Blood Symmetry (23 page)

T
he woman's tension rises when they travel to Bermondsey on a night bus. Nothing disturbs their journey except a flurry of late traffic, taxis carrying revellers home from an evening on the tiles. They walk along side roads, then hide behind a building at the end of the cul-de-sac. Trees cluster protectively around the safe house, but the police car outside it is empty.

‘No security,' she whispers. ‘We could take him now.'

‘The guard'll be back any minute.'

‘Sooner or later we'll have to risk it.'

‘The house is overlooked from two sides,' the man replies.

‘Let's do it now,' she insists. ‘The back way's safest.'

‘You could blow the whole thing.'

She shrugs his hand away when he reaches out to her. ‘We'll never get him at this rate.'

‘At least we've seen the place. We can come back another night.'

She argues with him in whispers as the lights in the safe house flick out, one by one. Her anger rises again as a solitary policeman returns to the squad car, a takeaway bag in his hand. No one sees them leave; two shadows fading into the dark.

B
urns's Audi pulled up outside the safe house next morning, instead of a squad car. His eyes were shielded by sunglasses so opaque that his expression was unreadable.

‘Shouldn't you be at work?' I asked.

‘Give me a break. It's my first day off since this started. I got Angie to check out Roger Fenton last night, by the way. Everything he said stacks up; his flat was burgled in 2012, other than that his record's clean as a whistle. He spent most of January in a military hospital in Afghanistan.'

‘He's too interested, Don. Something's not right.'

Burns rolled his eyes. ‘It's his job to obsess about stories. Come on, we're taking a road trip.'

‘I promised I'd visit my mum.'

‘That's where we're going. You can't travel alone, remember?'

‘You're protecting me from the mean streets of Blackheath?'

A muscle ticked in his jaw. ‘Rules are rules, Alice.'

‘If you come along you'll have to wait in a coffee shop.'

He stared at me. ‘She doesn't know I exist, does she?'

‘Of course she does.'

‘Then we should get acquainted.'

My heart rate quickened. ‘She's frail, Don, and she hates surprises.'

‘It's just a flying visit. I've already got her a present.'

The bouquet lying on his back seat must have cost serious money – gardenias, roses and hyacinths. Showy, romantic blossoms designed to melt the hardest of hearts, but they failed to shift my resentment. My relationship with my mother was so fragile I hadn't introduced her to any of my boyfriends for years. Burns must have sensed my tension, his silence lingering until we reached Elephant and Castle.

‘You never talk about your childhood, Alice.'

I shrugged. ‘There's not much to say. My parents' marriage broke down, but they stayed together anyway. Dad drank, she rolled with the punches.'

‘Did you get hit too?'

‘I was good at hiding.' I studied his profile. ‘What about you? I don't know much except you grew up north of Edinburgh.'

His kept his eyes on the road ahead. ‘It was a mining village, the industry dying on its feet. Dad joined the army, then worked as a bin man, but it wasn't much of a vocation; he'd have preferred to be a farmer. Mum looked after me and my sisters. She died of breast cancer at thirty-four.'

‘How old were you?'

‘Twelve.'

‘That's a tough age to lose someone.'

He rolled his shoulders. ‘The girls took it worse. They were five and seven.'

Suddenly my irritation dropped away. Burns had been a year older than Mikey when he lost his mother; I could picture him comforting his sisters when he was barely mature enough to look after himself.

‘You bastard,' I muttered.

‘Why?'

‘For hitting the sympathy button. Now I can't even hate you for manoeuvring me.'

He shot me a grin. ‘She's got to meet me sooner or later.'

‘Don't blame me when she eats you alive.'

By the time we reached Wemyss Road my stomach was in knots. The expression on Mum's face was a picture when she finally answered the door. Normally her emotions were hidden behind a veneer of cashmere and pearls, but the sight of Burns, large and thuggish in his leather jacket, had stunned her into silence. She wavered on the threshold as if she was considering pressing her panic button, Parkinson's tremor making her voice quake when she finally said hello. The meeting could have gone either way. Mum always made snap judgements about people, but Burns was wise enough to offer his bouquet in double-quick time.

