Blood Symmetry Read online

  ‘I hear you like drawing, Mikey. I do too, but I’m not much good.’

  His lack of response filled me with concern. So far there had been no sign of non-verbal communication; he’d ducked behind a barrier of silence too thick to penetrate. Even my distraction activity was failing to drag him from his shell. I cast my eyes around the featureless room; it looked like the last occupants had stripped the place in a hurry. The only adornment was a vase of red chrysanthemums wilting on the mantelpiece.

  ‘I’ll try those flowers. Draw anything you want, if you fancy joining me.’

  When I glanced at him again, his knees were folded against his chest. He hadn’t touched the pad, but he was watching my efforts. I spoke to him as my pencil skimmed the paper, explaining that I’d worked with other children who’d been through hard experiences. I knew how scared he must be, but he was in a safe place, and I hoped he’d let me help. His silence expanded like a gas cloud as I finished the drawing. When the visit was due to end, I held up my pad to show him my sketch.

  ‘Not great, is it? But it was fun trying.’

  His expression remained solemn, pale gaze flickering across the page. Sometimes when you work with kids there are moments when it’s hard to maintain an appropriate distance, and this was one of them. He looked so fragile that I wanted to touch his hand. But he was holding himself together so tightly that any direct contact could blow his coping mechanisms apart.

  ‘The pad and pencils are for you.’ I put my card on the coffee table. ‘You can text or call me, any time. Would you like me to come back tomorrow?’

  His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, but his lips moved for the first time, producing a dry whisper. ‘Almost there. Not far now.’

  ‘That sounds like a yes. I’ll be here by five thirty, with pizza.’

  I hoped he’d speak again but no more words arrived. Gurpreet was waiting for me in the hallway. I got the sense that he’d been primed for me to bolt, just like the others. He offered a wide smile, as if I deserved a medal for lasting the hour.

  ‘Shall we chat in the kitchen?’ I asked.

  I regretted the choice immediately. The room’s shoebox dimensions coupled with mustard-yellow paint triggered my claustrophobia, but I ignored it as we sat down to discuss care strategies. The boy was displaying classic signs of hyper-reactivity: anxiety, sleep and appetite disturbance, as well as elective muteness. Loud noises and sudden movements terrified him, and there were signs of infantile regression. He went on the attack when agitated and had wet the bed both nights he’d been at the safe house, even though he was eleven years old. I made notes as Gurpreet described the child’s symptoms.

  ‘Has there been any re-enactment?’ I asked.

  ‘So far it’s just avoidance. He daydreams and fixates on the TV, but he’s getting more responsive. He seems tuned out, but I think he’s listening.’

  ‘How does he react to his mum’s name?’

  ‘Complete withdrawal. I’ve been reassuring him that the police are doing all they can.’

  ‘Does he accept hand-holding or a pat on the shoulder?’

  ‘Not yet. He bites or hits out if I go anywhere near.’ He held up his wrist to show a deep red scratch on his hand.

  I gave him a look of sympathy. ‘He’s bound to be terrified. Once he accepts me I can spend alternate nights here.’

  ‘That’s good news. My own kids’ll forget me if I don’t go home soon.’

  ‘He said a few words just now: “almost there, not far now.”’

  Gurpreet nodded. ‘It’s his catchphrase, but there’s no real communication.’

  ‘It must mean something, if it’s the only thing he’s saying. Can you keep a log of any conversation? It could help us guess the context.’

  I thought about Mikey Riordan’s symptoms as I walked home. It didn’t surprise me that he was unable to sleep. He’d already experienced far too much pain, losing his father at the age of five. Even if that memory was buried, it must surface often in his nightmares, and now the trauma was happening again. The secret to his mother’s disappearance could be locked inside his head. My only chance of piercing his shield of silence would be to stay close, trapped in the airless living room of the safe house.

