Blood Symmetry (29 page)

A
psychiatric nurse called Paula Ryman was with Mikey when I reached Shadwell the next morning. She was a colleague of Gurpreet's, a slender fifty year old with grey hair cut in a short, no-nonsense style. She looked concerned when I asked how Gurpreet was recovering from the attack.

‘He's on the mend at home, thank God. Apparently he tried to fight them off.'

I smiled at her. ‘That doesn't surprise me.'

‘I had one hell of a job getting Mikey to sleep,' she said. ‘The news about his mum isn't good. They're keeping her in the ICU.'

Sleep was what Mikey needed most, but I couldn't resist tiptoeing into his room. His thin face looked peaceful, no visible damage, even though his mother was fighting for her life. I crouched down to study the cardboard model at the foot of his bed. It was an accurate replica of the Health Laboratories, right down to the tiles around the central door, every detail correct. He must have tagged the killers to the place where his mother was held, but the drug he'd received had affected his memory, making it impossible to find his way back after he went looking for help. His mantra – ‘almost there, not far now' – finally made sense. He'd been able to picture where his mother was all along, but lacked the power to explain.

Anger overtook me during the taxi ride to the station. It was an emotion I normally ignored in professional contexts,
unwilling to let that quick surge of bitterness harden my mind. Most of it was directed at Denise Thorpe for lying through her teeth as she coolly demanded access to Mikey. I indulged a quick fantasy of strapping her to her own torture chair, before pushing it aside. The only way to bring the Thorpes to justice would be to ignore personal feelings and concentrate on evidence.

The incident room was running on a skeleton staff, just a handful of detectives hunkered over their computers filing late reports. Without the constant jangle of bleepers and phones, the place felt ghostly.

‘Peaceful, isn't it?' Angie appeared at my side.

‘It's like the
Mary Celeste
.'

‘The boss is at Scotland Yard. He wants Thorpe interviewed first, then his wife.'

Simon Thorpe's lawyer arrived early to meet his client. He was dressed in a sharp suit, ridiculously young and bright eyed, clearly aware that such a notorious trial would guarantee his place in legal history. Thorpe looked the worse for wear when he was brought from the holding cells, wrists straining against his handcuffs. The circles under his eyes were almost as black as his hair, making me doubt that he'd slept at all. There was no trace of his old charisma. He looked thinner than before, his skin jaundiced.

‘Ready to talk, Mr Thorpe?' Angie asked. He didn't reply, his stare chilly as a blast of cold air. ‘Say “no comment”, please, or your case will be tried on evidence alone. Do you understand?'

After a while her constant questioning seemed to take effect. His hands wouldn't keep still, a line of sweat thickening on his upper lip. Maybe he'd been hoping that silence would bring a measure of control. I flicked through his file as Angie chipped away at his defences. He had been born in Santa Monica, trained in London as a medic, then he'd worked in France for
several years before abandoning his medical career for psychotherapy.

‘You worked fast the day you took Clare,' Angie said. ‘A nurse saw your wife with her mother around nine o'clock, but you must have arrived later. I'm guessing Denise walked there alone. Did you leave Clare at the laboratory then go straight to the care home?'

Thorpe refused to answer, but his health record had caught my attention.

‘I see that you're a haemophiliac, Mr Thorpe.' I glanced at the page again. ‘Did you receive tainted blood in France? Is that what turned you against the medical profession?'

For the first time his expression faltered, as if I'd pinched a raw nerve, his silence forcing me to carry on.

‘Now that your hepatitis C has progressed to cirrhosis, it's surprising you're getting by on mild painkillers. Most patients would be using morphine. I can see why your medical history has made you angry.'

His American drawl sounded harder than before when he finally spoke. ‘My feelings aren't relevant. The UK treated its victims worst; the government lied and destroyed evidence. Everyone on the health panel was rewarded afterwards, with promotions and opportunities. Lisa Stuart admitted it.'

‘Where did you put her body?'

He looked contemptuous. ‘Regent's Canal by Acton's Lock.'

‘You threw her in?'

‘She fell.'

‘I'll bet she did,' Angie muttered. Her face was angry, but I felt relieved. Police divers would plunge into the canal's black water until Lisa Stuart's remains were found; her mother would be able to hold the funeral at last.

‘How did you get her name?' I asked. ‘The panel's membership was protected information.'

His eyes glinted. ‘Lisa was a client of mine, suffering from anxiety. She blamed the stress of working on the panel, but she accepted a promotion on the back of it.'

‘She told you that in a therapy session?'

‘That's how it began. She gave us Mendez's name straight away, and he was even more of a coward. He bleated out Clare's name in thirty seconds.'

‘You didn't know she was on the panel, even though she was a close friend?'

