Blood Symmetry (20 page)

‘Are you looking for me?'

‘We've got a meeting with Ian Passmore.'

She stepped back to admit us. ‘I'll take you to him. I'm Michelle De Santis, a volunteer with Pure.'

I returned her smile. ‘My name's Alice, and this is Tania.'

‘It's been a busy morning. We're doing a mail-out today.'

‘Do you often help out?'

‘Whenever I can.' She stopped to push open a door. ‘Two ladies for you, Ian.'

I took a sharp intake of breath when we stepped into his living room. Folders and loose papers covered every piece of furniture, manila files lining the walls, dates scrawled on their spines. Passmore sat at the table, looking like his temper could flare at any minute; his wild grey hair couldn't have been combed in days, elegant clothes dishevelled. He snapped out a terse greeting but his brusqueness softened when he spoke to his assistant.

‘Do you mind waiting in the kitchen, Michelle? This won't take long.' Passmore didn't turn to us again until she had retreated.

Tania perched on the arm of a chair loaded with box files. ‘Mr Passmore, I still need contact details for the rest of Pure's members.'

‘I told you, they're not all online. I keep paper records of every family here.'

‘Print off your full circulation list for me now, please.'

Passmore scowled. ‘Contacting them would be an invasion of privacy. Several of them are dying.'

‘You've withheld the names of your sickest members?' Tania asked.

‘Being interrogated now would be the final straw.'

While he defended his position against Tania's questions, my eyes scanned his living room. Whatever money he earned as a fundraiser wasn't being spent on home improvements. The carpet was threadbare, curtains fraying, his mantelpiece the only clear surface. It held two framed photographs: one showed two teenaged boys standing on top of a mountain, wearing jubilant smiles. The other was a graduation photo of a young man in a gown and mortarboard, colours so badly faded that the image looked ghostly. Passmore glowered at us while his printer spat out the remaining names.

I gestured at the photographs. ‘Is that you and your brother on Ben Nevis, Mr Passmore?'

He gave an abrupt nod. ‘We climbed it decades ago.'

‘And that's his graduation photo?'

‘His name was Grant. He died the year after it was taken.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said quietly.

‘Are you?' he snapped. ‘Then why not take your manhunt elsewhere?'

Tania looked up from her notebook. ‘Pure's logo is connected with some violent crimes, Mr Passmore. We have to investigate why.'

‘Your killer's got a sick sense of humour. Thousands of people must know our symbol.'

I nodded at the stacked envelopes to defuse the tension. ‘It looks like we disturbed your work.'

‘We post out bulletins each month.'

‘I'm sure your members are grateful.' I studied him again. ‘Last time we spoke, you said you'd tried to find out the membership of the Tainted Blood panel. Can you explain why?'

‘It was their job to decide if compensation should be increased. We wanted to petition them, but they refused to tell us. In the end the government refused to act.' Passmore looked so incensed, I could almost see the anger pulsing through his skin.

‘We may need to contact you again,' Tania said. ‘It's possible someone from Pure has taken matters into their own hands.'

‘That's utter nonsense.'

Passmore was still complaining as we left. At the end of the corridor, I caught sight of Michelle De Santis, half concealed in the kitchen doorway, as if she couldn't decide whether to join the argument or remain in hiding.

‘What do you think?' Tania asked as we walked away.

‘He's got a quick temper, but that doesn't make him homicidal. He's an intellectual in a public position, spearheading a campaign group. It would be madness to leave his charity's symbol at the crime scenes, and he seems fully rational. I'd like to know about his volunteers, though.'

She shook her head dismissively. ‘We've already checked them out. They've all got alibis for the attacks, but it sounds like Pure's members have got reason to be angry. My team'll go through the last names with a fine-tooth comb.'

‘Can you send me an encrypted copy?'

She gave a distracted nod. I'd worked with Tania often enough to tell that she suspected Passmore. He came over as a lonely obsessive, his life dominated by a compulsion to protect those who had suffered his brother's fate.

‘He ticks every box,' she said. ‘But does he hate the medical profession enough to murder people?'

‘Pietersen's not a safe bet?'

She shook her head. ‘All we've got is the blood on his shirt, and there's no sign of him or his wife cracking.'

‘Ian Passmore fits the pattern for a serial killer: stressed, disaffected, hostile. But he's smart enough to know that individual doctors aren't to blame for infected blood hitting the supply chain. It could just be a raging case of unresolved grief. If one of your siblings had died from an NHS treatment, wouldn't you be angry?'

‘Anyone would. My team will run more searches on him today.'

By now we were standing on the river walk, a clipper heading west at high speed, destined for Westminster. ‘Have you got half an hour?'

‘Why?'

‘My flat's nearby. We could have coffee.'

Tania came to a standstill. ‘I'd love one, but I should get back.'

‘Take a breather then. Let's watch the river for a few minutes.'

We leant against the railing as the water oozed by, pewter grey, two shades darker than the sky.

‘You're not a typical shrink, Alice.'

‘How do you mean?'

She gave a tense smile. ‘Most are arrogant wankers who love the sound of their own voices.'

‘A few are decent human beings.'

