Blood Symmetry (11 page)

I
reached the station early on Sunday morning. A few journalists were loitering on the steps, hoping for scraps of information, but I skirted round them. The incident room was already a hive of activity, a dozen detectives staring at their computers, or babbling into their phones. Burns had cancelled weekend breaks and holiday leave until further notice. The evidence board was plastered with photos, Post-it notes, and a timeline showing each stage of the investigation. It looked like every detail was being chased. The plasma bags that held Riordan's blood were NHS standard issue, and could have been stolen from any medical centre in the past year. Reports had been filed on possible sightings of Riordan, witness statements, the make and model of the getaway car. The team were hunched over their desks, the air humming with frustration.

Burns was nowhere to be seen, but the evidence from the Stuart and Mendez cases had been placed in a side room, as promised. The scale of the task hit home when I scanned the box files stacked to the ceiling along the facing wall. The witness statements alone would take days to sift. I settled myself at the desk, scanning the overview report from the first case: John Mendez, a researcher at the Institute for Biomedical Science, had been stabbed in January, after an evening out with friends. The autopsy report made me wince; his death would have been quick but agonising, a knife wound to the left ventricle of his heart. I flicked
forwards and found the crime scene photos. Mendez looked close to retirement age, face bleached white by the arc light, sprawled across the doorstep of his house in Chiswick. But it was the second photo that stopped me in my tracks. On the doorstep beside a pool of blood, someone had chalked a white teardrop beside a black one. I stared at the image again, trying to remember where I'd seen the marks before. It must have taken me a full minute to realise that they matched the sign pinned to the tree where Riordan had been taken. I reached for Lisa Stuart's file, riffling through the papers until I found pictures of her flat, two days after her disappearance.

‘Snap.' The word was followed by a sigh of relief.

The same black and white marks had been painted on the bricks beside Stuart's front door. Definitive proof at last that the killers had left exactly the same calling card.

I rushed to the incident room to show Angie my find, but she was immersed in a phone conversation, spiky red hair standing up in tufts, as if she'd been dragging her hands through it. She turned to me when the call ended.

‘What it is, Alice? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

‘They're leaving a signature at every crime scene.'

‘So it's a series,' she muttered, when I showed her the photos. ‘We just heard that more blood's been found outside St George's Medical School. CCTV caught an unidentified male crossing the car park at three a.m.'

‘They're getting bolder. St George's is even more secure than Guy's.'

The incident room was erupting at the news of another blood deposit. I hurried back to the office to gather my thoughts. When I peered out of the window, cars were moving down St Pancras Way at a snail's pace, the pedestrians making faster progress. Clare Riordan's abductors were
using a symbolic language that I needed to decode fast, the haematologist's blood their chosen form of communication. The hospital packs clearly had a symbolic value, otherwise they'd be using one of the millions of plastic bottles that clogged the city's recycling bins. The locations must have a meaning too: Bishopsgate, Guy's Hospital's pathology department, and now a medical school. Facts churned through my head without forming a coherent sequence. I was acting more on impulse than judgement as I switched on my computer and searched the Internet again. It's hard to explain the prickling feeling that crossed the backs of my hands when I saw that St George's Hospital had been a pioneering centre for early blood transfusions. The breakthrough was highlighted on the webpage as if it was the organisation's biggest achievement.

It was clear I needed expert help to find the link between the three locations, but I steeled myself before calling the Home Office pathologist, Fiona Lindstrop. Her spiky brand of professionalism had appealed to me when we'd worked together before, but her temper was legendary. There was every chance she'd slam the phone down on me for disturbing her weekend.

‘Of course I remember you,' she snapped. ‘You were very attentive when you watched my autopsies.'

‘I could use some help, Professor Lindstrop.'

‘With a pathology matter?'

‘I'm looking for an expert on the history of blood treatments.'

She hummed loudly at the end of the line. ‘Try the Wellcome Trust Centre for the History of Medicine. The place is heaving with overpaid academics.'

‘I knew you'd have the answer. Thanks for your time.' I planned to end the call fast, before her ill humour surfaced.

