by Kate Rhodes
‘Thank God,’ I said. ‘I was beginning to think I’d seen a ghost.’
Pete shook his head. ‘Ghosts don’t leave dirty great boot-prints on wet ground. You might as well put the kettle on; I’m staying till the guards arrive.’
45
The woman’s body aches, legs bruised from hauling herself over the wall. Anger and frustration make her head pound as she hides in the shadows. From here she can keep track of the police cars arriving and leaving, grim-faced men thrashing through the shrubs. It angers her that she came so close. She’d been hiding between the trees when the shrink raised her stupid, doll-like face to the sky. If she’d waited nearer the house, she could have overpowered her and taken the child. It would have been easy to force him over the wall then drag him back to the car.
When the boy appears at an upstairs window, she feels a shot of pure hatred for his mother. Another police car pulls up on the alleyway behind the house and she steals a last look at the child. The distance is too wide to read his expression, but she can see his hands splayed on the glass, like he’s trying to claw his way out.
‘Any day now,’ she promises, then backs away.
46
Tuesday 4 November
I caught a whiff of gunpowder when I crossed the Thames the next morning. Two huge barges were slowly drifting west, laden with fireworks for the following night’s display. Guy Fawkes Day had almost arrived without me noticing time slipping by. There was an incendiary atmosphere in the incident room when I arrived, too. The roar of conversation from detectives gathered round the coffee machine told me there must have been a development. Angie bustled over as I took off my coat, her face animated.
‘Where’ve you been, Alice? I left three messages.’
‘My phone was on silent, sorry.’
‘We found Eleanor Riordan. She’s confessed to killing her sister.’
My briefcase slipped from my hand. ‘She admitted to it?’
‘One of the sergeants heard the whole story in the car when she was picked up. The boss wants her assessed in half an hour. You can read this in the meantime; it’s Roger Fenton’s background file.’
She passed me a slim manila wallet before returning to her colleagues. The journalist’s youth had been affluent but unremarkable: born in Surrey in 1978, he’d attended a minor public school, then read law at Edinburgh University. Just one conviction on his record for cannabis possession in his twenties, which had incurred a fine and community service. Maybe casual drug use was the reason he’d abandoned law and opted for journalism, working as an intern on The Times before gaining a staff job. He’d spent years jetting between war zones: Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan. The next page was a medical report. Fenton had been caught in a bomb blast in Kabul, returning to the UK by the time of the attack on John Mendez at the end of January. The journalist had sustained a ruptured spleen, his operation requiring a full blood transfusion. I flipped the folder shut again, trying to steady my nerves. There must be millions of people who’d gone through similar experiences without becoming obsessed by blood, yet Fenton’s life history left me wondering if there was something I’d overlooked.
Eleanor Riordan’s arrival seemed to have changed the team’s mood from despair to relief; everyone was in party spirits. Burns was standing by his desk when I found him in his office, phone pressed to his ear as he motioned for me to sit. I could tell he was urging Scotland Yard to suppress news of the arrest. After the conversation ended, he settled both hands on my shoulders, the height difference between us making me wish I was a foot taller, so we could see eye to eye.
‘You had another drama last night, didn’t you?’
‘I survived,’ I said. ‘But PC Plod didn’t help.’
Burns looked embarrassed. ‘He’s been warned, and the kid’s being moved today. We can’t take any chances.’
‘How did you find Eleanor Riordan?’
‘One of the sightings from Crimewatch came up trumps. She’s been lying low in a B&B in Richmond, using a false name.’
‘Has she got a solicitor?’
‘He’s been here an hour. Let’s see what she’s got to say.’
Riordan was waiting in an interview room, where morning light spilled on to grey lino and a scratched Formica table. The space wasn’t ideal for sharing secrets: chilly, with a smoked-glass observation window sunk into the wall. Half a dozen people would be crammed into the monitoring room next door, watching our every move. Eleanor Riordan looked calmer than before, her hair swept into a neat ponytail. She wore jeans, knee-length boots and a charcoal grey jumper; smart but comfortable clothes, ideal for a weekend away. Her makeup was flawless too, mascara and pale lip gloss, deliberately low key. Riordan’s solicitor was much less well groomed; a balding, middle-aged man who looked out of his comfort zone, sweat glistening on his upper lip.
