Blood Symmetry (12 page)

I
found myself in Euston at ten a.m., just two hours after calling the Wellcome Trust Centre to locate an expert on blood, four lanes of traffic racing past me towards King's Cross. The centre was an imposing piece of neoclassicism, built from square-edged limestone. The grand interior made me wish I had more time. Signs on the wall pointed towards exhibits on the history of medicine and scientific breakthroughs. In an ideal world I could have spent hours browsing through their archive.

The academic who had agreed to see me was called Dr Emma Selby, her name vaguely familiar. When I tapped on her door she looked more like an actress than a scientist. Her hair was a wild mass of chocolate-brown curls; small, wire-framed glasses balanced on the tip of her nose. She must have been around my age, dressed in a short emerald green dress, showcasing slim legs and smart patent-leather boots. Her steady gaze suggested that self-doubt didn't feature in her emotional repertoire, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

‘Don't you remember me, Alice?'

‘Sorry, you'll have to remind me.'

‘We were at medical school together. I left after the first year; the long hours didn't suit me. I jumped sideways into the history of medicine.'

‘Emma, of course. How nice to see you again.' The memory returned as I looked at her more closely; she had stood out in my class of fifty trainees, more flamboyant and assertive than
the rest of us. ‘I managed two years, then switched to psychology. Most of my work's forensic these days.'

‘You must fill me in some time over coffee. I hope you've got a complicated question, so I can neglect my research for a while.'

‘It's hard going?'

‘My new book's about blood-borne illnesses in Victorian days. They thought vaccines would heal the world, but even wonder drugs have limits.' She wrinkled her nose. ‘How can I help?'

‘I'm working on an abduction case. I need to find out if some locations in London are linked by the history of blood medicine.'

‘You're in the right city, plenty of breakthroughs happened here. Which sites do you mean?'

‘Bishopsgate, first of all.'

‘A nobleman called Sir Thomas Gresham lived there in the seventeenth century. His house doesn't exist any more, but the Royal Society of London used it as their headquarters; one of their members was Christopher Wren. He carried out the first animal-to-animal blood transfer there in 1665 on greyhound dogs.'

‘How on earth do you know all that by heart?'

She laughed. ‘My PhD was on early blood treatments. I can't seem to forget a word of it.'

Evidence of her obsession was scattered across her office. Medical reference books and journals lined the shelves, wall charts listing blood disorders with dates for known cures. ‘Bishopsgate was the site of the first-ever transfusion?'

Emma gave a wry smile. ‘I'd have loved to be a fly on the wall, but the Royal Society barred women for another two centuries.'

‘What about the path lab at Guy's?'

‘James Blundell was an obstetrician there in the nineteenth century. He was the first doctor to use human blood for transfusions, but he killed as many patients as he cured. They didn't know about blood types back then; receiving the wrong kind of transfusion is a quick way to die.'

‘Is there a link with St George's Medical School?'

‘My memory fails me. But hang on, I'll look it up.'

She pulled down a leather-bound reference book, thumbing through pages at high speed. ‘Doctor Samuel Taylor Lane carried out the first transfusion on a haemophiliac patient there in 1840. Most of them died too, from the looks of it. Blood injections were like Russian roulette until they learned about compatibility.'

‘Why would those three places obsess someone?'

Her expression grew thoughtful. ‘They're all cornerstones in the history of blood treatment. Someone might be curious if they'd had a transfusion.'

‘Do you know much about the Tainted Blood enquiry?'

‘Only that the scandal was a national tragedy, carefully hushed up,' she replied, frowning. ‘No one's ever been prosecuted.'

‘You think they should have been?'

‘The buck stops with the government, doesn't it? They bought infected blood from abroad and patients got sick as a result.'

The phone on her desk began to ring before I could ask another question. Emma ignored it, but I could see she was eager to return to work. ‘You've chosen a fascinating topic for your research.'

Her smile returned. ‘It's where human life begins and ends; blood's the cause and the cure of so many illnesses.'