  Burns welcomed me to his flat on Southwark Bridge Road that evening with his phone wedged between jaw and shoulder. He dropped a distracted kiss on the crown of my head before waving me through to the lounge. A towel hung round his neck, wet hair almost black, his expression distracted. I still found myself staring at him in amazement sometimes. He was the opposite of the men I normally fancied: tall and solid as a heavyweight boxer. All of his features were exaggerated, from his raw cheekbones to his broken nose and dark eyes with their take-no-prisoners stare.

  He towered over me as he slung his phone down on the coffee table. ‘How did the team meeting go?’

  ‘The consultants aren’t thrilled by my arrival.’

  ‘They’re just scared you’ll outsmart them.’

  ‘Maybe I will. This job’ll make me an expert on every homicidal psychopath in the land.’

  ‘Is that your biggest ambition?’ He reached down to brush his hand through my hair, fingers skimming my collarbone. ‘When did you get it cut?’

  ‘Saturday.’

  ‘Stop there, can you? I prefer it long.’

  ‘God, you’re a cliché. I only came by to check on the Riordan case.’

  ‘Liar, you’re expecting food.’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  His arm stayed round my shoulder until we reached the kitchen. I leaned on the breakfast bar to observe his version of cooking. His meals always involved meat seared at nuclear temperatures. He dropped steaks on to a griddle then upended a bag of salad into a bowl. A tug of attraction pulled at me as I watched him lope around the kitchen.

  ‘Did you tell head office about us, Burns?’

  ‘Stop using my surname, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  He gave a casual nod. ‘I sent a disclosure notice last week.’

  ‘Without my permission?’

  ‘You’d have said it was too early.’

  ‘Damn right I would.’

  ‘Tongues are wagging, Alice. This way we control the information.’

  Even though it was true, I still felt irritated that he’d revealed personal details without consulting me first. He made up for it by producing a meal that was basic but enjoyable: good-quality ribeye, a hunk of French bread, chicory salad and red wine sharp with tannin. I savoured a mouthful then relaxed in my chair.

  ‘The boys made me take them paintballing yesterday.’ He gave an exaggerated shudder.

  ‘And you loved it?’

  ‘It was a living hell; they drenched me in bright red slime. I had to take them home when the Riordan case hit my desk.’ He frowned as he put down his glass. ‘I’m not thrilled that you’re my consultant.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘You’re the best in your field, but we agreed not to work together.’ He studied me again. ‘It’ll be the biggest news story this year: a pretty woman gets taken, and only her cute blue-eyed kid saw the baddies. They’re already howling for pictures.’

  ‘Keep them away; he’s hanging on by a thread. What have you got so far?’

  ‘A neighbour saw them on Clapham Common, Saturday, seven a.m. It was their pattern; a long run as soon as they woke up, followed by a big breakfast. A witness saw them go into a wooded area, then a few minutes later a car pulled away.’

  ‘An abduction?’

  ‘Looks like it. The kid was found in Walworth hours later; we don’t know how he got there. Someone left a pint of Riordan’s blood on a doorstep in Bishopsgate late that night. She was a senior consultant in blood disorders at the Royal Free Hospital.’

  ‘That’s an interesting connection.’

  ‘She worked in haematology her whole career.’

  ‘You’re using the past tense because you think she’s dead?’

  ‘
Abducted females are normally raped then killed fast. You know the pattern.’

  ‘But this is atypical. It could be someone she knows, with access to her schedule. How was the blood delivered?’

  ‘In a plastic pack, by hand. The building’s out of shot of the nearest CCTV. He probably walked up a side road, then sauntered away.’

  ‘Taking that much risk makes the location important.’

  ‘Or convenient.’

  ‘It’s got to be symbolic.’

  The message was obvious: Riordan had already lost a pint of blood. She had limited time to survive. ‘This is too measured to be sexually motivated. Are there any links to past crimes?’

  ‘Not yet, but let’s put it on ice till tomorrow. We’re meant to be off duty.’ His mobile rang again as we finished eating, making him curse loudly. ‘The sodding thing gets switched off after this.’

