Blood Symmetry (22 page)

‘Let's get this done,' he said. ‘Where's the new boyfriend?'

I smiled. ‘You don't need to interview him. You met him years ago, remember?'

‘Come on, let's see if he's made of the right stuff.'

Lola was still at Don's side when we crossed the packed room, cooing in his ear, no doubt spilling all my secrets. Burns squared his shoulders when I brought Will over, like he was preparing to be inspected. The two men were polar opposites: my brother slim and fine boned, Burns towering over him.

‘My sister's quite a handful. You're a brave man.'

‘Tell me about it,' Burns replied, laughing.

Will's expression suddenly turned sombre. ‘But you love her, right? She matters to you?'

Burns looked startled. ‘More than anyone.'

‘Good answer. You passed the test, my friend. We'll talk another time.'

My brother's face relaxed before he stepped back into the crowd. I lost sight of him immediately, a surge of dancers and music closing round him like a raging sea.

‘Y
ou'll be here months at this rate, Clare.' The woman breathes into her face.

‘Leave me alone.' Her words are a dry whisper.

‘Remember, you've only got yourself to blame.'

The needle pierces Riordan's shoulder, her arms jerking sharply as she submits to the pain. The doctor looks ready to give up, cheeks dark with fever, but the woman feels no pity, crooning softly while she injects more interferon.

‘Did you know they experimented on patients here? The medics didn't care how many died, just like you.'

The woman watches Riordan's eyes roll back, body jolting against the restraints as she pulls the needle from her arm.

‘You'll finish her if you carry on like that,' the man says.

‘Why do you care?' she snaps, his sympathy grating on her nerves.

‘We need her alive, to tell us another name.'

‘I want her to see the others die.'

When she looks down again, Riordan has lost her beauty, head shaven, her cheeks hollow. Only the flutter of her eyelids proves she's still alive.

‘I'll deliver it this time.' The woman holds the pack to her chest, the liquid warm against her skin.

It's a relief to leave the man behind. Despite her love for him, it angers her that he's losing his resolve, illness diluting his courage. She drives north from the laboratory as drinkers
spill from brightly lit bars, then it's a ten-minute wait outside the museum before the coast's clear. She picks her way across the car park, chalks the black and white marks on the step, then hurls the plastic pack. She turns away as it explodes, unwilling to see the wasted blood splashing to the ground.

L
ola seemed reluctant to let us go. Every time we edged towards the door, she pressed another drink into our hands. I didn't have the heart to say what had happened, knowing it would sour the party's mood. By now alcohol had numbed the shock of standing in my hallway, knowing I'd been targeted.

‘Stay till midnight, can you?' she whispered. ‘We've got an announcement.'

‘Burns is edgy. We need to leave.'

Lola's cat-like eyes snapped open. ‘You're going to tell him how you feel?'

‘Anything's possible.'

‘On that condition, I'll let you go.'

‘Tell me the news first.'

Her smile widened. ‘We're getting married. I'll need help choosing a dress.'

I gave her a tight hug. Across the room, her boyfriend Neal was living up to his nickname of ‘Greek God', blond with classic good looks, every inch a mythological hero. It didn't seem to matter that he was twelve years younger than Lola; he looked like a man who'd landed on his feet, his copper-haired daughter asleep on his shoulder while he chatted to friends. I blew him a kiss as Burns appeared with my coat. It was tempting to stay – while strangers danced around me, my worries fell silent. There was no sign of Will when we finally made our getaway.

Burns seemed glad to escape, dragging me downstairs. When we reached the pavement he stared at me so intently he seemed to be trying to memorise my features.

‘Can't wait to get you home,' he murmured.

I smiled in reply but felt a lick of panic. When we got back to his flat, we'd share the same bed for the first time. Sex had never been a problem, but waking up together would be a different matter. ‘It won't be long. Our chauffeur's arrived.'

A squad car had pulled up a hundred metres away. We were getting into the back seat when Burns's phone buzzed. His expression blanked, personal feelings evaporating.

‘What's happened?'

‘A blood pack's been found in Euston,' he said.

‘I'll come with you.'

The car raced through the night-time streets and I felt a pulse of surprise as we reached the Wellcome Institute. Days ago I'd spoken to my flamboyant ex-colleague there, but the place hadn't featured on Emma Selby's list of locations.

When we reached the back of the building, it was clear the killer had acted recently; fresh blood glistened on the building's pale stone. The security guard stood with one of the first responders. He was in his sixties, balding, expression perplexed, as if his discovery had addled his brain.

‘I got the licence number,' he said. ‘If I'd run faster I'd have caught her red-handed.'

‘You think it was a woman?' Burns asked.

