by Kate Rhodes
It felt like I was clutching at straws when I searched my bag for Emma Selby’s sheet of addresses, eyes racing across the list of buildings relevant to blood history, her notes scribbled in spiky black handwriting. The only one with a Walworth postcode was a World War Two depot that had stored seventy thousand gallons of blood during the Blitz. The locations on the list had already been checked by Angie’s team, but I couldn’t just twiddle my thumbs, waiting for the phone to ring.
‘There’s somewhere I need to visit.’
Hussein raised his head. ‘Aren’t you meant to stay here?’
‘Change of plan.’
Luckily he was too green to argue. A fleet of police cars raced towards Wapping as we got back into the car, the Met focusing on the spot where Mikey had been taken before the evidence went cold. But my approach would be different. It didn’t matter where he’d been abducted, I had to discover where he was being held. The killers believed that Skipton House in Elephant and Castle was where their cause had been lost, because the health minister had signed papers there after the enquiry, denying full compensation. It made sense that they would torture their victims near the site of the biggest injustice. I did my best not to let my mind settle on Mikey as the car edged through traffic. If I dwelled on what he was suffering, my nerve would evaporate.
The blood depot lay at the heart of Walworth. It was a large 1930s building with striking Art Deco features, arched windows and ornate plasterwork, but its days as a warehouse had ended decades ago. The place had been divided into flats, rows of doorbells beside the glass entrance. A wave of disappointment hit me when I realised that the killers couldn’t be using the place as their headquarters, even though its history would have attracted them. The depot might have kept the city’s heart beating during the war, but it wouldn’t serve as a hiding place now. Floodlights lined the car park’s boundary, any suspicious behaviour visible from the higher floors. Hussein tagged me as I circled the building, but a glance through the windows of an outhouse revealed nothing more incriminating than a lawn mower, cans of paint and a set of ladders.
‘Shouldn’t we go back?’ he asked.
‘Not till I finish searching.’
Luckily he agreed without complaint, even though his expression was baffled as we continued south down Walworth Road. I asked him to pull up when we reached Burgess Park. My eyes were scanning the tennis courts and boating pond when the sky ignited. So many fireworks burst on the horizon, it looked like the sky was on fire. Even though I had always loved bonfire night, the display failed to lighten my mood. The only thing that could brighten my day would be to find Mikey unharmed.
‘We’ve come too far,’ I muttered. ‘Take me back to Westmoreland Road.’
I wanted to return to the spot where Mikey had escaped from the killers’ car three weeks before. It terrified me that the boy had evaded death once already. I stared at the lights flaring on the horizon as we drove, aware that the boy would need more than luck to escape a second time.
Hussein navigated the narrow streets of Walworth, and when we drew close to Portland Street, Mikey’s catchphrase repeated in my mind: ‘Almost there, not far now.’ I felt certain he’d heard the abductors saying the words. I stared at his drawing again, focusing on the figure hiding between ramshackle buildings, surrounded by garages and parked cars. What if Mikey hadn’t been running away at all, but following the car to find his mother? An odd pressure built in my chest, like a dam waiting to burst.
‘Let’s walk from here.’
The young PC gave a half-hearted nod. ‘What are we looking for?’
‘I’ll know when I see it.’ I brought up a street map on my phone. ‘We need to search all the roads off Portland Street for old buildings and churches.’
‘Want me to bring a torch?’
‘That would help.’
Hussein sighed as we set off, fireworks still exploding over our heads every few minutes, lighting our way then leaving us in darkness again. The young officer must have been longing to be back in Wapping, part of a huge team solving a crime. Instead he was traipsing through the suburbs on a wild-goose chase, taking orders from a woman who was fraying at the seams. Luckily he was too polite to voice his doubts, running his torch beam across the pavement, like the answer to Mikey’s disappearance lay trapped between paving stones. I called Burns as we reached a crossroads, but was patched through to his answering service.
‘Where now?’ Hussein asked.
I studied my map. ‘North first, I want to cover a half-mile radius from here.’
‘That’ll take hours.’ A peevish tone had entered his voice.
I turned to face him. ‘A child’s in danger, Hussein. He’s escaped from a car near here once already. It’s possible they’ve brought him back. You want him found, don’t you?’
My urgent tone seemed to prick his conscience. He gave a rapid nod, increasing his pace as we set off again. Our tour revealed an area of London that lacked money, but had plenty of pride. A small, well-kept primary school stood opposite narrow houses built cheek by jowl. Our search was yielding little except evidence of gentrification, skips full of old-fashioned baths and abandoned kitchen units.
‘What about down there?’ Hussein asked, pointing to a dark alleyway.
‘It’s worth a look.’
The ground was rough underfoot, leaves rotting on the cobbles, wrappers from fireworks, a stink of decaying food. Something fluttered in the shadows at our feet.
‘What’s that?’ Hussein’s voice was edged with panic.
‘Rats, probably.’
His breathing was ragged as we retraced our steps. I didn’t have the heart to point out that we were outnumbered; the city contained far more vermin than human beings. The search was starting to feel like a bad dream, but it beat waiting at the station, chewing my fingernails to the bone.
