Blood Symmetry (10 page)

A
t midnight the couple stand outside the lab, holding hands, the woman's head resting on the man's shoulder, at peace for once.

‘I wish we could stay like this,' the man says.

‘Me too, but we can't rest properly until it's done.'

The man's exhaustion resonates in his sigh when she unlocks the door and flicks on the lights. Clare Riordan is still bound to the chair, gag clamped between her teeth. The woman ignores her, turning on the radio and setting to work, swabbing the laboratory floor with bleach. When she glances over, the man is sitting on the step, head bowed. The room has an abattoir smell, fetid and dirty. Ammonia can't remove its taste from the air. The woman focuses on the song playing on the radio; a girl singing something trite about love and money. Her muscles tense when the news bulletin starts.

‘Here it comes,' she murmurs, turning up the volume.

The announcer explains that more troops are being sent to the Middle East, unemployment figures falling again.

‘Clare Riordan, a consultant from London's Royal Free Hospital, is still missing. This afternoon hundreds of volunteers conducted another search of Clapham Common. The police want to hear from anyone who has seen Dr Riordan since she went missing on the eleventh of October. They have described her abduction as a senseless act of violence against an innocent victim.'

‘Innocent?' The woman silences the radio with a jab of her finger. ‘She's hurt every blood patient in the land.'

‘Anger won't get us anywhere,' the man says quietly.

‘It brought us here.' She stares back at him. ‘How will you cope with all the rest?'

‘I'm stronger than I look.'

‘That's not true. I'll finish this, then we can leave.' She turns to Riordan. ‘Did you hear that, Clare? Another night in the dark. Want me to hang you from the ceiling again?'

The doctor's body writhes like a line-caught fish, a dull moan spilling through her gag.

‘Give us a name. Then you can sleep in peace.'

Clare shakes her head violently, but when the pulley tightens she lets out a long whimper and the woman loosens the rag that stifles her.

‘Jordan Adebayo,' she whispers, screwing her eyes shut.

The woman jerks the material back into place, then picks up a scalpel. ‘Now I can finish her, can't I?'

‘She may be lying; we need her alive until we've checked him out.'

‘Always forward-planning, aren't you?'

She drops the blade back into the drawer with a sense of disappointment, but breaking Riordan's will has restored her good mood. She swabs the last patch of blood from the floor, humming as the water darkens to the colour of rust.

S
aturday began with a trip along the river. I caught a bus boat to Greenwich to see my mother, instead of driving south through the congested suburbs. It allowed me to admire the old warehouses and Hawksmoor churches lining the riverside. The air was bracing when I climbed the steep hill through Greenwich Park to Blackheath, admiring avenues of chestnut trees that had been stripped of their leaves, stark branches reaching for the sky. Tension was knotting in my stomach at the prospect of seeing my mother for the first time in two weeks. I took a detour past the Paragon, to check out Eleanor Riordan's address. The Georgian crescent was beautifully preserved; all it needed was horse-drawn carriages and women promenading in long gowns for time to slip back two centuries. I tried to imagine why someone who owned an apartment in such a stunning piece of real estate would quibble over a house in Clapham. The lawsuit seemed to be more about sibling rivalry than financial need. It struck me as unlikely that Eleanor would turn murderous over a lawsuit, but childhood jealousy could be a strong enough motive, no matter how comfortable her current life seemed.

It took my mother ages to answer the doorbell. I heard the slow drag of her feet on the stairs as she made her way down from her flat. When she finally appeared she looked immaculate, making me wonder how much time she'd needed to put on her smart grey skirt and cashmere twinset. I felt a tug of
sympathy for her battling spirit. Small tasks like dressing and bathing must present major challenges now. She flinched as I kissed her cheek.

‘Why not use the stairlift, Mum?'

‘I prefer being on my feet. It's the only exercise I get.'

I watched her toil back to the landing. Parkinson's might have stolen her physical strength, but her stubbornness was undimmed. She looked smug as she settled into her armchair, as if the climb proved she was invincible.

‘Want some tea?' I asked. ‘I've brought carrot cake.'

Her tremor was pronounced as she lifted her cup, drops slopping back into the saucer. She assessed me coolly as I took a bite of cake.

