Denver arranged for a taxi to call at the dock security booth and pick up the written record of vehicles entering and leaving the quayside, then drop it at the agent’s office. The CCTV footage from dock security was available at the booth — there was a back room for viewing and DC Birley was on his way down to start running it through. The Port Authority manager was told that on no account was he to meet any request from the
Shaw arranged for a former colleague in the Met to liaise with Whitehall to make sure they had a credible set of case notes to begin an inquiry. Meanwhile, Shaw got Twine to search for the
The BMW’s registration plate led them to a car-hire firm in Lynn. The vehicle was still on hire, at a private address in Burnham Overy Staithe, a village deep in the heart of ‘Chelsea-on-Sea’, booked out in the name of a Ravid Lotnar.
Shaw left by taxi, meeting Valentine in the Mazda on the Tuesday Market in a lay-by on the east side. First, news from St James’s. Andy Judd had been charged with arson and criminal damage and then released on police bail. Three conditions: he had to report daily at St James’s, had to stay within a mile of Erebus Street, and he had to keep away from Jan Orzsak.
‘Jewish,’ said Shaw, as they picked up the coast road running east. ‘Peploe gave me some files, background material on the organ traffic trade. Israelis are major customers — know why?’
Valentine drummed his fingers on the steering wheel; the Mazda was trapped behind a caravan. ‘Money?’
‘Nope. It’s one of the few developed countries which do not recognize the concept of brain death. That seriously reduces the supply of organs for transplant, which forces thousands onto the black market. Which means we are almost certainly about to meet our first organ transplant customer.’
The radio crackled. It was Birley. He’d cut into the CCTV footage at hourly intervals for Sunday. The power had gone at 12.15 precisely. Luckily, the CCTV cameras were on a circuit which fed the new dock, so had remained live. He was able to see that at dusk most of the ships had switched to their onboard generators and had begun to show lights. The
They got to the village and turned off towards the beach, the lane snaking through an ocean of reeds where the spring tides flooded the marsh.
‘One other thing,’ said Valentine. ‘Bad news. Twine’s picked up a note sent out by Lincoln CID. They’re looking for background info on a Benjamin David Ruddle — the father of Norma Jean’s baby. He’s alive and well in one of their cells and has given Erebus Street as his home address. Little fucker; killed a prison officer with a Stanley knife as he walked home through the park after dark. Then he just stood there with the knife until he got picked up. Claims the bloke abused him at Deerbolt. Other than that, he ain’t talking.’ Valentine shifted his weight, trying to reduce the pressure on his bladder. ‘Look’s like he’s settled that score.’
‘So he isn’t Blanket.’
‘Nope. Less he’s a quick mover. Plus Twine says he looked at personal details — he’s thirteen stone. Kennedy says Blanket’s eight, nine tops.’
They’d reached the house. A new wall in Norfolk stone, an iron set of security gates with a security keypad. Staithe House itself was minimalist modern in blinding Greek white, but hidden beneath a grove of pines which had been forced to bend with the wind until they caressed the building, softening its lines, making it part of the sinuous wave of dunes. A pair of Dobermann pinschers ran down to the gates to greet them, mouths open and wet, like flesh-eating plants.
A silent servant, a young man dressed in black shorts and a black T-shirt, said his name was Charlie and led them into the house, guarding them for twenty minutes while Mr Lotnar readied himself to meet them. Shaw noticed that Charlie was all muscle, with the kind of biceps that need daily care. They sat in an open-plan living room, spotless, in dark polished wood, watercolours of the north Norfolk coast spotlit on the white walls. Shaw asked for the toilet and started climbing the stairs, waiting for directions.
‘First left,’ Charlie said, trying to work out if he should stay with Valentine or follow Shaw.
Shaw found the toilet, washed his hands, left a tap running, then slipped along the corridor to a bedroom door. He pushed it open and stood on the threshold. A set of leather cases stood open, packed neatly with clothes. Then he heard a sound that didn’t fit, a kind of rhythmic mechanical breathing. He followed the sound back to the top of stairs and into the opposite wing. But he’d only taken a few steps when a door opened and a woman stepped out onto the expensive carpet pile: a
‘I needed the loo,’ said Shaw.
She pointed behind him. ‘First left at the top of the stairs.’ The voice had a syrupy sibilance, and Shaw guessed she was an Israeli too.
He went to the toilet, turned off the tap, flushed the loo, and padded down the stairs, rubbing damp hands together. They all sat amongst the dark polished wood, feigning patience. A buzzer sounded, the noise coming from an antique desk set in the bay window. Charlie took them through into the back garden, which featured an emerald green lawn in alternate stripes, and a pool that sparkled. Lotnar was in a recliner, and Shaw wondered what he’d been doing while they’d been decanted through the house. Had he been upstairs with the machine that mimicked breathing? A woman in a bikini stood drying herself with a fluffy towel in front of him. Shaw couldn’t help thinking that her business was her body: tanned, toned, and as curved as the sand dunes. She took a lot of time making sure the skin on her thighs was dry.
Lotnar didn’t introduce her, or the other two girls in the pool, floating topless on lilos, their breasts pale against deep tans.
‘Inspector.’ Lotnar didn’t get up. In fact he didn’t look like he did a lot of getting up. He weighed, Shaw guessed, at least twenty stone. His torso sagged in a pair of Bermuda shorts, like a Walnut Whip, the overhang of fat covered by an expensive silk shirt, the top six buttons open.
Lotnar shrugged and dismissed the girl. She went to frolic with the others in a half-hearted way, but they made enough noise to cover any conversation. That was the way Shaw wanted it; only Lotnar was going to hear what he had to say.
He gave Lotnar a version of the real reason they were in his house, a version Shaw thought would worry him just enough: that there had been a murder, evidence of an illegal trade in human organs, and links with a ship in Lynn docks.
Lotnar’s face froze, and with a hand he began to pat the Bermuda shorts.
‘Why did you visit the
Lotnar’s smile contained two gold teeth. ‘Inspector, Inspector… I visited an old friend. Beckman — the engineer. A wandering Jew. A Pole. He rang — he knew I was here. We had some food, then too much vodka, much too much vodka. So I slept it off. This isn’t a crime, is it?’
Shaw coughed, the chlorine from the pool making his throat hurt. ‘The scar’s in your groin. I hope it was a neat job. It’s in the groin because the new kidney is attached to the urethra — but you’ll know that by now. The man who donated that kidney is missing, by the way. But when the lights went out they had someone else on the operating table — a man called Tyler — he’s dead. Not such a neat job. But then he wasn’t paying.’
Lotnar’s smile slid off his face like an iceberg calving.
Lotnar was thinking fast, and Shaw could see that he hadn’t yet given up all hope that his money could buy a way out of this — a way out that didn’t involve a prison cell.
