Dead Tomorrow (60 page)

‘Of course,’ she said to his left eye, the only visible one. ‘Go. I’ll call you if anything develops.’

‘Cool.’

He went.

Lynn hurried upstairs, a million things that she had to do between now and midday swirling in her head, and with Luke gone – God bless him – she could think more clearly.

She had to go through the checklist from Marlene Hartmann of Transplantation-Zentrale.

Had to get Caitlin up, washed, packed.

Had to get herself packed.

It took her a while to rouse Caitlin, who was in a deep sleep from the medication Dr Hunter had given her. She ran a bath for her and then started packing overnight bags for each of them.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

She looked at her watch, panic gripping her. Surely not now? The German woman had said
midday
, surely? It was only just gone ten o’clock. Was it the postman?

She hurried downstairs and pulled open the front door.

A man and a woman stood there. The man was about forty, with close-cropped fair hair, a small, slightly flattened nose and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in an overcoat, navy suit, white shirt and a plain blue tie, and was holding up a small, black leather wallet with something printed inside it, and his photograph. The woman was a good decade younger, blonde hair pulled up in a bun, wearing a dark trouser suit with a cream blouse, and held up a similar black wallet.

‘Mrs Lynn Beckett?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace and DC Boutwood of Sussex CID. Would it be possible to have a word with you?’

Lynn stared at them in shock. She felt as if she had been dropped into the plunge pool of a sauna. The floor beneath her feet felt unstable. The police officers were in her face, right up close to her, so close she could almost feel the warmth of the Detective Superintendent’s breath. She stepped back, in a red mist of panic. ‘It’s – er – it’s not really a very convenient time,’ she gasped.

Her words sounded disembodied, as if someone else was saying them.

‘I’m sorry, but we do need to speak to you right away,’ the Detective Superintendent said, stepping forward, his face coming closer, intimidatingly closer, again.

She stared wildly, for a moment, at each of them in turn. What the hell was this about? The money she had taken from Reg Okuma, she thought, with sudden terror – had he reported it?

She heard her disembodied voice say mechanically, ‘Yes, right, come in, please come in. It’s cold, isn’t it? Cold but dry. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Not raining. December’s often quite a dry month.’

The young woman DC looked at her sympathetically and smiled.

Lynn stepped back to let them in, then shut the front door behind them. The hallway seemed smaller than ever and she felt crowded by the two police officers.

‘Mrs Beckett,’ the Detective Superintendent said, ‘you have a daughter called Caitlin, is that correct?’

Lynn’s eyes shot upstairs. ‘Yes.’ She struggled to get the word past the lump in her throat. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘Forgive me if I’m being a little forward, Mrs Beckett, but as I understand it, your daughter is unwell with liver failure and in need of a transplant. Is that correct?’

For some moments, she said nothing, trying desperately to think clearly. Why were they here? Why?

‘Would you mind telling me what you are doing here? What is this about? What do you want?’ she asked, shaking.

Roy Grace said, ‘We have reason to believe that you may be attempting to buy a new liver for your daughter.’

He paused and they stared at each other for a moment. He could see the fear in her eyes.

‘Are you aware that, in this country, that would be a criminal offence, Mrs Beckett?’

Lynn shot a glance upstairs, afraid that Caitlin might overhear, then ushered the two officers through into the kitchen and shut the door.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.’

‘Shall we sit down?’ Grace said.

Lynn pulled up a chair facing the two detectives across the table. She considered offering them tea, but decided against, wanting to get shot of them as quickly as possible.

With his coat still on, Roy Grace sat opposite her, with arms folded.

‘Mrs Beckett, during the past week there have been a large number of telephone calls exchanged between your home and mobile phone numbers and a company in Munich called Transplantation-Zentrale. Could you tell us why you made those calls?’

‘Transplantation-Zentrale?’ she echoed.

‘They are a firm of international organ brokers. They obtain human organs for people who need transplants, such as your daughter,’ he said.