‘If you remember any more locations that share the theme, give me a ring. Thanks for your help, Emma.'

‘It was good to take a break; too much thinking about this
stuff turns me into a vampire. Let's have a drink soon and catch up.'

‘That sounds good.'

I only had to walk three blocks to University College Hospital to find Fiona Lindstrop's pathology department; it was in the basement beside the mortuary, for ease of access to the cadavers stored in its floor-to-ceiling fridges. The smell of formaldehyde, antiseptic and physical decay hit me as soon as I entered the corridor. Burns had arrived already, hands buried in the pockets of his coat, his scowl melting when he caught sight of me.

‘Ready to enter the kingdom of death?'

I shook my head. ‘Not just yet. What have you been up to?'

‘Hunting for the idiot who blabbed to the press.' He nodded at the entrance to the pathology department. ‘Come on, the dragon lady's waiting.'

We found Lindstrop peering at the corpse of an elderly man. His body was so emaciated it looked like he'd died of malnutrition, ribs poking through his skin. The pathologist gave Burns a mocking salute when we entered, tugging down her surgical mask. She pulled a sheet over the old man's body as if she wanted to save his blushes.

‘Bothering me again, DCI Burns?'

‘I couldn't stay away.'

Her eyes glinted with amusement. ‘You've finally succumbed to my allure?'

‘Years ago, Fiona. You know that.'

While she flirted with Burns, I wondered how long she'd spent staring death in the face. She looked around sixty, rotund with short grey curls, a flush of excitement on her cheeks, as if each new autopsy was more thrilling than the last. She was already bustling over to a table in the corner, rolling
up the sleeves of her white coat.

‘I've got the toxicology reports from Riordan's blood samples.' Lindstrop slipped her plastic gloves into her pocket, then handed over two separate sets of results. ‘Let's see what you remember from your med school days, Alice. This sheet's from the first deposit, the next from the most recent. See any differences?'

I scanned the reports. ‘She was healthy, but now she's sick.'

‘How do you know?'

‘High lipid ratio, too much cortisol and markers for three different drugs.' I stared at her. ‘What the hell are they doing?'

‘Nothing good, I'm afraid.' Her face grew solemn. ‘The lipids mean she's processing her own essential fat stores, like in anorexia cases. Cortisol's released into the bloodstream when there's prolonged stress, and someone's giving her a cocktail of the strongest drugs available.'

‘That sounds lethal,' Burns muttered.

‘She could last for weeks, with just enough food and water to survive,' Lindstrop said. ‘The drugs are interferon and ribavirin, normally given to patients with blood-borne viruses. The heroin could just be to pacify her.'

‘The blood samples show how she's being treated,' I said.

‘They're as clear as a medical report.' Lindstrop's ferocity had vanished. Maybe she could tell that her usual imperious manner would have no impact. She looked almost sympathetic when we said goodbye.

Burns and I sat in a coffee bar opposite the hospital after we'd escaped from the path lab.

‘Each blood sample is less than twenty-four hours old,' I said. ‘They're giving her the same medicines she prescribes every day, but not telling us why. The thing I don't understand is why they changed their MO after the first two attacks. Given that Mendez was killed in minutes, the same could have
happened to Lisa Stuart, even though we haven't found her body.'

‘They've gone from quick attacks to torturing someone for days.'

‘This kind of escalation means the violence will get worse. Serial-killing partnerships always grow more extreme. There must be a purpose for keeping Clare; maybe they're patients taking revenge for poor treatment, or she's got information they want.'

‘Jesus.' Burns pushed his coffee cup to one side, face paler than before. ‘She must be terrified.'

I caught a taxi back to the station with Burns, then spent the next few hours updating my profile report. Emma Selby and the pathologist had both given me food for thought. The abductors were growing clearer in my mind. It was obvious that one of them was obsessed by details and history, while the other thrived on violence. But it was too early to guess which member of the partnership held the upper hand.