‘Good to see you again, Eleanor,’ I said.
‘I bet.’ Her expression soured. ‘You can relax now, can’t you?’
‘That depends on your story.’
‘I killed my sister. There’s nothing else to say.’
‘Talk me through what happened, please, from the start.’
She folded her arms. ‘She was out running with Mikey in the clearing where you saw me. I drove to some woodland and dumped her there.’
‘How did you kill her?’
‘I put a pillow over her face on the back seat of my car.’
‘What did you do with the pillow?’
Her mouth flapped open then closed again. ‘I threw it away.’
‘Did Luke help you?’
She blinked rapidly. ‘Of course not. He’s not involved.’
‘Where did you leave her body exactly?’
‘Epping Forest. We went there as kids for picnics.’ Her composure was cracking, a panicked look in her eyes.
‘Luke’s been worried about you, Eleanor. Why didn’t you answer his calls?’
‘I couldn’t.’ She pressed her hand to the side of her face. ‘It’s been hard to think straight.’
‘Have you seen the news?’
She shook her head. ‘There was no TV in my room.’
‘Your story will be checked very carefully. Are you sure the details are correct?’
‘Why would I lie?’
‘Tell me about John Mendez, Lisa Stuart, Jordan Adebayo and Dawn Coleman.’
‘It was my sister I hurt. No one else.’ She fell silent, her face contorting. I understood now why she’d dressed so smartly: she wanted to look in control as the last shreds of her sanity slipped away. Her voice was little more than a whisper when she spoke again. ‘I went for her with a knife; I couldn’t stop myself.’
‘We found Clare’s blood on her kitchen floor, but she was attacked back in August. You haven’t seen her since, have you?’
When she spoke again her tone was as high and singsong as a lullaby. ‘I feel better when I walk on the common. We used to play hide-and-seek there, before things turned bad. Mum taught us the names of all the trees: alder, blackthorn, elder.’
‘Life’s been tough lately, hasn’t it? We heard about your pregnancies.’
‘Luke never could keep a secret,’ she said, scowling.
‘What kind of medication are you on, Eleanor? Fluoxetine, sertraline?’
‘I’m not ill,’ she snapped.
‘Postnatal depression’s a serious condition. You need to see a counsellor.’
Her eyes glistened. ‘I hurt my sister. You have to believe me; we attacked each other for years.’
‘Your claims will be investigated, but if they’re false you’ll need to spend time in hospital. A Home Office psychiatrist will see you tomorrow.’
Maybe she realised she was inches from being sectioned, because she burst into a storm of tears. Her solicitor’s hand hovered above her shoulder, like it was unethical to offer comfort.
‘That won’t please the bigwigs,’ Burns muttered when we got back to his office. ‘They’re desperate for a conviction.’
> ‘At least we know why Riordan’s blood was on her kitchen floor. Depending on how long Eleanor’s recent pregnancy lasted, it could be post-partum psychosis, which increases violent tendencies. Or the grief of so much loss could have destabilised her. The sisters had been at loggerheads for years. Clare had everything Eleanor wanted: their parents’ love, the house, a child. The court case had taken all her money.’
Burns frowned. ‘She might still be one of the killers.’
‘The psychology doesn’t make sense. She’s got no reason to harm any of the other victims; she didn’t even recognise their names. A fit of temper made Eleanor stab her sister, and now the guilt’s hit home. It’s interesting that Clare protected her identity when Pietersen came to the rescue; perhaps there’s more residual loyalty between them than you’d expect.’
‘You think Clare going missing was one loss too many?’
‘She seems obsessed by it. The psychiatrist can assess her again tomorrow, but if I’m right she’ll need counselling and medication.’
