Blood Symmetry (15 page)

The claustrophobia of the house was making it hard to breathe, so I pulled open the French doors to inhale some night air. Clare Riordan had been missing eleven days, her blood spilled at locations where early transfusions had taken place. I shut my eyes and tried to visualise a couple so incensed by fate that they would turn on medical practitioners. Ian Passmore's face floated into view, followed by Isabel Travers, still outraged by her husband's infidelity. But it was possible that the people who had abducted Clare Riordan were passing as ordinary Londoners; holding down day jobs, looking after their kids. No one wanted to believe the uncomfortable truth that not all psychopaths were lonely misfits operating at the fringes of society. Sometimes they behaved just like you or me, going undetected for years.

I was about to go back inside when something caught my eye: a movement between the plants at the end of the garden, or was it the play of shadows? When I looked again, there was only a tangle of ferns and spike-leaved palms. I stood on the
patio, rubbing my eyes. Exhaustion or the pressure of the case must have been getting to me. I filled my lungs with gritty London air, before stepping back inside and locking the French doors.

I
t's after midnight when the woman stands outside a garage block at the edge of the Barbican complex, dressed in jeans, gloves, a dark winter coat. She's hoping to avoid a long wait, excitement pounding inside her ribcage.

‘All clear,' she says quietly.

She waits in silence as the man uses a skeleton key to open one of the garages. Once inside, she shines a torch around the space. Light arcs across the cardboard boxes lining the back wall: there's nothing to see, except a mess of oil smears on the concrete floor.

‘Let's get ready.' She pushes the boxes forwards, then crouches behind them. ‘We can hide here.'

Thirty minutes later a car pulls up outside. She hears a key fumbling in the lock, the engine idling. The woman's mouth feels dry as sand while she waits for the click of the driver's door. The victim has no time to fight before they pounce, the anaesthetic rendering him unconscious. She helps to lift him on to the back seat, binding his hands and feet. The woman hums quietly as the car pulls out of the estate, relaxed for the first time in weeks.

It takes all of their combined strength to lift the new victim into the dentist's chair when they reach the lab. Riordan lies on a pallet on the floor, muffled protests emerging from behind her gag. Once Adebayo's strapped down, the man retreats to a corner of the room. The woman sets to work draining blood
from the new victim's arm with an extraction needle. His skin pales, but he doesn't cry out.

‘Give us a name, Jordan, or I'll have to hurt you,' she whispers.

‘Keep your hands off me.' His voice rises to a shout.

‘Let's see how much pain you can stand.'

‘I'll never tell you.'

She collects another syringe from the cabinet, determined to prove him wrong.

I
woke up certain that discovering who had served on the Tainted Blood panel would explain why all three doctors had been targeted. But until Whitehall could be persuaded to disclose the information, that avenue was closed. I decided to revisit Clare's workplace to see if it held any more clues, dashing out of the safe house at seven thirty, straight after Gurpreet arrived. The haematology department appeared to be empty when I arrived, smells of iodine, floor polish and hospital food lingering from the day before. I managed to persuade a janitor to unlock Riordan's office after flashing my ID card. It was obvious that Hancock's team had turned the room inside out. The contents of her filing cabinet were stacked in neat piles, computer missing from her table, every trace of her personality removed. I sat in the doctor's narrow leather chair, eyes closed, trying to enter her mind-set, but all I caught was a faint hint of jasmine, the last trace of her perfume scenting the air.

‘Who were you afraid of?' I muttered to myself.

I spent the next hour riffling through her papers, reading messages she'd scribbled on her jotter and in her notebook. The office gave the impression of a woman who had split her life cleanly in two; ruthlessly ambitious, but fond enough of her son to tack half a dozen photos to her pin board so she could keep him always in sight. I flicked through Clare's desk diary and searched the books on her shelf, looking for notes
she might have forgotten to throw away. It still made me uncomfortable that so many similarities had emerged between us: both driven and hardworking, keen on running, and happiest in relationships we could control. But the parallels between us could work in my favour: Riordan's son had connected with me fast. Once he trusted me completely, he might be able to describe the events he'd witnessed.

My frustration mounted as I prepared to leave, Riordan's secrets eluding me again. The dark-haired doctor I'd spoken to before was unlocking her door. Adele Novak's expression was friendly as she greeted me, but behind her welcoming smile she looked tired, her skin fine as wax paper.

‘Looking for someone, Dr Quentin?' she asked.

‘Call me Alice, please. I'm just trying to connect pieces of information.'

‘Can I help? My clinic doesn't start till nine.'

‘That would be great, thanks.'

Novak ushered me into her consulting room. I noticed more details this time; she was using the space to put her patients at ease, soft toys piled in the corner to keep youngsters occupied, a rubber plant burgeoning by her desk, colourful cushions on the chairs. She switched on her kettle, making me a cup of tea with the minimum of fuss.

