Blood Symmetry (24 page)

‘I hope she has more luck than me. Better go, I've got a press briefing. Love you, bye.'

Something twitched inside me when the phone slipped back on to its cradle. I'd survived two consecutive nights at Burns's flat, more than I'd managed with any other man. With luck my tension would gradually ease, but right now his affectionate goodbyes still sounded like a foreign language.

S
omething was wrong when I reached the safe house. There was no sign of Mikey in the living room, Gurpreet's quiet voice echoing from the kitchen.

‘You can't do that, Mikey. We have to keep you safe.'

The child's body was taut as a tripwire, fists balled at his sides. When he ran past me his face was a hard white mask. His footsteps pounded on the stairs, bedroom door slamming loud enough to loosen the hinges.

‘We've entered the angry phase?'

‘With bells on.' Gurpreet dropped on to a chair. ‘Today's been a disaster.'

‘How come?'

‘Mikey found a copy of the
Mail
in the health visitor's bag. There was a story about his mum, and the murder at the Old Operating Theatre.'

My first reaction was pure anger: if I'd been there, I would have monitored everything the boy touched. But it was too late to cast blame. Mikey had seen the tabloid version of his
mum's disappearance, and he knew how Jordan Adebayo had been killed.

‘How did he react?'

‘He escaped through the French doors. I had to stop him scaling the wall.'

Gurpreet's face was ashen while I processed the facts. The newspaper story had driven a child fearful of the outdoors to make an escape bid. I tapped on Mikey's door once we were alone in the house. He was sitting on his bed, poring over the pages of the
A–Z
he carried from room to room. He slapped the book shut, arms locking around his knees. When I sat beside him he made no attempt to move.

‘Papers make things up, Mikey. Believe me, hundreds of people are looking for your mum.'

His gaze stayed fixed on the bedspread. For the first time in days he remained closeted in his room while I cooked dinner. I was furious with myself for leaving him alone, and with the health visitor for cancelling all of his progress in a single day. But my real outrage was reserved for the killers. What kind of people would steal a mother from her child, then splash her blood across London's streets? Psychosis could have left them devoid of sympathy, or they were proving a point. The picture wouldn't come into focus, no matter how often I turned it over in my mind.

Mikey refused to eat at dinner time. The TV blared from the living room but he stood by the French doors, hands pressed against the glass, just as he had at the start. I tried speaking to him, but he looked through me like I didn't exist. When I checked on him that night he was lying in bed, the
A–Z
clutched against his chest. Maybe the map book reassured him. All of London's streets were drawn on its pages, one of them marking the location where his mother was being held. I double-checked every door and window, less worried about
anyone breaking in than Mikey trying to escape. The newspaper story seemed to have convinced him that the best option was to track his mother down all by himself.

T
he man huddles inside his thick coat. Electric light blazes from the high tower of the hospital as they loiter in the car park. He knows the registration number of the car they're seeking, and the moment when the doctor will finish her shift, but a dull sense of panic is rising in his throat. Events are unravelling, like a carousel spinning out of control.

‘We don't have to do this.'

The woman's eyes glitter in the half-light. ‘You should want it more than anyone.'

‘Hurting them won't cure me.'

Her stare is furious. ‘It's justice we need. I'll do it myself, if you're too scared.'

He watches her in silence. Her fury is more destructive than ever, obliterating everything in its path. That passion used to excite him, but now it leaves him exhausted, draining the last remnants of his strength.

Soon after midnight, the doctor heads towards them; average height, blonde hair pinned back from a face that looks designed for laughter. But she's not smiling tonight; she trots across the tarmac without turning in their direction.

‘Dr Coleman?' The man steps into her path. ‘Clare Riordan gave us your name.'

The woman smashes a cudgel across the doctor's neck before she can reply, her body crumpling to the ground. It takes moments to remove the keys from her pocket, then load
her inert form into the boot of her car. He's shaking as the woman drives away, hands jittering in his lap. The woman turns to him at the first traffic lights.

‘Now we just need the child,' she says.

‘Then we have to stop.'

She doesn't reply, turning the radio on instead, filling the gulf between them with a barrage of sound.

M
idnight blue walls pressed in on me when I woke. I groped on the bedside table for my phone, but no email had arrived yet from Christine, Whitehall clearly still unwilling to comply. Mikey was in his room, staring down at the garden, his small face gaunter than before. The wind had dropped overnight, not a branch stirring, as if the trees were coated in resin.

‘Want to go for a drive?' I asked.

He gave a rapid nod, then hurried away to dress. When he returned he was holding his drawing of the street where he'd escaped and the London
A–Z
. I didn't have the heart to explain that his mother could be anywhere, adrift in a city with over eight million inhabitants. He opened the dog-eared book, poring over each page.