When I looked at Burns again, he was on his feet, the crown of his head level with the light fitment. It was tempting to walk into his arms for a quick shot of comfort, but Angie burst in before I could move a muscle.
‘Riordan’s solicitor’s bleating about mental suffering, boss. He wants her bailed.’
Burns’s work persona snapped back in an instant. ‘Tell him to get real. If she’s lied, she’ll be put on a psychiatric ward, or we’ll sue her for wasting our time.’
47
The man spends the afternoon alone at home. When he peers from the front window there’s no sign of her, and she’s not answering her phone. It terrifies him that she may have been caught. He levers himself from the chair, the stab of pain in his right side strong enough to take his breath away. But there’s a last promise he has to fulfil, and he can’t let her down. He drags himself along the hallway to collect his keys.
It takes half an hour to drive to Bermondsey; he leaves his car parked at the end of the cul-de-sac. Classical music drifts from the radio, a Chopin étude for piano, one of his favourites. While the music plays he can almost imagine himself young again, with nothing to forgive. He does his best to stay awake, but the melody lulls him. When his eyes snap open again dusk has fallen and it’s almost too late. An unmarked police car is pulling away and he catches a glimpse of the boy’s dark hair. He keeps the vehicle in sight as they cross Tower Bridge, but by Shadwell it’s vanished. Traffic clogs the road ahead; the dark blue car is swallowed by a sea of metal. It surfaces again at the next lights and he parks by Shadwell Pier; through his binoculars he sees the child being led away, clutching a duffel bag.
Another flare of pain burns across his torso as he slips the binoculars back into their case. Now he knows where the boy is being kept; a flat this time, close to the river. It crosses his mind to keep the information to himself so the child can stay safe, but he can’t let the woman down. He takes out his phone and calls her again.
48
Wednesday 5 November
There was still no sign of Burns when I woke after a fitful night, but it was clear that he’d been home – yesterday’s shirt was heaped on a chair. I was getting a picture of why his marriage had failed: with two small boys to look after, his wife must have viewed his work ethic as constant desertion. I pushed the thought to the back of my head and focused on Mikey; my first impulse was to check on him. The house in Bermondsey might have been drab and comfortless, but moving to another location was bound to disturb him. In a world without certainties, he needed as much security as possible. I called Gurpreet as soon as I’d showered.
‘We’re off to the supermarket,’ he said. ‘See you in an hour.’
The conversation felt surreal. We were sharing responsibility for a child whose mother was being tortured, yet calmly chatting about going shopping. I used the extra time to smarten my appearance, relieved that there was no one hogging the bathroom while I straightened my hair and applied makeup. When I’d put on slim black trousers, a cashmere sweater, low-heeled suede boots and my favourite Liberty’s coat, I felt presentable for once. A text from Lola arrived as I was about to leave. It was a reminder that I’d promised to help her shop for a wedding dress later that week; there would be champagne and canapés for the bridal party while she tried on endless outfits. I sent a quick reply promising to be there, then set off down the stairs.
My new driver blinked at me when I reached the car park in the basement. The officer was in his mid-twenties, Middle Eastern with black hair and classic good looks. He opened the passenger door with an old-fashioned flourish. My vanity expanded when I caught him checking me out while I fastened my seatbelt. So far he’d been too tongue-tied to say hello.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Hussein. I’m your driver for the day.’
‘I guessed you might be. Shadwell first, please, Hussein.’
He gave me his life story while traffic stalled on Southwark Bridge Road. His parents were from Damascus; he’d finished a social policy master’s degree in London, but opted for the Met instead of social work. His long-term relationship had just ended because his girlfriend hadn’t wanted to get married. He studied me thoughtfully, as though I might cure his romantic problems.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been a psychologist for years. It’s the only job I ever really wanted.’
‘Single?’
I glanced at him. ‘Don’t push your luck.’
‘We could have dinner some time.’