‘Look me up tomorrow if you're visiting. I've got information on the Riordan case.'

I spent the rest of the morning sifting evidence, but found no further links between the Stuart and Mendez cases, apart from the marks left at each crime scene. At one o'clock Burns put his head round the office door, his smile so slow to arrive that it must have lain dormant for hours. He was clutching the crime scene photos in his hand.

‘I've got someone hunting for the signature online. What do you think it means?'

I stared at the black and white marks again. ‘They look like inverted commas. It may just be a random mark they've chosen, like a graffiti tag.'

‘At least we know that a couple are attacking and killing blood specialists. It's more than we had before.'

‘Is there any news about Moira Fitzgerald?'

Burns rubbed his eyes, as if he was having trouble remembering the irate nurse Riordan had sacked. ‘Angie says she's got a good professional record; she and Lisa Stuart worked in different buildings at Bart's. They probably never met.'

A squad car was waiting by the back entrance, but I was still thinking of Moira Fitzgerald; her anger about her unfair dismissal had bubbled so near the surface that it would have been unwise to light a match in her small flat. But I shelved my concerns as we set off to see Clare Riordan's boss. Dr Dawn Coleman, Head of Clinical Practice at the Royal Free, had agreed to meet us at her home. Burns seemed preoccupied, even though his hand locked round mine when we shared the back seat. He gazed out of the window at the overcast sky, giving me time to consider my profile report. Patterns were beginning to form; the case held a balance between spontaneous violence and meticulous planning. I felt almost certain we were looking at two distinct personality types,
idiosyncrasies emerging more clearly with each crime. One was planning the campaign, leaving their monochrome signature at each scene. The other was far wilder, with enough nerve to stab a six-foot-tall man straight through the heart. The division of roles fitted the prototype for serial-killing partnerships, which always included a leader and a follower; one member aggressively active, the other submissive. Ninety per cent of violent couples were sexual partners – only a small minority of partnership killings were carried out by friends or siblings.

The squad car pulled up outside a tall Georgian house in Belsize Park. Dr Coleman lived within walking distance of her hospital, but her home was dilapidated. Ribbons of dark green paint hung from the front door, flanked by sash windows desperate for an overhaul. The woman who answered the door was around fifty, with a curvy figure and a genuine smile. She had one of those tousled blonde haircuts that never go out of fashion; she was wearing faded jeans and a lime-green T-shirt spattered with white paint.

‘Forgive the mess,' she said, beaming at us. ‘Welcome to chaos.'

‘It's a great place,' Burns commented. ‘High ceilings and plenty of character.'

‘That's what drew me, but I could be mad. We've been working flat out since we arrived two months ago.'

Coleman led us along a hallway that reeked of turpentine and fresh emulsion. Two teenage girls were covering its drab walls with pristine white paint.

‘Nice work, girls,' she sang out as we passed. ‘Remember, any drips mean you don't get paid.' Her kitchen was packed with stepladders, long-handled brushes, and cans of Danish oil. ‘Make yourselves comfortable, if you can find room.'

‘Thanks for seeing us at the weekend,' Burns said.

‘We all want Clare found. How can I help?'

‘Did she ever talk about feeling vulnerable at work?'

The doctor looked surprised. ‘Clare doesn't discuss weaknesses. She runs marathons, works twelve-hour days even though she's a single mum and, unlike me, she never moans. Her strength is one of the reasons I appointed her.'

‘Does anyone at work dislike her enough to harm her?'

‘Her deputy resents her success and her perfectionism can upset people, but I can't think of anyone. Being plain spoken's not a crime, is it? That's another difference between us. I'm a wimp when it comes to confrontations.'

‘Aren't we all?' Burns smiled back at her, and I sensed that she could charm anyone with the warmth of her manner.

‘Someone's attacking doctors specialising in blood illnesses. Can you think why?' I asked.

Coleman looked thoughtful. ‘A few of our patients are mentally ill; occasionally they blame the medical team for their condition. It doesn't happen often, thank God.'

