Grace shook his head. ‘Still too cheap. I want something
very
special, but I don’t want to have to take out a mortgage.’
‘How does a hundred quid sound?’
‘Less painful.’
The merchant disappeared down into the bowels of his emporium and re-emerged. ‘This is the dog’s bollocks! Roederer Cristal, 2000. Best vintage of the decade. Last one I have, bin-end price. A beaut! Normally one hundred and seventy-five – I’ll flog it to you for a hundred, as it’s you.’
‘Done!’
‘Diamond geezer!’ Henry Butler said approvingly.
Grace pulled out his wallet. ‘Credit card OK?’
Butler looked like he had been kicked in the nuts. ‘You know how to squeeze a man when he’s down – yeah, all right.’ He shrugged. ‘Very special occasion, is it?’
‘Very.’
‘Give her this and she’ll love you forever.’
Roy smiled. ‘That’s kind of what I’m hoping.’
56
Lynn sat on Caitlin’s bed, staring at the computer screen. Luke, hunched on a stool in front of the cluttered dressing table, was busily pecking away at the keyboard of Caitlin’s laptop, using just one finger and, apparently, just one eye.
Caitlin, in her dressing gown, had spent much of the past hour going backwards and forwards to the toilet. But she was already looking a little better, Lynn was relieved to see, except she was scratching again. Scratching her arms so hard they looked as if they were covered in insect bites. At the moment, iPod in her ears, she was switching focus between an old episode of the
OC
playing silently on the muted TV and her purple mobile phone, on which she was texting someone, with furrowed concentration, while rubbing the itching balls of her feet on the end board of the bed.
Luke had been tapping away for nearly an hour now, working through Google, then other search engines, trying out different combinations of phrases and sentences containing the words
organs
,
purchase, humans
, donors,
livers
.
He had found a debate in the Council of Europe Parliamentary Assembly on the topic of human organ trafficking, and on another site had discovered the story of a Harley Street surgeon called Raymond Crockett, who was struck off the Medical Register in 1990 for buying kidneys from Turkey for four patients. And plenty more debates about whether organ donation should be automatic on death unless a person has opted out.
But no organ brokers.
‘Are you sure it’s not just an urban myth, Luke?’
‘There’s a website about part of Manila being called One Kidney Island,’ he said. ‘You can buy a kidney there for forty thousand pounds – including the operation. That site talked all about brokers-’
Suddenly he stopped.
On the screen, in clinical white against a stark black background, the words TRANSPLANTATION-ZENTRALE GMBH had appeared.
In a bar above were options for different languages. Luke clicked on the Union Jack flag and moments later a new panel came up:
Welcome to
TRANSPLANTATION-ZENTRALE GMBH
the world’s leading brokerage for
human organs for transplantations
Discreet global service, privacy assured
Contact us by phone, email
or visit our Munich offices by appointment
Lynn stared intently at the computer screen, feeling an intense, giddying frisson of excitement. And danger.
Maybe there really was another option to the tyranny of Shirley Linsell and her team. Another way to save the life of her daughter.
Luke turned to Caitlin. ‘Looks like we’ve – yeah – found something.’
‘Cool!’ she said.
Moments later Lynn felt Caitlin’s arms around her shoulders and her warm breath on her neck, as she too peered at the screen.
‘That’s awesome!’ Caitlin said. ‘Do you think there’s – like – a price list? Like when you go online shopping at Tesco?’
Lynn giggled, delighted that Caitlin seemed to be returning to some kind of normality, however temporary.
Luke began to navigate the site, but there was very little information beyond what they had already read. No phone number or postal address, just an email one:
[email protected].
‘OK,’ Lynn said. ‘Send them an email.’
She dictated and Luke typed:
I am the mother of a 15-year-old girl who is urgently in need of a liver transplant. We are based in the south of England. Can you help us? If so please let us know what service you can provide and what information you require from us. Yours sincerely,
Lynn Beckett
Lynn read through it, then turned to Caitlin. ‘OK, my angel?’
Caitlin gave a wistful smile and shrugged. ‘Yep. Whatever.’