‘Are you looking for where you were found?'

It took moments to locate Walworth Road, at the centre of a dense tangle of streets due south from London Bridge. Mikey's finger chased across the paper like he was deciphering Braille. He tapped the page insistently, but the police guard was less enthusiastic. The uniform was in his early twenties, face shiny with ambition, convinced that his sole mission was to keep us under house arrest. I had to call Tania for permission, and even then he insisted I drove slowly so he could follow.

Mikey sat in the passenger seat, alert and watchful as we threaded through the light Sunday traffic. By the time we
reached Walworth, the city's affluence had faded; deluxe estates were replaced by precincts and treeless squares, packed between tower blocks. In this territory the car reigned supreme, belching out lead for the residents to inhale. I kept my voice low and reassuring, but it was anyone's guess how much Mikey heard. When I pulled up at a set of lights there was no warning before he leaned over to release the child lock, then launched himself outside.

Even my fastest sprint was no match for a fit eleven year old, my breathing ragged as the gap between us closed. The kid moved like a whippet, weaving through crowds of shoppers laden with bags from Walworth Market. His head was twisting from left to right as he ran. Luckily he came to a halt at Westmoreland Road. When I finally reached him he was busy comparing his drawing with the buildings ahead. His photographic memory had been put to good use: the square office block and postbox stood at the end of the street, chains of terraces running down to Portland Street. I could even see the spot where he'd hidden, in a narrow passageway between dilapidated houses.

‘Is this where you got free, Mikey?'

‘Not far now.' His voice was raw as nails on a blackboard. ‘Almost there.'

It was the first time in days that I'd heard him repeat his mantra. ‘Did you hear them say that, in the car?'

He didn't reply, already moving again. The squad car crawled along the kerb as I jogged after him, hazard lights flashing. The boy seemed to be scanning every driveway for signs of his mother, frustration obvious in his rapid movements. I got the sense that he would have lifted every manhole cover if he'd had the strength. His memories of the abduction seemed to be surfacing, but it was difficult to help when he had no way to explain his search. After an hour Mikey's
exhaustion was obvious. We'd paced through the network of streets around Walworth Road, barely pausing for breath.

‘We can come back another day,' I said.

He shook his head violently at first, but soon had to admit defeat. When I finally coaxed him back to the car I jabbed the child lock with my thumb before fastening my seatbelt, determined to stay on guard so he couldn't pull the same trick again. My heart was still hammering with the knowledge that I'd almost lost him. Mikey stared out of the window while I called Angie to request more street searches, almost certain that the words he'd been repeating had been used by his abductors. When I glanced at the phone again, Christine's encrypted email had finally arrived; I forwarded it to Burns, then concentrated on getting Mikey back to the safe house.

The boy was so tired by his adventure that he let me fuss over him, accepting the temporary comfort of hot chocolate and a DVD. It was impossible to guess what he was thinking as characters from the last Harry Potter film raced across the screen, but I took advantage of his inertia to check the list from Whitehall. My eyes widened as I studied the ten names. The killers were working their way through the advisory panel, one by one: John Mendez, Lisa Stuart, Jordan Adebayo and Clare Riordan. The other six were medics with a blood specialism. The only familiar name belonged to Dawn Coleman, Riordan's boss from the Royal Free.

‘Have you seen it?' I asked when Burns picked up his phone.

‘We're setting up protection; the MoD's stepping back.' Traffic thundered in the background.

‘Where are you?'

‘Outside the Royal Free. Dawn Coleman's been missing since last night.'

I cursed silently, remembering the consultant's warm manner when we visited her dilapidated house. Her name
appeared on the list straight after Jordan Adebayo's. ‘They took her from work?'

‘She never got home after her night shift.'

Burns's voice was flatlining, guilt and frustration echoing in each sentence. His next few hours would be a tough ride; the press would be sure to use the latest abduction to criticise his investigation. I told him about Mikey showing me the street where he'd escaped, and how desperate he seemed to retrace his mother's journey.

‘Where's the health minister?' I asked. ‘If they're taking his advisors, he's in danger too.'

‘Still in Stockholm, surrounded by bodyguards.'

I could tell his sole concern was for Dawn Coleman. His voice sounded even bleaker when he said goodbye.

