by Kate Rhodes
‘It’s your flat, Don. You get the casting vote.’
Knowing that Mikey was stuck in the gloomy safe house made it hard to relax, even though I’d been working nonstop for two weeks. I opened my laptop to find a series of messages from Angie. She had already located Gary Lennard. Other than Ian Passmore he had been the only member of Pure to be arrested at the Downing Street protest in 2012, his mugshot showing a bespectacled man of around forty giving the camera an irate stare. I scanned the rest of the information she’d sent, including a recent photo. In the years since his arrest in 2012, he’d lost weight and abandoned his thick-framed glasses, his expression mellowing. He was an architect, running a practice in Deptford. Angie had arranged for us to visit his home the following morning. I switched off my computer then glanced over at Burns. The football commentator’s drone had rendered him unconscious, his face pillowed on his hands. Either the stress of meeting my mother or lack of sleep had felled him like an Easter Island statue. He didn’t wake up until the evening, when I made penne arrabiata using his last scrap of Parmesan. Rest and a large glass of wine seemed to revive him; his eyes were suddenly alert when I asked how Emma Selby had taken the news that she would need round-the-clock protection until the killers were found.
‘She wasn’t on the panel. Apparently Lisa Stuart contacted her for background information about the history of the tainted blood scandal.’
The information sent an odd sensation of panic across the back of my neck. ‘She could still be vulnerable if she knew any of the panel members.’
Burns shrugged. ‘I’ve had no luck getting Whitehall to hand over their names.’
‘Why are they holding out?’
‘Fear of a media inferno. The MoD say they’re keeping watch on the other members’ security. They thought Mendez died in a violent mugging, and Stuart’s a “mis per”. But now a third one’s been killed, they’re in meltdown. The health minister’s been sent to Sweden on an official jaunt.’
‘While his advisors are hung out to dry.’
Burns’s jaw clenched. ‘I’ll get the list, don’t worry.’
I knew from experience he would be as good as his word. Before long the civil servants would grow tired of his efforts to beat down their door.
39
Saturday 1 November
The squad car delivered me to my first port of call by ten a.m. the next day. Gary Lennard’s home stood on the outskirts of New Cross, with London plane trees guarding either end of the road, tall and immovable. The area might have been less affluent than Clare Riordan’s, but Lennard’s Edwardian home was equally large and imposing. I spotted Angie close by, locking her car. The DS wore her usual look of fierce determination, as if her entire professional future rested on our next meeting.
‘I’ve done more searches,’ she said, as we approached the house. ‘He’s never been in trouble, apart from his public order offence in 2012.’
‘He’s got more reason to be bitter about the tainted blood scandal than most. He spent months in hospital as a kid, and only he and Passmore were singled out at the protest.’
The slim brunette who answered Lennard’s door bell made me do a double take. It was Dr Novak from the Royal Free, giving us a cautious smile of welcome. Without her white coat she looked younger and more fragile, dressed simply in black trousers and a pale blue top that emphasised the darkness of her eyes.
‘Come on in, Gary’s expecting you.’
‘I didn’t know you made house calls, Adele,’ I replied.
‘It’s rare, but travelling to the clinic’s beyond him now.’
I understood the situation when I saw Mr Lennard for the first time. The photo on his website must have been taken before his illness took hold. He was hunched in a chair in his conservatory, pale skin stretched across gaunt cheekbones, pepper-and-salt hair thinning. Clear plastic tubes were feeding oxygen into his nostrils via a canister on a trolley at his feet, while soothing classical music spilled from his sound system. Lennard’s thin face opened into a smile, restoring his handsomeness for a second when we introduced ourselves.
‘Thanks for getting the door, Adele.’ His voice croaked, as if each word took effort.
The doctor touched his shoulder then picked up her bag. ‘Call us if you need anything, Gary. I’ll drop by next week.’ Her concern seemed more genuine than the breezy style most medics adopt, making me wonder if she carried her professional concerns home each evening.