‘Clare's absence must be affecting you all,' I said.

‘We're spreading her caseload across the department. I was here till ten last night doing ward duties, but it's more of an emotional thing. No one can relax.' She gave me an anxious glance. ‘Is there any news?'

‘Nothing conclusive, I'm afraid.'

‘I was wondering if Clare's advisory work put her in danger. She wanted me to volunteer for a government committee, but I had no time. It's unbelievable how much she crams into every day.'

I studied her again. ‘Last time we talked I thought you were being discreet. Were you holding something back, out of loyalty?'

‘You're very perceptive. It seemed wrong to mention it when something so terrible had happened.'

‘Can you tell me now?'

She hesitated. ‘Clare knows how to manipulate men. My impression is that she charms them, then discards them.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘She enjoys attracting whoever she wants, then walking away.'

‘People in the department?'

She nodded. ‘Ed Pietersen fell at her feet. He was outraged about her getting the top job, but within days she'd talked him round.'

‘You think he's attracted to her?'

‘The men here either adore her or are terrified.' Her expression grew wistful, as if she was trying to imagine owning that much charisma.

‘That's what you were going to tell us?'

‘It seemed wrong to criticise, particularly when I owe her my job. But one of her admirers might have grown angry.' She gave an embarrassed smile. ‘I'm at the opposite end of the spectrum from Clare.'

‘You're not married?'

She gave a quiet laugh. ‘It's not high on my agenda.'

We spent a few more minutes together and I got the sense that Novak felt guilty about drawing attention to her colleague's weakness, even though it was an element of Riordan's personality that I'd guessed for myself. The doctor seemed relieved to get it off her chest, her expression more relaxed when we said goodbye.

Once I got outside, my mobile rang. I had to cover my ear with my hand to take the call. Traffic was racing through Belsize Park, almost drowning the voice at the end of the line.

‘Can you come to the Barbican, straight away?' Angie's tone sounded urgent.

‘Has something happened?'

‘I'm surrounded, Alice. I'll explain when you get here.'

The journey gave me time to obsess about what might be waiting five stops away. I tried not to consider the worst-case scenario, that Clare Riordan's body had been found. Angie's elfin face looked tense when I surfaced at the Barbican. She set off at a brisk trot, her speech tripping along at the same rapid pace.

‘A guy called Jordan Adebayo's missing. He runs the London Blood Bank; he never made it home from his late shift. His wife found a blood pack on their step around seven a.m., another splashed over her front door. The uniforms say she's hysterical. I need you to assess her state of mind, see if she needs mental health support.'

‘The blood might not be her husband's.'

‘Try telling her that. She yelled abuse at me down the phone; I've asked for a family liaison officer to help calm her down.'

Gina Adebayo lived at the heart of the Barbican complex. I had plenty of time to contemplate the architecture because Angie kept lapsing into silence, as if she was rehearsing how to comfort the missing man's wife. The estate was an empire of beige concrete, a stone's throw from the Square Mile. Its three huge towers must have enjoyed stunning long-distance views across the city, but the Adebayos' apartment was in a modest low-rise block. The occupants seemed keen to inject nature into their brutalist landscape; even in autumn, trees and shrubs were flourishing on the balconies.

Someone had placed an opaque plastic sheet over the entrance to the flat, but the smears on the front door were hard to miss. Blood was congealing in long streaks across the
woodwork. When no one answered the bell, we stepped through the unlocked door.

‘Who is it?' A shrill female voice echoed down the hallway.

‘Metropolitan Police.'

‘About fucking time.' Her tone rose even higher.

Gina Adebayo was pacing beside the panoramic window in her lounge. She was medium height, slim, with short hair dyed a glowing copper, freckled skin blotchy from crying, her eyes raw. She looked fragile enough to fall apart at any moment. Angie was smart enough to keep her distance; dealing with two people was more likely to increase the woman's stress.

‘My name's Alice Quentin. I'm so sorry your husband's missing.' She ignored me, turning her back to stare out of the window, but I stepped towards her. ‘Would you like to sit down?'

‘What difference would that make?' Her fierce gaze lit on my face. ‘Who the hell are you, anyway?'

‘I work for the Forensic Psychology Unit.'

Her hands clenched at her sides. ‘I'm not cracking up, for God's sake. Why isn't anyone down there looking for him?'

‘Dozens are, believe me. It's my job to profile the people who've taken Jordan.'

‘Don't use his first name,' she snapped. ‘You don't know him.'

I perched on a stool, making sure she could see me. ‘Can you tell me about your husband, Gina? It would help us get a clearer picture.'

‘He only got back from a conference in Paris yesterday. I told him to take the day off but he wouldn't listen.' A tear rolled down her face, splashing on to the floor, some of her tension finally releasing. ‘Jordan's forty-six, passionate about his job. He never complains about the long hours.'

