Grace listened despondently. He just couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be so completely and utterly duped – and so simply. It wasn’t what his team expected of him. Nor was it what he expected from himself.
He should have arrested Lynn Beckett earlier today, when he’d had the chance. At least that might have contained the situation. Except, of course, it would have caused panic and he’d almost certainly have blown any chance of catching the people red-handed. God, hindsight was so easy!
An unanswered phone was warbling again. He was finding it hard to concentrate with this damn, incessant ringing. A light was blinking on the panel on the phone in front of him. In frustration he pressed the button and answered it himself.
‘Incident Room,’ he said.
On the other end of the line was a nervous-sounding woman. In her thirties or forties, he guessed. She said, ‘May I please speak to someone involved with the three bodies that were – were – found in the Channel? Is it Operation Neptune? Is that right?’
She sounded as if she was probably a time waster, but you could never be sure. His policy was always to be polite and listen carefully. ‘You’re speaking to Detective Superintendent Grace,’ he said. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on Operation Neptune.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Right. Good. Look, I’m sorry to trouble you – but I’m worried. I shouldn’t be making this call, you see – I’ve sneaked out in my break.’
‘OK,’ he said, picking up his pen and opening his notebook on a blank page. ‘Could you let me have your name and your contact number?’
‘I – I saw on a Crimestoppers’ advertisement that – that I could be anonymous.’
‘Yes, certainly, if you’d prefer. So, how do you believe you can help us?’
‘Well,’ she said, sounding even more nervous, ‘this may be nothing, of course. But I’ve read – you know – and seen on the news – the – er – the speculation that these poor young people might have been trafficked for their organs. Well, the thing is, you see…’ She fell silent.
Grace waited for her to continue. Finally, he prompted her, a tad impatiently. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, you see, I work in the dispensing department of a pharmaceutical wholesaler. For quite a long time now we’ve been supplying two particular drugs, among others, to a cosmetic surgery clinic in West Sussex. Now the thing is, I don’t understand why this clinic would need these particular drugs.’
Grace started becoming more interested. ‘What kind of drugs?’
‘Well, one is called Tacrolimus.’ She spelled it out and he wrote it down. ‘The other is Ciclosporin.’ He wrote that down, also.
‘These drugs are immunosuppressants,’ she continued.
‘Which means they do what, exactly?’ he asked.
‘Immunosuppressants are used to prevent rejection by the human body of transplanted organs.’
‘Are you saying they don’t have any application in cosmetic surgery?’
‘The only application is for skin grafts, to prevent rejection. But I very much doubt they would be using the quantity we’ve been supplying for the two years that I’ve been here now if it was just for skin grafts. I know quite a lot about that area, you see, I used to work in the burns unit at East Grinstead,’ she said, suddenly sounding proud and less nervous. ‘There’s another drug as well that we supply to this clinic that I think might be relevant.’
‘Which is?’
‘Prednisolone.’ Again she spelled it out. ‘It’s a steroid – it can have a wider application, but it has a particular function in liver transplants.’
‘Liver transplants?’
‘Yes.’
Suddenly, Roy Grace’s adrenalin was surging. ‘What’s the name of this clinic?’
After some hesitation, the woman’s voice dropped and she sounded nervous again. Almost whispering, she said, ‘Wiston Grange.’
114
The driver’s English was limited, which suited Lynn fine, as she wasn’t in any mood for chatting. He’d informed her his name was Grigore, and every time she glanced at his rear-view mirror, she saw him grinning at her with his crooked, glinting teeth. Twice on the journey he made a brief phone call, speaking in a foreign language Lynn did not know.
All her attention was on Caitlin, who, to her intense relief, seemed to rally a little again during the course of the journey – thanks perhaps to the glucose fluid or the antibiotics, or both. It was Lynn who was the hopeless bag of nerves at this moment, barely even noticing where they were heading, as they travelled along the A27 west of Brighton, passing Shoreham Airport, then along the Steyning bypass. The sky was an ominous grey, as if reflecting the darkness inside her, and flecks of sleet were falling. Every few minutes the driver briefly flicked the wipers on.
