Blood Symmetry Read online

  Dedication

  For those killed by tainted blood, and for those that survived

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Kate Rhodes

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Saturday 11 October

  The trees on Clapham Common are aflame with autumn colour. A couple are holding hands on a park bench, watching the leaves turn from red to gold in the early sunlight. They’re sitting in a deserted copse, the path ahead shrouded by thickets of hazel.

  ‘Maybe they won’t come,’ the man says, the chill already sapping his strength.

  ‘Give them time. Not panicking, are you?’

  ‘Of course not. It was my idea, remember?’

  She leans over to kiss him, face shadowed by the collar of her black woollen coat, but the moment of intimacy soon passes. The man strains forward as he hears footsteps crunching on gravel – someone racing towards them through the trees.

  ‘Now,’ he whispers. ‘Let’s put it right.’

  The first jogger is a slim brunette in a blue tracksuit. A young boy drifts in her wake, his smile wide and unquestioning, frame so slight that his sweatshirt flails in the breeze. The man steps out from the shadows and grabs the jogger from behind; she fights hard, a look of stunned recognition on her face. Her elbows gouge his ribs as she yells at the boy to run, but the woman has already caught him. The child goes down fighting, thin form collapsing as he inhales the anaesthetic, a blindfold covering his eyes. A chloroform pad is pressed to his mother’s mouth, before she’s dragged into the bracken.

  The couple lift the victims’ inert bodies on to the back seat, their car camouflaged by thick foliage. The man’s hands fumble as he covers them with blankets, morning traffic thickening as the woman slips into the driver’s seat. The most dangerous stage is over; all they have to do now is deliver mother and son to the laboratory. When the man peers under the blanket, Clare Riordan’s face is pale as candle wax, the child’s body curled behind the driving seat. His gaze shifts to the road ahead.

  ‘Not far now, almost there.’ He repeats the words like a mantra.

  Close to their destination they pause on a side street, a delivery van blocking their way. But when he looks back there’s a flicker of movement. Through the rear window he sees the boy sprinting across the tarmac.

  ‘Jesus,’ the woman hisses. ‘I thought the doors were locked.’

  The man’s heart thuds as he spills out on to the road, his skin feverish. The boy has vanished. His gaze skims over houses and empty front gardens. At the junction he comes to a halt, heaving for breath, frustration flooding his system. Thank God the child didn’t see their faces. The mother will be killed once she provides the information they need, but her son is beyond their reach.

  2

  Monday 13 October

  The city smelled of bonfires and decaying leaves. At eight a.m., the mid-October chill was fierce enough to turn my breath to smoke as I walked down Carlton Street, pedestrians marching to keep warm. The prospect of running my first team meeting at the Forensic Psychology Unit was making my stomach queasy. Public speaking always brought panic as well as excitement. Despite years of training as a psychologist, I still expected the walls of my professional life to tumble whenever I faced a crowd.

  My outfit had been selected with abnormal care: a charcoal grey dress from Jigsaw, no-nonsense boots with three-inch heels, hair pinned into a business-like French pleat. The ensemble was on the severe side of smart, softened by an outrageously expensive Hermès scarf. Power-dressing was a trick I’d used for years. At five foot nothing, blonde and weighing seven stone, I was easy to ignore. Strangers often treated me like a child, even though I was thirty-four years old.

  I pulled my iPod from my bag, Scott Matthews’ mellow voice soothing me as I reached Dacre Street. The tall brownstone which housed the Forensic Psychology Unit of the Met was discreet to the point of invisibility. It looked like any other genteel home in St James’s Park, with nothing to indicate that two dozen psychologists were hidden inside, solving the nation’s worst cases of murder, rape and organised crime.

  The receptionist offered me a sympathetic smile. It was no secret that some of the senior consultants had opposed my appointment. For decades the FPU’s management had gone unchanged, with Christine Jenkins at the helm. It had gained a world-class reputation but followed its own mysterious rules. In such a closed environment, any newcomer was bound to threaten the status quo.

  The building’s odd smell hit me as I climbed the stairs: furniture polish, dust and secrets. The corridors were lined with worn carpet and photos of pioneers from the halcyon days of psychoanalysis: Carl Jung, Freud, Melanie Klein. Given half a chance I’d have gutted the place and enlarged every window to admit more light. My office was a small anteroom beside the consultants’ open-plan workspace, but it was a thrill to see my new title, ‘Deputy Director’, on the door plaque. Most shrinks saw the FPU as the Holy Grail. The unit worked at the cutting edge of criminal psychology using the Home Office’s latest software.

  I was running through my agenda a final time when someone rapped on the door. My boss walked in without waiting for a reply. Christine looked thinner than before, as if she’d been making too many trips to the gym. Her bobbed grey hair hung in a precise line, matching the stark elegance of her clothes: black trousers, a white silk shirt, discreet pearl earrings.

  ‘Ready to wow them, Alice?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Let’s have coffee at Enzo’s later, to celebrate your new role. There’s something we need to discuss.’