‘Not in my experience.' Tania stared across the river towards Limehouse. ‘Burns gave me hell after we spoke. He called me a cynical cow and told me to back off.'

‘That was harsh.'

‘He was right.' She kept her eyes fixed on the opposite bank. ‘Did he tell you about him and me?'

I tried not to flinch. ‘Not in so many words.'

‘We had a fling at training school, then he met Julie and we ended up mates.'

‘I guessed as much.'

She turned to face me. ‘I'm sorry you caught me on a bad day. The autopsy followed by neat alcohol turned me into a prize bitch.'

‘How come you know all about my love life, but I don't have a clue about yours?'

‘There isn't one. Steve's put me off men for life.' Her bleeper buzzed loudly, expression hardening as she pulled it from her bag. ‘No rest for the wicked.'

Tania left in a hurry, a blur of slender limbs trotting across the pavement to her car. For the second time she'd left me flailing. It didn't require much intuition to know that she still had feelings for Burns, even though he'd kept their fling quiet. It had been there in her tone of voice as well as her body language. I waited until she'd gone before heading for my flat at a rapid march. My system was so overcharged, I needed to release some adrenalin before I blew a fuse.

L
ola made me breakfast the next morning. It was a habit we'd adopted since nights out had become a rarity. We were more likely to eat croissants together at eight a.m. than drink late-night tequila.

‘God, I miss booze,' Lola sighed. ‘I can't wait till Neve's on solids, so we can go clubbing.'

‘Your inner wild child's alive and kicking?'

‘Hell, yeah. When Mum took Neve to the park yesterday, I put on Rudimental and danced myself sick.'

‘That's my girl.'

The image seemed incongruous. While telling me about her need to party she was breast-feeding my goddaughter. Neve seemed blissfully unaware of her mother's conflict of interests, lying in the crook of her arm, so full of milk she looked ready to pass out.

‘You and Don are coming to Neal's birthday do tomorrow, aren't you?'

‘Thanks for the reminder. The case has addled my brain.'

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Don't let me down.'

‘I wouldn't dare.'

‘Have you told him how you feel?'

‘God, you're like a cracked record.'

She sighed loudly. ‘Bring him tomorrow, the poor guy needs moral support.'

‘There's more to worry about than my love life.'

‘Such as?'

‘The boy I'm working with has got under my skin. The other day I found myself googling adoption procedures in case his mother isn't found.'

Lola gaped at me. ‘You won't meet your boyfriend's sons, yet you've fallen for a kid you've known a few weeks.'

‘I'm all he's got.'

‘Burns is turning you soft.'

‘You could be right. I found out he had a fling with a colleague and it's stuck in my head, even though it ended years ago.'

‘You're jealous, Al.' She gave a whoop of laughter. ‘That must be a first.'

I changed the subject, unwilling to admit she was right. The tension that had been churning in my gut since Tania made her revelation was still there on my walk back to the car, but my phone rang before my bad mood could worsen. The tense whisper at the end of the line belonged to Denise Thorpe, Clare Riordan's closest friend.

‘Could you come over, Dr Quentin? I need your help.' Her voice was tight with anxiety.

I arranged to call by later that morning. It didn't take long to reach Wandsworth, but I sat in a café for an hour checking Gurpreet's case notes, measuring Mikey's progress. His night terrors were as bad as ever, but he was becoming more interactive. I felt certain he was close to speaking again, although another crisis could shatter his progress. Mikey was still at the forefront of my mind when I reached Denise Thorpe's house. My sympathy rose when I saw that her eyes shone with repressed tears. She was wearing her usual drab assortment of clothes, so anonymous she almost blended into the pale walls of her kitchen.

‘I wanted to see you while Simon's out.' Her words ground to a halt, as if she'd lost her thread.

‘You've remembered something?'

‘My husband would call me disloyal. The thing is, Clare's marriage was on the rocks before her husband died. She had affairs, before and after his death. Normally she met the men at conferences or through work.'

‘Do you know their names?'

She shook her head. ‘She's casual about it. But one of them could have got angry, couldn't he? I can't get it out of my mind.'

The statement echoed Dr Novak's description of Riordan's behaviour so directly that my concern grew. ‘You're doing the right thing telling me. The team will try and track down men who attended the same conferences.'

‘She acts like it's a joke, but I'd hate being treated that way.'

‘It sounds as if Clare was chasing happiness, but your life seems much calmer.'

‘Things aren't always as easy as they look.' Her eyes glistened. ‘Can I see Mikey soon?'

‘Not yet, I'm afraid.'

‘Why not?' Her tone suddenly sharpened. ‘It's cruel that he's so alone.'

She burst into a sudden storm of tears, hands covering her eyes. I sat in silence until she was composed enough to accept a tissue. Over the years I'd seen hundreds of people weep during therapy sessions: young men fighting their emotions, old women releasing a lifetime of sorrows. Denise Thorpe's outburst was loud and dramatic, racking sobs that made her shoulders heave. But by the time we said goodbye, her outrage had resurfaced.

‘Why can't you tell us where Mikey's being kept?' she snapped.

‘It's a security issue, Denise.'