‘It's good to see you eating, Alice.'

‘I always do. If I stopped running I'd be the size of a bus.'

‘You're skin and bone, darling. Have you been overworking?'

I took a deep breath. ‘I'm fine, honestly.'

‘Tell me what you've been up to.'

‘I've got an interesting case. Did you hear about the woman going missing on Clapham Common? I'm helping her son.'

‘The poor creature.' Her eyes widened. ‘You'll never cure that monster, if you find him. He's beyond help.'

‘We can't ignore people like him, Mum. They still exist.'

‘Leave it to some other fool.'

I shrugged. ‘I'm not cut out to be a librarian like you.'

A rare look of nostalgia crossed her face. ‘I still remember how the place smelled: floor polish, dust and old books. Someone should make it into a room fragrance.'

‘I prefer French lavender.'

My mother spent the rest of the morning on acerbic complaints. Her assistant Elise visited daily, but remained monosyllabic, which was a source of disappointment. She
seemed to expect witty repartee from her hard-pressed helper. At least Mum was still managing to attend concerts and lunches with friends, even though she had to travel everywhere by taxi.

‘Can I do anything before I go?'

Her grey eyes settled on my face. ‘Tell me you've found a new boyfriend.'

‘I have actually. We've been together a few months.'

‘What does he do?'

‘He's in the police.'

She gave me a look of mock despair. ‘I was hoping for a stockbroker. But you like him, do you?'

‘More than I realised.'

‘Then you'll make it work, darling.' Her shrewd eyes fixed on my face. ‘Bad choices aren't hereditary.'

I was superstitious enough to feel spooked. Blessings from my mother were so rare that I knew she was being sincere, but how to file them away was another matter. For once she accepted my farewell embrace without pulling away.

I
stood with Gurpreet in the garden of the safe house that afternoon while Mikey napped on the sofa. Fading afternoon light filtered through the copper beeches as he lit a cigarette.

‘My wife thinks I quit months ago.'

‘It's okay, I won't blow the whistle.' I watched him take a long drag. ‘How's Mikey been?'

‘Missing you, I think. It's amazing how fast you've bonded.'

‘He's pining for his mother; transference was inevitable.'

He nodded. ‘Still no eye contact, and the smallest noise spooks him. In an ordinary case I'd suggest Ritalin.'

‘Tranquillisers would suppress his memories. He'll feel better when he shares them; I'll work with him again today.'

‘Be careful.' Gurpreet turned to face me. ‘One push could send him over the edge.'

‘Are you like this with your own kids?'

‘Like what?'

‘Overprotective.'

He looked embarrassed. ‘My daughter calls me the Rottweiler.'

‘You're doing a brilliant job, but maybe you should take a step back.'

‘Easier said than done, doc.' Gurpreet gave me a meaningful look then ground out his cigarette with the heel of his shoe.

I studied the garden again before returning indoors. Even in daylight it looked ominous. Trees cast deep shadows into every corner; shoulder-high plants had proliferated until no space was left, their leaves brushing my face as I walked back to the house.

After Gurpreet went home I tried to entice Mikey from his room, but offers of card games or ice cream fell flat.

‘How about baking? We could make cookies.'

He inspected me through the crack in the door, his nod of agreement almost imperceptible. It interested me that he relaxed in the kitchen's familiar terrain, quietly weighing ingredients, then pouring them into the mixing bowl.

‘You're good at this. Maybe you should cook every meal from now on.' I offered a wide smile. ‘I think you're brave. You know that, don't you?'

His face brightened, then he busied himself with the biscuits. It was good to see him absorbed in cutting out elaborate shapes. Thirty minutes later we sat on the sofa to sample them with glasses of milk.

‘Not bad,' I commented. ‘Next time let's try chocolate chips.'

The boy didn't reply. He'd only eaten one cookie when he snuggled closer, his head resting on my shoulder, small hands clutched in his lap. I let my cheek rest on the crown of his head.

‘We could watch TV, but you'll feel better if you say what's wrong.'

His silence lasted so long it seemed set in stone, but his thin voice took me by surprise. ‘I left her.'

‘You had no choice, Mikey. It was the right thing to do. Did you see their faces?'

