Blood Symmetry (13 page)

My heart rate picked up as I remembered Dawn Coleman saying that Clare Riordan had been on the panel, but membership was protected information. I took another sip of coffee then studied him again. ‘I read one of your pieces in
The Times
. You were a war reporter, weren't you?'

‘I quit in January. A month in a hospital in Kabul was enough to make me hand in my notice.' He gave an embarrassed smile then tapped his jaw. ‘The shrapnel always found me.'

‘We all carry some professional scars.'

‘Call me if I can help. Contrary to popular opinion, not all journalists are the scum of the earth.' He handed me his card. ‘The people you're dealing with have big grievances, Dr Quentin. Take care how you approach them.'

Fenton gave me a meaningful stare then rose to his feet. I watched him cut through the packed café at a brisk pace, noticing that no one glanced in his direction. Despite looking distinguished and smartly dressed, he had a quality many journalists would envy. He could turn invisible in the middle of a crowd.

F
enton's comments stayed with me on my bus ride to Clapham
Junction. My picture of the abductors was growing more complex by the minute. Now I knew that Lisa Stuart had served on the Tainted Blood panel, just like Riordan, making me wonder if John Mendez had been part of it too. The connection could be the causal link we'd been seeking; someone venting their anger on decision-makers responsible for the scandal. I had time to send a quick email to Burns about my discovery before the bus deposited me at my destination. The area had retained its village atmosphere, bookshops, florists and health-food stores lining the high street. Mikey's primary school had a mural running the length of the facing wall, rainbows and waterfalls brightening the playground as the last few children were coerced into their parents' cars. His form teacher was still in her classroom, doubled over a stack of maths books. It was clear that Mrs Richmond ran a tight ship; the desks gleamed, posters adorning every wall. She was tall and elegant, her coffee-coloured skin almost free of lines, even though the grey streaks in her hair put her in her fifties.

‘I hope Mikey's coming back to us soon,' she said.

‘Not yet, I'm afraid. He's too upset by what's happened.'

‘It doesn't seem fair.' Her face gathered in a frown. ‘That boy's had more than his share of pain.'

‘Losing his father, you mean?'

She nodded. ‘The speech therapist worked wonders, but Mikey struggled for a whole year.'

‘Can you remember what activities helped him?'

‘His mum took him running and to football club.' Her face clouded. ‘He's great at anything creative too: drawing, painting, working with clay.'

‘That's good advice.'

‘The trouble with his aunt didn't help. Eleanor came here twice last term; the headmaster had her escorted off the premises.'

‘Did she cause trouble?'

‘A real commotion, shouting about wanting to see Mikey. Clare was so embarrassed.'

‘Were the police called?'

‘We threatened to contact them, but she hasn't been back.'

‘Did Mikey speak to her?'

‘Lord, no. I wouldn't let her near him in that state.' Mrs Richmond squared her shoulders, ready to beat off anyone who upset her pupils.

‘Can you think of anything that sets Mikey apart from other kids?'

Her eyes glistened. ‘I got them to memorise a verse from a poem, but he could recite the whole thing. He still knew it two weeks later. He remembers images, too. I showed him an illustration, and he could describe it perfectly the next day.'

‘A photographic memory?'

‘It's not always a blessing.' Her gaze held mine. ‘He's experienced things no child should see.'

M
ikey looked even smaller that afternoon, his mop of dark hair in need of a comb. I glanced at him as I hung up my coat.

‘Hello, you,' I said, smiling.

He clung to me before I could take another step. Gurpreet's expression showed that he'd had a difficult shift. I leant down to observe Mikey's face, spotting the grey circles under his eyes.

‘Any chance of a cup of tea, young man?'

Gurpreet handed over the case file as the boy trotted away. The last entry showed that Mikey's anxiety had shifted up a gear. He was manifesting the full range of juvenile stress symptoms: attention deficit, nail biting, poor appetite. My concern intensified; the kid must feel as though his life had spun out of control. While we sat together in the kitchen, I thought about my meeting with his teacher, but kept my
comments light. Questions would send him scurrying to his room.

‘Want to come to the supermarket? My car's right by the door.'