‘But we've known him since he was born. We've got a right to see him.'

‘I promise to contact you as soon as you can visit.'

Her frown hardened. ‘It's negligent to treat a child this way.'

Denise's eyes remained cold with disapproval when I said goodbye, as if I was the source of Mikey's unhappiness. Her husband's car was pulling up outside as I headed for mine. The confrontation had been so unsettling that I was keen to get away, but he headed straight towards me. Thorpe looked smarter than before in a well-cut suit, his smile widening as he shook my hand. It made me wonder whether he was an effective psychotherapist. To listen to patients fully, his ego would need to accept second place.

‘I seem destined to miss your visits, Dr Quentin.'

‘Your wife's upset today, I'm afraid.'

‘This business with Clare has affected her terribly.'

‘What about you?' I noticed how drawn he looked when I studied him more closely.

‘It's Denise I'm worried about. If Clare doesn't come home, it'll put her back to square one.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘She's been battling depression for months. Looking after her mum hasn't helped, but this has come at the worst possible time.'

Simon Thorpe looked weary as he turned away, as though he was dreading going inside to comfort his wife.

I called Angie from my car en route to the FPU, to let her know that Clare Riordan might have had multiple short affairs with professional acquaintances before her fling with Sam Travers. But it was Denise Thorpe's state of mind that had triggered my concern. It could be due to anxiety or depression, but she seemed more vulnerable than before. During my visit she had lapsed from rationalism into fierce criticism, then
resentment. Her desire to see Mikey struck me as unnaturally strong. There was no evidence to implicate her in Clare Riordan's abduction, yet I could imagine her going on the attack. The investigation team would be unwilling to look more closely at the Thorpes even though their alibis were weak for the Stuart and Mendez attacks, because there was nothing to implicate them. The couple claimed to have been at home together on both evenings, their neighbours stating that they were a quiet couple who rarely socialised. There was proof that they had visited Denise's mother at her care home early on the morning of Clare's abduction, both of their names printed in the visitors' book.

I spent that afternoon at the FPU, riding a wave of guilt, despite doing my best to catch up with voicemail and the notes cramming my in-tray. If the case didn't get resolved soon, I would fall hopelessly behind.

I was still frazzled when I keyed in the security code at the safe house that evening, but Mikey's greeting lifted my mood. The boy smelled of lemon soap and childhood when he hugged me, as though he'd been outside in the fresh air instead of stuck indoors. Our evening followed its usual routine. We went to the supermarket, played cards then cooked together. I allowed silences to open up, but no words emerged. He hummed loudly to himself as he stirred the chicken casserole simmering in its pan.

‘Lots of people have been asking about you,' I said. ‘Your mum's friends Denise and Simon want to visit soon.'

Mikey's reaction was intense. His face blanched but I caught him before he could fall, half carrying him to one of the kitchen chairs.

‘Take a breath, sweetheart. That's it, nice and deep.'

I couldn't tell whether his reaction meant that he was desperate to see them, or afraid. It had been so extreme he'd
almost passed out, his state probably worsened by lack of food. It seemed as though any mention of life before his mother's abduction could throw him into a state of panic. I had been considering showing him pictures of Pietersen and Ian Passmore, to see if he recognised them, but he seemed too fragile to cope with any more challenges. Gurpreet had told me that his appetite failed whenever I left. It was hugely frustrating that every time I pressed for information, Mikey shut down. I still had the sense that the boy held the key to the whole investigation, if I could only open him up. I waited until he'd gone to bed before calling Burns.

‘You could hear a pin drop in the incident room,' he said. ‘The Pietersens are in their cells and all's quiet on the western front.'

‘I just mentioned the Thorpes to Mikey and he almost blacked out.'

‘He must be missing people he knows. The Pietersens look good for it.'

‘You haven't found the getaway vehicle yet.'

‘Cars are easy to hide.' He sounded nonchalant.

‘I'd still like a background check on the Thorpes.'

He groaned quietly. ‘I told you, we've got nothing linking them to the abductions; the nurses at her mum's care home say they both visit her three or four times a week, morning and evening, since she had her stroke. It's Eleanor Riordan we should be worrying about. There's still no sign of her, but her boyfriend's back home. He was visiting his dad in hospital.'

‘Good, I need to assess him.'

‘Come with me tomorrow.'

‘Don't forget it's Neal's birthday do in the evening.'

‘I may not make it.'

‘Don't get Lola angry. It's a terrifying sight.'

He gave a quiet laugh. ‘I can imagine. A red-haired tornado, spitting out flames.'

‘My brother wants to see you too. It's years since you met.'

‘I'll do my best.' His voice fell to a murmur. ‘Got to go. Love you, bye.'

I stared at my phone after the call ended. Love you, bye. For Burns it really seemed to be that simple: a big man with a big heart. He'd loved his wife and now he loved me – maybe Tania and all of his old flames had received pieces of his affection, too – yet I'd never felt more at sea. I wasn't convinced that the words existed in my vocabulary. I held my phone to my ear and repeated the phrase into a blizzard of white noise.

‘Love you, bye.'

The words sounded dry and unconvincing before they had even passed my lips.