Grace nodded. ‘What are you going to do about Christmas?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t frigging know.’ He suddenly turned away sharply, and Roy could hear his voice break. ‘I – I can’t – I can’t not spend it with Sammy and Remi.’
Roy realized that Glenn had turned away so that he could not be seen crying.
‘Catch you later,’ Branson said, choked, and headed for the door.
‘Want to stay and chat?’
‘No, later. Thanks.’
He pulled the door shut behind him.
Grace sat still for a few moments. He knew that what Glenn was going through must be hell, made all the worse by this time of year, with the dark, gloomy nights and Christmas looming. But it sounded, from all he had heard, that the marriage problems were terminal. Once Glenn accepted that, however bad the pain, then at least he could start the process of moving forward again with his life, instead of living in a hopeless limbo.
He was tempted, for a second, to go after his friend, who clearly needed to talk. But at this moment, he had to get on with his job. Ignoring another ping from his computer, he turned his attention back to his notes from the briefing meeting.
He stared at the list he had started making, beneath the heading
Then his internal phone rang. He picked up the receiver. ‘Roy Grace.’
It was Ray Packham, from the High-Tech Crime Unit. ‘Roy,’ he said. ‘You asked me to do a trawl on the Net for organ brokers?’
‘Yup.’
‘Well, I’ve got something that may be interesting for you. There’s an outfit in Munich, in Germany, called Transplantation-Zentrale GmbH. They’re advertising themselves as the world’s largest brokers of human organs. My boss here, Sergeant Phil Taylor, did a spell in the Interpol office a few years ago. He knows the guy on the German desk, so we were able to get a quick check done. I think you’re going to like this!’
‘Yes?’
‘The LKA – the Landeskriminalamt – sort of the Bavarian equivalent of the FBI – have had them under surveillance for some time, on suspicion of human trafficking. Now, this is the bit you will like most. One of the countries they have a link with is Romania!’
‘Brilliant, Ray!’ Grace said. ‘I have a very good contact at the LKA in Munich.’
‘Yes, well, I thought, you know, for what it’s worth.’
Grace thanked him, then hung up. Immediately, he spun his Rolodex and retrieved a card from it. It was printed Kriminalhauptkommissar Marcel Kullen.
Kullen was an old friend, from when he had spent six months on an exchange, about four years ago, at Sussex House. Marcel had helped him a while back, when there had been a possible sighting of Sandy in Munich, and Grace had gone over there for a day, on what had turned out to be a wild-goose chase.
He dialled Kullen’s mobile number.
It went to voicemail and he left a message.
65
Lynn wished more than ever, now that she was expecting an important visitor, that she had been able to afford to make the downstairs of the house look better. Or at least to have replaced the horrible patterned curtains in the living room with modern blinds and to have got rid of the manky carpet.
She had done her best to make the house look presentable this morning, putting fresh flowers around the hall and living room, and laying out
As the minutes ticked by, she was starting to become increasingly afraid that the German woman was not going to show up. It was now quarter past ten and Marlene Hartmann had said, yesterday afternoon, that she anticipated being at the house by half past nine. Weren’t Germans supposed to always be punctual?
Maybe her flight was late.
Shit. Her nerves were shot to hell. She’d barely slept a wink all night, fretting about Caitlin, getting up every hour, almost on the hour, to check she was OK. And thinking angrily about that transplant coordinator, Shirley Linsell, at the Royal.
And wondering what she was getting herself and Caitlin into by seeing this broker.
But what alternative did she have?
She gave the living room a final check and suddenly noticed, to her horror, a cigarette butt stubbed out into the earth of her potted aspidistra. She retrieved it, feeling a flash of anger towards Luke. Although of course it might have been Caitlin. She knew, from the smell on her sometimes, that Caitlin smoked occasionally. That had started since she met Luke. Then she noticed a stain on the beige carpet, and was about to hurry and put some Vanish on it when she heard the slam of a car door.
With a beat of excitement, she darted across to the window. Through the net curtains she saw a brown Mercedes, with tinted windows, parked outside. Hastily, she moved away, walked through into the kitchen, deposited the offending butt in the bin and turned down the volume on the television. On the screen, a couple were showing two presenters around a small semi that was not dissimilar to her own – from the outside, at any rate.