Lynn shrugged defensively. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of these people. I know my daughter’s boyfriend has been very upset about my daughter’s treatment from her hospital in London.’

‘Upset about what exactly?’ Grace asked.

‘The way they run their fucking transplant waiting list.’

‘Sounds like you’re upset too,’ he said.

‘I think you’d be upset if it was your daughter, Detective Superintendent Grace.’

‘So it hasn’t crossed your mind to try to look beyond the UK for a suitable liver?’

‘No, why should it?’

Grace was quiet for a moment. Then, as gently as he could, he asked, ‘Would you deny that you had a phone conversation with a lady called Frau Marlene Hartmann, who is the chief executive of Transplantation-Zentrale, at five past nine this morning? Less than one hour ago?’

Suddenly, despite all her efforts to think clearly, she felt herself losing it. She was shaking uncontrollably. Shit, oh shit, oh shit. Wide-eyed, she stared at him.

‘Have you bugged my bloody phone?’

Above her, she heard the sound of water gurgling out of the bath.

The Detective Superintendent slipped his hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a brown envelope. Carefully, from inside it, he pulled out a photograph and laid it on the table for Lynn to see.

It was a photograph of a girl in her early to mid-teens. Despite looking grubby, she had a pretty face, with Romany features and complexion, lank brown hair, and was wearing a blue, sleeveless puffa over a ragged, multicoloured jogging top.

‘Mrs Beckett,’ he went on, ‘I expect you have been told that your daughter’s liver is coming from someone who has been killed in a car accident.’

He paused, watching her eyes closely. She said nothing.

‘Well,’ he continued, ‘that’s actually not the case. It is coming from this Romanian girl. Her name is Simona Irimia. So far as we know she is still alive and healthy. She has been trafficked to England and will be killed so that your daughter can have her liver.’

Suddenly, Lynn’s world felt as if it was crashing down all around her.

Simona sat on a lumpy mattress in the back of the swaying, lurching van, with Gogu on her lap. One moment they were accelerating, the next braking hard, on a twisting, switchback road. For most of the journey she kept her hands pressed flat on the ribbed, metal floor, trying to grip and stop herself from being thrown around.

A blue metal toolbox lay near her, along with a wheel brace, a coiled blue rope and some wide rolls of tape. The stuff clattered and clanked and slid about each time they went over a bump. It had been hours since she had last eaten or drunk anything – before they had got on board that little plane. She was desperately thirsty and the stench of exhaust fumes was making her feel sick.

She wished Romeo were here, because she always felt safe with him, and she would have had someone to talk to. The German woman had ignored her for most of the long journey, either working on her laptop or speaking on her phone. Now, seated in the front, she was engaged in a serious-sounding conversation with the driver of the van, a tall, craggy-faced, expressionless Romanian with jet-black hair slicked back, wearing a blouson jacket over jeans, and with a chunky gold bracelet hanging from his wrist.

Every now and then the woman raised her voice, and the driver either fell silent or argued back – at least, it sounded like he was arguing, in whatever language it was they were speaking.

There were no windows here in the back and Simona could see only by craning her neck and looking forward between the seats, out of the windscreen. They were driving through well-kept countryside. She could see mostly trees, hedges and just the occasional farm building or house.

Suddenly, they were braking sharply. Moments later they turned in between two tall brick pillars. A grid clattered beneath them, then they were heading up a long, winding driveway. Simona saw several signs on posts, but she was unable to read what they said:

PRIVATE PROPERTY

NO PARKING

NO PICNICKING

STRICTLY NO CAMPING

In the distance she saw lush green hills beneath a grey sky. They wound past a large lake, then a vast area beyond it, to their left, of beautifully tended grass. Some of it was mown shorter than other parts and she saw several craters that were filled with what looked like sand. She wondered what they were, but didn’t dare interrupt to ask.

They entered a long, straight avenue of overhanging trees, with the verges covered in fallen leaves, then the van braked sharply again suddenly, slowing to a crawl. They went over a sharp bump, then speeded up again. After three more sharp bumps, Simona could see, ahead of them, a huge grey house, with gleaming cars parked randomly around the driveway in front, and in orderly rows along the side. She felt a beat of excitement. This place looked so beautiful! Was this where she would be working?

