‘Good man! That’s what I like to hear!’ He disappeared through a doorway into a tiny, cluttered back office and then clattered down some stairs.
Grace checked a text that just pinged in, but it was nothing important, a reminder about his haircut appointment tomorrow at the Point, the hair salon his self-appointed style guru, Glenn Branson, insisted he go to for his monthly close-crop. He stared around at the displays of dusty bottles flat on their sides on shelves and stacked in wooden boxes on the floor. Then he glanced at the headline of the
A grim statistic, he thought, but at least it kept his case off the front page today.
A couple of minutes later, Henry Butler reappeared, reverently cradling a squat bottle in his arms. ‘Got this rather seductive Krug. One sip and anybody’s knickers will hit the ground.’
Grace grinned.
‘Two hundred and seventy-five quid to you, sir, and that’s with 10 per cent discount.’
Roy’s smile fell into a black hole. ‘Shit – I didn’t actually mean
The merchant gave him a quizzical, mock-stern look. ‘I have a luscious Spanish cava at nine quid a pop. It’s what we drink at home in summer. Gorgeous.’
‘Too cheap.’
‘There you go, Mr CID – ’ which he pronounced Sid – ‘I never did take you for a cheapskate. I do have a rather special house champagne, seventeen quid for you, sir. A massive, buttery nose, long finish, quite a complex, biscuity style. Jane MacQuitty did her tonsils over it in the
Grace shook his head. ‘Still too cheap. I want something
‘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
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
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
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:
‘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.’