I warned the elderly uniform in the squad car outside that I would be taking the boy for a short drive. But when I returned to the safe house to collect Mikey, he hesitated in the porch, as if a leap of faith was required to cross the threshold. I put my hand on his shoulder and felt him tremble. He clung to me like a shadow as we pushed the trolley round Sainsbury's, so insubstantial that it looked as if the first strong breeze might carry him away. I let him have his pick of the chocolate bars when we reached the checkout.

‘You're a brave one,' I told him. ‘But I knew that already.'

It was only when we were making lasagne that evening that I attempted a question. I hoped that keeping him busy placing sheets of pasta in the baking dish might dilute his fear.

‘Can I ask something about what happened?' I saw his grip tighten on the wooden spoon. ‘Did you recognise the couple who took your mum?' When his eyes met mine there was a flash of acknowledgement. ‘Could you draw them for me?'

His whole body froze, eyes blinking rapidly, as though he was trying to erase what he'd seen. I settled my hands on his shoulders, while he heaved for breath, remembering that he'd panicked in the same way when I mentioned his aunt and the Thorpes. Mikey's terror indicated that the people who'd attacked his mother were familiar, even if he was unable to explain. His reaction was typical of child trauma victims, shutting down communication to avoid bad memories. At this stage it could cause damage to show him photos of potential suspects. I fought my impatience. If he knew who they were, his mother might still be found alive, but pushing too hard would be dangerous. His state of mind was so fragile. One
nudge in the wrong direction could produce a silence that lasted for months.

After Mikey went to bed I called Burns. His voice was gruff with tension when he greeted me.

‘He may not know their names,' I said, ‘but I'm certain he's seen them before.'

‘Why not just ask, straight out?'

‘I can't push him, if that's what you mean. He's at breaking point.'

‘Don't snap, Alice. It was a simple question.'

‘Have you found any more on the Tainted Blood enquiry?'

‘Angie's looking into it. You sound tense, Alice. Maybe you should watch some TV and relax.'

‘Whose stupid idea was it to work together anyway?'

‘Not mine.'

I took a deep breath. ‘We've never even been to a decent restaurant.'

Burns gave an abrupt laugh. ‘Is that why you're pissed off?'

‘It beats worrying about the case.'

‘When this ends, I'll take you to the Ivy, my shout.'

‘Famous last words.'

‘We'll celebrate, big time. I promise.'

After the call ended I opened the French doors and stood on the patio, hoping to escape the overheated atmosphere, but it didn't help. The air felt clammy against my skin, like a storm could arrive at any minute.

I
t's late at night when the man scans the images on his computer screen, his body aching with fever. He takes a long gulp of whisky before turning to the woman.

‘Are you sure his first name's Gurpreet?'

‘Positive.' She's sitting on the settee, watching TV, monitoring how the story's being reported on the news channel. ‘You should stop drinking that shit. It's making you weaker.'

‘I'm enjoying every drop. There are fourteen Gurpreet Singhs on Facebook living in London.'

‘Only one of them works as a psychiatric nurse in Southwark.' She stands beside him, studying the images.

‘I'm not convinced we need the child,' the man says.

‘Of course we do. Watching him die will hurt her more than dying herself.'

He puts down his glass. ‘But her suffering won't cancel ours.'

‘You're kidding. Knowing she's in pain helps me sleep at night.'

‘Don't you feel any guilt?'

‘Why should I? She's ruined our lives.'

‘You keep changing the rules. We agreed to kill three of them, then save the minister for the finale.'

She reaches out to touch his cheek. ‘It's not enough, sweetheart, for all we've suffered. Come on, you're tired. Let me use the computer.'

The man's anxiety rises as she nudges him out of the way.
They shared the same rationale at the start, but her thirst for vengeance is spiralling out of control; she's so hot-headed, her actions could lead them into the hands of the police. It no longer matters what happens to him, but she would never survive in prison. He stands behind the chair to watch the screenshot picking up blurred images from the camera in the laboratory. Riordan is lying where they left her, restraints so tight she can hardly move. She deserves to suffer, but killing the child seems a step too far. As his own end draws closer, his desire for revenge fades. When he peers at the screen again it's clear that cold and terror are weakening Riordan. They need the next name on the list before nature takes its course, in case Jordan Adebayo refuses to comply. He wants Riordan to taste the sharp flavour of betrayal again, before she meets her death.

