by Kate Rhodes
Beyond the locked door, the world continues its business. Voices drift through the wall, and someone wheels a trolley down the echoing corridor, the sounds increasing her isolation. Simon needs her more than ever, even though they’ve been forced apart. She must find a solution without his calm logic to guide her. There has to be a way to finish what they started.
57
The idea that Denise Thorpe was innocent dogged me for the rest of the morning, despite everyone else believing the killers were behind bars. On an objective level she ticked all the boxes: medical background, unstable, dominated by her husband’s powerful personality. Yet something in my head couldn’t accept it. A text arrived from Lola while I was mulling it over, reminding me to meet her in Knightsbridge that afternoon. I considered cancelling, but the bridal shop was already booked. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and set off for Wandsworth, hoping the visit would silence my doubts.
Pete Hancock was in the hallway of the Thorpes’ house, combing a jacket that was hanging in the hallway with a brush small enough to apply mascara. I grinned at him as I zipped up the sterile suit.
‘Your wife must love you, Pete. I bet you’re great at cleaning.’
He shook his head firmly. ‘Not if I can help it.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Collecting fibres from Denise Thorpe’s clothes. If I can match them with ones at the lab, it’ll prove she was there.’
‘Can I look upstairs?’
‘Why? The boss says it’s open and shut.’
‘Certainty’s an overrated virtue, isn’t it?’
‘Go on then.’ He gave a loud sigh. ‘Make sure you don’t touch anything.’
The forensics team had started on the top floor, leaving dust trails on windows and doorframes. At first sight it looked like a typical family home. The Thorpes’ daughter had left evidence of a teenage fascination with One Direction, the posters in her bedroom hopelessly out of date. I wondered how she was coping. The police were shielding her while she stayed with friends in York, but journalists would soon be baying at her door.
The bathroom revealed little apart from the Thorpes’ reliance on medication. I peered at the packets of painkillers and tranquillisers stacked in the cabinet. With so many drugs in their systems, it was a wonder they’d been able to function, let alone plan a murder campaign. The master bedroom was a jumble of knick-knacks and mismatched furniture, a Lloyd Loom chair in need of paint, shelves full of crystal ornaments. A leather-bound diary lay on the chest of drawers, wrapped in an evidence bag. I paused for a moment before picking it up; if the diary belonged to Denise it could contain evidence to prove her innocence, which the police might overlook. Only the spare room revealed a masculine presence: a man’s towelling dressing gown lay across the bed, the latest Robert Harris novel on the windowsill. I needed to understand if marital differences had forced the Thorpes apart, or if Simon had elected to sleep alone so he could escape at night without alerting his wife.
His office had been used for consultations with private patients, different in style from his wife’s clutter. The furniture was tasteful and modern, subdued still lifes on the wall, the coffee table topped by a box of Kleenex. It horrified me that his clients had poured out their woes in this room, while he’d been completing his murderous campaign. Simon and Denise Thorpe had divided the house in two; his space clinically organised, while hers was chaotic. Maybe I’d been wrong about Denise Thorpe’s innocence. The place seemed to prove my original theory that the killers would be chalk and cheese.
Hancock appeared as I peeled off my Tyvek suit. I brandished the black leather book at him, still wrapped in its transparent bag.
‘Can I borrow this till tomorrow morning?’
He looked dubious. ‘It’s logged in the evidence file. You’ll get me sacked if you lose it.’
I tucked it into my bag. ‘I won’t let you down. You’re a star, Pete.’
He looked shocked then gratified when I planted a kiss on his cheek, proving that he was capable of human emotions after all.
I had no chance to study the diary that afternoon. My promise to Lola had to be honoured, so I met her outside an upmarket bridal shop, a stone’s throw from Harrods, her mother footing the bill. She looked as gorgeous as ever – mile-long legs showcased in tight jeans; emerald green blouse accentuating her long auburn curls.
‘It’s the heroine of the hour,’ she said, hugging me.
‘Sorry?’
‘You’re a reclusive genius, according to the news. They had a picture of you in shades looking like a petite version of Michelle Williams.’
‘Just what I need,’ I muttered. ‘Burns said he’d keep them off my back.’
‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity, Al.’
‘There is in my line of work.’
Neve gazed up at us from her pram, swaddled in blankets. My irritation faded when I inhaled her smell of peaches, talcum powder and brand-new skin, her face puckering into a grin as I scooped her up.
‘Jesus, you’re broody,’ Lola said. ‘Come on, they’re waiting for us.’
The Tremaine family had arranged a bridal extravaganza, taking over the whole boutique. I sat with Lola’s mum and two of her aunties, cooing as she tried on dress after dress, assistants plying us with Prosecco and canapés. After a while, the outfits blurred into a mile of white chiffon awash with lace. I tried to stay focused but my thoughts kept slipping back to the diary. Eventually Lola emerged from the changing room in a pencil-slim gown that reminded me of Hollywood in the Jazz Age, ivory silk heightening the glow of her skin.
‘What do you think?’ she purred.
‘Gorgeous,’ I confirmed.
At that stage I tried to escape, but more paraphernalia kept arriving: shoes, gloves, a veil. She even made me help select her garter and underwear for the honeymoon.
I was exhausted by retail decisions, but Lola was in high spirits. She gave me a grateful hug then let me hail a taxi. I checked my email during the ride to Burns’s flat. Christine’s message offered her usual low-key praise, followed by a terse instruction to take immediate leave, even though queries from the FPU were clogging my inbox.
For the first time in days there was no guard outside the front door. Now that the danger had passed I could return to my apartment, where no object ever strayed out of place. I started to gather my belongings, but couldn’t ignore my urge to check the diary.
It was disappointing to discover that it belonged to Simon, not Denise. At first sight its contents were just a log of appointments. I wondered why the therapist had stopped attending his health clinic twelve months before. He seemed to have lost all faith in medical treatment, taking matters into his own hands. His handwriting was small and tightly controlled, confirming his status as the rational member of the double act, but Denise still seemed an unlikely partner. She was hardly a wild maverick, capable of slitting a man’s throat without qualms. I thumbed through the pages again, but appointments with his clients were recorded by initials instead of names. The tone of the entries was world-weary: almost every week he’d written the comment ‘another meeting’ under one of the dates. What nameless friend had he been seeing, and for what purpose? Something about the diary filled me with unease, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.
My phone rang as I was dropping it back into the evidence bag. A voice whispered at the end of the line.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Emma Selby. Sorry to bother you, Alice.’ It sounded like she was trying not to cry, her breathing uneven.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Could I come round? I need some advice.’
Burns appeared in the doorway, studying me as he removed his coat.
‘Emma, I’m afraid that’s not possible. Could we meet another night?’ My guilt increased as she stifled a sob.
‘Of course. I feel terrible for calling you in this state.’
‘Is it your boyfriend?
‘He finished it over the phone. The bas
tard didn’t even have the guts to tell me to my face.’ She sounded so desolate that I considered jumping in my car, but knew I was in the wrong frame of mind to play counsellor.
‘I promise to ring tomorrow. Don’t be alone though, will you? Get a friend to come round.’
It struck me as odd that she’d phoned me instead of a close friend or relative; maybe she was less socially adept than she seemed, with few people to rely on. Burns reappeared before I could give the matter more thought. He’d abandoned his suit in favour of jeans, a faded blue shirt and ancient trainers, but the relaxed clothes hadn’t diluted his scowl.
‘Something wrong?’ I asked.
‘A couple of things, yeah.’
‘Go on, then, I’m not a mind-reader.’
‘You can’t wait to leave, can you? Your stuff’s already packed.’
‘I’ve got my own place to look after, remember?’
‘How could I forget? You spend all your time there.’
‘You’re in an ugly mood.’
He scrubbed his hand across his face. ‘Is this how you end all your relationships? Goodbye and thanks for the memories?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know how I feel.’
‘So spit it out, for fuck’s sake.’
‘If it was that easy I’d have said it by now.’
‘I won’t sue you if you change your mind.’ His mood changed as he watched me trying to summon the words, anger changing to amusement. ‘Aren’t shrinks meant to be emotionally sorted?’
‘No way. Freud was a basket case.’