  The announcement was typical of her cryptic style, every statement a double-edged sword. A year of acquaintance had convinced me that she’d missed her vocation – her air of mystery would have made her the perfect spy.

  Twenty consultants had gathered round the long table in the meeting room. My tongue sealed itself to the roof of my mouth; most of the psychologists had international reputations, their average age fifteen years older than mine. The only person to grin at me was Mike Donnelly, whose white hair, overgrown beard and st
out build made him a dead ringer for Santa Claus. Apart from Christine, the irrepressible Irishman had been the only colleague to congratulate me on my promotion. There was silence as I introduced the first agenda item, but most people contributed to the discussion, despite the stiff atmosphere. During the meeting I kept the atmosphere light, attempting a joke about the vagaries of psychology. Most of my colleagues looked relieved by the end, more smiles than I’d expected as they filed from the room. Only one consultant stayed behind. Joy Anderson had scarcely spoken to me since my appointment; she wore a fussy high-necked blouse, her expression combining gloom with hostility, long grey hair scraped back from her face.

  ‘I was away when you were appointed, Dr Quentin. I hope you’ll enjoy working with us. I’m afraid I don’t know anything about your professional background.’

  ‘Thanks for the welcome,’ I said, smiling. ‘My last consultancy was at Guy’s. I’ve been researching violent personality disorders and childhood psychopathology.’

  ‘And you’ve consulted on some high-profile cases?’

  ‘Four successful murder investigations. Why don’t you come by my office one afternoon for a chat? I’d like to hear about your research.’

  Dr Anderson held my gaze. ‘Forgive me for saying this, but you seem inexperienced to run such a complex organisation.’

  ‘Christine’s still in charge. As her deputy I’ll be allocating cases and resources. Now, I should let you get back to your work. Feel free to set up a longer meeting when you have time.’

  She gave an abrupt nod before walking away. The consultants were still standing in the corridor, chatting in cliques. They gave the impression of a group that had melded into a single unit over time. It could take months to tunnel under their defences. I retreated to my office, but no one knocked on my door while I grappled with my new computer.

  Enzo’s was deserted when I arrived at eleven. From a distance, Christine’s tension showed in the set of her shoulders as she pored over a report. She shut the folder abruptly when I approached, her smile on the cool side of professional. I still couldn’t tell if a personality existed under all that sang-froid.

  ‘Dr Anderson’s not my biggest fan, is she?’

  ‘Joy’s not keen on change, that’s all. She’ll come round.’

  ‘This century, I hope. You never take breaks, Christine, this must be important.’

  ‘We can talk here without being interrupted. Let’s order, then I’ll explain.’

  Informal chat clearly unsettled her. Our conversations never strayed beyond professional matters, and I had no idea whether she lived with a partner or alone. The silence was thick enough to slice by the time our drinks arrived. She took a sip of her espresso as I waited for her to announce that she’d been offered an OBE or promoted to the Home Office. Instead she slid a manila file across the table.

  ‘I want you on this case, Alice.’

  I scanned the first page. ‘This story’s national news. The woman went running with her son at the weekend and never came home.’

  ‘Whoever abducted her left a sample of her blood outside an office block. It was in a hospital plasma bag, labelled with her name.’

  ‘Where’s the boy?’

  ‘A psychiatric nurse is caring for him in a safe house. I want you to consult on the case and supervise his care. Since the police picked him up two days ago, he hasn’t said a word.’

  ‘That’s not surprising. Seeing your mum abducted would silence most kids.’ I turned to face her. ‘Do I get a choice about this?’

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘Another therapist has seen him already, but the kid attacked him.’

  ‘Badly?’

  ‘Just a few bruises. The boy hit out, probably to show he wasn’t ready to talk.’

  ‘Mike Donnelly’s got more experience with disturbed kids. Why not use him?’

  ‘The therapist needs to be female; the boy’s close to his mother. He’s got no male relatives, and you’ve worked with traumatised children. We need the facts before he forgets them. You could live in the safe house until he opens up.’

  ‘The maximum intervention would be alternate days – more often could be damaging. Even then it might take weeks to win his trust.’

  She gave a forceful smile. ‘You can start this afternoon, Alice.’

  I leafed through the pictures in the crime file. The boy’s mother was an attractive brunette of around forty-five, hair tied in a sleek ponytail. Something shifted in my chest when I studied the photo of her eleven-year-old son. My brother had worn the same vulnerable look as a child: thin-faced with ethereal blue eyes, dark hair crying out for a trim.

  ‘Why’s he in a safe house?’

  ‘The police think the abductor tried to take him too. He’s got no family apart from an aunt who doesn’t see him regularly; Riordan took out an injunction against her for harassment.’

  ‘Where’s the father?’