  He stomped into the hall but I knew there was no chance of his phone being silenced until Clare Riordan was found. I couldn’t resist delving into the folder he’d left on the kitchen table, pulling out a picture of the site where the doctor had last been seen. It showed a glade of trees casting dense shadows over a winding path. A sign had been tacked to a tree, too distant to see clearly. It seemed to hold two vertical stripes – one white, one black – printed on a grey background. It caught my attention, but could have been pinned there days before Clare went missing. Nothing else struck me as unusual, so I returned the photo before Burns could protest, then curled up on his outsized sofa.

  Burns had lived in the rented flat for four months since separating from his wife, and the pile of cardboard boxes in the hallway was gradually dwindling. Two landscape paintings filled the living room’s longest wall. They were beautiful but stark, winter sunlight falling on a charcoal sea, birds spiralling above an island of rough-hewn granite. I could hear him arguing as I studied the rest of the room. It bore no resemblance to my flat’s bare walls and minimal furniture. Every aspect of his life was on display. Photos of his two sons were clustered on a huge pin board, gym bag left on the floor, newspapers and sketchbooks scattered across the furniture. The neat freak in me longed to dump everything in a cupboard and hide it from view.

  A muscle was ticking in Burns’s cheek when he returned. I’d seen that expression dozens of times over the years and recognised the trait in myself; neither of us rested easily while there were problems to solve. He switched off his phone, then sprawled on the sofa beside me, his hand settling on my thigh.

  ‘Did you paint those?’ I asked, pointing at the landscapes. His year at Edinburgh Art School was a secret few of his police colleagues knew.

  He nodded. ‘I went to my parents’ caravan in Oban one January. You can see Mull across the bay. The light’s amazing.’ A few degrees of tension slipped from his face.

  ‘Can I buy them off you? They’d bring some class to my living room.’

  ‘God, no. I need to see the Hebrides when I get in from work.’

  ‘You’d like to go back?’

  ‘I’ll take you some day. But how would you cope with me in a caravan when it’s blowing a gale?’

  ‘I’d survive.’

  ‘How, exactly?’

  ‘Card games, Monopoly, cups of tea.’

  ‘That’s your idea of entertainment?’ He looked amused.

  I couldn’t resist leaning over to kiss him, my palm flat against his chest, his fingers snagging in my hair. It was his smell that undid me: plain soap, musk and fresh air. I’d been kidding myself that I could leave straight after dinner, but the desire on his face was hard to ignore. I concentrated on the weight of his hands, needy and insistent, grappling with the zip of my dress. The sex was quick but satisfying, my shoulder blades pressed against the settee, his arm pinning me in place like he expected me to try and escape. Afterwards my skin glowed from all that passionate touch, but my first reaction was laughter. He was still wearing most of his clothes, while mine were strewn across the floor.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘You were in a rush, that’s all.’

  ‘Your fault, not mine.’ His grip tightened round my wrist.

  ‘I should get moving. Tomorrow’s an early start.’

  ‘Can’t you stay for once?’

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘But soon?’

  ‘When I figure out what’s stopping me.’

  He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I thought shrinks knew how to control their fears.’

  ‘Other people’s, not our own.’ I gave him a farewell kiss then rose to my feet.

  The sound he made was somewhere between a groan and a laugh. ‘What made you pick me, anyway?’

  ‘Lust, mainly.’ I could have said honesty or integrity, but it was easier to lie.

  ‘Is that all?’ His thumb skimmed my cheek. ‘My boys think you’re imaginary. They keep asking to meet you.’

  ‘It’s too soon. You and Julie have only just separated.’

  ‘They know we got together afterwards. It’s not a secret.’

  ‘Don’t you ever give up?’

  ‘Not till you agree.’

  I slipped back into my dress to end the conversation. It was only when I retrieved my coat from the hall that panic washed over me again. Something shiny glistened between the jackets and scarves: a leather strap, glossy with use, a black-handled gun tucked inside the holster. I stared at it in amazement. I’d known Burns four years without realising he carried a weapon. I was still rooted to the spot when he strolled out of the living room, shoes dangling from his hand.