We headed north up Brandon Street. There was little to see, apart from a sign outside a Seventh Day Adventist church claiming that God loves the faithful. I would gladly have offered a prayer to keep Mikey safe, even if it felt like a shot in the dark. We passed a sign for community art studios and a new building development without slowing down. Somewhere in this teeming city, a young boy was being held captive. To stop myself falling apart, I had to believe that he was still alive.
51
The laboratory is colder than before. The man huddles on a stool, failing to keep warm; his fever’s worse today, ice water chasing through his veins. The child lies hog-tied on the tiled floor, a hood over his face. His mother is too weak to stir, only her eyes fully alive. They burned like lasers when the boy’s inert body was dragged through the door. Her shoulders jerk as she coughs against her gag. The woman told him not to give her water, but small acts of cruelty only make him feel worse. He picks up the bottle and releases the gag. Riordan’s almost too weak to swallow, liquid splashing across her cheek.
‘Let him go, please.’ She chokes out the words.
‘It’s too late, Clare.’
Her voice is a low growl. ‘You evil bastard.’
The man jerks the gag back into place. Her eyes are darker now, dull brown instead of amber, tarnished by everything she’s seen.
He settles on the stool again, scanning the room. The porcelain sink has stood in the corner since Victorian times. A hundred years ago, gaslight would have fallen on test tubes and specimen jars, the pallid faces of human guinea pigs. He shuts his eyes and imagines the sufferers, too weak to fight for their lives.
The room is prepared for the last punishment, drip line suspended from a metal stand. Mother and son will lie side by side, her blood flowing into his arm. If their blood types are incompatible, the child will die in agony. First his lungs will fail, then his heart. The man rubs his hand across his face. He understands now that their campaign will achieve nothing. Even though doctors like Clare Riordan caused his illness, he lacks the strength to witness more suffering. The sky outside the frosted windows is absurdly celebratory, pulsing with re
d, silver and gold. Only his loyalty keeps him there, waiting for the woman to return.
52
Rain fell as we scoured the neighbourhood. Hussein was still following me doggedly, even though he was soaked to the skin. My hopes faded as I scanned the recreation ground at the end of Alvey Street. Inside the park’s neat privet hedges, three homeless men were huddled under a tree, passing a bottle to keep warm. Lights burned in the houses nearby, families keeping warm in front of the TV, instead of braving the rain to watch the Guy Fawkes display. Mikey was galaxies away from such ordinary pleasures, and it struck me again that he might already be dead, the killers grabbing the prize they’d been chasing from day one. The most devastating fact was that there was nothing I could do.
Burns finally called back at nine p.m., voices grumbling in the background. ‘Where the hell are you?’
‘Walworth, doing a street search.’
‘You should be here.’ He let out an exasperated sigh. ‘The commissioner needs briefing.’
‘Give me one more hour.’
His tone sharpened. ‘Are you listening? You’re wanted at the station, pronto.’
‘Tough. Only Christine gives me orders.’
Hussein smirked as I hit the mute button, the snappy exchange certain to fuel fresh gossip. My phone vibrated in my pocket again: Burns would be leaving an irate message, but I didn’t care. Stopping my search would feel negligent, even if I was proved wrong. We had half a dozen more streets to check before I could call it quits. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, pavements slick with litter and fallen leaves.
‘Let’s take a look at that church,’ I said.
The Baptist chapel ahead had seen better days. The oak door was so dented it looked like someone had tried to kick it down, each blow more forceful than the last. Hussein disappeared to check the grounds and I peered through the window at orderly rows of pews, a simple altar and pulpit. I was still standing there when a shout went up. The sound made me break into a jog, torchlight leading me to where Hussein lay sprawled on the asphalt.
‘Don’t try to move. What happened?’
‘I slipped, banged my head.’ His voice was groggy, a shallow gash on his forehead.
‘You’ll live.’ His injury reminded me that the chase might be pointless, my urge to find Mikey producing nothing except a headache for my new colleague. ‘Can you walk to the car?’
‘Of course.’ He swayed drunkenly, then steadied himself.
When we reached Portland Street I paused by a streetlamp to study the map again. We’d checked all the streets linking with Walworth Road, but found nowhere suitable for a hiding place. Maybe I’d been wrong all along. The killers were holding him in a lock-up or a cellar, the location unconnected to the theme of blood. I had just helped Hussein into the car when my eyes caught on a passageway we’d missed. He rolled down the window when I tapped the glass.
‘There’s one more alley to check.’
Hussein gave a quiet groan as he lurched from the car. We passed a sign advertising artists’ studios, but it was hard to imagine people tapping into their creativity at the end of a dank alley. I was about to turn back when something loomed out of the darkness. An old man stood directly ahead, clutching a broom. He must have been seventy at least, thin and slightly stooped in his waterproof coat, his gaze as inquisitive as a child’s. I did my best to return his smile.
‘You gave me a fright,’ he said.
‘Sorry. We’re looking for old buildings in the area.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘It’s a long story. We work for the police,’ I said, flashing my ID card.