M
ikey's eyes widened with fear when I asked for his help that morning, but he still followed me into the lounge. We sat side by side on floor cushions, then I placed two pieces of card in front of him, explaining that anything he remembered could help find his mum. The tremor in his hands let me know that we would have to proceed with caution. If he coped with the first exercise, I might risk showing him photos of the suspects, to see if he could identify them.

‘I'm going to show you some pictures. Touch the red one if you want to stop, or green to carry on. Okay? Red's no, green's yes.' When he tapped the green card with his thumb I grinned at him. ‘You're a fast learner, but we'll stop if it gets hard. All right?'

He hesitated before touching the green card again, reminding me to keep my pace gentle, despite his bravery. The illustrations had been drawn by a police artist who specialised in building Photofit images. He'd done a good job of recreating the scenarios from Clapham Common. In the first sketch a slim woman in a tracksuit was running down a path dappled by shade, a young boy at her side.

‘Does that look like you and your mum?' I asked. Mikey's face was strained, but he tapped the green card gingerly.

‘What about this one? Is that what happened?'

The next image showed a man and woman in dark clothing, blocking the path, the boy haring away into the trees.
Mikey shook his head vehemently, his jaw clenched. ‘They took you in the car as well, but you got free?' His finger skimmed the green card.

‘Do you know where they were taking you?'

Suddenly his face contorted. He smashed his fist against the red card so hard it bounced into the air, and I felt a stab of guilt for returning him to the territory of his nightmares. His eyes were screwed shut when I smoothed his hair back from his forehead. For today the pictures of Moira, his aunt and the Thorpes would have to remain in my bag.

‘You're doing great. Now I know they took you in the car too. If you remember things, you can draw them for me, can't you?' Tears dripped on to the thigh of his jeans as I pulled him closer.

‘I won't let anything bad happen to you, Mikey. You know that, don't you?'

His cheek rested on my collarbone. The gesture proved that he'd placed his trust in me; if his mother never came home I would feel responsible for his welfare. The idea triggered a rush of tenderness and panic. Somehow the boy had tunnelled under my radar before I could protect myself.

F
ewer journalists were waiting on the steps when I reached the station that morning. Burns had asked for a full psychological assessment of Sam Travers, but it was Angie who greeted me with a wan smile. I knew the pressure must be intense if her unshakeable
joie de vivre
had taken a knock.

‘The boss is doing a press call,' she said. ‘Talk about a pack of hyenas.'

‘Did you find out who leaked about the calling cards?'

Her frown deepened. ‘Two uniforms sold stories to News Unlimited. It's been a nightmare.'

‘At least you've dealt with it. Is Travers being held?'

‘Not yet, their car's clean and there's no evidence of Clare's DNA in their house. But we know he's been lying through his teeth. Travers made hundreds of phone calls to her from a pay-as-you-go mobile, up till a fortnight before she was taken. That's not my idea of a casual fling.' She picked up her folder and rose to her feet. ‘For all we know, he's got Riordan in a lock-up somewhere.'

‘My questions should open him up. I found evidence of a connection with Lisa Stuart in her crime file.'

She was already heading for the door. ‘After we've interviewed him, you can talk to his wife. We think she's covering for him, and we know we're looking for a couple.'

Sam Travers seemed less relaxed than he'd been in his cool Islington flat. His eyes were shadowed, beard in need of a trim, and it looked as though it had been days since he'd eaten a square meal. A plump, middle-aged woman in an over-stretched business suit sat beside him, a briefcase balanced on her knee. It interested me that – despite his protestations of innocence – Travers had invested in a lawyer. I made a point of shaking both their hands as Angie joined me at the table.

‘Thanks for coming back, Mr Travers,' I said.

‘It's been a hellish few days. They won't let us go home; we've had to stay at a hotel.'

‘I'm sorry you've been inconvenienced.'

The solicitor took a notepad from her briefcase. ‘I'm representing Mr Travers's wife too. I'll be taking notes during their interviews.'

‘Feel free,' Angie said. ‘Mr Travers isn't under arrest, he's just clarifying some points for us.'

‘Last time we spoke, you left out some important facts about your relationship with Clare Riordan, didn't you?' I kept my eyes on his face. ‘Could you tell us a little more about how you got together?'

He shifted in his seat. ‘I interviewed dozens of doctors for my documentary, but she stood out; she was so passionate about her work. I fought it at the start, but it was impossible.'

