Blood Symmetry (21 page)

A
t three a.m. the city slips by in silence. The woman is alone in the car, but she doesn't have far to travel. Two blood packs lie in a holdall on the back seat as she drives through Southwark, aware that she must complete the next stage alone. If the man was here, he would fill the car with music, but she prefers silence. From now on, it will be her responsibility to carry the burden.

Her first port of call is a quiet neighbourhood in Shad Thames. This is where the shrink lives, blonde and self-righteous, certain that she knows best. She's the worst kind of apologist: bright enough to sympathise, but too weak to take sides.

She parks on Providence Square and enters the apartment block through the fire exit. In moments she reaches the third floor. Back pressed to the wall, she approaches the security camera, covering the lens with duct tape. There's no sound as she hurls the pack against the door. The impact makes a dull thud as it hits the wood, blood arcing across the lintel. Dark red liquid oozes across the tiles as she runs back down the stairs.

The woman's next destination is higher risk. She threads west through Borough to the Elephant and Castle, crossing the ugly shopping centre bordering the roundabout. It's not easy to avoid street cameras when she conceals the car between office blocks on Ontario Street. She puts on a blue apron like
the ones worn by cleaners in the compound, then takes a bucket and mop from the boot. She adjusts her walk by a fraction, shoulders down, long fringe shading her face. By the time she's crossed the street, she's gained ten years, ready to start her second job of the day.

The security guards are deep in conversation when she arrives at the entrance. ‘You're late tonight, love,' one of them comments.

‘I got myself some overtime.' She shoots him a grin. ‘Lucky old me.'

‘Come on then, let's be having you.'

He presses the button to raise the barrier without a second look. She hurries across the quadrangle as if she knows exactly where she's going. Night cleaners are two a penny, an invisible workforce scouring the city while the executives dream. She can taste the evil on the air. The decision was rubber-stamped here: ministers agreeing a policy that failed so many, after lifetimes of suffering. She hides in the shadows. No one sees her empty half of the blood through a letterbox, leaving the rest on a wide set of steps.

She exits by a different gate. This time the guard is busy on his phone; releasing the gate when he spots her mop and overalls. The woman is miles away before the alarm goes up, sirens screaming from the compound's walls.

T
he smell hit me first – that butcher's-shop stench of meat decaying. I'd jogged up the steps to my flat, intending to collect a fresh set of clothes, but now I was frozen on the landing, choking back nausea as I studied the mess on my doorstep. The Pure symbol had been chalked beside a blood pack imprinted with Clare Riordan's name. The pulse of anger that hit me was strong enough to make me grit my teeth. Once I'd gathered my senses I grabbed my phone. Angie was a safer bet than Burns, who was bound to have a knee-jerk reaction.

Fifteen minutes later I saw her arriving from the landing window. Angie looked pale in the early morning light, grim-faced as she emerged from her car, Pete Hancock in tow. Reality hit home when two more squad cars appeared. Someone had walked into my apartment block while I slept at the safe house and spattered blood across my doorway. My mind chased back to the start of the investigation, trying to pinpoint who would target me, thoughts travelling too fast to make sense.

‘Causing trouble again, Alice?' Hancock was already kitted out in his white overalls as he climbed the steps. ‘You did the right thing staying outside. Are you okay waiting here till we finish?' His thick brows lowered a centimetre above small dark eyes, but today there was a flash of sympathy. Hancock's attitude had definitely softened since our chat in the café.

‘I'll survive, Pete.'

‘We'll talk when this is done.' His assistant was already securing tape across the stairwell, turning my home into a crime scene.

My legs felt like water as the drama unfolded. Angie was still downstairs organising her team, two uniforms stationed by the gates to the car park. I tried making myself useful by knocking on my neighbour's door, to find out if she'd heard anything, but there was no reply. My eyes were drawn to the horse chestnut tree at the centre of the square. It had finally shed its leaves, crooked branches poking fingers at the sky. I hugged my arms tighter around my body, feeling like a strong wind had stripped me to the bone. I was still standing by the window when Angie appeared beside me.

‘Cup of tea?' she asked.

‘Do I look that bad?'

‘Just a bit shocked. Are you up to talking?' She touched my shoulder. ‘Come on, Pete says we can go inside, if we wear overshoes.'

The tables had already turned. I'd used the same gentle tone on Gina Adebayo a week ago when her husband's blood had been left outside her Barbican flat, but this time I was the victim. Hancock and two junior SOCOs were still working in silence, dusting the doorframe and taking photographs of the darkening pool of blood. Even with overshoes it turned my stomach to step over it and unlock my door; there were a few red marks on my floorboards that I was desperate to scrub away. Angie's expression changed as she scribbled my statements in her notebook, a frown bisecting her forehead.