‘That was the worst thing. She knew how I'd suffered, but kept it secret. She did nothing to help.'

‘But she gave you Jordan Adebayo's name?'

‘And Dawn Coleman's. The guy from the blood bank wouldn't say a word.'

I felt a surge of respect for Adebayo. Despite his terrible death, he'd died a hero. It had taken weeks of torture to make Riordan reveal two names. If she lived, she would have to carry the consequences of naming her colleagues, but I doubted I would have shown as much courage.

‘Using the Pure logo was misleading. You must have realised it put Ian Passmore under suspicion.'

‘The symbol represents all the victims. We planned to announce our reasons at the end.'

‘Why did you and Denise target the panel members?'

‘They could have reversed the damage. If the government had apologised and compensated the victims fairly, every country in the world would have followed suit.'

Thorpe's lips sealed themselves in a thin line, but his gesture was different from Mikey's silence. While the boy had been desperate to shout the truth, Thorpe wanted to conceal his secrets. He refused to say another word before being taken back to his cell.

We had little time to compare notes before Thorpe's wife arrived, accompanied by her lawyer. He was elderly, dressed in
an ill-fitting tweed jacket, but his gaze was focused as a laser. Denise seemed even more detached than before, barely acknowledging us, her cloud of mouse-brown hair obscuring her face.

Angie offered a narrow smile. ‘Mrs Thorpe, you and your husband have been arrested on suspicion of multiple murders, plus the abduction and torture of Clare Riordan and her son. This is your chance to explain what happened.'

She looked confused. ‘I keep telling you, I had nothing to do with it. Neither did Simon. We've been married twenty years. I'd know if he'd done anything wrong.'

‘How does your husband's illness affect him?'

‘The pain's worse at night. When it's bad he goes for a drive; he finds it calming.'

‘He goes out alone at night?'

‘I went too at the start, but he prefers to be alone.'

Angie huffed out a laugh. ‘That's convenient, isn't it? Your husband kills people while you sleep peacefully at home. Except we know he had an accomplice.'

Denise's gaze met mine. ‘You believe me, don't you? It's not in Simon's nature to be violent.'

‘Are you taking any medication at the moment, Denise?' I asked. Her reactions seemed unnaturally slow, combined with her unfocused gaze.

‘Just lorazepam to help me sleep.'

‘One or two milligrams?'

‘Two, most nights.'

‘And anti-depressants?'

She shook her head. ‘Not any more; they made me feel worse.'

‘How long have you been feeling low?'

‘All year. Things haven't been right between me and Simon; I've been so worried since he stopped going for his check-ups.' Her voice tailed away.

If she was telling the truth, she was taking one of the strongest tranquillisers on the market. One dose would be enough to knock out most adults for twelve hours straight. I let Angie complete the rest of the interview while I took notes. I had been certain all along that the killers would be diametric opposites: one coolly organised, the other wildly emotional. But Denise Thorpe seemed too fearful to do anyone serious harm, even though her husband could have planned the attacks. Her anxiety came over in the strain in her voice. The more I listened, the greater my concern. The woman's behaviour seemed fuelled by genuine panic.

‘Search our house,' she insisted. ‘You won't find anything.'

‘Your husband was caught in the act, Mrs Thorpe. He's not denying it.'

Her lower lip trembled. ‘You're lying. I know you are.'

Denise held her line right to the end. After she'd been led away, Angie released a string of expletives.

‘God, she's slippery. It'll take hours to nail her down.'

‘Have you got much circumstantial evidence?'

Angie's face clouded. ‘By tomorrow we'll have plenty. Pete's lot are at their house in Wandsworth now.'

She vanished before I could voice my doubts, but I logged them on my assessment form. Denise Thorpe's speech patterns, eye contact and body language suggested she was telling the truth. The idea that she was innocent refused to leave my mind.

T
he woman's rage burns brighter than ever. She stands motionless, arms straight at her sides, gathering her courage. There must be a way to fight back, even from this point of weakness; if she concentrates, she'll find it. It sickens her that Riordan has been rescued. She should have acted faster, but with luck the drugs injected into her veins will finish her soon. That still leaves the child free, even though his mother condemned hundreds to a painful death. There's no such thing as an innocent bystander, like the shrink with her cold green stare. Her kind are a hundred times worse than the rest.

Beyond the locked door, the world continues its business. Voices drift through the wall, and someone wheels a trolley down the echoing corridor, the sounds increasing her isolation. Simon needs her more than ever, even though they've been forced apart. She must find a solution without his calm logic to guide her. There has to be a way to finish what they started.