‘Seems like it on the CCTV.'

‘I'll take a look.'

I stayed in the car park with two uniforms guarding the doorway. One of the killers had been there minutes before, and I wanted to breathe the same air. Behind the cordon the Pure symbol was clearly visible, black and white teardrops scrawled on the limestone step, urgency visible in each chalk
mark. Their audacity was growing. They had visited three sites in twenty-four hours, desperate to make their point.

‘Why are you so angry?' I muttered to myself.

Long arcs of blood spattered the museum's doors. The substance carried its own messages; it would give an update on Riordan's health, and the conditions she was suffering, revealing how recently it had been drawn. The locations and style of delivery were part of the conversation, but their meaning eluded me. Only the strength of their rage was clear. The blood pack had been hurled at the door with the force of a grenade.

Burns was scowling as he walked back across the car park.

‘Any luck?'

‘The camera only got her from behind. I'm not even convinced it's a woman; all you can see is someone with a slim build in a hooded coat. I bet the car's licence plates aren't registered either.'

‘We should check on Ian Passmore.'

Burns stared at me. ‘The Pure symbol doesn't make him guilty. He's already complaining about harassment.'

‘Find out where he is, at least. Not many people carry that much anger.'

Tiredness showed in his face. ‘I'll take you home, then go to the station.'

‘It's gaining pace, Don. They're bound to slip up soon.'

‘Christ, let's hope so.'

B
urns insisted on walking me up to his flat. The uniform sitting outside on a folding chair jumped to attention when we arrived, as if we were visiting royalty. I hated the feeling of being passed between guards like a china doll, but there was no alternative. Once I got inside, I was too wired to go to bed, so I checked my emails on Burns's computer. Tania had sent
through a complete list of Pure's members, past and present. I spent a fruitless half-hour scanning for alibis and connections to the victims. The details added by her team made grim reading; a quarter of the names had the word ‘deceased' printed beside them, removed from Ian Passmore's circulation list. I was about to log off when my eyes caught on a familiar surname: Fenton. When I clicked on it, the first name was Roger, his home address had a Southwark postcode, and he'd been a member since 2012. All my suspicions about the journalist resurfaced. It could be that he had joined for research purposes, but surely he would have told me when he first mentioned Pure? I stabbed the computer's off button with my thumb with a sense of frustration. I was starting to suspect people with a legitimate interest in the case, and the fact that my fate was tied to Clare Riordan's was inescapable. I needed to turn over every stone to find her, so Mikey could return home, and I would get my liberty back.

T
he face beside mine on the pillow next morning revealed a history of conflict. Burns had broken his nose in a school rugby match, then his jaw ten years ago during a house arrest, leaving him with a lopsided smile. The effect was still oddly beautiful, like a statue that had stood outside for decades, altered by hard weather. I crept out of bed without waking him. Traffic droned on Southwark Bridge Road as I switched on his cross-trainer. I would have preferred a quick sprint along the river path, but that was off limits until the killers were found, police protection a necessary evil. After stepping off the machine I sent Roger Fenton a text, requesting a meeting. At eight thirty he rang back, his urbane voice wishing me good morning.

‘Could I pick your brains about something?' I asked.

‘How can I help?'

‘Face to face, if possible. Let's try a café, like last time.' I knew he might be recording our conversation, ready to sell my words to the highest bidder. ‘I'm afraid I can't share information in return.'

‘I know, but I'm still hoping for that interview when the case ends. Where do you live?'

‘Southwark.'

‘Let's meet at Elliot's, one o'clock.'

It interested me that Fenton would drop everything at such short notice; in my experience journalists were rarely so
biddable. Burns appeared in the doorway as I put down the phone, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and an ominous expression.

‘You can't just disappear, Alice.'

‘I'm an early riser.'

‘Come back to bed, for Christ's sake.'

‘Aren't we seeing Luke Mann?'

‘We're off duty till eleven.' His hand closed round my wrist, pulling me along the corridor.

‘I've been exercising, I need a shower.'

‘I don't care.' My shoulders thumped against the wall when he leant down to kiss me.

Desire mixed with panic, threatening to cancel each other out. Maybe it was delayed shock at seeing blood spattered across my door that caused his sudden intensity, but the pace felt reckless. The bed-board clattered against the wall, his gaze locked on to mine. He didn't even blink when he came, too focused on watching me lose control at exactly the same time. Afterwards he collapsed on the pillows beside me, his expression satisfied.

‘Lola's right.' He dropped a kiss on my shoulder.

‘About what?'

‘You're crazy about me. I saw it just now, plain as day.'

‘God, you're smug.'