‘I’ll show you out.’ Lennard struggled out of his chair.
‘There’s no need.’
‘Please, it’s the least I can do.’
We waited in his conservatory while Dr Novak took her leave. The room was dominated by a wall full of CDs, but it was the garden that drew my attention. Exotic ferns like the ones at the safe house circled his patio, but these were perfectly controlled. There was a pond filled with water lilies, decking surrounded by cherry trees that would have looked stunning in bloom.
‘You’ve got a beautiful view,’ Angie commented when Lennard returned.
He pushed the oxygen canister back under his chair, his breathing laboured. ‘It’s a Zen garden – guaranteed peace for the soul.’ He gave an ironic smile. ‘What can I help you with?’
‘We’re trying to find out about Pure’s campaign since the tainted blood scandal,’ I said.
‘You’ve read about my exploits? I don’t see myself as a victim these days, but once information’s on the net, it’s impossible to undo.’ He gazed out of the window, at the bamboo plants lining his back wall. ‘Where should I start?’
‘The beginning, please.’
‘I don’t have much breath, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s okay, take your time.’
‘I was the youngest person in the UK to receive infected blood from a Factor Eight transfusion in ’86. I’d fallen from a tree and cracked my skull. When I came round, they’d injected me with hepatitis C and HIV. Not a great birthday present for a twelve year old.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Mental arithmetic told me the man could only be in his early forties, but he looked decades older.
‘My father blew his savings on lawyers, but got nowhere, of course.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘No one accepted liability. There were five thousand patients in this country alone; full compensation would have cost the government millions.’ His voice was unnaturally calm.
‘Yet you don’t seem bitter.’
‘Believe me, I was. The Health Department stalled for twenty years, hoping we’d die before they had to pay a penny. I was seen as a medical miracle, something in my bloodstream helped me fight the virus, but I was still furious. All I could imagine was a future of drugs and hospitals. Qualifying as an architect was the turning point; seeing buildings grow revived me.’
‘Why were you arrested?’ Angie asked.
‘It’s a long story.’ His sunken eyes sparked with anger. ‘The government made tiny ex-gratia payments to avoid getting sued. Guess how much they paid me?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ she replied.
‘Twenty thousand pounds. That’s why I went on the march. You can’t put a value on the chance of a future, but it’s got to be worth more.’ A faint tinge of outrage echoed in his voice. ‘A policeman asked me to step aside, so I yelled some ridiculous insult. They fined me two hundred pounds; exactly one per cent of my compensation.’
‘But your feelings changed?’ I asked.
‘Not about the unfairness; my annual pay-out is less than the minimum wage. I just see it differently now.’
‘How do you mean?’
He nodded at the window, then directed his gaze at Angie. ‘Some people would say gardens look barren in autumn, but you imagined mine in the summer, didn’t you?’
‘The fruit trees will be in bloom,’ she said, nodding.
‘A bit of insight turns bleakness into something promising, doesn’t it?’
‘But that takes discipline,’ I said.
; ‘Not when you’ve got double pneumonia. For me every day’s a gift, and I’ve got people like Adele looking after me. Anger would only spoil the time I have left.’
I could see he was tiring. We sat in silence, watching the breeze rearrange dark red leaves on the gravel.
‘One last thing, Gary. How well do you know Ian Passmore?’
‘I haven’t seen him all year, but I respect him. He gives all his spare time to supporting us.’
‘He never switches off?’
Lennard shook his head. ‘I doubt it; Ian’s a man with a cause.’
‘Some people think missionary zeal can be dangerous.’
‘They don’t understand altruism, do they?’ Gary’s face darkened.
I wanted to ask more questions, but his voice was fading. We left him to watch the play of shadows in his garden. Through an open door in the hallway, I saw that one of the rooms held a metal-framed bed and a nebuliser. Angie stood beside me as we peered at the medical paraphernalia, the sight filling me with discomfort. Gary Lennard was clearly preparing to die at home, yet he emanated calm. The idea that he could be involved in the attacks seemed ridiculous; the man appeared far too sick to harm anyone.