‘Will Dad come and see me?’ Caitlin asked suddenly, her voice sounding weak. She was scratching her stomach now.
‘Of course. One of us will be with you all the time until you are back home.’
‘
Lynn nearly asked her which
Then, looking frightened and vulnerable, Caitlin asked, ‘You’ll be there during the operation, won’t you, Mum?’
‘I promise.’ She squeezed her daughter’s weak hand and kissed her on the cheek. ‘And I’ll be there when you wake up.’
Caitlin gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, well, don’t wear anything embarrassing.’
‘Thanks a lot!’
‘You haven’t brought that horrible orange top?’
‘I haven’t brought that horrible orange top.’
A little over half an hour after leaving Brighton Station car park, they turned in through a smart, pillared gateway, past the sign which read WISTON GRANGE SPA RESORT, then they drove on up a metalled driveway, through rolling parkland and over a series of speed humps. After a short distance Lynn saw a golf course to their left and a large lake. Ahead were the Downs, and she could make out the cluster of trees that formed Chanctonbury Ring.
Caitlin was silent, her eyes closed, listening to music on her iPod, or asleep. Lynn, sitting in funereal silence, did not want to wake her until the last moment, hoping sleep might help conserve her strength.
God, please let me have made the right decision, she prayed silently.
It had been OK until the police officers’ visit this morning. She had known until then that she was doing the right thing, but now she didn’t know what the
Finally, jerked by a speed hump, Caitlin’s eyes opened and she stared around, bewildered.
‘What are you listening to, darling?’ Lynn asked.
Caitlin did not hear her.
Lynn stared at her daughter with such affection she thought her heart would burst. Stared at the bilious yellow colour of her skin and her eyes. She looked so damn frail and vulnerable.
Stay strong, darling. Just for a little while longer. Just a few more hours and then everything is going to be fine.
She looked through the windscreen for some moments at the place looming up ahead, a big, ugly, stately pile of a house. The central part looked, to Lynn, as if it was Victorian Gothic, but there were a number of modern annexes and outbuildings, some sympathetic to the style, others just bland, modern prefabs. She saw a circular driveway ahead, lined with cars, flanked by a car park on either side, but the driver turned off at a sign marked private, drove through an archway along the side of the house and into a large rear courtyard, bounded on one side by what she presumed had once been the mews stables and on another by a row of ugly lock-up garages.
They pulled to a halt beside an unpretentious back entrance. Before Lynn had climbed out of the Mercedes, a massive beefcake of a woman emerged from the door, wearing a white nurse’s tunic and gym shoes.
Grigore sprang around to open Caitlin’s door, but, with considerable effort, she slid over to her mother’s side, following her out unaided.
‘Mrs Lynn Beckett, Miss Caitlin Beckett?’ The woman’s formal voice and broken English accent made it sound like an interrogation.
Lynn nodded meekly, holding an arm around her daughter, and read the woman’s name tag: Draguta.
She looked like a dragon, she thought.
‘You will follow me, please.’
‘I bring your bags,’ Grigore said.
Lynn gripped Caitlin’s hand as they followed the woman along a wide corridor with white tiled walls which smelled strongly of disinfectant, passing several closed doors. Then the woman stopped at a locked door at the end and punched in a security code.
They walked through into a carpeted area, with pale grey painted walls, which had the feel of an office suite, then the woman stopped at a door and knocked.
A female voice from the other side called out, ‘Reinkommen!’
Lynn and Caitlin were ushered into a large, plush office, and the nurse closed the door behind them. Marlene Hartmann rose up from behind a bare desk to greet them. Behind her was a window giving a panoramic view across towards the Downs.
‘
‘We had an interesting journey,’ Lynn said, a hard knot in her stomach and her throat feeling so tight she could barely get the words out. Her legs were shaking.
‘
‘I’d quite like the surgeon to have Feist playing during the operation. Do you think he’d sort of like do that?’ Caitlin asked quietly.
She sat, scratching her left ankle, hunched up on the chair.
‘Feist?’ The woman frowned. ‘What is Feist?’
‘She’s cool. A singer.’
Now she started scratching her distended stomach.