‘Did Clare treat anyone like that?'

‘She never mentioned a problem. Sorry, but you'd have to check her records.'

‘You make her sound invincible.'

‘She's a paradox. Hard as nails at work, soft as butter at home. Her son brings out the best in her.' For the first time Coleman seemed visibly distressed, lips trembling as she spoke.

‘Does Clare's work ever put her in the public eye?' I asked.

Coleman gave a slow nod. ‘She was on the Tainted Blood enquiry panel in 2012. I probably shouldn't tell you; the membership's protected information, but she needed my permission.'

‘What was the enquiry about?'

Her smile vanished. ‘Whitehall wanted industry specialists to assess the impact of infected blood reaching the supply
chain in the Eighties, and decide whether patients deserved more compensation.'

‘But no one knew about her being on the panel, except you?'

‘Unless she told someone.'

‘Sounds like sensitive work.' Burns was already glancing at his watch. ‘You've been very helpful, Dr Coleman. Call us please, if you think of anything else.'

‘I will. Come back if you need anything else.'

We left her in the hallway with her daughters, giving us a parting smile as she reached for her paintbrush. The squad car drove south through the light weekend traffic. A selfish part of me wished we were heading to my flat for a lazy Sunday afternoon together, but my desire to find Mikey's mother soon banished the idea.

‘I still don't get who'd target blood doctors,' Burns muttered.

‘An aggrieved patient, or someone with a blood fetish. We'll need to cross-match patient records to find anyone with a record of mental illness. It would be good to find out about the Tainted Blood panel's work too.'

He gave a distracted nod, then lurched forwards in his seat. ‘The vultures are gathering.'

The handful of journalists outside the station had swelled to a crowd, which didn't make sense. It was a week since Clare Riordan had gone missing, and no public announcement had been made yet about the new blood deposit. Burns instructed the driver to use the back entrance, a lightning storm of flashbulbs flaring as we drove past.

‘Looks like someone tipped them off,' Burns said. ‘It has to be one of my team.'

I lost sight of him when we entered the building. He strode off to find out who could have leaked protected information, and I went back to studying the files from the previous cases.
I was still there at eight that evening, eyes strained from scanning hundreds of documents. When I stood up to collect my coat, I remembered Dawn Coleman saying that Clare was tough enough to work tirelessly and solve her own problems. I could only hope that, wherever she was being held, that tenacity was keeping her alive.

I
t's early morning when the woman watches him put on his jacket. His skin's sallow, but to her he still looks handsome; he's easily the most intelligent man she knows. If only she could freeze this moment in time, to avoid a life shadowed by his absence. Anger forces her outside, ready to seize back some of the power they've lost.

She sits beside him as he navigates the morning traffic in silence, until they pull up on a side street, near the centre of Bermondsey. She puts on a baseball cap then collects a clipboard from the back seat.

‘Wish me luck,' she says.

‘You'll be fine.' He touches her cheek. ‘You won't need it.'

She keeps her walk steady as she climbs the stairs to the Social Services offices. The middle-aged man at reception studies her over the counter.

‘Can I help?' he asks.

She offers a flirtatious grin. ‘I hope so, sweetheart. I've got a delivery outside for someone called Michael Riordan, from a toy company. The docket says to ask here for the address.'

‘Let me make a call for you.'

‘Thanks, love. I'm on a double yellow. You wouldn't believe the tickets I get.'

Her eye contact has the desired effect. The man doesn't complain when she leans closer, watching him scribble
information on his pad. She gives him another smouldering look as he drops the receiver back on to the hook.

‘Leave the box with me. His nurse can give it to him.'

‘That's perfect. You've saved me a journey.'

‘The pleasure's all mine.' He flashes her a wink before she disappears.

The woman hurries back to the car. The attendant will soon forget the package that never arrived, remembering only the flirtation. She saw him write down a name, her excitement rising as she reaches the car. Soon the boy will be within reach.

‘Any luck?' the man asks.

‘The psychiatric nurse is called Gurpreet Singh. All we need now is his address.'