. ‘Anyone can join. It’s for supporters as well as sufferers.’
‘It seems odd, especially as you think the leader had your flat burgled.’
He held my gaze. ‘I joined before that, on the Internet, to access their bulletins. I wanted to know more about the Tainted Blood enquiry. Ian Passmore organised the protest in 2012. I think it was a last-ditch effort to make the government accept responsibility.’
‘Who else was involved?’
‘A guy called Gary Lennard was very bitter about catching HIV as a child; he was the youngest victim in the UK. I don’t know if he’s still alive.’
‘I’ll track him down.’ I took a sip of my Americano. ‘It surprises me that you’re still following the Riordan case so closely. Hanging around outside police stations isn’t something I associate with serious journalism.’
‘This is the perfect story. Someone’s attacking the medical profession for an ethical failure.’ His eyes glittered with excitement.
‘But they’re hurting foot soldiers, not power holders.’
‘I don’t agree. The victims are influential in the medical world.’
‘When you were doing your research, did you find out about anyone on the Tainted Blood panel?’
He held my gaze. ‘Would a name guarantee me that in-depth interview?’
‘You have my word of honour.’
‘I saw an email when I interviewed Lisa Stuart, from someone called Emma Selby.’
The name pulled me up short. ‘You were snooping through her papers?’
‘It was lying on her desk in plain sight. The subject line was “Tainted Blood”, so I guessed she was on the panel.’
I was struggling to process the idea. ‘You stole information from an interviewee.’
Fenton leant forwards in his seat. ‘Journalists really aren’t your favourite species, are
they?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘If you find the bastards who’re hurting these people, you won’t care where the facts came from, and I can feel smug about helping put them away.’ The conviction in his tone raised my curiosity.
‘Do you mind me asking why you quit being a war reporter?’
‘Too many of my colleagues died.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘My spell in hospital was the deciding factor.’
Something in his eyes had shut down, making me wonder how many fatalities he’d witnessed. It was clear he had nothing more to say, so I thanked him again and paid the bill. I scanned the crowd as I wove between the market stalls, but he was nowhere to be seen. Fenton still had the ability to vanish like a puff of smoke.
The journalist’s comment gave me food for thought as a new squad car delivered me to the safe house, but my suspicions were growing. He had told me about Pure days before I realised that their logo was scrawled at every scene, and seemed to have a vested interest in how the story unfolded. I reassured myself that there was no reason why a reputable journalist would begin a murder spree, yet his interest in the case seemed unnaturally keen. Burns would probably think I was crazy, but I made a mental note to get him checked out. I called the station before entering the safe house to let them know that Emma Selby might have been on the Tainted Blood panel. If Fenton was correct, she would need immediate protection, before she met the same fate as the other victims.
Gurpreet passed me his case notes hurriedly, which wasn’t his usual style. Normally he lingered over our catch-up meetings, concern for Mikey making him reluctant to leave.
‘My daughter’s birthday party starts in half an hour,’ he said. ‘My wife’ll kill me if I’m late.’
I touched his arm. ‘Enjoy it. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Mikey kept trying to speak that afternoon, his jaw straining although no sound emerged. The patients I’d worked with often described muteness as a physical constraint, like choking or being gagged. He only seemed to relax when we cooked together. We were finishing our meal when a loud explosion sounded outside, his spoon clattering to the table, expression terrified.
‘It’s just fireworks, Mikey; it’s bonfire night soon. Want to take a look?’
The boy’s bravery showed itself again when he followed me into the garden, even though he was trembling. We stood together as another rocket showered the horizon in silver and gold. When I looked at his face, something had changed. For once Mikey’s expression was like any other child’s, rapt and optimistic as he watched the skyline glitter. The sight of his enjoyment made me relax for the first time in weeks, even though the explosions overhead were loud as gunshots.
37
The woman’s tension rises when they travel to Bermondsey on a night bus. Nothing disturbs their journey except a flurry of late traffic, taxis carrying revellers home from an evening on the tiles. They walk along side roads, then hide behind a building at the end of the cul-de-sac. Trees cluster protectively around the safe house, but the police car outside it is empty.
‘No security,’ she whispers. ‘We could take him now.’
‘The guard’ll be back any minute.’
‘Sooner or later we’ll have to risk it.’
‘The house is overlooked from two sides,’ the man replies.
‘Let’s do it now,’ she insists. ‘The back way’s safest.’
‘You could blow the whole thing.’
She shrugs his hand away when he reaches out to her. ‘We’ll never get him at this rate.’
‘At least we’ve seen the place. We can come back another night.’
She argues with him in whispers as the lights in the safe house flick out, one by one. Her anger rises again as a solitary policeman returns to the squad car, a takeaway bag in his hand. No one sees them leave; two shadows fading into the dark.
38
Friday 31 October
Burns’s Audi pulled up outside the safe house next morning, instead of a squad car. His eyes were shielded by sunglasses so opaque that his expression was unreadable.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ I asked.