  ‘He died in a road accident when Mikey was five. The boy took it badly, by all accounts. His school says he was mute for six months afterwards. He’s bright for his age, sporty and artistic, but finds it hard to integrate.’ She put down her cup. ‘There’s one more thing you should know – Don Burns is the SIO. Scotland Yard wanted a safe pair of hands.’

  ‘I thought there was an embargo on couples working together.’ Very few people knew about my relationship with Burns; I’d only told Christine in case it led to a conflict of interests.

  ‘Head office has made an exception.’

  ‘Who told them about our relationship?’

  She gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘Word travels, Alice.’

  ‘The timing’s wrong. I’d rather focus on my job and allocate another consultant.’

  ‘No one else would be as effective. This case will be big news; you and Burns both know how to handle the press.’

  I knew from experience that journalists would be desperate for information, the story producing millions of clicks on websites by triggering every parent’s worst fears. Christine’s stare continued longer than felt comfortable. I had no choice but to accept a case which might result in a vulnerable boy learning that his mother had been murdered. The prospect was so sobering that I didn’t reply. It looked like my boss was feeling the pressure too. When she stood up to leave I noticed again how thin she’d become; in the two months since my job interview, she’d dropped a dress size. She insisted on paying the bill, then left me to choke down the last of my cappuccino.

  I was still preoccupied on my return to the FPU. Even though my hand had been forced, the case already had me hooked. By the time my cab arrived, Clare Riordan’s polished smile was imprinted on my mind. I tried to put myself in her son’s shoes as the taxi cut south through Holborn, heading for the river. My eyes drifted across the suits milling on the pavement, clutching coffee cups large enough to drown in. The child had rejected all help so far, attacking the trauma therapist then curling into a ball. Despite Christine’s good faith, there was every chance he’d treat me the same. I pulled my phone from my bag to send Burns a text, but got no reply. Now that he was DCI for the whole of King’s Cross, he was responsible for hundreds of staff. It took a small miracle to reach him during work hours.

  The safe house was on a cul-de-sac in Bermondsey, the copper beeches beside it blackening in the fading light. A squad car was parked outside, but neither of the two uniforms batted an eyelid when I approached; clearly small blondes didn’t feature on their list of potential threats, even though I could have been armed to the teeth. The semi-detached house had little kerb appeal. Built from crude yellow bricks, its ground-floor windows were obscured by a high fence, the front garden a tangle of overgrown lavender.

  When I rang the bell an Indian man of around my age answered so rapidly that he must have been waiting on the other side of the door. Gurpreet Singh had a gentle expression; he was medium height with a lean build, black hair in a short ponytail. He gave a tentative smile as I shook his hand.

  ‘Good to meet you, Alice.
’ He led me down the hallway. ‘Mikey’s watching TV. I’ve been letting him do pretty much what he likes, provided he follows my routine for meals and bedtime.’

  ‘Sounds like a wise strategy. Has he been speaking?’

  ‘Just a few words. I haven’t seen him cry or smile yet, but it’s only been forty-eight hours. The other therapist pushed too hard. He used dolls to make him re-enact as soon as he arrived.’

  ‘I’ll try to be more subtle.’

  ‘A word of warning: don’t get too close. He’ll lash out again if he feels cornered.’

  The skin on the backs of my hands prickled as Gurpreet led me into the lounge. There was something disturbing about the room, the air sticky and overheated; drab olive-green walls, the furniture threadbare. Mikey Riordan was huddled on the settee. He looked too small for an eleven year old, wispy dark hair framing his face. The boy kept his gaze fixed rigidly on the TV. A line of bruises trailed from his temple to his jaw, eye socket turning every shade of the rainbow. He seemed so frail that I had to stifle a wave of anger; too much empathy would only cloud my judgement.

  ‘This is Alice, Mikey. Are you okay seeing her by yourself, or do you want me to stay?’ Gurpreet stood there for a full minute, the boy’s unblinking stare fixed to the screen. ‘Okay, I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.’

  The child was watching a cowboy film with the sound muted, a dozen men on horseback were firing silent bullets at a runaway train. I made a deliberate effort not to stare as I sat on a floor cushion, remembering the guidance about body positioning: traumatised children only relax if they feel physically in control. I kept my eyes on the TV as I spoke.

  ‘I like westerns too. All those horses make me wish I could ride.’ His likeness to my brother at that age was even clearer now. Twenty years ago, Will had worn the same lost expression, fidgeting in the same restless way.

  ‘I’ll be here for an hour, Mikey. There’s no pressure to talk, but if you feel like chatting, that’s great. I’m helping the police look for your mum, so you can ask me about what’s happening.’

  He still didn’t meet my eye, but his shoulders relaxed. Knowing that my visit would be short seemed to ease his mind, and my calm tone of voice probably helped too. Gurpreet reappeared with a tea tray. He placed a glass of milk in front of Mikey and handed me a cup of tea, hovering in the doorway for a few minutes before disappearing again. We sat in silence until the film ended, then I took a pack of coloured pencils and two small sketchpads from my bag, placing one on the sofa, close enough for him to reach.