‘These are for you, Mrs Quentin.' He gazed down at her. ‘Now I can see where Alice gets her looks.'

I waited for her to snarl at his insincerity, but her expression softened.

‘It's a pleasure to meet you at last. Tell me your full name.'

‘Donal McIntyre Burns.'

‘That's a fine Scottish title. And an Edinburgh accent, if I'm not mistaken?'

He beamed at her. ‘Impressive, you've got a good ear.'

My shock persisted while I retreated to make coffee. When I came back, Burns and my mother were on first-name terms and my irritation was rising to the boil. He was listening to a lengthy account of her visit to the Rembrandt show at Tate Britain with a look of rapt interest. She quizzed him about his time at art school, and seemed fascinated by his decision to join the police instead. Somehow he'd neutralised the tension that always hung in the air. His phone hummed quietly in his jacket pocket in the hall, but nothing in Burns's manner indicated that he was leading a nationwide manhunt.

When we left at midday, Mum looked well for the first time in months. She gave me her usual cursory goodbye, but
offered Burns a tender kiss on both cheeks. His smugness lingered as we got back into his car, making me feel like punching him.

‘God, you're slick,' I snapped.

‘The old girl's lonely, that's all. I promised to take her to the Rothko exhibition next month. Can you drive back?'

For the second time in as many days, he'd rendered me speechless, setting up a lunch date with my mother like it was the most natural thing in the world. Already he was hunkered in the passenger seat, checking his phone messages.

Once my anger had faded, the journey helped clear my mind. The car slipped north through easy midday traffic, while I added items to my mental to-do list. Angie was tracking down Gary Lennard for me. If he had been arrested during the tainted blood protests, his record would be lurking somewhere in the police national computer's vast memory banks.

The elderly uniform standing sentry outside Burns's flat looked ready to fall asleep. I doubted strongly that he would be able to overwhelm two violent murderers if challenged, but manpower must have been in short supply. I got a sense of how Burns spent his days off when the door closed behind us. He hurled his shoes into the corner, then reached for the remote control.

‘Arsenal played Bayern Munich last night. Mind if I watch the highlights?'

‘It's your flat, Don. You get the casting vote.'

Knowing that Mikey was stuck in the gloomy safe house made it hard to relax, even though I'd been working nonstop for two weeks. I opened my laptop to find a series of messages from Angie. She had already located Gary Lennard. Other than Ian Passmore he had been the only member of Pure to be arrested at the Downing Street protest in 2012, his mugshot showing a bespectacled man of around forty giving the camera an irate stare. I scanned the rest of the information she'd sent,
including a recent photo. In the years since his arrest in 2012, he'd lost weight and abandoned his thick-framed glasses, his expression mellowing. He was an architect, running a practice in Deptford. Angie had arranged for us to visit his home the following morning. I switched off my computer then glanced over at Burns. The football commentator's drone had rendered him unconscious, his face pillowed on his hands. Either the stress of meeting my mother or lack of sleep had felled him like an Easter Island statue. He didn't wake up until the evening, when I made penne arrabiata using his last scrap of Parmesan. Rest and a large glass of wine seemed to revive him; his eyes were suddenly alert when I asked how Emma Selby had taken the news that she would need round-the-clock protection until the killers were found.

‘She wasn't on the panel. Apparently Lisa Stuart contacted her for background information about the history of the tainted blood scandal.'

The information sent an odd sensation of panic across the back of my neck. ‘She could still be vulnerable if she knew any of the panel members.'

Burns shrugged. ‘I've had no luck getting Whitehall to hand over their names.'

‘Why are they holding out?'

‘Fear of a media inferno. The MoD say they're keeping watch on the other members' security. They thought Mendez died in a violent mugging, and Stuart's a “mis per”. But now a third one's been killed, they're in meltdown. The health minister's been sent to Sweden on an official jaunt.'

‘While his advisors are hung out to dry.'