‘How did you meet?'

‘At work. I'm a team leader at the blood bank. We got married two years ago.'

A framed photo on the wall showed that the Adebayos' wedding ceremony had taken place on an exotic beach, a strip of turquoise sea sparkling in the background. Jordan was a tall, good-looking black guy, giving the camera a wide-eyed grin, as if he couldn't believe his luck.

‘Do you know if your husband was on the panel for the Tainted Blood enquiry, Gina?'

She kept her gaze fixed on the square below. ‘He was meant to keep it secret. Has that got something to do with him going missing?'

‘We need to find out. Did he say who else was on the panel?'

‘He didn't mention it.' Gina pointed at the view through her window. People were scurrying across fields of concrete, collars up against the breeze. ‘I keep expecting to see him. His walk's more of a swagger; I can always spot him in a crowd.'

Angie took a step closer. ‘Is it okay to ask a few more questions?'

Gina refused to meet her eye. ‘If it brings him home.'

‘Has your husband always worked shifts?'

‘It's a requirement. We supply all the London hospitals, twenty-four seven.'

‘You send out thousands of units every week?' Angie asked.

She nodded. ‘Plasma and blood products. Jordan doesn't just oversee the service; he runs campaigns and advises the government.'

I looked at her again. ‘Did you hear that a haematologist called Clare Riordan was abducted last week?'

She turned in my direction. ‘Jordan knows her, but I can't remember where they met.'

‘Can you tell us what drew your husband to his job?'

She stared at me as though I'd lost my mind. ‘Do you know how many units of blood a liver-transplant patient needs?' When I shook my head she carried on. ‘Fifty. Without the blood bank, thousands of people would die each week.'

I looked at her hands, twisting together as if she was wringing liquid from a piece of cloth. ‘Can you think of anyone who dislikes your husband, Gina?'

‘He lives for his work. Why would he have enemies?'

When the doorbell rang I left Angie with Mrs Adebayo. Millie Evans – a family liaison officer from Burns's team – stood on the doorstep, wavy chestnut hair escaping from her ponytail, her stout figure dressed in black trousers and a dark red jumper. Millie's round face opened into a smile.

‘Back with us, Alice? You're a glutton for punishment.'

I explained the details as we waited for Angie to finish. Her eyes widened as she heard that Jordan Adebayo had been taken the night before, blood spattered across the doorstep for his wife to find.

‘And it might be her husband's?'

‘It's likely,' I said, nodding. ‘She's still in shock; ring me if she gets agitated.'

‘Of course. Jesus, there are some sick bastards about.'

Once she'd gone inside, I put on the sterile gloves Angie had given me, then lifted the plastic sheet. A blood pack lay on the doorstep, bigger this time and full to the brim, printed with Adebayo's name. My head swam as I looked at it. The bag must have held at least a litre. But did it mean that Clare Riordan's body had been dumped somewhere, or was she still alive, even though they'd taken a new victim? I spotted something else as I replaced the cover. Two small marks had been chalked on the doorstep – one black, one white. Pure's logo: two drops of blood side by side. I took a photo with my phone, then rocked back on my heels. Whether or not someone from
the campaign was carrying out the attacks, their logo lay at the heart of the investigation. The need to investigate the group's members had just grown even more urgent.

It was eleven a.m. by the time Angie and I shared a taxi back to the station. She seemed to be digesting the information slowly, staring at my photo of the signature in silence, as if her thoughts were on overload. The panic on Gina Adebayo's face kept returning to me as we reached St Pancras Way. It was an adult version of Mikey's – disbelief, combined with full-blown rage.

Tania and Pete Hancock had already joined Burns in the meeting room. The atmosphere was grim, and it didn't take a mind-reader to sense that everyone was anxious. The series had escalated from three victims to four, the intervals shortening.

‘I need all of your updates.' Burns said, scanning our faces. ‘You first, Tania.'

‘My lot's been looking at John Mendez and Lisa Stuart's cases. The doctors both worked at Bart's Hospital, five years apart, but it's possible they knew each other. We've been interviewing colleagues, relatives, friends. Both were well respected in their field. The big frustration is that the NHS can only give records for the past year. We're looking to see if any patients were treated by Stuart, Mendez and Riordan, but so far there are no overlaps. The Ministry for Health are still refusing to hand over details of the Tainted Blood enquiry, so we don't know if Mendez served on it too.'

Angie flicked her notebook open. ‘Professor Adebayo's wife has confirmed that he was on the panel. He was abducted in his black Subaru around midnight last night. A street camera picked it up as he reached the Barbican, then leaving again about quarter past. You can see the outlines of two figures in the front seats. We think his abductors changed the plates
before joining the main road. Pete's team are looking at his garage to see if they broke in. The blood at the scene hasn't been tested, but they've used a bigger plasma pack this time. His doorway's one hell of a mess.'