‘Nice offer, but I’m seeing your chief officer.’
‘DCI Burns?’ His shoulders stiffened. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘It’s okay, he won’t fire you.’
By the time we swung right down Wapping High Street, Hussein had switched to friendship mode, lamenting the smallness of his rented flat and telling me about his desire for promotion. When he pulled up behind an apartment block near Shadwell Basin I was about to say goodbye, but he insisted on escorting me inside. I’d been so spooked by the previous night’s intruder that it felt good to have company. Hussein seemed in his element as we crossed the tarmac, keeping up a steady stream of chatter.
The apartment block was far more upmarket than the safe house. A concierge in a smart navy uniform was guarding a set of lifts with mirrored doors. Despite my fear of confined spaces, I forced myself inside, watching the numbers tick by until we reached the tenth floor. The flat resembled a new hotel, with minimal furnishing, bare floorboards and mirrors to maximise the light. Silence echoed from its walls instead of the usual throb of the TV. I explored the place while waiting for Mikey and Gurpreet. The outlook was the apartment’s best feature, floor-to-ceiling windows giving a panoramic view across the Thames. The river looked dark as gun metal, bus boats scratching its surface like etching needles on a steel plate.
‘Any danger of a cup of tea?’ Hussein hovered in the doorway.
‘I’d love one, thanks.’
He muttered a quiet insult before retreating to the kitchen. I was still admiring the wraparound balcony when my phone hummed in my pocket. Tania’s voice was too garbled to make out her words.
‘Slow down, I can’t hear you.’
‘The boy’s been taken,’ she said. ‘We just found out.’
My thoughts ground to a standstill. ‘How?’
‘From the car. Our guys were following but it happened in moments. Singh’s being treated for a broken jaw.’ She blew out a long breath. ‘There’s nothing you can do, Alice. Sit tight till Burns calls.’
The line fell silent and my thoughts scrambled, even though calmness would be my only chance of helping to find Mikey. Tania’s advice slipped from my mind; it would be impossible to wait quietly when someone I loved was in danger.
49
The woman waits for a convoy of squad cars to chase east, sirens blaring. Then she drives in the opposite direction, a serene smile on her face. The man studies her again. Sh
e’s still beautiful, even though she’s lost her humanity.
‘Thank God,’ she murmurs. ‘I thought we’d never get away.’
‘You realise this is where it ends for me, don’t you?’
‘I’m not surprised. You’ve been squeamish about it from day one.’
‘He’s an eleven-year-old boy.’
‘And our biggest weapon. He’ll make her tell us more names.’
The man grits his teeth. ‘We had a point to prove. But you don’t even remember it, do you?’
‘You’re so self-righteous.’
‘I’m too tired for this.’
Suddenly her face softens, her hand on his arm. ‘I know, sweetheart, but it’s nearly over. Just meet me in the lab tonight like we agreed.’
The man looks away. It’s painful to glimpse the tenderness her rage is destroying, the light fading as the city speeds past. He doesn’t want to consider what lies ahead. If she makes him stay in the room when she hurts the boy, he’ll be forced to cover his eyes.
50
Hussein had enough sense to leave me alone, his flirtatious manner gone in an instant. The facts didn’t add up. I kept picturing Mikey struggling in the back of a stranger’s car as it speeded away. It was difficult to focus on what to do next. I had always believed that he knew where his mother was being held, hidden on one of the narrow Walworth streets we’d already explored.
Mikey’s new room was at the end of the corridor, large and airy, with pale blue walls. The sight of his abandoned clothes made my stomach convulse; a hooded top slung across the chair, as though he might return at any minute. I scanned the room for anything that could help. There were few personal items, apart from his Xbox and phone, pens and pencils, and the square cardboard fortress he’d been building. The drawings in his sketchbook gave no new information, apart from reminding me that his memory was extraordinary. Each picture recreated Clapham Common with obsessive clarity. I found his drawing of Portland Street, where he’d escaped three weeks before, but it offered no new information.