Burns's jaw clenched. ‘I'll get the list, don't worry.'

I knew from experience he would be as good as his word. Before long the civil servants would grow tired of his efforts to beat down their door.

T
he squad car delivered me to my first port of call by ten a.m. the next day. Gary Lennard's home stood on the outskirts of New Cross, with London plane trees guarding either end of the road, tall and immovable. The area might have been less affluent than Clare Riordan's, but Lennard's Edwardian home was equally large and imposing. I spotted Angie close by, locking her car. The DS wore her usual look of fierce determination, as if her entire professional future rested on our next meeting.

‘I've done more searches,' she said, as we approached the house. ‘He's never been in trouble, apart from his public order offence in 2012.'

‘He's got more reason to be bitter about the tainted blood scandal than most. He spent months in hospital as a kid, and only he and Passmore were singled out at the protest.'

The slim brunette who answered Lennard's door bell made me do a double take. It was Dr Novak from the Royal Free, giving us a cautious smile of welcome. Without her white coat she looked younger and more fragile, dressed simply in black trousers and a pale blue top that emphasised the darkness of her eyes.

‘Come on in, Gary's expecting you.'

‘I didn't know you made house calls, Adele,' I replied.

‘It's rare, but travelling to the clinic's beyond him now.'

I understood the situation when I saw Mr Lennard for the first time. The photo on his website must have been taken
before his illness took hold. He was hunched in a chair in his conservatory, pale skin stretched across gaunt cheekbones, pepper-and-salt hair thinning. Clear plastic tubes were feeding oxygen into his nostrils via a canister on a trolley at his feet, while soothing classical music spilled from his sound system. Lennard's thin face opened into a smile, restoring his handsomeness for a second when we introduced ourselves.

‘Thanks for getting the door, Adele.' His voice croaked, as if each word took effort.

The doctor touched his shoulder then picked up her bag. ‘Call us if you need anything, Gary. I'll drop by next week.' Her concern seemed more genuine than the breezy style most medics adopt, making me wonder if she carried her professional concerns home each evening.

‘I'll show you out.' Lennard struggled out of his chair.

‘There's no need.'

‘Please, it's the least I can do.'

We waited in his conservatory while Dr Novak took her leave. The room was dominated by a wall full of CDs, but it was the garden that drew my attention. Exotic ferns like the ones at the safe house circled his patio, but these were perfectly controlled. There was a pond filled with water lilies, decking surrounded by cherry trees that would have looked stunning in bloom.

‘You've got a beautiful view,' Angie commented when Lennard returned.

He pushed the oxygen canister back under his chair, his breathing laboured. ‘It's a Zen garden – guaranteed peace for the soul.' He gave an ironic smile. ‘What can I help you with?'

‘We're trying to find out about Pure's campaign since the tainted blood scandal,' I said.

‘You've read about my exploits? I don't see myself as a victim these days, but once information's on the net, it's
impossible to undo.' He gazed out of the window, at the bamboo plants lining his back wall. ‘Where should I start?'

‘The beginning, please.'

‘I don't have much breath, I'm afraid.'

‘That's okay, take your time.'

‘I was the youngest person in the UK to receive infected blood from a Factor Eight transfusion in '86. I'd fallen from a tree and cracked my skull. When I came round, they'd injected me with hepatitis C and HIV. Not a great birthday present for a twelve year old.'

‘I'm sorry.' Mental arithmetic told me the man could only be in his early forties, but he looked decades older.

‘My father blew his savings on lawyers, but got nowhere, of course.'

‘Why's that?'

‘No one accepted liability. There were five thousand patients in this country alone; full compensation would have cost the government millions.' His voice was unnaturally calm.

‘Yet you don't seem bitter.'

‘Believe me, I was. The Health Department stalled for twenty years, hoping we'd die before they had to pay a penny. I was seen as a medical miracle, something in my bloodstream helped me fight the virus, but I was still furious. All I could imagine was a future of drugs and hospitals. Qualifying as an architect was the turning point; seeing buildings grow revived me.'