It would have been the ideal time to admit defeat, but the words never arrived. My silence didn't dent Burns's good mood. Despite only getting three hours' sleep, he hummed contentedly as he headed for the bathroom. There was a mismatch between my irritation and the glow lingering on my skin. It was still there when I joined him in the shower before he could drain all the hot water.

Luke Mann was waiting for us in his dilapidated porch when we arrived. My father's alcoholism had taught me to recognise a drinker instantly: the telltale tremor was in his
hand when he shook mine, a sour tang of booze on his breath. I made an effort to curb my instinctive dislike. The man was suffering enough without anyone casting judgements. He was around my age, with an eager-to-please expression and a fragile, almost feminine face, dark hair a little too long. Mann looked every inch the troubled writer, as if the world battered too heavily on his senses.

‘Sorry I missed you last time. Please come in.'

His voice was gentle, with a cultured Home Counties accent. But it was the interior of his house that caught my attention. The hallway held more reading material than I could have absorbed in a lifetime, niches stuffed with novels and volumes of poetry. A small wooden cross hung above his kitchen door, as though religion trailed him into every room.

‘I'm sorry to hear your father's ill, Mr Mann,' I said.

‘He's recovering, thank God, but I had to drop everything and drive to Norwich.' He stood by his old-fashioned cooker looking apologetic, then motioned for us to sit down.

‘We'd be grateful for some information about your girlfriend,' Burns said.

‘I've been so worried. Ellie's not answering my calls.'

‘How did you two meet?'

Mann looked embarrassed. ‘Speed dating, five years ago. I couldn't believe my luck. Of course I was more successful then; one of my books had been nominated for a prize.'

He was trying hard to seem in control, but I felt sure he'd been knocking back vodka since he woke up. A stack of unopened envelopes lay on his counter, red stamps identifying them as county court judgements. Mann's neighbours must have been right about his debts.

‘Have you heard from Eleanor recently?'

He shook his head anxiously. ‘I've been calling round the clock. She hasn't been herself since her sister went missing.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Ellie's a bit obsessed by Clare – an inferiority complex, I suppose.'

‘Why do you say that?'

Mann blinked at me. ‘Their parents made her feel second best, and there's the baby thing too.'

‘Sorry?'

His gaze dropped. ‘She's had three miscarriages, the most recent in July. The doctors told her another pregnancy would be dangerous, but she won't hear about adopting. Losing contact with Mikey hurt her more than the lawsuit. She's gone off by herself before; for a week last time, without telling me. She said she needed to let off steam.'

‘Can you tell us where she went?'

‘A guest house in Brighton. I called, but they haven't seen her.' His voice was raw with anxiety.

‘It sounds like you've both had a tough time,' I replied.

‘It's worse for Eleanor.' His eyes glazed. ‘Nothing prepares you.'

‘Has she had support from her doctors?'

‘Not enough. That's part of why she's so angry.'

Mann's exhausted tone revealed that Eleanor's rage had been all-consuming. So many factors fuelling it: losing her childhood home, her babies, and access to her nephew. Burns continued his questions, patiently noting down Mann's alibis for the dates of the attacks.

‘You seem to spend a lot of time alone, Mr Mann,' he commented. ‘Do you and Eleanor plan to live together?'

‘We're getting married this summer. That's why I've been here, doing it up, but it may have to be sold.'

‘Any particular reason?'

‘Financial necessity, I'm afraid. Eleanor's legal fees have cost us a fortune.'

Burns nodded. ‘Do you own a car, Mr Mann?'

‘Not any more. I hire them if I need one.'

‘Where from?'

He hesitated for a moment. ‘National Cars, on Camberwell Road.'

‘Thanks for your time,' Burns said. ‘Contact us when you hear from Eleanor, please.'

‘You don't think she's been taken, do you?' Mann's panicked gaze darted across our faces.

‘There's no proof of that. Clare's abductors have left an evidence trail around the city, proving that they're holding her, so this is very different,' Burns said. ‘We'll do everything in our power to find Eleanor.'

Mann was still standing on his doorstep looking crestfallen when I slid into the back seat of the squad car.

‘The bloke's still high from last night,' Burns commented.

‘Or he had a Bloody Mary for breakfast. He's a functioning alcoholic, but he knows what he's doing. He could be shielding Eleanor somewhere.'

‘We've tapped his mobile. He's right about calling her number nonstop.'

‘The guy's smart. He probably knows his phone's hot.'

‘We'll keep an eye on him, but he was at the hospital with his dad when the last blood pack was left.'

Burns was still preoccupied when we reached Borough Market, eyes glassy, as though a showreel of suspects was running through his head. He gave me a distracted kiss then folded himself back into the car, speeding away before I could say goodbye.