Luke sent it.
Then all three of them stared at the mailbox in silence.
‘Do you think we should have sent a phone number?’ Caitlin asked. ‘Or an address or something?’
Lynn thought for a moment, her brain feeling scrambled. ‘Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘No harm, is there?’ suggested Caitlin.
‘No, no harm,’ her mother agreed.
Luke sent a second email, containing Lynn’s mobile number and the dialling code for England.
*
Ten minutes later, down in the kitchen making a cup of tea and preparing some supper for the three of them, Lynn’s phone rang.
On the display were the words, Private number.
Lynn answered immediately.
There was a faint hiss, then some crackle. After a fraction of a second’s time delay she heard a woman’s voice, in guttural broken English, sounding professional but friendly.
‘May I please speak with Mrs Lynn Beckett?’
‘That’s me!’ Lynn said. ‘Speaking!’
‘My name is Marlene Hartmann. You have just sent an email to my company?’
Shaking, Lynn said, ‘To Transplantation-Zentrale?’
‘That is correct. By chance, I have the opportunity to be in England tomorrow, in Sussex. If it is convenient, we could meet, perhaps?’
‘Yes,’ Lynn said, her nerves shorting out. ‘Yes, please!’
‘Do you happen to know your daughter’s blood type?’
‘Yes, it is AB negative.’
‘AB negative?’
‘Yes.’
There was a brief silence before the German woman spoke again.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘That is excellent.’
57
‘The time is 6.30 p.m., Tuesday 2 December,’ Roy Grace announced. ‘This is the tenth briefing of Operation Neptune, the investigation into the deaths of three unknown persons.’
He was seated in his shirtsleeves, tie loosened, at the table in the briefing room of Sussex House. Outside, it was a vile night. He stared, for an instant, through trails of rain slithering down the windowpanes, at the blackness beyond. Inside, it felt cold and draughty, with most of the heat coming from the bodies of his fast-expanding team, now twenty-eight strong, crammed around the table.
On the flat surface in front of him were a bottle of water, a stack of newspapers, his notebook and his printed agenda. There was a lot to work through before he could get out of here tonight – and move on to his second, and much more pleasurable, agenda of the evening. One which involved the seriously expensive bottle of champagne lying in the boot of his car downstairs.
On the wall-mounted whiteboard were sets of fingerprints and composite e-fit photographs of the three victims. He glanced up at them now. A DI colleague, Jason Tingley, currently in the Divisional Intelligence Unit, once commented that e-fits made everyone look like Mr Monkeyman and Roy had never been able to get that image out of his mind. He was looking at two Monkeymen and one Monkeywoman up there on that wall now.
Dead.
Murdered.
Depending on him to bring their killers to justice.
Depending on him to bring closure to their relatives.
He flipped open the
Independent
newspaper, which was on the top of the pile. On page three was a stark headline: BRIGHTON AGAIN CRIME CAPITAL OF ENGLAND. This was a reference back to 1934, when Brighton was in the grip of its famous razor gangs and, within a short space of time, two separate bodies were found in trunks at Brighton’s railway station. Brighton had then earned the unwelcome sobriquet
Crime Capital of England
.
‘The new Chief’s not impressed,’ Roy Grace said. ‘He wants this solved, quickly.’
He looked down at the notes Eleanor had typed for him.
‘OK, we now have further pathology evidence that the organs were removed from our victims under operating-theatre conditions. The labs have identified the presence of Propofol and Ketamine in the post-mortem tissues. These are both anaesthetics.’
He paused to let the implications sink in.
‘I’ve been giving this organ-trafficking line some thought, Roy,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘Purchase and sale of human organs are illegal in the UK. But because of shortages, there are people on the heart, lung and liver waiting lists who die before an organ becomes available. And there are people who wait for years, leading miserable lives, on the kidney transplant waiting lists. How are we getting on with our search for a disgruntled transplant surgeon?’
‘Nothing so far,’ DI Mantle said.
‘What about making every transplant surgeon in the UK a suspect?’ said Nick Nicholl. ‘There can’t be that many.’