‘Give me a break. It’s my first day off since this started. I got Angie to check out Roger Fenton last night, by the way. Everything he said stacks up; his flat was burgled in 2012, other than that his record’s clean as a whistle. He spent most of January in a military hospital in Afghanistan.’
‘He’s too interested, Don. Something’s not right.’
Burns rolled his eyes. ‘It’s his job to obsess about stories. Come on, we’re taking a road trip.’
‘I promised I’d visit my mum.’
‘That’s where we’re going. You can’t travel alone, remember?’
‘You’re protecting me from the mean streets of Blackheath?’
A muscle ticked in his jaw. ‘Rules are rules, Alice.’
‘If you come along you’ll have to wait in a coffee shop.’
He stared at me. ‘She doesn’t know I exist, does she?’
‘Of course she does.’
‘Then we should get acquainted.’
My heart rate quickened. ‘She’s frail, Don, and she hates surprises.’
‘It’s just a flying visit. I’ve already got her a present.’
The bouquet lying on his back seat must have cost serious money – gardenias, roses and hyacinths. Showy, romantic blossoms designed to melt the hardest of hearts, but they failed to shift my resentment. My relationship with my mother was so fragile I hadn’t introduced her to any of my boyfriends for years. Burns must have sensed my tension, his silence lingering until we reached Elephant and Castle.
‘You never talk about your childhood, Alice.’
I shrugged. ‘There’s not much to say. My parents’ marriage broke down, but they stayed together anyway. Dad drank, she rolled with the punches.’
‘Did you get hit too?’
‘I was good at hiding.’ I studied his profile. ‘What about you? I don’t know much except you grew up north of Edinburgh.’
His kept his eyes on the road ahead. ‘It was a mining village, the industry dying on its feet. Dad joined the army, then worked as a bin man, but it wasn’t much of a vocation; he’d have preferred to be a farmer. Mum looked after me and my sisters. She died of breast cancer at thirty-four.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Twelve.’
‘That’s a tough age to lose someone.’
He rolled his shoulders. ‘The girls took it worse. They were five and seven.’
Suddenly my irritation dropped away. Burns had been a year older than Mikey when he lost his mother; I could picture him comforting his sisters when he was barely mature enough to look after himself.
‘You bastard,’ I muttered.
‘Why?’
‘For hitting the sympathy button. Now I can’t even hate you for manoeuvring me.’
He shot me a grin. ‘She’s got to meet me sooner or later.’
‘Don’t blame me when she eats you alive.’
By the time we reached Wemyss Road my stomach was in knots. The expression on Mum’s face was a picture when she finally answered the door. Normally her emotions were hidden behind a veneer of cashmere and pearls, but the sight of Burns, large and thuggish in his leather jacket, had stunned her into silence. She wavered on the threshold as if she was considering pressing her panic button, Parkinson’s tremor making her voice quake when she finally said hello. The meeting could have gone either way. Mum always made snap judgements about people, but Burns was wise enough to offer his bouquet in double-quick time.
‘These are for you, Mrs Quentin.’ He gazed down at her. ‘Now I can see where Alice gets her looks.’
I waited for her to snarl at his insincerity, but her expression softened.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Tell me your full name.’
‘Donal McIntyre Burns.’
‘That’s a fine Scottish title. And an Edinburgh accent, if I’m not mi
staken?’
He beamed at her. ‘Impressive, you’ve got a good ear.’
My shock persisted while I retreated to make coffee. When I came back, Burns and my mother were on first-name terms and my irritation was rising to the boil. He was listening to a lengthy account of her visit to the Rembrandt show at Tate Britain with a look of rapt interest. She quizzed him about his time at art school, and seemed fascinated by his decision to join the police instead. Somehow he’d neutralised the tension that always hung in the air. His phone hummed quietly in his jacket pocket in the hall, but nothing in Burns’s manner indicated that he was leading a nationwide manhunt.
When we left at midday, Mum looked well for the first time in months. She gave me her usual cursory goodbye, but offered Burns a tender kiss on both cheeks. His smugness lingered as we got back into his car, making me feel like punching him.
‘God, you’re slick,’ I snapped.
‘The old girl’s lonely, that’s all. I promised to take her to the Rothko exhibition next month. Can you drive back?’
For the second time in as many days, he’d rendered me speechless, setting up a lunch date with my mother like it was the most natural thing in the world. Already he was hunkered in the passenger seat, checking his phone messages.
Once my anger had faded, the journey helped clear my mind. The car slipped north through easy midday traffic, while I added items to my mental to-do list. Angie was tracking down Gary Lennard for me. If he had been arrested during the tainted blood protests, his record would be lurking somewhere in the police national computer’s vast memory banks.
The elderly uniform standing sentry outside Burns’s flat looked ready to fall asleep. I doubted strongly that he would be able to overwhelm two violent murderers if challenged, but manpower must have been in short supply. I got a sense of how Burns spent his days off when the door closed behind us. He hurled his shoes into the corner, then reached for the remote control.
‘Arsenal played Bayern Munich last night. Mind if I watch the highlights?’