I was glad to leave the station by mid-afternoon. With an overload of worry about Mikey weighing on me, it was a relief to escape into the cold air, even if the media pack had returned to block my path. I kept my head down, so keen to evade them that I almost barged into a man in a smart trench coat, blocking my escape route. I had seen him hanging around the station for days with the other journalists. He was in his early forties with well-cut blond hair, a thin, intelligent face – more like a lawyer than a journalist. Only the pale scar on his jaw undermined his air of respectability.

‘Excuse me, are you Dr Quentin?' His accent was confusing, a London intonation softened by a West Country burr.

‘That's me.'

‘My name's Roger Fenton. Could you spare a minute?'

‘You're wasting your time. I can't discuss the case, I'm
afraid.'

He shook his head. ‘It's the other way round; I've got some information for you.'

There was something compelling about his quiet manner. When I glanced back the other reporters were circling closer, making me desperate to escape.

‘There's a café round the corner, but I don't have long.'

The walk gave me time to observe him. He was average height with well-honed bone structure, and a sombre expression, as if he was incapable of frivolity. Silence worked to his advantage. If he'd made small talk I would have suspected him of pumping me for information. It took several minutes to find a table, the café heaving with office workers enjoying late lunches.

‘Why are you talking to me instead of the police?' I asked when we finally sat down.

‘I read about you in the
Mail
yesterday. Someone on your team's been flouting the disclosure law.' He gave a narrow smile. ‘I'm hoping you'll let me interview you when the case ends.'

His statement was a reminder that the team members Burns had suspended had comprehensively blown my cover. ‘If you give me information that helps find Clare Riordan, you can have your interview, provided my name isn't used.'

He held up his hands. ‘Anonymity guaranteed.'

‘What have you got to say, Mr Fenton?'

‘Last summer I interviewed a doctor called Lisa Stuart for a piece on the medical profession. She went missing earlier this year.'

‘I know the case.'

He put down his cup. ‘There are parallels with Riordan, aren't there? Both are NHS medics, and Lisa's background was in haematology.'

My experience with journalists kept me silent; I was
intrigued by what he had to say, but had been caught out before. There was a chance he might be recording our discussion on his phone. Fenton's eyes held mine as he continued.

‘A haematology researcher called John Mendez was killed just a few months before. It made me wonder if someone was targeting blood specialists. Have you ever heard of a campaign group called Pure?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Do you remember the tainted blood scandal?'

‘It's been mentioned. Infected blood was imported from abroad, wasn't it?'

He nodded calmly. ‘Back in the Eighties, the government bought a clotting agent called Factor Eight from the USA. Anyone can sell their blood over there, including prisoners and sex workers, twenty-five dollars per donation. Almost five thousand haemophiliacs in the UK caught viruses from infected NHS transfusions. Hundreds more are dying from hepatitis and AIDS.'

‘Why did it only affect haemophiliacs?'

‘Most of them depended on Factor Eight medication. Without it many would have died.'

‘But their treatment turned out to be fatal?'

‘The government's never admitted responsibility. A lot of patients waited twenty years for the ex-gratia payments to arrive, and I can see why they're angry. The settlements were an insult. Pure campaigns for justice for the victims.'

‘You think there's a connection?'

‘Plenty of people who received tainted blood hate doctors as much as politicians. But Pure reacted badly when I contacted them.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Their top man, Ian Passmore, isn't keen on negative
publicity. My story mentioned that the survivors had reason to feel murderous. He threatened to sue me, then a few weeks later my flat got burgled; my computer, with all the research for the story, was stolen. I can't prove it was his doing, but it's what I suspect.'

‘You think someone's targeting any doctor who specialises in blood illnesses?'

His gaze sharpened. ‘It's more focused than that. Lisa let slip that she was on the panel for the Tainted Blood enquiry in 2012; I tried to find out who the other members were, but she wouldn't say. There has to be a link, doesn't there?'