We set our differences aside to order a takeaway. It frustrated me that my feelings were still buried too deeply to access, but at least we were heading in the same direction.
‘We ordered too much,’ I said. His table groaned with cartons of chow mein, Peking duck and egg-fried rice.
‘Enough for an army.’ Burns pushed his plate away. ‘Angie and I kept pushing today but got nowhere. Thorpe collapsed in his cell; the police medic wants him in hospital, and his wife’s still denying everything.’
‘We’re missing something obvious.’
‘It must be them. Thorpe’s contacts say he’s isolated, rarely leaves home.’
‘Apart from all those long night-time drives. And he’s not a loner; he sees dozens of clients each week.’
‘You think it’s a patient?’
‘That’s possible. There’s someone else I’m worried about: Emma Selby from the Wellcome Institute. I know she’s been checked out already, but she knows more about blood than anyone in London.’
Burns shrugged. ‘We’ll take another look. But it has to be Denise Thorpe, doesn’t it? How could she not notice her husband was a serial killer?’
‘Selective blindness; we only see what we want to see.’
I didn’t go home that evening. If we’d parted company, both of us would have brooded about the future. Instead we shared a bath then went to bed early, the sex between us slow and thoughtful, like we had all the time in the world. For once he let me take charge, pushing him back against the pillows, my hands on his shoulders as he lost control. Streetlight filtered through the curtains afterwards. The case was still nagging at me. Denise Thorpe had shown no sign of cracking after long bouts of questions, convincing me that my suspicions were correct; such profound shock would have been hard to fake. I closed my eyes and listened to the silence. The city was resting for once, no traffic stirring on Southwark Bridge Road. I felt certain a woman was out there somewhere, wide awake like me, planning her next attack.
58
Friday 7 November
I’d been working for hours by the time Burns joined me for breakfast, pages from my profile report scattered across his kitchen table.
‘You never quit, do you?’
‘I’m certain Denise Thorpe’s innocent, Don.’
He took a swig from my coffee mug. ‘What makes you so sure?’
‘It could be any of her husband’s female clients. You should be checking the case notes on his computer.’
He cast me a long-suffering look. ‘People don’t always confess, Alice. Maybe he forced her to help; she feels guilty about the effect on her daughter. In her shoes I’d play innocent too.’
‘Why not look at other suspects?’
‘Like who?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘We’ve covered every avenue.’
‘Thorpe might know someone affected by the tainted blood scandal.’
Burns’s face was deadpan as he put on his coat; there was no way to guess whether he would follow my suggestion. ‘What are you up to today?’
‘Visiting the hospital with Mikey at midday.’
‘I’ll meet you there. When Riordan comes round, we’ll check her story.’
He made a swift exit, leaving me convinced that I was the only person questioning Denise Thorpe’s involvement.
I travelled to the Royal Free at ten o’clock, hoping that revisiting Clare Riordan’s haunts a final time might reveal the identity of the second killer, but aware that I might be clutching at straws. The hospital still looked like a grand architectural mistake, a drab hunk of concrete wreathed in traffic fumes. Patients were queuing in the haematology department as I waited for the receptionist to unlock Riordan’s office. I saw one of them disappear through Dr Novak’s half-open door as Brenda Madison turned to me. She looked even more flamboyant than the first time we’d met: lacquered nails long as talons, hair a startling traffic-light red. She smiled widely as she reported how thrilled everyone was that Clare had been found, then offered me a cup of tea.
‘I’ll be back in two ticks. Make yourself at home.’
Riordan’s consulting room was still in disarray; the same Post-it notes stuck on her jotter, reminding her to book holiday flights, a pair of running shoes hidden in a drawer. The overall picture was of someone who raced through life without looking back. Maybe she had travelled forwards so heedlessly she didn’t notice all the people she’d trodden on, including her best friend. I carried on sifting Riordan’s papers, hoping for a missed clue about the woman who’d abducted her. It still seemed hard to believe that she was clinging to life in the ICU three floors above. A sound disturbed me as I finished thumbing through the list. The receptionist stood there looking apologetic, offering me a cup of tea.
‘Sorry it took ages. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing.’
