Blood Symmetry (26 page)

M
y stomach carried on doing slow somersaults at the memory of Dawn Coleman's murder scene as the morning passed. I was still feeling queasy at lunchtime, but at least my profile report had a new dimension: the killers' fascination with blood extended beyond medical history to religious symbolism. It was worth looking at anyone in Pure with religious convictions; it seemed too coincidental that Father O'Casey had heard such a tortured confession just before Dawn's body was found. As the afternoon ticked past, my anger grew harder to control. The choice of location underlined how sick the killers were: they had shown no remorse about depriving children of their parents, yet they still believed they had right on their side.

The ageing copper guarding the safe house that afternoon gave me a baleful stare, as though I was guilty of keeping him from his dinner. Most of the Met's spare manpower had been diverted to investigate Dawn Coleman's murder, and protect the five remaining members of the advisory panel. Gurpreet's smile looked strained when I found him in the kitchen.

‘Mikey's gone even deeper into his shell,' he said.

‘That's not your fault, you've been great with him.'

He seemed so upset that I gave him a brief hug goodbye. I was grateful for the unconditional kindness he'd shown Mikey since the start of his ordeal.

The boy was kneeling on the floor in his room, using the art materials I'd brought him days before. He was building an elaborate structure from folded pieces of card, his stare a little too focused, as if he was running a fever.

‘You look busy, sunshine.'

‘Almost there,' he muttered.

His hands flew as he worked on the model. It looked like a miniature fortress, with square walls and turrets.

‘I like your castle,' I said. ‘Dinner's in half an hour.'

He was too busy sticking down corners to respond. The evening followed the same pattern as before. We sat in front of the TV, his head on my shoulder. He seemed glad to accept the comfort of a mother substitute, but my feelings were more complex. The people I loved could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and I'd never had a child depend on me before. Behaviourists say that parental love stems from biological programming, but my feelings for Mikey had nothing to do with genetics. He'd breached my emotional defences and it was too late to shut them down. I let my hand coast across his temple, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

‘Time for bed, Mikey.'

He was close to sleep when I checked on him again. His sky-blue gaze fixed on me as he pointed at his cardboard fortress, windows and brickwork picked out in black ink. It looked so impregnable that anyone entering the huge doors would never escape.

‘Not far now,' he said firmly.

‘Get some sleep, sweetheart.' I kissed his forehead, then left him alone.

Back downstairs I toiled on my computer, entering the coordinates of the Church of the Precious Blood. New location analysis software was part of the Home Office's latest profiling programme, helping to link sites in a crime series.
The killers seemed to be using different systems for the calling cards and murder locations. The blood samples were scattered across a wide radius, but the killing sites were much more focused. The Old Operating Theatre and the Church of the Precious Blood were a stone's throw from each other, connected by a jagged red line. The software indicated that the killers were based at the heart of south London, not far from where Mikey had escaped from his abductors' car. My thoughts spun across suspects who lived inside the zone: the Pietersens, Gary Lennard, the Thorpes, Luke Mann. The names were another source of frustration. Dr Pietersen had been cleared, Lennard seemed too sick to harm anyone, and the Thorpes had a solid alibi for the morning Riordan was taken. Mann had a clean record and no identified motive for a string of blood-related attacks.

I was still puzzling at eleven o'clock when I called Burns. There was a quiet hiss of traffic when he picked up.

‘Where are you?' I asked.

‘The church on O'Meara Street. Pete's lot are back for the final check.'

‘Did they find anything?'

‘A syringe in the car. It's gone to the lab for DNA testing.'

‘That's a good start.'

‘What are you up to?'

‘Looking at maps. I'm sure Riordan's being held near where Mikey was found in Walworth. Maybe he heard or saw something that's leading him back there.'

Burns gave a loud sigh. ‘We've been through there like a dose of salts.'

‘Everything they do is symbolic. I'm almost certain the building they're using will be linked to haematology or blood sacrifice.'

‘We've just found out that some of Pure's members were
treated by Clare Riordan. They probably never realised she signed their rights away.'

‘Someone did. Is there anyone we know?'

‘Gary Lennard was a patient of hers years ago.'

‘He never mentioned it.'

‘We're checking his alibis.'

‘He's dying, Don. The guy can hardly stand up.'

I pictured Lennard at his elegant house in Deptford, struggling to breathe as he surveyed his oriental garden, with his ex-wife nursing him. Surely he was too sick to harm anyone now? But how would he react if he knew that one of his own doctors had signed a mandate denying him full compensation?

Burns gave a muffled curse, followed by loud footsteps.

‘Are you okay?'

‘It's pissing down here, I had to run to the car.'

Outside the French windows, a flurry of rain pelted the glass. ‘Do you ever wonder how life'll be when this is over?'

‘We'll be sunning ourselves in Morocco.'

‘Don't make idle promises.'

‘I've found the perfect hotel.'

I let out a laugh. ‘Get some sleep before you keel over.'