‘What attracted you to her?'

‘Clare knows how to draw attention. Charisma, I suppose. She can light up a room. It's not just the way she dresses and carries herself. She's unforgettable.'

‘But you couldn't tell your wife you'd fallen for someone else.'

‘Isabel wouldn't cope if our marriage fell apart.'

‘Why's that?'

‘She's sensitive. It would be too much for her.'

‘You said you had an open marriage.'

‘I felt ashamed.' Travers's shoulders jerked upwards. ‘Clare wanted the affair kept secret, but we met whenever we could. Until she ended it two weeks ago, out of the blue.' His eyes glazed, as if the abrupt ending had left him stunned. I felt a sudden twitch of discomfort; Travers had described another similarity between Riordan and me. Not only did we share a love of running and a background in the NHS – she walked away from relationships too.

‘Did she say why it was over?'

‘Pressure of work, and to protect her son. She'd always made time for me, then suddenly she went cold. I thought she'd met someone else.' He gazed down at his hands. ‘Maybe if I'd left Isabel at the start, this wouldn't have happened.'

When I studied him again, his suffering looked genuine. He seemed to believe that abandoning his wife could have kept Riordan safe; a simple case of symmetry: leave one woman to save another. My dislike shifted towards sympathy, even though his statements didn't ring true, as the interview continued. His yearning for Riordan sounded authentic, but even the most violent men could show regret. I'd interviewed a
patient at Broadmoor who'd wept for hours over his wife's memory, then confessed to throttling her and burying her remains under their patio.

‘Did you meet John Mendez and Lisa Stuart when you made your film?'

‘Not that I remember. I interviewed hundreds of people.'

I glanced at my notes from the crime files. ‘You interviewed Lisa at Bart's Hospital in March; she made a note in her diary. I have a copy here.'

His face tensed. ‘I'd need to see a photo.'

The picture Angie passed him showed a pretty strawberry blonde in her early thirties. ‘Remember her now?'

‘Yes, now that I see her. Her interview missed the final cut.'

‘How come?'

He shrugged. ‘She didn't say anything controversial.'

‘Lisa went missing, two weeks after you interviewed her, and now Clare's gone too.' I returned the photo to my folder.

The solicitor grimaced. ‘Don't respond, Mr Travers. You can say “no comment”.'

‘I've got nothing to hide. I met that doctor once, then never saw her again. You've got to understand, I had an affair, but I've never hurt anyone.'

At the end of our meeting, Travers almost had me convinced. His body language revealed high stress levels, but his communication style was direct; there was no prevarication before answers. He'd stumbled a few times, but that was probably due to stress. Either he was a skilled actor, or his only crime had been infidelity.

My curiosity rose when his wife arrived. Isabel Travers looked younger than her husband, spiky platinum-blonde hair framing her face, her skin translucent. She was thin as a mannequin, dressed in jeans and a crisp blue blouse. Her lips were pursed, as if she was holding back a tide of insults.

‘I've been waiting hours,' she said, scowling. ‘You made us come here, then waste our time.' Her voice was a husky German growl, as if she'd been chain-smoking all morning.

‘Forgive the delay. We need information about your husband and Clare Riordan.'

Her eyebrows rose. ‘They had an affair. What more can I say?'

‘Has your husband ever been violent towards you, Mrs Travers?'

‘Of course not. I'd be back in Berlin.'

‘How did you meet?'

‘At a film workshop in Paris. He proposed three months later; you call it a whirlwind romance over here, don't you?' Under the cynicism there was a quake of emotion in her voice.

‘Can you describe your husband's behaviour this past month?'

‘Distracted, not quite himself.'

‘Did you talk about it?'

Her eyebrows rose. ‘Couples don't just merge into one. If you lose your privacy, you lose everything. I knew he'd explain eventually.'

‘Have you met Clare Riordan?'

‘Twice. She came to dinner, and I met her during the documentary. I found her interesting.'

‘You were involved in the filming?'

‘I was production manager.'

‘But you never guessed about the affair?'

She gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘Suspicion's pointless. I had my own life to lead.'

The interview yielded little new information. Isabel Travers's body language was so defensive, her arms remained crossed throughout the discussion, hands clutching her
elbows, holding herself together. Once she'd left the room, Angie breathed out a few expletives.