I smiled at her. ‘Can I ask a few questions, Brenda? You must see everything on the front desk.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been here donkeys’ years. Not much gets past me.’
‘Do patients ever complain?’
‘Not often; it’s the carers who sometimes lose the plot.’
‘Women as well as men?’
‘A few months ago this lady made a real scene. Michelle De Santis – she was shouting about not getting enough help. She’d been caring for someone at home, doing all his injections. The poor thing must be in an even worse state now.’
‘Why?’
She blinked rapidly. ‘Her bloke died last night. Apparently she was with him at the end.’
‘That’s sad.’ I felt a rush of sympathy, remembering Gary Lennard staring out at his Oriental garden, dreaming of summer.
‘Dr Novak visited him every week after the complaint.’ Her face softened. ‘Most of the others wouldn’t bother. Maybe it’s because she went through it herself.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She told me her dad died of a blood virus. Maybe that’s why she’s so kind to her patients.’
The receptionist’s comments stayed with me after she left. I thought about Gary Lennard, his ex-wife’s terror of losing him, and Adele Novak’s determination to offer him first-rate care. Tania’s response was frosty when I called to suggest that De Santis should be monitored. Michelle had reason to hate the people responsible for her ex-husband’s illness, and Gary had been one of Clare’s patients in the past, but Tania’s long silence made it clear that she considered the case closed.
&nb
sp; Adele Novak’s door was open when I left Clare’s office. She was on her feet, listening intently to a patient, white coat buttoned to her throat. The doctor lifted her head when she saw me, gaze sharpening, as though she had something urgent to say. But Mikey was due to arrive in reception any minute, so I raised my hand in recognition before hurrying away.
Angie had sent a text warning me that Clare Riordan’s condition was no better, and it struck me that it would be the cruellest irony if she died without being properly reunited with her son. Mikey’s jubilant smile revealed his certainty his mum would recover, a bunch of yellow roses clutched in his hands as the psychiatric nurse left him with me. My concern increased as we crossed the hospital campus. I had an odd sensation that we were being watched, though there was no one nearby apart from a gaggle of nurses laughing at each other’s jokes. I gazed at the windows of the tower, but sunlight reflected too brightly from the glass to tell whether someone was looking down at us.
My anxiety doubled when we reached intensive care. The high-dependency suite was empty, a gurney standing in the corridor outside. I mustered a smile for Mikey when we stopped by the nursing station.
‘Wait here, sunshine. I’ll be two minutes.’
The nurse gave me a blank look when she heard Clare Riordan’s name, hurrying away to fetch a doctor. My heart was beating a nervous tattoo when the medic finally appeared: a middle-aged Indian woman, long hair woven into a plait. She studied me through thick horn-rimmed glasses before her face relaxed into a smile.
‘Clare’s a bit stronger today. She’s not fully conscious, but her fever’s down; you’ll find her in the recovery suite. We’ll talk again after your visit.’
I thanked her before turning away. A transfer to recovery didn’t put Riordan out of the woods, but it increased her odds. If she could survive without intensive nursing she stood a better chance. Mikey was where I’d left him, hugging his flowers as one of the nurses tried to coax him into talking. His mother was sleeping peacefully, but her appearance was worse than I remembered. She was skin and bone, a stubble of grey hair covering her scalp, deep bruises littering her face. It was hard to believe this was the woman I’d spent the last three weeks obsessing over; full of complexities, her strong personality affecting everyone she knew. Puncture marks from wide needle injections were still visible on her shoulders and arms, but that didn’t stop Mikey from making a beeline for her. A stab of jealousy arrived out of nowhere when he reached for her hand, then whispered a string of words only she could hear. It was an intimacy I couldn’t hope to understand. Seeing his mother again had opened the floodgates for Mikey. He was so focused on her sleeping face that a bomb could have detonated nearby without catching his attention. It finally dawned on me that if his mother survived, he would forget about me, and in time I would forget him too. We’d only bonded so quickly because of the danger we’d faced. But that didn’t explain the sense of loss that hit me when I thought about losing him. It was sharp as a body blow, forcing me to step outside to catch my breath.