Angie was behind me when I stepped on to the porch. A tall woman with a swathe of poker-straight black hair collided with me, shopping bag spilling at her feet. She looked startled when she pushed back her fringe to inspect me, then gasped out a laugh. It was the woman who had been helping Ian Passmore at Cherry Garden Pier, Michelle De Santis.
‘You gave me the fright of my life.’
‘We were just visiting Gary.’ I turned to Angie. ‘This is Michelle, she’s a volunteer with Pure.’
‘Sorry to scare you.’ Angie smiled widely, then stooped down to help collect the scattered groceries, packing cereal, bread and oranges back into Michelle’s bag. ‘Gary seems amazingly calm,’ she commented.
‘That’s his style, he never moans.’ When De Santis straightened up again she was taller than I’d realised, her lovely olive-skinned features more strained than before. She glanced at both of us before speaking again. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a cup of tea?’
Angie nodded. ‘Love one, if you don’t mind.’
She led us back indoors to the kitchen. I stayed on my feet, noticing a rack full of medicines on one of the counters, as if tablets were Lennard’s main food source.
Michelle saw me looking at the drugs while we waited for the kettle to boil. ‘He’s getting by on fresh air. It’s just willpower that keeps him going.’
‘Have you known Gary long?’ I asked.
She blinked at me. ‘Fifteen years. I’m his ex-wife. I come by most days to help.’
‘He’s lucky. Not every divorced couple stays so close.’
‘It was his choice to separate. He’d rather be left with his garden and his music, but he needs help with everything now.’
‘It’s amazing you still find time to work for Pure,’ Angie commented.
‘The victims are in the same boat as Gary; we’re their lifeline. I fit it in around my job as a physio.’
‘That must take organising,’ I observed.
‘I’m part-time, but I could use more hours in the day.’ The rawness in her voice revealed that she was at cracking point; one badly chosen word could open the floodgates.
‘Can we help you with anything, Michelle?’
She swung round to face me. ‘You’re a psychologist, aren’t you? Can you give me the name of a counsellor?’
‘For Gary?’
‘He’s made peace with it,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’ll need support when he goes.’
‘Of course.’ I pulled out my notepad and copied my friend Tejo’s number from my phone. ‘Doctor Chadha specialises in grief counselling; she’s one of the kindest people I know.’
‘The whole thing’s so bloody wrong.’ Her face tipped forwards, but she swabbed her eyes hurriedly, as if tears were a sign of defeat.
I saw a new side to Angie during the visit. The woman’s vulnerability had brought out a patience she rarely exercised. She sat quietly, while Michelle explained the challenges of juggling her work with caring for Gary. The meeting reminded me that hundreds of families were in the same situation, and some would be less accepting. Any one of them might have decided to take revenge.
My first action when I reached the FPU mid-morning was to plough through my backlog of emails. Working on a Saturday wasn’t my idea of fun, but it was my only chance of dealing with the work that had piled up on my desk. I assumed that I was alone in the building, but Christine called to summon me to her office at midday.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘I only come in on Saturdays because the place is quiet.’
‘I’m falling behind. The case is eating my time.’
‘Want to update me?’
‘I need today to catch up. There’s a ton of work on my desk.’
‘Leave it for now, I want to hear how you are.’
Her clear-eyed stare focused on my face as I described Mikey’s reticence and the drawings he used to explain his experience. When I told her the Home Office was still refusing to reveal the names of the health minister’s advisors, she looked incredulous.
‘Why’s the information safeguarded?’
‘The minister received death threats, so they put a protection order on the panel’s identity. We know for certain three of the victims were on it, but we need the other names.’
‘Isn’t anyone prodding the Home Office?’
‘They’re not playing ball.’