Then she hurried upstairs and entered Caitlin’s room. She had woken her up early, and made her shower and get dressed, unsure whether the German woman might want to examine her medically. Caitlin was now asleep on top of her bed, with her iPod earpieces plugged in, her complexion even more yellow today. She was dressed in ragged jeans, a green hoodie over a white T- shirt, and thick, grey woollen socks.
Lynn touched her arm lightly. ‘She’s here, darling!’
Caitlin looked at her, a strange, unreadable expression in her eyes, a mixture of hope, despair and bewilderment. Yet somewhere in the darkness of her pupils lurked her old defiance. Lynn hoped she would never lose that.
‘Did she bring a liver with her?’
Lynn laughed and Caitlin managed a wry grin.
‘Do you want me to bring her up here, darling, or are you going to come down?’
Caitlin nodded pensively for some moments, then said, ‘How ill do you want me to look?’
The doorbell rang.
Lynn kissed her on the forehead. ‘Just be natural, OK?’
Caitlin lolled her head back and let her tongue fall out of her mouth. ‘Yrrrrrr,’ she said. ‘I’m dying for a new liver and a nice glass of Chianti to wash it down with!’
‘Shut up, Hannibal!’
Lynn left the room, hurried downstairs, and opened the front door.
The elegance of the woman standing in the porch took her by surprise. Lynn had not known what to expect, but had imagined someone rather dour and formal, perhaps a little creepy. Certainly not the tall, beautiful woman – early forties, she guessed – with wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair and a fur-trimmed black suede coat to die for.
‘Mrs Lynn Beckett?’ she quizzed in a deep, sensual, broken English accent.
‘Marlene Hartmann?’
The woman gave her a disarming smile, her cobalt blue eyes full of warmth.
‘I am so sorry to be late. There was a delay because of snow in Munchen. But now I am here, alles ist in Ordnung, ja?’
Thrown for a second by the sudden switch of language, Lynn mumbled, ‘Um, yes, yes,’ then stepped back and ushered her into the hall.
Marlene Hartmann strode past her and Lynn noted, with dismay, the faintest hint of a frown of disapproval on her face. Directing her into the sitting room, she asked, ‘May I take your coat?’
The German woman shrugged it off her shoulders with the haughtiness of a diva, then handed it to Lynn, without looking at her, as if she were a cloakroom attendant.
‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’ Lynn was cringingly conscious of the woman’s roaming eyes, clocking every detail, every stain, every chip in the paintwork, the cheap furniture, the old telly. Her best friend, Sue Shackleton, had once had a German boyfriend and had briefed her that Germans were very particular about coffee. At the same time as buying the flowers last night, Lynn had bought a packet of freshly ground roasted Colombian beans.
‘Do you have mint tea, perhaps?’
‘Er – mint tea? Actually – yes, yes, I do,’ Lynn said, masking her disappointment at her wasted purchase.
A few minutes later she came into the living room, carrying a tray with a mint tea and a milky instant coffee for herself. The German woman was standing at the mantelpiece, holding a framed photograph of Caitlin, who was dressed as a Goth, with spiky black hair, a black tunic, a chin stud and a ring through her nose.
‘This is your daughter?’
‘Yes, Caitlin. It was taken about two years ago.’
She replaced the photograph, then sat down on the sofa, placing her black attache case beside her.
‘A very beautiful young lady. A strong face. Good bone structure. She could model, maybe?’
‘Maybe.’ Lynn swallowed, thinking, If she lives. Then she put on her most positive smile. ‘Would you like to meet her now?’
‘No, not yet. Give to me first a little of her medical history.’
Lynn put the tray down on the coffee table, handed the woman her cup, then sat in an armchair beside her.
‘Well, OK – I’ll try. Up until nine she was fine, a normal, healthy child. Then she started having bowel problems, strong occasional stomach pains. Our GP diagnosed it initially as indeterminate colitis. That was followed by diarrhoea with blood in it, which persisted for a couple of months, and she felt tired all the time. He referred her to a liver specialist.’
Lynn sipped her coffee.
‘The specialist said that her spleen and liver were enlarged. She had a distended stomach and she was losing weight. Her tiredness was getting worse. She was always falling asleep, wherever she was. She was going to school, but needed four or five naps a day. Then she started getting stomach pains that went on all night. The poor kid was really distressed and kept asking, “Why me?”’
Suddenly, Lynn looked up and saw Caitlin entering the room.
‘Hi!’ she said.