He burrowed into my side so hard it felt like he was trying to climb into my ribcage. When I looked down, the muscles in his jaw were in spasm, bones locking tight.

‘Okay, sweetheart. That's enough remembering for tonight.'

I lost track of how much junk TV we watched: a repeat of
Alias Smith and Jones
,
Supermarket Sweep
and
DIY SOS
. He didn't seem to care, so long as my arm stayed around his shoulders. I don't know why the closeness left me raw. After all, I was only following standard guidance in psychology care manuals for supporting traumatised children. Specialists stressed the value of touch to provide comfort until the child stabilised. It seemed ironic that I'd advised Gurpreet to ease back, only to find my own professional boundaries blown apart. Maybe it was just bad timing. I was wrestling with feelings for Burns, my biological clock ticking. Perhaps that explained why this child clinging to me felt like the most natural thing in the world.

It took some coaxing to get Mikey through his night-time routine. When I sat on the edge of his bed to say goodnight, he looked so exhausted his skin was translucent, but his eyes fixed on me as I touched his wrist.

‘You did great today, sunshine. I'm proud of you.'

I stayed with him until he drifted into sleep.

I considered calling Burns when I got back to the lounge,
but that would only have brought more confusion, so I flipped open my laptop and focused on work. Spending so much time with Mikey was turning my drive to find his mother into an obsession. I trawled for information about the sites where her blood had been left, but the locations seemed to have no uniting theme. All I had to go on was Riordan's abduction, her sister's well-documented dislike, and her lover's tendency to lie. I was still no nearer understanding how the case linked to the two previous attacks, if indeed it did. I rose to my feet and escaped on to the patio, inhaling the city's autumnal smell of traffic fumes, bonfires and decay. I took some deep breaths then went back inside, locking the door tightly.

Mikey's call woke me again at three a.m.; a racking scream that made my heart race. This time he made no effort to hold back. Tears spilled from him, the sobs deep enough to jolt his whole body.

‘That's the way,' I said, rubbing his back. ‘Better out than in.'

He cried himself back to sleep, but his distress left me shaken. Even though his first release of emotion had been a breakthrough, I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the solid darkness outside, struggling to pull my feelings back under control.

T
he man stands outside the door of the lab, breathing the damp air, eyes fixed on the ground. When the woman joins him he can read the anger in her face.

‘We'll have to make her eat more tonight,' he says.

‘Who cares if she starves? We don't owe her anything, the scales are tipping in our favour.'

‘How did we get here? It's so much more than we planned.'

Her hollow stare unnerves him. ‘I want them all dead, finishing with the Minister for Health, then we can release a statement. We agreed to get justice, by showing they're traitors. Clare should suffer most for breaking her promise.'

‘You said we'd only kill three.'

‘They committed mass murder. Why should any of them survive?'

‘We need Clare alive for the next week at least.'

‘Why? She's named the next victim.'

He holds her gaze, even though the conversation's a losing battle. ‘Jordan Adebayo's at a conference in France; he may not talk when we catch him. You have to be patient.'

‘They killed thousands, remember? It's an eye for an eye.'

Her comment hits a raw nerve. ‘Biblical sayings don't convince me any more.'

‘Yet you still go to Mass when you feel penitent.'

He turns away; for the first time her anger frightens him. He's longing to put his arms round her, but knows she'd brush him off. When did he lose the ability to comfort her?

Riordan is awake when they go inside, muscles in her cheeks twitching as her eyes fly open. The man watches the woman approach the chair, her voice harsh.

‘We'll bring your boy here soon, if you don't give us another name.'

Clare's pale brown eyes roll back, arms thrashing against their constraints.

‘Don't goad her,' the man says quietly. ‘She's the one suffering now.'

‘Stop protecting her.' Grim-faced, she fills a syringe with transparent liquid.

Panic rises in his chest. ‘What's that?'

‘Interferon. She needs some of her own medicine.'

‘Where did you get it?'

‘I bought it, of course.'

‘That much could kill her.'

She ignores him, tapping the needle and shooting droplets of liquid into the air, then staring into her victim's eyes. ‘Tell me another name, Clare, or you'll get the lot.'

The man waits for Riordan to speak, but her jaw is locked tight around her gag. The needle hovers above her face for an instant before its sharp tip plunges down.