I
felt too jittery to return to Burns's flat when Gurpreet took over at midday. Even the striking landscapes in his living room were a reminder that my apartment with its bare white walls was out of bounds. The sight of my police escort waiting to follow me felt unsettling. Clare Riordan came into my mind as I slipped into the driving seat; I'd never believed in hunches, but instinct told me she was still alive. The killers seemed to be saving her for their big finale, or maybe they were enjoying watching her suffer. The only person I'd interviewed who seemed angry enough to attack those responsible for the government's failings was Ian Passmore, but Burns's team was convinced by his alibis.

I called Emma Selby more in hope than expectation. It seemed presumptuous to ring her on a Sunday, but her voice was welcoming when she invited me round. I drove to Pimlico on autopilot. Her flat was in a mansion block on a leafy street, five minutes' walk from the Thames. I felt another rush of guilt when she opened the door. It looked as if I'd prevented
her from going out for lunch; she wore a fuchsia-pink knee-length dress, dark curls pulled into a chignon, effortlessly stylish.

‘Good to see you, Alice. This is a surprise.'

‘I hate to bother you like this.'

‘Don't worry, I wasn't going anywhere.'

‘But you're all dressed up.'

She winced. ‘It's a habit of mine. Making an effort always lifts my mood.'

Her living room was elegant too. She seemed to be well travelled; beautiful Japanese figures on her mantelpiece, walls painted a glowing terracotta, hand-woven Indian rugs on the floor. Her fascination with medical history showed in the books on her shelves: histories of medical developments; anatomy; essays on the history of blood treatment.

‘How's the case going?' she asked, handing me a cup of coffee.

‘It's grinding along. You heard about the blood thrown at the door of the Wellcome Institute?'

She wrinkled her nose. ‘The stain's still there. The red oxide pigment in blood's almost indelible.'

‘Trust you to know that.' I let out a laugh. ‘Why do you think it was targeted?'

‘I'm not entirely sure.'

I studied her again. ‘You know Lisa Stuart, don't you?'

Her gaze remained steady. ‘Only via email. She contacted me for information about the origin of the tainted blood scandal. I didn't have much to give, but I sent her links to some journal articles. I was shocked to hear she'd gone missing.'

‘Were you asked to join the enquiry?'

‘No, thank heavens. Sitting in a room with a bunch of senior medics touting for OBEs isn't my idea of fun. They used our
meeting room back in 2012; I wanted it for my research students but the bigwigs poached it.'

I gave a slow nod. The news explained why the killers had targeted her workplace. ‘Did you meet them?'

‘I never even saw them. They only visited three or four times.'

‘Would many people have known their names?'

‘Senior admin and security staff, probably. I was curious, but the membership was kept quiet.' Her gaze was a fraction out of focus, like she was struggling to concentrate.

‘Are you okay, Emma?'

‘Sorry, I'm a bit out of sorts. Things have been messy here.'

‘With your partner?'

Her smile crumbled. ‘We keep arguing. I think he wants me to be someone else.'

We spoke for a while longer. Emma described a relationship that seemed to cause more pain than pleasure; she and her partner were chalk and cheese, unable to agree about their future, even though they'd been together so long. It struck me as unusual that such a glamorous woman was tearing herself apart over a man.

‘We should have another drink soon.'

‘You must be great at your job, Alice. I always end up offloading my woes.' She dabbed at her mascara.

‘Feel free. Next time we'll sink another bottle of wine.'

‘Can we make it next weekend?' Her smile rallied. ‘I promise to be better company.'

‘I'll look forward to it.'

She cut a lonely figure when I glanced back, isolated in her large doorway, barely managing a smile. When I returned to my car I fired off a quick message to Burns, asking him to check the security staff and receptionists at the Wellcome
Institute. They were among the tiny number of people who knew the identity of the Tainted Blood panel.

I spent the evening kicking my heels at Burns's flat. I considered making dinner, but there was no sign of him by eight thirty, so I opted for a cheese sandwich, marooned on his vast settee. An hour later I was bored enough to clean his kitchen. There was something therapeutic about scrubbing surfaces and polishing taps until the chrome showed my reflection. At ten thirty I grew tired of domesticity and phoned for a progress report on Dawn Coleman, but there was no news. Burns sounded so low when he described the team's frantic efforts to track down her car that I changed the topic.

‘I must be losing it,' I said. ‘I've been cleaning your flat.'

‘Another good reason for us to cohabit.'

I laughed at him. ‘After a three-night trial period?'

‘You could rent out your flat.'

‘You're not even divorced.'

‘That's irrelevant. Guess how long I've wanted you there?'

‘A few months?'

‘Since you walked into my office four years ago. This hot little blonde with a big vocabulary.'

‘The long words did it for you?'

‘It was the whole package.'

‘Stop rushing, Don.'

‘Why fight it? Your mum loves me already.'

There was a low grumble of laughter before he hung up.