Blood Symmetry (27 page)

T
he man spends the afternoon alone at home. When he peers from the front window there's no sign of her, and she's not answering her phone. It terrifies him that she may have been caught. He levers himself from the chair, the stab of pain in his right side strong enough to take his breath away. But there's a last promise he has to fulfil, and he can't let her down. He drags himself along the hallway to collect his keys.

It takes half an hour to drive to Bermondsey; he leaves his car parked at the end of the cul-de-sac. Classical music drifts from the radio, a Chopin étude for piano, one of his favourites. While the music plays he can almost imagine himself young again, with nothing to forgive. He does his best to stay awake, but the melody lulls him. When his eyes snap open again dusk has fallen and it's almost too late. An unmarked police car is pulling away and he catches a glimpse of the boy's dark hair. He keeps the vehicle in sight as they cross Tower Bridge, but by Shadwell it's vanished. Traffic clogs the road ahead; the dark blue car is swallowed by a sea of metal. It surfaces again at the next lights and he parks by Shadwell Pier; through his binoculars he sees the child being led away, clutching a duffel bag.

Another flare of pain burns across his torso as he slips the binoculars back into their case. Now he knows where the boy is being kept; a flat this time, close to the river. It crosses his mind to keep the information to himself so the child can stay safe, but he can't let the woman down. He takes out his phone and calls her again.

T
here was still no sign of Burns when I woke after a fitful night, but it was clear that he'd been home – yesterday's shirt was heaped on a chair. I was getting a picture of why his marriage had failed: with two small boys to look after, his wife must have viewed his work ethic as constant desertion. I pushed the thought to the back of my head and focused on Mikey; my first impulse was to check on him. The house in Bermondsey might have been drab and comfortless, but moving to another location was bound to disturb him. In a world without certainties, he needed as much security as possible. I called Gurpreet as soon as I'd showered.

‘We're off to the supermarket,' he said. ‘See you in an hour.'

The conversation felt surreal. We were sharing responsibility for a child whose mother was being tortured, yet calmly chatting about going shopping. I used the extra time to smarten my appearance, relieved that there was no one hogging the bathroom while I straightened my hair and applied makeup. When I'd put on slim black trousers, a cashmere sweater, low-heeled suede boots and my favourite Liberty's coat, I felt presentable for once. A text from Lola arrived as I was about to leave. It was a reminder that I'd promised to help her shop for a wedding dress later that week; there would be champagne and canapés for the bridal party while she tried on endless outfits. I sent a quick reply promising to be there, then set off down the stairs.

My new driver blinked at me when I reached the car park in the basement. The officer was in his mid-twenties, Middle Eastern with black hair and classic good looks. He opened the passenger door with an old-fashioned flourish. My vanity expanded when I caught him checking me out while I fastened my seatbelt. So far he'd been too tongue-tied to say hello.

‘What's your name?' I asked.

‘Hussein. I'm your driver for the day.'

‘I guessed you might be. Shadwell first, please, Hussein.'

He gave me his life story while traffic stalled on Southwark Bridge Road. His parents were from Damascus; he'd finished a social policy master's degree in London, but opted for the Met instead of social work. His long-term relationship had just ended because his girlfriend hadn't wanted to get married. He studied me thoughtfully, as though I might cure his romantic problems.

‘What about you?' he asked.

‘I've been a psychologist for years. It's the only job I ever really wanted.'

‘Single?'

I glanced at him. ‘Don't push your luck.'

‘We could have dinner some time.'

‘Nice offer, but I'm seeing your chief officer.'

‘DCI Burns?' His shoulders stiffened. ‘Sorry, I didn't know.'

‘It's okay, he won't fire you.'

By the time we swung right down Wapping High Street, Hussein had switched to friendship mode, lamenting the smallness of his rented flat and telling me about his desire for promotion. When he pulled up behind an apartment block near Shadwell Basin I was about to say goodbye, but he insisted on escorting me inside. I'd been so spooked by the previous night's intruder that it felt good to have company. Hussein seemed in his element as we crossed the tarmac, keeping up a steady stream of chatter.