His eyebrows rose. ‘Most went in the slum clearances, but the place where I work’s Victorian.’ He pointed at the end of alley. ‘It’s down there.’
‘Can we take a look?’
The old man gave a nod of agreement, his pronounced limp slowing our progress across ground that reeked of urine and spilled beer. His name turned out to be Stanley Moorfield – a Walworth native, born and bred.
‘It’s listed, so no developer wants it. They’d need a fortune to do it up.’
‘And you keep an eye on the building?’
‘Each morning and last thing at night. I clean up and do repairs.’
The old man hit a light switch and a square two-storey building appeared in front of us. Its name was carved into the stone lintel above the door: The Health Laboratories. The place looked solid as a Gothic fortress, towers at each of its four corners. An odd chill travelled across the back of my neck. It was just like the structure Mikey had built from cardboard and glue, but how could he have seen it?
‘What was it used for?’
‘Experiments, I think, testing vaccines for the government.’
A faint light shone from the back of the building. ‘Is anyone using it now?’
‘Just one bloke since the heating broke down. He rents a double unit at the back. I can’t remember his name; he and his wife are photographers.’
‘Have you spoken to them?’
‘They’re not the friendly type. He’s put a lock on the door so I can’t go in and sweep up.’
Hussein was starting to look bored. ‘Shouldn’t we get back?’
I shook my head firmly. ‘Not till we’ve seen inside.’
The old man seemed pleased. ‘I’ll show you the entrance hall, if you like.’
‘Do the windows open, Stanley?’
‘Not any more. The ones at the back are barred; we had a break-in last year.’
‘Do you know much about the couple who’re renting?’
‘Nothing, except they often work late.’
There were broken tiles on the floor of the entrance hall and wood panels splintering from the walls. But it was the smell that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. It was like the Old Operating Theatre, a faint reek of antiseptic combined with the bitterness of chloroform.
‘Call the Armed Response Unit,’ I told Hussein quietly as Stanley walked ahead.
‘What?’
‘Just do it,’ I hissed. ‘Then block the fire exits outside. Make sure no one escapes.’
The old man hadn’t heard our exchange. Hussein was already heading away, muttering into his radio. At the end of the corridor, light seeped from below a locked door. There were no other sounds apart from the old man’s murmur as he played tour guide.
‘Go home now, Stanley. The police will arrive soon; there’s going to be a lot of noise.’
‘The owners won’t like it if I don’t clean up.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take the blame.’
Luckily he didn’t argue, limping back down the dark alley, sheltered under his umbrella. I waited for the armed unit with mixed feelings. I could be about to disturb a photographer at work, or to find Mikey. Thank God the windows were sealed. If the killers were closeted inside, their only exit would be via the front door.
My call to Angie got no reply; she was probably at the commissioner’s briefing with the rest of the team. But two anonymous grey vans had already arrived. The sergeant’s vicious crew cut would have suited a marine, his calm, grey-eyed stare at odds with the weapons strapped across his chest. He listened to my explanation, then issued a string of curt orders before escorting me and Hussein outside.
‘Stay in your vehicle,’ he said. ‘Don’t move till we give the all clear.’
Hussein wouldn’t stop babbling. Concussion or an overload of excitement seemed to be getting to him. My muscles felt like they’d been pulled taut. Cascades of silver and gold were still showering the horizon. If I was wrong, ten highly skilled officers would have wasted their time, and the blame would fall on me. When I scanned the street again an ambulance was arriving, reminding me that a third of armed call-outs ended in bloodshed. A second later there was a loud blast, then a stutter of gunfire, followed by a deafening silence. My hands clutched into fists. Instinct told me to run into the building, but armed officers would only haul me out again.
; Things happened fast after that. One of the men in bulletproof gear told us that victims had been found. I didn’t stop to ask whether they were dead or alive before dashing down the corridor behind the paramedics. The door at the end of the corridor had burst from its hinges. The woman strapped to a chair had to be Clare Riordan, bruises littering her neck, wrists chafed raw by leather cuffs. Her face was so bone white that I thought she was dead, until her eyes blinked open. One of the ambulance crew was already leaning down to untie her restraints. Relief surged through me when I saw Mikey lying on the floor. I was determined not to cry as I undid his gag. When the cotton fell away, his raw howl echoed from the walls, so loud and heart-rending it sounded as if he was releasing all the pent-up fear he’d bottled for weeks.
‘You’re safe now, sweetheart.’
He clung to me as his mother was stretchered away. It was only after they were both in the ambulance that I noticed my surroundings again. Maybe it was shock that made the air taste bitter, each mouthful loaded with chemicals. An elaborate system of ropes and pulleys dangled from the ceiling, ties and buckles to hold the victims in place. A table by the wall carried transfusion bags, syringes and phials of unidentified fluids. I pulled on sterile gloves and opened the fridge in the corner. Two blood packs full of red liquid lay on a shelf, neatly printed with Riordan’s name. My stomach tightened with nausea as I scanned the white walls and scrubbed tiles. The place was as clean and orderly as a dentist’s surgery, yet it had been a torture chamber. Suddenly my head swum with the reality that Mikey might never have been found.