T
he idea that Denise Thorpe was innocent dogged me for the rest of the morning, despite everyone else believing the killers were behind bars. On an objective level she ticked all the boxes: medical background, unstable, dominated by her husband's powerful personality. Yet something in my head couldn't accept it. A text arrived from Lola while I was mulling it over, reminding me to meet her in Knightsbridge that afternoon. I considered cancelling, but the bridal shop was already booked. I slipped my phone back into my pocket and set off for Wandsworth, hoping the visit would silence my doubts.

Pete Hancock was in the hallway of the Thorpes' house, combing a jacket that was hanging in the hallway with a brush small enough to apply mascara. I grinned at him as I zipped up the sterile suit.

‘Your wife must love you, Pete. I bet you're great at cleaning.'

He shook his head firmly. ‘Not if I can help it.'

‘What are you doing?'

‘Collecting fibres from Denise Thorpe's clothes. If I can match them with ones at the lab, it'll prove she was there.'

‘Can I look upstairs?'

‘Why? The boss says it's open and shut.'

‘Certainty's an overrated virtue, isn't it?'

‘Go on then.' He gave a loud sigh. ‘Make sure you don't touch anything.'

The forensics team had started on the top floor, leaving dust trails on windows and doorframes. At first sight it looked like a typical family home. The Thorpes' daughter had left evidence of a teenage fascination with One Direction, the posters in her bedroom hopelessly out of date. I wondered how she was coping. The police were shielding her while she stayed with friends in York, but journalists would soon be baying at her door.

The bathroom revealed little apart from the Thorpes' reliance on medication. I peered at the packets of painkillers and tranquillisers stacked in the cabinet. With so many drugs in their systems, it was a wonder they'd been able to function, let alone plan a murder campaign. The master bedroom was a jumble of knick-knacks and mismatched furniture, a Lloyd Loom chair in need of paint, shelves full of crystal ornaments. A leather-bound diary lay on the chest of drawers, wrapped in an evidence bag. I paused for a moment before picking it up; if the diary belonged to Denise it could contain evidence to prove her innocence, which the police might overlook. Only the spare room revealed a masculine presence: a man's towelling dressing gown lay across the bed, the latest Robert Harris novel on the windowsill. I needed to understand if marital differences had forced the Thorpes apart, or if Simon had elected to sleep alone so he could escape at night without alerting his wife.

His office had been used for consultations with private patients, different in style from his wife's clutter. The furniture was tasteful and modern, subdued still lifes on the wall, the coffee table topped by a box of Kleenex. It horrified me that his clients had poured out their woes in this room, while he'd been completing his murderous campaign. Simon and Denise Thorpe had divided the house in two; his space clinically organised, while hers was chaotic. Maybe I'd been wrong
about Denise Thorpe's innocence. The place seemed to prove my original theory that the killers would be chalk and cheese.

Hancock appeared as I peeled off my Tyvek suit. I brandished the black leather book at him, still wrapped in its transparent bag.

‘Can I borrow this till tomorrow morning?'

He looked dubious. ‘It's logged in the evidence file. You'll get me sacked if you lose it.'

I tucked it into my bag. ‘I won't let you down. You're a star, Pete.'

He looked shocked then gratified when I planted a kiss on his cheek, proving that he was capable of human emotions after all.

I
had no chance to study the diary that afternoon. My promise to Lola had to be honoured, so I met her outside an upmarket bridal shop, a stone's throw from Harrods, her mother footing the bill. She looked as gorgeous as ever – mile-long legs showcased in tight jeans; emerald green blouse accentuating her long auburn curls.

‘It's the heroine of the hour,' she said, hugging me.

‘Sorry?'

‘You're a reclusive genius, according to the news. They had a picture of you in shades looking like a petite version of Michelle Williams.'

‘Just what I need,' I muttered. ‘Burns said he'd keep them off my back.'

‘There's no such thing as bad publicity, Al.'

‘There is in my line of work.'

Neve gazed up at us from her pram, swaddled in blankets. My irritation faded when I inhaled her smell of peaches, talcum powder and brand-new skin, her face puckering into a grin as I scooped her up.

‘Jesus, you're broody,' Lola said. ‘Come on, they're waiting for us.'

The Tremaine family had arranged a bridal extravaganza, taking over the whole boutique. I sat with Lola's mum and two of her aunties, cooing as she tried on dress after dress, assistants plying us with Prosecco and canapés. After a while, the outfits blurred into a mile of white chiffon awash with lace. I tried to stay focused but my thoughts kept slipping back to the diary. Eventually Lola emerged from the changing room in a pencil-slim gown that reminded me of Hollywood in the Jazz Age, ivory silk heightening the glow of her skin.

‘What do you think?' she purred.

‘Gorgeous,' I confirmed.

At that stage I tried to escape, but more paraphernalia kept arriving: shoes, gloves, a veil. She even made me help select her garter and underwear for the honeymoon.