  ‘That’s a surprise.’

  ‘It’s not loaded. I should have locked it away.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were licensed.’

  He gave a slow shrug. ‘Every station needs firearms officers. It makes sense that I’m one of them.’

  ‘You carry it all the time?’

  ‘Only at work. It doesn’t get much use.’

  I wanted to ask how it felt to wear a piece of lethal hardware beside his heart, but his blank expression showed he had nothing more to say. Despite the awkwardness, he insisted on walking me home. All the bars had closed, the river sliding through the city unnoticed, a scatter of stars over Canary Wharf. We strolled in silence at first, then he talked about the case. I asked him about the sign that had been left at the scene, with its mysterious black and white marks, but he couldn’t explain its meaning. He was more interested in discussing Clare Riordan. She had been a diligent single mother and a long-serving NHS consultant until her abduction – not the type to harbour dark secrets. I remembered her son’s face, pale as milk that afternoon. My feelings for Burns kept bubbling to the surface as I listened; the fact that he carried a gun was a reminder of the dangers he faced. Part of me felt ashamed. I was a professional psychologist, licensed to delve into other people’s minds, yet our relationship had me frozen in the headlights. Maybe it was because it was uncharted territory. Until then I’d stuck to short flings and one-night stands, but Burns was a different matter. He was the most dogged man I’d ever encountered. If I tried to run, it would only be a question of time before he tracked me down.

  3

  The woman casts her gaze around the laboratory and finds it clean as an operating theatre. Walls, ceiling and floor are bleached white, the cold air reeking of iodine and fresh paint. There’s little furniture except a cabinet and metal table. A strip-light fills the space with its harsh glare. She spent days here helping the man install soundproofing, pulleys and blackout blinds. Her gaze shifts back to Riordan’s face; eyes swollen shut, a raw wound marking the side of her neck, dark hair losing its lustre. The doctor is still unconscious, her body strapped to a leather dentist’s chair. The woman tests the ropes attached to the ceiling. Once she’s satisfied the restraints will hold, she turns to the man.

  ‘Ready?’

  He nods in reply. ‘Go easy on her. We just need the information.’ Beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. She can tell he’s weaker today, more afraid than befor
e, although he’d never admit it.

  ‘I still want the boy brought here.’

  ‘What good will it do?’

  Her eyes glitter. ‘She’ll crack faster when she sees him.’

  ‘It won’t be easy to find him.’ The man’s arms fold tightly across his body.

  ‘Why are you worried? The others didn’t bother you.’

  ‘They gave names straight away. She’s fighting us.’

  ‘Not for long. Help me turn her over.’

  She watches him struggle, suddenly aware how much his illness has weakened him. The exertion of lifting the victim on to her side leaves him breathless as he secures the leather cuffs. She concentrates on her task, yanking a lever until Riordan’s arms straighten. Now her body hangs suspended from the ceiling by her wrists, feet dangling above the ground, so heavily sedated that she only surfaces when the extraction needle plunges into her back. A dull scream echoes from the walls as blood gushes into the plasma bag. Once it’s full, a last spurt flows on to the tiles. The thin red line is destined to be wasted. It follows the path of least resistance, snaking across the floor.

  ‘That’ll loosen her tongue.’ The woman extracts the needle slowly.

  ‘How do you know she’ll talk?’

  ‘She’ll have to eventually. The pain will be unbearable.’ She leans down until her eyes meet Riordan’s, hissing into her face. ‘You’ll blab like a child, Clare. All of you are going to suffer before we tell the press you’re guilty.’

  When she looks at the man again, something behind his eyes has flicked shut like a door slamming. Riordan’s head lolls on her chest, but he keeps his face averted.

  ‘After everything they did, you still hate seeing them die.’

  ‘I can handle it,’ he says quietly.

  ‘You don’t have the stomach to hunt for the boy, do you?’