The market was heaving with well-dressed shoppers picking through stalls loaded with kumquats, mangoes and limes, selling for exorbitant prices. Elliot's Café was small and stylish, the window full of artisan bread and cakes. A waft of cinnamon and hot milk hit me when I opened the door. Roger
Fenton was dressed casually, in jeans and a dark blue windcheater, browsing through the
Guardian
when I arrived.

‘Do you write for them?'

‘Rarely.' His face relaxed into a smile. ‘Just checking out the competition.'

‘Thanks for coming. Let me buy you lunch.'

He shook his head. ‘Tea's fine. I had a late night with some colleagues.'

Fenton looked under the weather, cheekbones more hollow than before, but his expression hadn't changed. He seemed alert to every movement, sharp gaze assessing me as I gave the waiter our order.

‘You didn't tell me you were a member of Pure.'

I saw him flinch. ‘Anyone can join. It's for supporters as well as sufferers.'

‘It seems odd, especially as you think the leader had your flat burgled.'

He held my gaze. ‘I joined before that, on the Internet, to access their bulletins. I wanted to know more about the Tainted Blood enquiry. Ian Passmore organised the protest in 2012. I think it was a last-ditch effort to make the government accept responsibility.'

‘Who else was involved?'

‘A guy called Gary Lennard was very bitter about catching HIV as a child; he was the youngest victim in the UK. I don't know if he's still alive.'

‘I'll track him down.' I took a sip of my Americano. ‘It surprises me that you're still following the Riordan case so closely. Hanging around outside police stations isn't something I associate with serious journalism.'

‘This is the perfect story. Someone's attacking the medical profession for an ethical failure.' His eyes glittered with excitement.

‘But they're hurting foot soldiers, not power holders.'

‘I don't agree. The victims are influential in the medical world.'

‘When you were doing your research, did you find out about anyone on the Tainted Blood panel?'

He held my gaze. ‘Would a name guarantee me that in-depth interview?'

‘You have my word of honour.'

‘I saw an email when I interviewed Lisa Stuart, from someone called Emma Selby.'

The name pulled me up short. ‘You were snooping through her papers?'

‘It was lying on her desk in plain sight. The subject line was “Tainted Blood”, so I guessed she was on the panel.'

I was struggling to process the idea. ‘You stole information from an interviewee.'

Fenton leant forwards in his seat. ‘Journalists really aren't your favourite species, are they?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘If you find the bastards who're hurting these people, you won't care where the facts came from, and I can feel smug about helping put them away.' The conviction in his tone raised my curiosity.

‘Do you mind me asking why you quit being a war reporter?'

‘Too many of my colleagues died.' He hesitated for a moment. ‘My spell in hospital was the deciding factor.'

Something in his eyes had shut down, making me wonder how many fatalities he'd witnessed. It was clear he had nothing more to say, so I thanked him again and paid the bill. I scanned the crowd as I wove between the market stalls, but he was nowhere to be seen. Fenton still had the ability to vanish like a puff of smoke.

The journalist's comment gave me food for thought as a new squad car delivered me to the safe house, but my suspicions were growing. He had told me about Pure days before I realised that their logo was scrawled at every scene, and seemed to have a vested interest in how the story unfolded. I reassured myself that there was no reason why a reputable journalist would begin a murder spree, yet his interest in the case seemed unnaturally keen. Burns would probably think I was crazy, but I made a mental note to get him checked out. I called the station before entering the safe house to let them know that Emma Selby might have been on the Tainted Blood panel. If Fenton was correct, she would need immediate protection, before she met the same fate as the other victims.

G
urpreet passed me his case notes hurriedly, which wasn't his usual style. Normally he lingered over our catch-up meetings, concern for Mikey making him reluctant to leave.

‘My daughter's birthday party starts in half an hour,' he said. ‘My wife'll kill me if I'm late.'

I touched his arm. ‘Enjoy it. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Mikey kept trying to speak that afternoon, his jaw straining although no sound emerged. The patients I'd worked with often described muteness as a physical constraint, like choking or being gagged. He only seemed to relax when we cooked together. We were finishing our meal when a loud explosion sounded outside, his spoon clattering to the table, expression terrified.

‘It's just fireworks, Mikey; it's bonfire night soon. Want to take a look?'

The boy's bravery showed itself again when he followed me into the garden, even though he was trembling. We stood together as another rocket showered the horizon in silver and
gold. When I looked at his face, something had changed. For once Mikey's expression was like any other child's, rapt and optimistic as he watched the skyline glitter. The sight of his enjoyment made me relax for the first time in weeks, even though the explosions overhead were loud as gunshots.