The rain had stopped when I rang off, the grubby walls of the living room collapsing in on me. I followed my night-time tradition and stepped outside, breathing the city's smell of diesel and damp air, listening to the mosquito buzz of a plane landing at City airport. But when my eyes opened again, panic flooded my system. This time there was no room for doubt; a hooded figure stood at the end of the garden, motionless between the trees. It was too dark to be sure, but the slim frame convinced me it was a woman. I hit the panic button as I rammed the door shut behind me, fumbling with the key. Were all the bedroom windows locked? I ran upstairs and peered into Mikey's room. His thin form lay curled under the
duvet, my pulse steadying again.

The taciturn policeman was in the kitchen when I got back downstairs.

‘Something wrong?' His tone suggested that I'd raised the alarm just to annoy him.

‘Someone was in the back garden just now.'

His eyebrows rose. ‘You'd better show me.'

I pointed through to the French windows, feeling a twinge of embarrassment. The back wall was at least eight feet high; an intruder would have to be pretty limber to hurl themselves over.

‘We should call the station.'

‘The garden's empty now.' He studied my face. ‘You look exhausted, love. Maybe you're imagining things.'

I counted to ten before responding. Something about being blonde and child-sized made it easy for people to doubt me. I grabbed my phone and called Burns's number on speed dial. ‘We've had an intruder, Don. The building's secure, but I need more guards. Forensics should check outside.'

The officer threw me an angry scowl. ‘You'll look pretty stupid if you're wrong.'

‘Why don't you wait outside? New officers are coming to replace you.'

My hands were shaking. The combination of seeing the shadowy figure and having my judgement questioned had kick-started an adrenalin rush. Hancock listened in silence when he arrived, then searched the garden with one of his juniors, torch beams strafing the back wall. Pete's face was grave when they returned. They'd found scuff marks on the bricks and damaged plants where someone had landed on the undergrowth. I felt grateful that he'd come himself, instead of sending a team member, after toiling at Dawn Coleman's murder site all day.

‘Thank God,' I said. ‘I was beginning to think I'd seen a ghost.'

Pete shook his head. ‘Ghosts don't leave dirty great boot-prints on wet ground. You might as well put the kettle on; I'm staying till the guards arrive.'

T
he woman's body aches, legs bruised from hauling herself over the wall. Anger and frustration make her head pound as she hides in the shadows. From here she can keep track of the police cars arriving and leaving, grim-faced men thrashing through the shrubs. It angers her that she came so close. She'd been hiding between the trees when the shrink raised her stupid, doll-like face to the sky. If she'd waited nearer the house, she could have overpowered her and taken the child. It would have been easy to force him over the wall then drag him back to the car.

When the boy appears at an upstairs window, she feels a shot of pure hatred for his mother. Another police car pulls up on the alleyway behind the house and she steals a last look at the child. The distance is too wide to read his expression, but she can see his hands splayed on the glass, like he's trying to claw his way out.

‘Any day now,' she promises, then backs away.

I
caught a whiff of gunpowder when I crossed the Thames the next morning. Two huge barges were slowly drifting west, laden with fireworks for the following night's display. Guy Fawkes Day had almost arrived without me noticing time slipping by. There was an incendiary atmosphere in the incident room when I arrived, too. The roar of conversation from detectives gathered round the coffee machine told me there must have been a development. Angie bustled over as I took off my coat, her face animated.

‘Where've you been, Alice? I left three messages.'

‘My phone was on silent, sorry.'

‘We found Eleanor Riordan. She's confessed to killing her sister.'

My briefcase slipped from my hand. ‘She admitted to it?'

‘One of the sergeants heard the whole story in the car when she was picked up. The boss wants her assessed in half an hour. You can read this in the meantime; it's Roger Fenton's background file.'

She passed me a slim manila wallet before returning to her colleagues. The journalist's youth had been affluent but unremarkable: born in Surrey in 1978, he'd attended a minor public school, then read law at Edinburgh University. Just one conviction on his record for cannabis possession in his twenties, which had incurred a fine and community service. Maybe casual drug use was the reason he'd abandoned law and opted
for journalism, working as an intern on
The Times
before gaining a staff job. He'd spent years jetting between war zones: Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan. The next page was a medical report. Fenton had been caught in a bomb blast in Kabul, returning to the UK by the time of the attack on John Mendez at the end of January. The journalist had sustained a ruptured spleen, his operation requiring a full blood transfusion. I flipped the folder shut again, trying to steady my nerves. There must be millions of people who'd gone through similar experiences without becoming obsessed by blood, yet Fenton's life history left me wondering if there was something I'd overlooked.

Eleanor Riordan's arrival seemed to have changed the team's mood from despair to relief; everyone was in party spirits. Burns was standing by his desk when I found him in his office, phone pressed to his ear as he motioned for me to sit. I could tell he was urging Scotland Yard to suppress news of the arrest. After the conversation ended, he settled both hands on my shoulders, the height difference between us making me wish I was a foot taller, so we could see eye to eye.

‘You had another drama last night, didn't you?'

‘I survived,' I said. ‘But PC Plod didn't help.'

