speak quickly and incessantly, or to switch topic in mid-sentence. He could eventually become incoherent, using inappropriate words or mispronouncing them, or making up new words altogether.’
Cooper had been trying to make notes as the psychiatrist talked. But his pen paused, and he looked up.
‘Would you be willing to listen to a tape of an interview we conducted with Mr Lowther, and give us your opinion on it?’
‘Certainly, if you think it would help.’
‘How do you think John Lowther is likely to react in the present circumstances?’
‘It’s difficult to say. He’ll be in a rather unpredictable state. But one thing I’m sure of: he must be a very frightened man.’
‘Frightened of what? Of us?’
Sinclair smiled. ‘Hardly. At the moment, you’re the least of his problems.’
‘What, then?’
He put his glasses down and closed the file. Then he toyed with the items on his desk, teasing them into a more satisfactory arrangement.
‘Most of all, John Lowther will be frightened of himself,’ he said. ‘Of his own inner demons, if you like. Whatever form those demons might be taking.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m doing my best to explain. You see, Mr Lowther knows about the voices from past experience, though he’ll have tried to suppress the knowledge. If he’s off the medication, his auditory hallucinations will return. They might have returned already.’
‘What will that mean to him?’
‘At this stage, he should be lucid enough to understand what’s going on, and to be aware that it will get worse. He’ll be facing up to the horror of what he might do at the urging of those voices, and the options he has left to save himself, to avoid turning back into the evil monster he once considered himself to be.’
‘I can think of one option,’ said Cooper, holding his eye. ‘He might feel the only way he can prevent himself from turning into that monster is to end his own life.’
Sinclair nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. John Lowther is a much greater risk to himself than to anyone else.’
‘Thank you.’
As Cooper stood up to leave, Sinclair seemed to slip from the script again, just for a moment. ‘A grasp of Mr Lowther’s thought process is essential, you know, Detective Constable.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘Because it’s counter-intuitive.’ The psychiatrist made a weary gesture. ‘I realize it’s difficult to understand. Most of us know what it means to be afraid to die. But it’s rare to meet someone who’s scared to live.’
Fry burst into the office anxious to know whether Cooper had returned from his visit to Dr Sinclair. But Murfin was taking a call as she walked through the door. His eyes were wide, and she watched him expectantly when he put the phone down.
‘According to the authorities in Pleven, the Mullens’ adoption application was never fully processed,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means they didn’t complete the adoption procedures. There were some legal problems with the papers, apparently, and their application was rejected by the court.’
‘And what happened to Zlatka Shishkov?’
‘They say they can’t tell us that, for reasons of confidentiality. But one thing’s for certain — she wasn’t adopted by the Mullens.’
Fry stared at him in amazement, wondering whether she’d heard him right.
‘So where did their baby come from?’ she said. ‘And who the hell is Luanne?’
31
The bar of the Mulberry Tree in West Street was deserted in the afternoon, once the lunchtime rush was over. It was hardly worth staying open, except as a matter of principle. This afternoon, there were only two customers — and one of them was there reluctantly.
For a moment, Georgi Kotsev smiled at Diane Fry and placed a strong, brown hand on the table between them, like an offering.
‘Baby smuggling,’ he said. ‘It’s very regrettable.’
‘Is that the word you’d use?’
‘Forgive me. My English is not adequate, perhaps.’
‘It’s just fine, Georgi.’
Fry couldn’t remember when she’d last sat in a bar with so little atmosphere. The walls were subdued pastel colours, designed in a mock Georgian style, but with ornate chandeliers. The armchairs were imitation leather and so deep that she had to sit forward on the edge of her chair to remain upright. Kotsev had left his glass of vodka untouched in front of him out of politeness, though she’d refused his offer of a drink.
‘Until the year 2004, baby selling wasn’t a crime in Bulgaria,’ he said. ‘Even now, a woman who sells her baby has committed no offence. By law, she is regarded as a victim.’
‘But what about the dealers? The middle men?’
‘Yes, their activities are now a criminal offence. If they’re caught, they might face a year in prison.’
‘
He shook his head slowly. ‘Things are changing. But perhaps not quickly enough for some.’
‘Why would a mother sell her baby, Georgi?’
‘Ah, babies are a valuable commodity. A mother might sell one to buy a house, or to feed the rest of her family for a little while.’
‘It can’t be so easy to smuggle babies out of the country, can it?’
‘What? Bulgaria has five borders — Romania, Serbia, Macedonia, Greece, Turkey — and all of them leaky, like a sieve. And we have the Black Sea coast, with little ports where you can sail a boat across. Yes, our country has become a corridor for smuggling of all kinds. Drugs, cigarettes, vegetables, people …’ Kotsev fingered his drink. ‘A while ago, our authorities broke a kidney-trafficking ring. Six people had been taken to a clinic in Istanbul, where their kidneys were sold to transplant patients. This is a rich business for someone — kidneys are worth between two and five thousand dollars each. It depends on the blood type, you see.’
‘Did you say vegetables just now, Georgi?’
‘Ah, yes. Potatoes, for example. Also apples. Any kind of food that is scarce. In Sofia, the police arrested a smuggler known as Nick the Chicken, on account of his speciality.’
Fry sat back, fighting the feeling that she’d stepped into some kind of Russian farce. The armchair squeaked at her movement. Taped music played somewhere, and a barman appeared to wipe glasses that hadn’t been used.
Kotsev couldn’t resist a sip of vodka. ‘The main interest to us might be in the connection with the victims of the double shooting in Pleven. It seems they not only had a personal relationship, but they were also colleagues.’
‘That’s not unusual.’
‘No. But guess where Dimitar Iliev and Piya Yotova worked.’
Fry didn’t like being asked to guess. Someone who asked you to guess expected you to be wrong, and she usually was. But as she remembered the photo of Iliev’s red Ford Escort with its shattered back window and BG plates, Fry thought she heard distant screams, and the voices of children. And she realized she didn’t have to guess. ‘An orphanage,’ she said.
‘You are almost correct. Iliev and Yotova were employed by an official organization which places children in state orphanages.’
‘So they had a lot of power in deciding the fate of those children?’
‘