‘Not a happy bunny, is she?'

‘Wounded pride. It's easier to be angry than humiliated. Her husband's affair cut her to the quick.'

‘They could have dreamed the story up between them.' She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘The boss won't be thrilled, but we can't detain them without forensic evidence.'

‘Travers told a different story this time, showing us he's a plausible liar. Maybe his ego couldn't take Riordan's rejection, and Lisa Stuart may have turned him down too. But most crimes of passion are quick and brutal. The people who've hidden Clare have an obsessive interest in blood; the couple aren't a perfect fit.'

‘They could have used a different car to pick her up. There's a chance they'll lead us to her, if it's them.'

‘I'd like to see their health records.'

Angie blinked at me. ‘Why?'

‘It's possible the people holding Riordan hate the medical profession. Maybe one of them's ill.'

‘I'll add it to my list. We're already looking at the records for all of Riordan's patients.' The determined set of her jaw suggested that she would complete the task as soon as she left the room. ‘Do you remember Moira Fitzgerald, the senior nurse Riordan sacked?'

‘Of course.' The Irish woman's animosity towards Riordan had been too potent to forget.

‘She's found a new job in Dublin, starting next month. We can't find anything linking her to Clare's abduction, so she's off the suspect list.'

On one level the news pleased me. The frustrated nurse could escape from her minute flat, her anger more likely to fade in a new setting. Riordan seemed to have incited strong
feelings in many of her colleagues and acquaintances, but that didn't make them guilty of harming her.

I spent the next two hours writing up assessments, aware that they could be tested to destruction in a court of law. Sam Travers had shown a tendency towards neurotic self-interest, while his wife's reaction had been classic sexual jealousy: anger mixed with defensiveness. Her rawness made her more likely to commit a crime of passion. But it didn't surprise me that the investigation team had found little to implicate them in the crime, apart from Travers's DNA in Riordan's house and car. They must have stolen afternoons together, then she'd driven him home; standard behaviour for people having an affair.

I
nformation from the case was still spinning round my head when I visited my favourite Vietnamese takeaway that evening. Fenton's suggestion the previous day had made me rethink the nature of the crime. I'd assumed that Clare Riordan's abductors knew her personally because she had received different treatment from the previous victims, but maybe they had a bigger axe to grind. The killers might believe that medical negligence on a grand scale justified attacking doctors. That would explain why they were choosing sites where blood experiments had taken place for their calling cards: a reminder that patients had been used as reluctant guinea pigs right from the start. I wondered how the investigation team would greet the idea that Clare Riordan had been taken because of a medical scandal thirty years before.

When I pressed Burns's doorbell there was no reply, so I fished his key from my pocket, the mechanism clicking loudly in protest. So much of his personal life was on display that I felt like a voyeur. The crumpled towel slung over his cross-trainer revealed that he'd worked out that morning; a mountain of laundry was waiting to be ironed. A book about Mark Rothko
lay open on the settee, and I wondered if reading about artists' lives helped him escape the tension of the case. But papers stacked on his kitchen table showed that he'd worked most of the previous evening, reports covered in his left-handed scrawl.

I dumped the takeaway bag before studying his notes. Police teams had scoured the area round Clapham Common, chasing possible sightings. The helpline had been busy too, over two hundred members of the public convinced they had seen Clare Riordan in recent days. They varied from credible stories to bizarre claims that she'd faked her own abduction and boarded the Eurostar for Paris, leaving Burns to agonise over which sightings to pursue. I pushed his papers aside and drew up a new chronology. John Mendez had been murdered on his doorstep in January, Lisa Stuart reported missing in April, Clare Riordan abducted in October. It was possible that all three victims had served on the Tainted Blood enquiry. I put down my biro and rubbed the back of my neck. If the three cases were linked, why would the killers change their modus operandi so radically? The first victim had been despatched without ceremony, as though speed was all that mattered. If she had been killed, the cover-up had been so successful that Stuart's body had never been found. This time they were indulging in elaborate staging, certain to draw the police's attention, the locations for spilling Clare Riordan's blood providing a lesson on the history of transfusion. Since talking to Emma Selby and Roger Fenton, I suspected that they weren't just baiting the police, they were mounting a protest. I would have to find out more about the Tainted Blood enquiry, to see if the journalist's hunch had been correct.