Burns looked embarrassed. ‘He's been warned, and the kid's being moved today. We can't take any chances.'

‘How did you find Eleanor Riordan?'

‘One of the sightings from
Crimewatch
came up trumps. She's been lying low in a B&B in Richmond, using a false name.'

‘Has she got a solicitor?'

‘He's been here an hour. Let's see what she's got to say.'

Riordan was waiting in an interview room, where morning light spilled on to grey lino and a scratched Formica table. The space wasn't ideal for sharing secrets: chilly, with a smoked-glass observation window sunk into the wall. Half a dozen people would be crammed into the monitoring room
next door, watching our every move. Eleanor Riordan looked calmer than before, her hair swept into a neat ponytail. She wore jeans, knee-length boots and a charcoal grey jumper; smart but comfortable clothes, ideal for a weekend away. Her makeup was flawless too, mascara and pale lip gloss, deliberately low key. Riordan's solicitor was much less well groomed; a balding, middle-aged man who looked out of his comfort zone, sweat glistening on his upper lip.

‘Good to see you again, Eleanor,' I said.

‘I bet.' Her expression soured. ‘You can relax now, can't you?'

‘That depends on your story.'

‘I killed my sister. There's nothing else to say.'

‘Talk me through what happened, please, from the start.'

She folded her arms. ‘She was out running with Mikey in the clearing where you saw me. I drove to some woodland and dumped her there.'

‘How did you kill her?'

‘I put a pillow over her face on the back seat of my car.'

‘What did you do with the pillow?'

Her mouth flapped open then closed again. ‘I threw it away.'

‘Did Luke help you?'

She blinked rapidly. ‘Of course not. He's not involved.'

‘Where did you leave her body exactly?'

‘Epping Forest. We went there as kids for picnics.' Her composure was cracking, a panicked look in her eyes.

‘Luke's been worried about you, Eleanor. Why didn't you answer his calls?'

‘I couldn't.' She pressed her hand to the side of her face. ‘It's been hard to think straight.'

‘Have you seen the news?'

She shook her head. ‘There was no TV in my room.'

‘Your story will be checked very carefully. Are you sure the
details are correct?'

‘Why would I lie?'

‘Tell me about John Mendez, Lisa Stuart, Jordan Adebayo and Dawn Coleman.'

‘It was my sister I hurt. No one else.' She fell silent, her face contorting. I understood now why she'd dressed so smartly: she wanted to look in control as the last shreds of her sanity slipped away. Her voice was little more than a whisper when she spoke again. ‘I went for her with a knife; I couldn't stop myself.'

‘We found Clare's blood on her kitchen floor, but she was attacked back in August. You haven't seen her since, have you?'

When she spoke again her tone was as high and singsong as a lullaby. ‘I feel better when I walk on the common. We used to play hide-and-seek there, before things turned bad. Mum taught us the names of all the trees: alder, blackthorn, elder.'

‘Life's been tough lately, hasn't it? We heard about your pregnancies.'

‘Luke never could keep a secret,' she said, scowling.

‘What kind of medication are you on, Eleanor? Fluoxetine, sertraline?'

‘I'm not ill,' she snapped.

‘Postnatal depression's a serious condition. You need to see a counsellor.'

Her eyes glistened. ‘I hurt my sister. You have to believe me; we attacked each other for years.'

‘Your claims will be investigated, but if they're false you'll need to spend time in hospital. A Home Office psychiatrist will see you tomorrow.'

Maybe she realised she was inches from being sectioned, because she burst into a storm of tears. Her solicitor's hand hovered above her shoulder, like it was unethical to offer
comfort.

‘That won't please the bigwigs,' Burns muttered when we got back to his office. ‘They're desperate for a conviction.'

‘At least we know why Riordan's blood was on her kitchen floor. Depending on how long Eleanor's recent pregnancy lasted, it could be post-partum psychosis, which increases violent tendencies. Or the grief of so much loss could have destabilised her. The sisters had been at loggerheads for years. Clare had everything Eleanor wanted: their parents' love, the house, a child. The court case had taken all her money.'

Burns frowned. ‘She might still be one of the killers.'

‘The psychology doesn't make sense. She's got no reason to harm any of the other victims; she didn't even recognise their names. A fit of temper made Eleanor stab her sister, and now the guilt's hit home. It's interesting that Clare protected her identity when Pietersen came to the rescue; perhaps there's more residual loyalty between them than you'd expect.'

‘You think Clare going missing was one loss too many?'

‘She seems obsessed by it. The psychiatrist can assess her again tomorrow, but if I'm right she'll need counselling and medication.'

When I looked at Burns again, he was on his feet, the crown of his head level with the light fitment. It was tempting to walk into his arms for a quick shot of comfort, but Angie burst in before I could move a muscle.

‘Riordan's solicitor's bleating about mental suffering, boss. He wants her bailed.'

Burns's work persona snapped back in an instant. ‘Tell him to get real. If she's lied, she'll be put on a psychiatric ward, or we'll sue her for wasting our time.'