‘What progress have we made on surgeons who have been struck off?’ Lizzie Mantle queried. ‘I really think that would be a good place to start. Someone angry who wants to buck the system.’
‘I’m working on that,’ Sarah Shenston, one of the researchers, said. ‘I hope to have a full list by tomorrow. There’s a lot of them.’
‘Good. Thank you, Sarah.’ Grace made another note. ‘I think we should make a list and visit all the human organ transplant facilities in the UK.’ He looked at Batchelor. ‘Something important to establish is the chain of supply of organs. How does an organ get from a donor to a transplant? Are there any windows of opportunity for a rogue supplier?’
Batchelor nodded. ‘I’ll get that researched.’
‘I think we need to assume in the first instance,’ Grace said, ‘that there is a Brighton – or Sussex – connection with these victims. To my thinking, the fact that they were found close to the coast of Brighton indicates that. Does everyone accept that?’
The entire team nodded agreement.
‘I think an important part of this jigsaw is to establish the identities of the victims – and we are making headway here.’ He looked down at his notes again. ‘We have an interesting piece of information from the laboratory, Cellmark Forensics, where we sent DNA samples of the victims. Their US laboratory, Orchid Cellmark, has done an enzyme and mineral analysis of the DNA from the three victims. It indicates they had a diet compatible with that of southeastern Europe.’
He took a swig from his bottle of water, then went on.
‘Now, this tallies with the toxicology report from the path labs. All three victims have small traces of a Romanian-manufactured metallic paint, known as Aurolac, in their blood. According to the pathologist’s information, this substance is inhaled by Romanian street kids, having an effect similar to sniffing glue. Now, supporting this, Nadiuska returned to the mortuary last night to carry out a further examination and discovered traces of metallic paint in the nostrils of the victims.’ He looked at Potting. ‘Norman, would you like to bring us up to speed on Romania?’
Potting, looking pleased as punch at being given the floor, puffed up his chest. ‘Well, I’ve briefed Interpol, but same as usual with those desk jockeys. No blooming sense of urgency. Could be looking at three weeks for a response – longer with Christmas coming up.’ Then he hesitated and looked at Roy Grace. ‘Can I mention Ian Tilling in Bucharest, sir?’
Grace nodded, then said, ‘Norman has a contact in Romania, a very well-respected former UK police officer who is running a charity helping to shelter street people there. Taking into account the imperative to move this case forward, I have given DS Potting permission to bypass Interpol on an exploratory basis. Can you update us please, Norman?’
‘I’ve tasked him with looking for anyone with the name Rares who might have come to England recently. I only spoke to him a few hours ago, but he promised to get on the case right away, and I hope to hear back from him with his first report tomorrow. That’s all I have at this point.’
Grace then turned to Bella Moy. ‘What progress have you made with dentists?’
‘None,’ she said, and held up several sheets of paper. ‘These are the ones I have seen so far. All have said the same thing. The victims show signs of poor nutrition and probably drug abuse, but no signs of any dental work. I’m not sure there’s any point in pursuing dentists, Roy. I don’t think any of these three victims had ever been to a dentist, and certainly not in the UK.’
‘Yes, doesn’t sound like it’s getting us anywhere. You can cease that line.’ He turned to DC Nick Nicholl. ‘What do you have to report on Mispers?’
‘Nothing so far, chief.’
Nicholl then outlined the progress he had made. He reported that he had circulated the e-fit photographs widely around Sussex and the neighbouring counties, with no hits. There had been no result, either, from the newspapers. The
Crimewatch
television show was another option, but that was still a week away.
Grace looked down at his notes again.
‘Ray Packham, from the High-Tech Crime Unit, has something to tell us.’
Seated opposite him, the computer analyst was nothing like the traditional image of the geek. Packham reminded him of the original ‘Q’ in the Bond films. In his early forties, he was keenly intelligent and always bursting with enthusiasm, despite the grim nature of his work, much of it studying photographs on seized computers of horrific sexual abuse of children, day in and day out. Anyone meeting him for the first time, finding him in a grey suit and club tie, might have mistaken him for an avuncular, old-school bank manager.