‘Why were you arrested?' Angie asked.

‘It's a long story.' His sunken eyes sparked with anger. ‘The government made tiny ex-gratia payments to avoid getting sued. Guess how much they paid me?'

‘I can't imagine,' she replied.

‘Twenty thousand pounds. That's why I went on the march. You can't put a value on the chance of a future, but it's got to
be worth more.' A faint tinge of outrage echoed in his voice. ‘A policeman asked me to step aside, so I yelled some ridiculous insult. They fined me two hundred pounds; exactly one per cent of my compensation.'

‘But your feelings changed?' I asked.

‘Not about the unfairness; my annual pay-out is less than the minimum wage. I just see it differently now.'

‘How do you mean?'

He nodded at the window, then directed his gaze at Angie. ‘Some people would say gardens look barren in autumn, but you imagined mine in the summer, didn't you?'

‘The fruit trees will be in bloom,' she said, nodding.

‘A bit of insight turns bleakness into something promising, doesn't it?'

‘But that takes discipline,' I said.

‘Not when you've got double pneumonia. For me every day's a gift, and I've got people like Adele looking after me. Anger would only spoil the time I have left.'

I could see he was tiring. We sat in silence, watching the breeze rearrange dark red leaves on the gravel.

‘One last thing, Gary. How well do you know Ian Passmore?'

‘I haven't seen him all year, but I respect him. He gives all his spare time to supporting us.'

‘He never switches off?'

Lennard shook his head. ‘I doubt it; Ian's a man with a cause.'

‘Some people think missionary zeal can be dangerous.'

‘They don't understand altruism, do they?' Gary's face darkened.

I wanted to ask more questions, but his voice was fading. We left him to watch the play of shadows in his garden. Through an open door in the hallway, I saw that one of the rooms held a metal-framed bed and a nebuliser. Angie stood
beside me as we peered at the medical paraphernalia, the sight filling me with discomfort. Gary Lennard was clearly preparing to die at home, yet he emanated calm. The idea that he could be involved in the attacks seemed ridiculous; the man appeared far too sick to harm anyone.

Angie was behind me when I stepped on to the porch. A tall woman with a swathe of poker-straight black hair collided with me, shopping bag spilling at her feet. She looked startled when she pushed back her fringe to inspect me, then gasped out a laugh. It was the woman who had been helping Ian Passmore at Cherry Garden Pier, Michelle De Santis.

‘You gave me the fright of my life.'

‘We were just visiting Gary.' I turned to Angie. ‘This is Michelle, she's a volunteer with Pure.'

‘Sorry to scare you.' Angie smiled widely, then stooped down to help collect the scattered groceries, packing cereal, bread and oranges back into Michelle's bag. ‘Gary seems amazingly calm,' she commented.

‘That's his style, he never moans.' When De Santis straightened up again she was taller than I'd realised, her lovely olive-skinned features more strained than before. She glanced at both of us before speaking again. ‘I don't suppose you've got time for a cup of tea?'

Angie nodded. ‘Love one, if you don't mind.'

She led us back indoors to the kitchen. I stayed on my feet, noticing a rack full of medicines on one of the counters, as if tablets were Lennard's main food source.

Michelle saw me looking at the drugs while we waited for the kettle to boil. ‘He's getting by on fresh air. It's just willpower that keeps him going.'

‘Have you known Gary long?' I asked.

She blinked at me. ‘Fifteen years. I'm his ex-wife. I come by most days to help.'

‘He's lucky. Not every divorced couple stays so close.'

‘It was his choice to separate. He'd rather be left with his garden and his music, but he needs help with everything now.'

‘It's amazing you still find time to work for Pure,' Angie commented.

‘The victims are in the same boat as Gary; we're their lifeline. I fit it in around my job as a physio.'

‘That must take organising,' I observed.

‘I'm part-time, but I could use more hours in the day.' The rawness in her voice revealed that she was at cracking point; one badly chosen word could open the floodgates.