‘It can't be the Pietersens,' I said. ‘They're still in custody.'

Angie nodded. ‘Their house came up clean, so we're letting them go; they're off the suspect list. You know how this works, Alice. I need you to name all the people linked to the case who might know where you live.'

‘I'll do it now. Can you take another look at Denise and Simon Thorpe? They seem obsessed by Clare.'

‘The boss already asked me. I'll go back over their transcripts.'

‘Did the list of advisors come through yet from Whitehall?'

‘They're still refusing. Apparently the health minister was sent death threats before the enquiry began, so their names were classified. The civil servants are terrified about the press getting hold of the connection to the murders. The MoD's putting security in place for the other panel members.'

‘They haven't done a great job so far.'

Burns's footsteps announced him before he arrived, thundering across the landing. I heard him barking instructions at Hancock, then he loomed in the kitchen doorway, face chalk white against the black fabric of his coat.

‘Give us a minute, can you?' he told Angie, without shifting his gaze from my face. The kitchen door clicked shut as his hand gripped my arm. ‘You scared the living shit out of me.'

‘Why?'

‘I thought you'd been hurt.'

‘It's okay, I'm alive and kicking.'

‘Have you packed your bags?'

‘Sorry?'

His eyebrows rose. ‘They know where you live, Alice. You can't stay here.'

My mouth suddenly went dry. ‘If I've been followed, they'll know about the safe house too.'

‘We've doubled the level of patrol, but they probably don't even want the kid, it's medics they're targeting.' Burns sat at the kitchen table. ‘You'd better pack enough stuff for a few weeks.'

‘I can stay here, if the place is guarded.'

‘Whoever did this tortured Jordan Adebayo, then cut his throat. You don't want to be around if they come back, do you?' His voice had slowed, as if he was explaining something obvious to a five year old.

‘Don't patronise me, Don.'

‘Behave like a grown-up, then. Blood was left at Skipton House too, where the health ministry's civil servants are based. Get your stuff, then we're leaving.'

I exited the room to avoid a full-scale war. Knowing he had a point made me even more incensed. The stubborn part of me hated being driven from my home, but common sense confirmed that it was better to be safe than sorry. I stuffed clothes, shoes and underwear into a holdall, then grabbed my makeup bag. My foul mood deepened when I found Burns hunched in the same position, tapping out a phone message.

‘I should call Will,' I said.

‘Why?'

‘He'll let me stay on the boat.'

He didn't even look up. ‘You're coming to mine. The security's set up.'

I forced myself to count to ten. There was no point in haranguing him, even though I was ready to blow a gasket. The next half-hour passed in a blur of activity that left me even more frustrated. Burns and Angie were organising briefings, getting the blood pack couriered to the forensics lab, uniforms guarding the cordon. By the time we left, Hancock had my door key in his pocket and the place was no longer mine.

‘Let me carry those.' Burns reached for my bags when the lift arrived.

‘I can manage.'

He sighed loudly. ‘Jesus, you're hard to help.'

We drove through Borough without speaking, the radio on his dashboard bleating out a headache of messages. The turn
of events meant that I would have to conquer my fear of intimacy in double-quick time. Burns's flat had just two bedrooms, one the size of a shoebox, filled by his sons' twin beds. The only place to sleep would be his king-size bed. When we stood in the hallway, the air felt cold. He stared down at me, hands buried in the pockets of his coat.

‘Whatever it is, get it off your chest, Alice.'

‘I don't want you making decisions for me.'

‘Is that what this is about?'

‘You never negotiate. You just take over.'

It irritated me hugely that the attraction was still there, even though I felt like punching him; it was yet another thing I couldn't control. Desperate to do something practical, I carted my holdall to his bedroom and began to unpack. Tears came unannounced, spilling on to the clothes I'd piled on the bed.

‘Get a fucking grip,' I muttered to myself.

Burns appeared before I could wipe my eyes. It always surprised me that someone so large could move soundlessly. His arms closed round me before I could push him away. To his credit he didn't flinch, as if holding a woman while she sobbed was something he did every day. After a few minutes I was calm enough to listen when he spoke again.

‘Put your stuff anywhere you like. The guard'll be here till I get back.'

His thumb rubbed across my cheek, wiping it dry, then he was gone, leaving me to adjust. It occurred to me that I hadn't even thanked him for letting me stay.