I was exhausted by retail decisions, but Lola was in high spirits. She gave me a grateful hug then let me hail a taxi. I checked my email during the ride to Burns's flat. Christine's message offered her usual low-key praise, followed by a terse instruction to take immediate leave, even though queries from the FPU were clogging my inbox.

For the first time in days there was no guard outside the front door. Now that the danger had passed I could return to my apartment, where no object ever strayed out of place. I started to gather my belongings, but couldn't ignore my urge to check the diary.

It was disappointing to discover that it belonged to Simon, not Denise
.
At first sight its contents were just a log of appointments. I wondered why the therapist had stopped attending his health clinic twelve months before. He seemed to have lost all faith in medical treatment, taking matters into his own hands. His handwriting was small and tightly controlled,
confirming his status as the rational member of the double act, but Denise still seemed an unlikely partner. She was hardly a wild maverick, capable of slitting a man's throat without qualms. I thumbed through the pages again, but appointments with his clients were recorded by initials instead of names. The tone of the entries was world-weary: almost every week he'd written the comment ‘another meeting' under one of the dates. What nameless friend had he been seeing, and for what purpose? Something about the diary filled me with unease, but I couldn't pinpoint why.

My phone rang as I was dropping it back into the evidence bag. A voice whispered at the end of the line.

‘Who's this?'

‘Emma Selby. Sorry to bother you, Alice.' It sounded like she was trying not to cry, her breathing uneven.

‘Are you okay?'

‘Could I come round? I need some advice.'

Burns appeared in the doorway, studying me as he removed his coat.

‘Emma, I'm afraid that's not possible. Could we meet another night?' My guilt increased as she stifled a sob.

‘Of course. I feel terrible for calling you in this state.'

‘Is it your boyfriend?

‘He finished it over the phone. The bastard didn't even have the guts to tell me to my face.' She sounded so desolate that I considered jumping in my car, but knew I was in the wrong frame of mind to play counsellor.

‘I promise to ring tomorrow. Don't be alone though, will you? Get a friend to come round.'

It struck me as odd that she'd phoned me instead of a close friend or relative; maybe she was less socially adept than she seemed, with few people to rely on. Burns reappeared before I could give the matter more thought. He'd abandoned his
suit in favour of jeans, a faded blue shirt and ancient trainers, but the relaxed clothes hadn't diluted his scowl.

‘Something wrong?' I asked.

‘A couple of things, yeah.'

‘Go on, then, I'm not a mind-reader.'

‘You can't wait to leave, can you? Your stuff's already packed.'

‘I've got my own place to look after, remember?'

‘How could I forget? You spend all your time there.'

‘You're in an ugly mood.'

He scrubbed his hand across his face. ‘Is this how you end all your relationships? Goodbye and thanks for the memories?'

‘Don't be ridiculous. You know how I feel.'

‘So spit it out, for fuck's sake.'

‘If it was that easy I'd have said it by now.'

‘I won't sue you if you change your mind.' His mood changed as he watched me trying to summon the words, anger changing to amusement. ‘Aren't shrinks meant to be emotionally sorted?'

‘No way. Freud was a basket case.'

We set our differences aside to order a takeaway. It frustrated me that my feelings were still buried too deeply to access, but at least we were heading in the same direction.

‘We ordered too much,' I said. His table groaned with cartons of chow mein, Peking duck and egg-fried rice.

‘Enough for an army.' Burns pushed his plate away. ‘Angie and I kept pushing today but got nowhere. Thorpe collapsed in his cell; the police medic wants him in hospital, and his wife's still denying everything.'

‘We're missing something obvious.'

‘It must be them. Thorpe's contacts say he's isolated, rarely leaves home.'

‘Apart from all those long night-time drives. And he's not a loner; he sees dozens of clients each week.'

‘You think it's a patient?'

‘That's possible. There's someone else I'm worried about: Emma Selby from the Wellcome Institute. I know she's been checked out already, but she knows more about blood than anyone in London.'

Burns shrugged. ‘We'll take another look. But it has to be Denise Thorpe, doesn't it? How could she not notice her husband was a serial killer?'

‘Selective blindness; we only see what we want to see.'

I didn't go home that evening. If we'd parted company, both of us would have brooded about the future. Instead we shared a bath then went to bed early, the sex between us slow and thoughtful, like we had all the time in the world. For once he let me take charge, pushing him back against the pillows, my hands on his shoulders as he lost control. Streetlight filtered through the curtains afterwards. The case was still nagging at me. Denise Thorpe had shown no sign of cracking after long bouts of questions, convincing me that my suspicions were correct; such profound shock would have been hard to fake. I closed my eyes and listened to the silence. The city was resting for once, no traffic stirring on Southwark Bridge Road. I felt certain a woman was out there somewhere, wide awake like me, planning her next attack.