‘I’ll make some calls, see what I can do.’ She scribbled a note on her pad. ‘How are you coping with all this?’
Christine listened more attentively than before. Until then she’d seemed uneasy with emotions, even though she was an expert on human communication. She stayed silent while I talked about being exiled from my flat and my fear of over-involvement with Mikey, our relationship becoming emotional rather than therapeutic.
‘It’s inevitable in these cases,’ she replied. ‘But when it’s over, you need a holiday.’
‘It’s hard to relax while Riordan’s missing. Her son’s more traumatised than any child I’ve treated before.’
‘Maybe you should step down.’
I stared at her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I was wrong to give you such a big case after the last one. You’re under too much stress.’
‘You’ve been assessing me?’ I forced myself to smile. ‘The curse of working for a body language expert.’
‘This level of exposure is high-risk, Alice.’
‘The kid’s had enough people desert him. You can’t remove me.’
She gave me a considering look. ‘I’ll get the information from the Health Department, but I may still replace you. We’ll review it next week.’
I backed out of the room before she could change her mind. She had a point about my stress symptoms: low appetite, nightmares, disturbed sleep. But, despite the personal risks, I couldn’t abandon Mikey while the search for his mother continued.
I stayed at the FPU that afternoon, ploughing through a backlog of paperwork, but no news arrived from Christine. Even her seniority must be failing to win the battle for protected information. The frustration made me even more certain that someone affected by the tainted blood case was taking revenge. I let my eyes wander down the printout of patients infected during the crisis, hundreds already dead. Gary Lennard appeared on the third page, still hanging on by a thread, but so far Tania’s team hadn’t found anyone with a criminal record or links to the victims. I rose to my feet and studied the clouds scudding across the sky, shrubs in the gardens opposite reduced to a handful of twigs. When I glanced round my office again, the room looked equally lacklustre. The carpet must have clung to the floorboards for decades, mahogany desk in need of polish, and the chair that always gave me backache.
Burns called at four o’clock. ‘What makes me think this is the lull bef
ore the storm?’
‘Your innate Scottish gloom?’
He broadened his accent. ‘I’m a wee ray of fucking sunshine compared to a Glaswegian.’
‘Even Christine can’t get the advisors’ names.’
‘I hope she has more luck than me. Better go, I’ve got a press briefing. Love you, bye.’
Something twitched inside me when the phone slipped back on to its cradle. I’d survived two consecutive nights at Burns’s flat, more than I’d managed with any other man. With luck my tension would gradually ease, but right now his affectionate goodbyes still sounded like a foreign language.
Something was wrong when I reached the safe house. There was no sign of Mikey in the living room, Gurpreet’s quiet voice echoing from the kitchen.
‘You can’t do that, Mikey. We have to keep you safe.’
The child’s body was taut as a tripwire, fists balled at his sides. When he ran past me his face was a hard white mask. His footsteps pounded on the stairs, bedroom door slamming loud enough to loosen the hinges.
‘We’ve entered the angry phase?’
‘With bells on.’ Gurpreet dropped on to a chair. ‘Today’s been a disaster.’
‘How come?’
‘Mikey found a copy of the Mail in the health visitor’s bag. There was a story about his mum, and the murder at the Old Operating Theatre.’
My first reaction was pure anger: if I’d been there, I would have monitored everything the boy touched. But it was too late to cast blame. Mikey had seen the tabloid version of his mum’s disappearance, and he knew how Jordan Adebayo had been killed.
‘How did he react?’
‘He escaped through the French doors. I had to stop him scaling the wall.’
Gurpreet’s face was ashen while I processed the facts. The newspaper story had driven a child fearful of the outdoors to make an escape bid. I tapped on Mikey’s door once we were alone in the house. He was sitting on his bed, poring over the pages of the A–Z he carried from room to room. He slapped the book shut, arms locking around his knees. When I sat beside him he made no attempt to move.
‘Papers make things up, Mikey. Believe me, hundreds of people are looking for your mum.’