The apartment block was far more upmarket than the safe house. A concierge in a smart navy uniform was guarding a set of lifts with mirrored doors. Despite my fear of confined spaces, I forced myself inside, watching the numbers tick by until we reached the tenth floor. The flat resembled a new hotel, with minimal furnishing, bare floorboards and mirrors to maximise the light. Silence echoed from its walls instead of the usual throb of the TV. I explored the place while waiting for Mikey and Gurpreet. The outlook was the apartment's best feature, floor-to-ceiling windows giving a panoramic view across the Thames. The river looked dark as gun metal, bus boats scratching its surface like etching needles on a steel plate.

‘Any danger of a cup of tea?' Hussein hovered in the doorway.

‘I'd love one, thanks.'

He muttered a quiet insult before retreating to the kitchen. I was still admiring the wraparound balcony when my phone hummed in my pocket. Tania's voice was too garbled to make out her words.

‘Slow down, I can't hear you.'

‘The boy's been taken,' she said. ‘We just found out.'

My thoughts ground to a standstill. ‘How?'

‘From the car. Our guys were following but it happened in moments. Singh's being treated for a broken jaw.' She blew out a long breath. ‘There's nothing you can do, Alice. Sit tight till Burns calls.'

The line fell silent and my thoughts scrambled, even though calmness would be my only chance of helping to find Mikey. Tania's advice slipped from my mind; it would be impossible to wait quietly when someone I loved was in danger.

T
he woman waits for a convoy of squad cars to chase east, sirens blaring. Then she drives in the opposite direction, a serene smile on her face. The man studies her again. She's still beautiful, even though she's lost her humanity.

‘Thank God,' she murmurs. ‘I thought we'd never get away.'

‘You realise this is where it ends for me, don't you?'

‘I'm not surprised. You've been squeamish about it from day one.'

‘He's an eleven-year-old boy.'

‘And our biggest weapon. He'll make her tell us more names.'

The man grits his teeth. ‘We had a point to prove. But you don't even remember it, do you?'

‘You're so self-righteous.'

‘I'm too tired for this.'

Suddenly her face softens, her hand on his arm. ‘I know, sweetheart, but it's nearly over. Just meet me in the lab tonight like we agreed.'

The man looks away. It's painful to glimpse the tenderness her rage is destroying, the light fading as the city speeds past. He doesn't want to consider what lies ahead. If she makes him stay in the room when she hurts the boy, he'll be forced to cover his eyes.

H
ussein had enough sense to leave me alone, his flirtatious manner gone in an instant. The facts didn't add up. I kept picturing Mikey struggling in the back of a stranger's car as it speeded away. It was difficult to focus on what to do next. I had always believed that he knew where his mother was being held, hidden on one of the narrow Walworth streets we'd already explored.

Mikey's new room was at the end of the corridor, large and airy, with pale blue walls. The sight of his abandoned clothes made my stomach convulse; a hooded top slung across the chair, as though he might return at any minute. I scanned the room for anything that could help. There were few personal items, apart from his Xbox and phone, pens and pencils, and the square cardboard fortress he'd been building. The drawings in his sketchbook gave no new information, apart from reminding me that his memory was extraordinary. Each picture recreated Clapham Common with obsessive clarity. I found his drawing of Portland Street, where he'd escaped three weeks before, but it offered no new information.

It felt like I was clutching at straws when I searched my bag for Emma Selby's sheet of addresses, eyes racing across the list of buildings relevant to blood history, her notes scribbled in spiky black handwriting. The only one with a Walworth postcode was a World War Two depot that had stored seventy thousand gallons of blood during the Blitz. The locations on the list
had already been checked by Angie's team, but I couldn't just twiddle my thumbs, waiting for the phone to ring.

‘There's somewhere I need to visit.'

Hussein raised his head. ‘Aren't you meant to stay here?'

‘Change of plan.'

Luckily he was too green to argue. A fleet of police cars raced towards Wapping as we got back into the car, the Met focusing on the spot where Mikey had been taken before the evidence went cold. But my approach would be different. It didn't matter where he'd been abducted, I had to discover where he was being held. The killers believed that Skipton House in Elephant and Castle was where their cause had been lost, because the health minister had signed papers there after the enquiry, denying full compensation. It made sense that they would torture their victims near the site of the biggest injustice. I did my best not to let my mind settle on Mikey as the car edged through traffic. If I dwelled on what he was suffering, my nerve would evaporate.