I helped myself to a bowl of cornflakes and waited for the shock to subside. The rush of sugar helped stop my hands shaking, my mind steadying too. I flipped open my laptop to compile a list of suspects. It was depressingly clear that anyone with enough motivation could have found my address; the article in the
Mail
had exposed my role at the FPU. They could have
waited outside head office and followed me home from St James's Park; I'd been so preoccupied that I wouldn't have noticed someone trailing me to the Underground. I still felt certain that the killers had an intellectual interest in blood transfusion. Some of the people I'd interviewed had close links to Clare Riordan. But why would they target other blood specialists, unless they had a bigger point to prove about the Tainted Blood enquiry? Despite the ministry's refusal to reveal the members, the killers could somehow have tracked down the names and be working their way through the list. And the sites chosen for the blood deposits were no longer just places with historic relevance to blood medicine; now they included personal targets too. Gina Adebayo's husband had been taken, and I was helping to chase the killers down; blood had been thrown over both our doorsteps. But that took me no closer to finding the culprits. Ed and Imako Pietersen couldn't have deposited the blood because they'd been in police custody, their names removed from the suspect list. Sam and Isabel Travers might have done it, even though their relationship had broken down. They could have personal reasons for hating the NHS doctors they'd interviewed, Sam's failed affair with Clare Riordan triggering a rush of violence. Denise and Simon Thorpe both had medical backgrounds, but Burns was adamant that their alibis stacked up. And then there was Eleanor Riordan, running from the furore ever since I'd spotted her at the scene of her sister's abduction. The last on my list was Ian Passmore, whose righteous anger had become his modus operandi. I scanned the names again. Whoever was carrying out the crimes was calm enough to stroll past security into the Health Ministry's compound, while their partner was capable of unparalleled violence.

I kept working until everyone I'd met since the start of the case was included on my list, then sent an encrypted email to
Angie. Too edgy to relax, I ran another search into Pure and found a
Times
article from 2012: PROTESTERS REJECT TAINTED BLOOD FINDINGS. The first thing that caught my eye was a picture of Ian Passmore being dragged along Downing Street by two policemen. His expression was calm but defiant, as though his crusade could last for ever. It had seemed too obvious that his campaign logo had been left at the crime scenes, but maybe he had uncovered the names of the government's advisors, his grief for his brother turning into violence. The article gave a measured account of the government's decision. A panel of experts had been consulted, but the health minister had denied guilt for allowing infected blood into the country, refusing to increase the victims' compensation. The story explained the situation coolly, but left no doubt that the patients deserved justice. When I scanned the report, the journalist's name jumped at me: Roger Fenton. I felt another pulse of concern. The journalist had shown a fascination with the case from the start, hanging around the station, quizzing me for information, and arriving first at the scene when Jordan Adebayo's body was found. But he was only doing his job as an investigative journalist, and it sounded like his injury had put him out of action at the time of the initial attack in January. I scribbled a reminder to contact him again. My mind still baulked at the idea that I was in personal danger, even though I'd seen the evidence lying in a dark red pool outside my door.

By four o'clock I was exhausted enough to flake out on Burns's sofa. I read a paragraph of his book on Jackson Pollack, then fell asleep. It was dark when I woke up, streetlight spilling through the windows. Lola had sent a terse message reminding me that Neal's birthday party would start at nine. I forced myself on to my feet; even in a crisis her temper was best avoided. It blew through her like a whirlwind, uprooting everything in its path.

Burns arrived while I was zipping myself into a dark red dress that looked demure from the front, but low enough at the back to expose most of my vertebrae. He stood in the hallway while I put on silver hooped earrings, with a stunned expression on his face.

‘This is how you face a death threat? Dress up and hit the town?'

I studied him over my shoulder. ‘It beats moping indoors.'

‘Don't you believe in staying safe?'

‘You're coming too. I'll have a personal bodyguard.'

‘Can't we stay here?' He skimmed his index finger down my back. ‘You look amazing.'

It crossed my mind to call and make an excuse, but the repercussions would have been endless. It took all my powers of persuasion to drag him into the taxi.

‘Is there any news?' I asked, as his hand closed over mine.

‘The blood at your flat's definitely Riordan's. The exit doors in your block weren't even locked.' Burns shot me a look of disgust, as if the security lapse was my fault alone.

Lola's flat was crammed with actors determined to enjoy themselves, which suited me fine. For a few hours I needed to forget that my home had been targeted. By eleven p.m. the party was in full swing, the room so packed that I lost sight of Burns. I chatted to a stunning Portuguese dancer, who made her living in the chorus line of a West End musical. A minute later I caught sight of Don on the other side of the room, absorbing Lola's chatter. From a distance he was a mass of contradictions: expensive jeans and cheap shoes; hard as nails but capable of tenderness. Someone tapped me on the shoulder while I observed him. When I swung round, my brother stood there, a bottle of beer gripped in his hand. I felt a quick stab of worry. Alcohol mixed badly with his psychoactive drugs – I scanned the room for Nina but couldn't see her
anywhere. There was no point in telling Will what had happened earlier; he lived with enough fears of his own. He looked edgier than I'd seen him in months. The strain showed in the tense set of his shoulders.