She wanted to ask the German woman, but she was talking on her phone again now, and sounding very cross about something.

The van drove under an archway, then halted at the rear of the house. The driver switched off the engine and climbed out, while the woman continued her phone argument, her voice getting louder and more agitated.

Moments later, the driver opened one of the rear doors of the van. He gripped Simona’s hand as she scrambled out and, to her surprise, he continued holding her hand, gripping it hard, despite her effort to free it, as if worried she might run away.

She tugged hard, feeling a flash of resentment at him, but his grip was like iron and his face showed nothing.

The German woman climbed out, ended her call and clicked her phone shut. Simona caught her eye. Normally the woman smiled at her, but there was no smile now, or even a hint of acknowledgement. She just stared through her coldly, as if Simona did not exist.

She must be very angry about her phone call, Simona thought.

A nurse came out of the house, through a door almost beside the van. She was a big, muscular-looking woman, with a broad frame, stubby neck and arms the size of hams. Her greying hair was cropped short, like a man’s, and gelled into spikes. For some moments, she scrutinized the teenager as if she were an object on display in a shop. Then her rosebud lips, far too tiny for the size of her fleshy face, formed into a faint smile.

‘Simona,’ she said stiffly, in Romanian, ‘you come with me.’

She held out her hand and gripped Simona’s. The driver finally let go of her other hand. The nurse pulled Simona so hard she stumbled, and as she did so, the comforter she was clutching fell to the ground, and remained there, as she was dragged inside the house.

‘Gogu!’ Simona cried out, turning her head back desperately. ‘Gogu!’ she called again, trying to break free. ‘Gogu!’

But Marlene Hartmann quickly followed her in, slamming the door shut behind them.

Outside, Vlad Cosmescu saw the strip of mangy fur lying on the ground. He knelt and picked it up. Then, distastefully holding the grimy object by his fingertips, he deposited it in a nearby wheelie bin.

Next, he reversed the van into one of the garages in a row across the yard and pulled down the door, hiding it from view. Just as a precaution.

Struggling desperately hard to maintain her composure at the kitchen table, Lynn stared at the photograph of the pretty, scruffy-looking girl that lay in front of her.

Scare tactics
, she thought.
Please God, let it be scare tactics.

Marlene Hartmann was a decent woman. It was impossible to believe, for an instant, that what the Detective Superintendent had just told her was true. Impossible. Impossible. Impossible.

Her hands were shaking so much she moved them off the table on to her lap. Gripped them tightly together, out of sight. Impossible!

She had to get through this. Had to get these people out of her house, so she could call the German woman. She felt a lump in her throat choking her voice. Took a deep breath to calm herself, the way she had been taught at work when dealing with a difficult or abusive client.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking up at each of them in turn. ‘I don’t know why you’re here or what you want. My daughter is on the transplant priority list at the Royal South London Hospital. We are very happy with all that they are doing and we are confident that she will be getting her liver very shortly. There is no reason at all why I should be looking elsewhere.’ She swallowed. ‘Besides I – I don’t – I wouldn’t know – know – where to begin – to look.’

‘Mrs Beckett,’ Roy Grace said levelly, staring hard at her, ‘human trafficking is one of the most unpleasant crimes in this country. You need to be aware just how seriously the police and the judiciary view this activity. One gentleman in London recently had a sentence for human trafficking increased by the Court of Appeal to
twenty-three
years.’

He paused to let this sink in. She felt as if she was going to throw up at any moment.

‘Human trafficking involves a multitude of criminal offences,’ he went on. ‘I’m going to list them for you: unlawful immigration, kidnap and false imprisonment, just for starters. Do you understand? Any person in this country who attempts to buy a human organ here or abroad is open to being charged with conspiracy to traffic, and with being an accessory. These carry the same custodial sentences as actual trafficking itself. Am I making myself clear?’