The blood depot lay at the heart of Walworth. It was a large 1930s building with striking Art Deco features, arched windows and ornate plasterwork, but its days as a warehouse had ended decades ago. The place had been divided into flats, rows of doorbells beside the glass entrance. A wave of disappointment hit me when I realised that the killers couldn't be using the place as their headquarters, even though its history would have attracted them. The depot might have kept the city's heart beating during the war, but it wouldn't serve as a hiding place now. Floodlights lined the car park's boundary, any suspicious behaviour visible from the higher floors. Hussein tagged me as I circled the building, but a glance through the windows of an outhouse revealed nothing more incriminating than a lawn mower, cans of paint and a set of ladders.

‘Shouldn't we go back?' he asked.

‘Not till I finish searching.'

Luckily he agreed without complaint, even though his expression was baffled as we continued south down Walworth Road. I asked him to pull up when we reached Burgess Park. My eyes were scanning the tennis courts and boating pond when the sky ignited. So many fireworks burst on the horizon, it looked like the sky was on fire. Even though I had always loved bonfire night, the display failed to lighten my mood. The only thing that could brighten my day would be to find Mikey unharmed.

‘We've come too far,' I muttered. ‘Take me back to Westmoreland Road.'

I wanted to return to the spot where Mikey had escaped from the killers' car three weeks before. It terrified me that the boy had evaded death once already. I stared at the lights flaring on the horizon as we drove, aware that the boy would need more than luck to escape a second time.

Hussein navigated the narrow streets of Walworth, and when we drew close to Portland Street, Mikey's catchphrase repeated in my mind: ‘Almost there, not far now.' I felt certain he'd heard the abductors saying the words. I stared at his drawing again, focusing on the figure hiding between ramshackle buildings, surrounded by garages and parked cars. What if Mikey hadn't been running away at all, but following the car to find his mother? An odd pressure built in my chest, like a dam waiting to burst.

‘Let's walk from here.'

The young PC gave a half-hearted nod. ‘What are we looking for?'

‘I'll know when I see it.' I brought up a street map on my phone. ‘We need to search all the roads off Portland Street for old buildings and churches.'

‘Want me to bring a torch?'

‘That would help.'

Hussein sighed as we set off, fireworks still exploding over our heads every few minutes, lighting our way then leaving us in darkness again. The young officer must have been longing to be back in Wapping, part of a huge team solving a crime. Instead he was traipsing through the suburbs on a wild-goose chase, taking orders from a woman who was fraying at the seams. Luckily he was too polite to voice his doubts, running his torch beam across the pavement, like the answer to Mikey's disappearance lay trapped between paving stones. I called Burns as we reached a crossroads, but was patched through to his answering service.

‘Where now?' Hussein asked.

I studied my map. ‘North first, I want to cover a half-mile radius from here.'

‘That'll take hours.' A peevish tone had entered his voice.

I turned to face him. ‘A child's in danger, Hussein. He's escaped from a car near here once already. It's possible they've brought him back. You want him found, don't you?'

My urgent tone seemed to prick his conscience. He gave a rapid nod, increasing his pace as we set off again. Our tour revealed an area of London that lacked money, but had plenty of pride. A small, well-kept primary school stood opposite narrow houses built cheek by jowl. Our search was yielding little except evidence of gentrification, skips full of old-fashioned baths and abandoned kitchen units.

‘What about down there?' Hussein asked, pointing to a dark alleyway.

‘It's worth a look.'

The ground was rough underfoot, leaves rotting on the cobbles, wrappers from fireworks, a stink of decaying food. Something fluttered in the shadows at our feet.

‘What's that?' Hussein's voice was edged with panic.

‘Rats, probably.'

His breathing was ragged as we retraced our steps. I didn't have the heart to point out that we were outnumbered; the city contained far more vermin than human beings. The search was starting to feel like a bad dream, but it beat waiting at the station, chewing my fingernails to the bone.

We headed north up Brandon Street. There was little to see, apart from a sign outside a Seventh Day Adventist church claiming that God loves the faithful. I would gladly have offered a prayer to keep Mikey safe, even if it felt like a shot in the dark. We passed a sign for community art studios and a new building development without slowing down. Somewhere in this teeming city, a young boy was being held captive. To stop myself falling apart, I had to believe that he was still alive.