‘Can we help you with anything, Michelle?'

She swung round to face me. ‘You're a psychologist, aren't you? Can you give me the name of a counsellor?'

‘For Gary?'

‘He's made peace with it,' she said, shaking her head. ‘I'll need support when he goes.'

‘Of course.' I pulled out my notepad and copied my friend Tejo's number from my phone. ‘Doctor Chadha specialises in grief counselling; she's one of the kindest people I know.'

‘The whole thing's so bloody wrong.' Her face tipped forwards, but she swabbed her eyes hurriedly, as if tears were a sign of defeat.

I saw a new side to Angie during the visit. The woman's vulnerability had brought out a patience she rarely exercised. She sat quietly, while Michelle explained the challenges of juggling her work with caring for Gary. The meeting reminded me that hundreds of families were in the same situation, and some would be less accepting. Any one of them might have decided to take revenge.

M
y first action when I reached the FPU mid-morning was to plough through my backlog of emails. Working on a Saturday
wasn't my idea of fun, but it was my only chance of dealing with the work that had piled up on my desk. I assumed that I was alone in the building, but Christine called to summon me to her office at midday.

‘Why are you here?' she asked. ‘I only come in on Saturdays because the place is quiet.'

‘I'm falling behind. The case is eating my time.'

‘Want to update me?'

‘I need today to catch up. There's a ton of work on my desk.'

‘Leave it for now, I want to hear how you are.'

Her clear-eyed stare focused on my face as I described Mikey's reticence and the drawings he used to explain his experience. When I told her the Home Office was still refusing to reveal the names of the health minister's advisors, she looked incredulous.

‘Why's the information safeguarded?'

‘The minister received death threats, so they put a protection order on the panel's identity. We know for certain three of the victims were on it, but we need the other names.'

‘Isn't anyone prodding the Home Office?'

‘They're not playing ball.'

‘I'll make some calls, see what I can do.' She scribbled a note on her pad. ‘How are you coping with all this?'

Christine listened more attentively than before. Until then she'd seemed uneasy with emotions, even though she was an expert on human communication. She stayed silent while I talked about being exiled from my flat and my fear of over-involvement with Mikey, our relationship becoming emotional rather than therapeutic.

‘It's inevitable in these cases,' she replied. ‘But when it's over, you need a holiday.'

‘It's hard to relax while Riordan's missing. Her son's more traumatised than any child I've treated before.'

‘Maybe you should step down.'

I stared at her. ‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘I was wrong to give you such a big case after the last one. You're under too much stress.'

‘You've been assessing me?' I forced myself to smile. ‘The curse of working for a body language expert.'

‘This level of exposure is high-risk, Alice.'

‘The kid's had enough people desert him. You can't remove me.'

She gave me a considering look. ‘I'll get the information from the Health Department, but I may still replace you. We'll review it next week.'

I backed out of the room before she could change her mind. She had a point about my stress symptoms: low appetite, nightmares, disturbed sleep. But, despite the personal risks, I couldn't abandon Mikey while the search for his mother continued.

I stayed at the FPU that afternoon, ploughing through a backlog of paperwork, but no news arrived from Christine. Even her seniority must be failing to win the battle for protected information. The frustration made me even more certain that someone affected by the tainted blood case was taking revenge. I let my eyes wander down the printout of patients infected during the crisis, hundreds already dead. Gary Lennard appeared on the third page, still hanging on by a thread, but so far Tania's team hadn't found anyone with a criminal record or links to the victims. I rose to my feet and studied the clouds scudding across the sky, shrubs in the gardens opposite reduced to a handful of twigs. When I glanced round my office again, the room looked equally lacklustre. The carpet must have clung to the floorboards for decades, mahogany desk in need of polish, and the chair that always gave me backache.

Burns called at four o'clock. ‘What makes me think this is the lull before the storm?'

‘Your innate Scottish gloom?'

He broadened his accent. ‘I'm a wee ray of fucking sunshine compared to a Glaswegian.'

‘Even Christine can't get the advisors' names.'