Beautiful Death (2 page)

‘And then what happens?’ Hiran asked, his nerves betraying him as he began to feel his throat close, his heartbeat quicken.

‘Well, I don’t know all the surgical terms,’ Namzul said, his voice kind, ‘but you will be in good hands, professional hands. This is England, after all, and you are going to a private surgery. It is a relatively straightforward procedure with few complications as I understand it. I’m sure you know it is performed regularly in Asia. They will remove one of your kidneys and once you are well enough to be released from hospital, you will be brought back to the house you’re staying in now to recover fully. Don’t worry,’ he continued, seeing Hiran frown, ‘I will look after my fellow countrymen. We are all Banglas, after all.’

‘How long before we are well?’

Namzul tipped his head one way then another as
though weighing up his answer. ‘Young men like you, I would say within two weeks.’

‘We’ll be able to work?’

‘Light duties, as they say. In a month you can take on normal work and within eight weeks you’ll hardly know it has occurred. The scar alone will tell you it has been done.’ He tapped Hiran’s hand. ‘Nothing to worry about and then we can get you working in the restaurant, as promised.’ He looked over at Taj. ‘How about your quiet friend here?’

‘I’m not doing it,’ Taj answered as they glanced his way. ‘Anything could go wrong,’ he said to Hiran, ignoring Namzul.

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ Namzul insisted. ‘We’ve done this many times. There are many wealthy Arabs who pay handsomely for a kidney. Tell you what, perhaps I can increase the fee a little bit. You boys have been very good about coming to London and not beginning work immediately. I know you’re keen to start earning and this has delayed things a little bit but it’s a fine way to earn a lot of money in one hit. Your wives will surely be grateful. So I’ll show some appreciation. Let’s say
£
350 apiece?’ He looked at Taj expectantly.

‘Taj,’ Hiran began, eyes wide, ‘it is a lot of money.’

‘And we’ve already paid all our savings to get here so we can earn. Now they want part of my body.’ He glared at Hiran before shifting his attention back to Namzul. ‘Four-fifty,’ he said.

Hiran gasped in surprise, but the trader smiled. ‘Quiet but cunning,’ he said. ‘All right, my final offer is four hundred each, but the clock is ticking, boys, and my offers stands only until the banks close at 4 p.m.’ He made a point of consulting his oversized watch. ‘So hurry up and make a decision.’ He took
them both in with one sweeping gaze, before flinging his uneaten wrap towards the bin. He looked back at them. ‘What’s it to be?’

They nodded together.

‘Excellent. I need to make a quick phone call and then you can follow me home. It’s just around the corner.’

John Sherman was walking his old dog, Rory, around sprawling Springfield Park in north London. He was lost in his thoughts, musing on how much this neighbourhood had changed since he was a boy. He’d lived in the area since birth and had watched it being steadily overtaken by the Hasidic Jewish community, until now it virtually owned all of it. He lived happily among them in Castlewood Road at the top of Stamford Hill, with its great views over the marshes and the meandering River Lea. He had always got on well with the Jewish community, although the Hasidim — ultra-Orthodox followers of the religion — pretty much stuck to themselves, so it was hard to know them intimately. He wouldn’t call any of his neighbours friends, but they were all amicable enough, quiet and considerate people. None followed the British tradition of keeping dogs. Someone once told him it was because dogs were non-kosher animals and having their non-kosher food in the house would present problems. But he’d spoken with a few of the younger men in the neighbourhood who suggested that dogs were considered dangerous by the community. The cultural dislike evidently harked back to the olden days of persecution when the baying of dogs was the first warning a Jewish community might have of an approaching attack.

John respected this notion and was always careful
not to let Rory off the lead around his neighbours. Rory was really too old to bother anyone, but even so John had seen some of the neighbourhood women panic when a dog had wandered into a Jewish family’s front garden. ‘The children, think of the children . . .’ one of the women had bleated, terrified by the small spaniel nosing around a flowerbed, simply enjoying the joy of sniffing in the dirt. John had been vigilant ever since, but the women’s attitude vaguely annoyed him. Britain was a nation of dog-lovers; look at any British mantelpiece and you’d see photos of various beloved family mutts alongside the kids and grandparents. Yes, the Brits loved their dogs but the Hasidic people’s fear was not John’s gripe . . . Britain no longer felt British, he thought, as he stepped off the bridge he’d navigated to stride along the riverbank. Rory was already bounding ahead. He loved it down here by the water.

John allowed the familiar thoughts to flow. Britain was such a blend of cultures that it had long ago ceased to have a pure flavour of its own — certainly in London. What tourists saw and what living breathing Londoners saw were entirely different as far as he was concerned. Visitors headed back to comfy hotels in and around central London, not far from where they might have spent a fun day sightseeing and enjoying the buzz that VisitBritain promised in its promotional material. From this point of view John knew London rarely let its visitors down. But the working Londoner not only had to cope with the gawping, shouting, always-photographing, ever-milling tourists, but he usually had to commute home miles on the Underground — so convenient for the odd tourist excursion
between Victoria and Knightsbridge perhaps, but hell itself if you were facing the trek twice daily between Victoria and Cockfosters. No smiles down there then. It’s all so grim and grey, he thought to himself, feeling a spike of guilt that these days he worked shifts and used a car to move against the traffic, travelling out of London, never having to negotiate the bastard M5 that most motorists had to run the gauntlet of daily. He was sure the M5 accounted for many a suicide. And that was his other gripe: London traffic.

Oh, don’t get started, John
, he told himself, shaking his head to dispel the negative notions.

He smiled as Rory looked suddenly like a pup again for a few moments, gambolling beside the river, lost in a happy world of smells and carefree playfulness. It was cold but the sunlight, though thin, was rather nice glittering off the Lea, and John liked the canal boats down here. The bonus was that Rory didn’t trouble anyone because the Hasidic families tended to take the air much higher up in the park. Down here it was mainly runners, and other people letting their dogs loose on the flatlands. That said, he looked up and saw a couple of Hasidic men, so easy to recognise in their long dark coats over white shirts and black waistcoats, their black hats, and with those unmistakeable ringlets stark against pallid, seemingly sorrowful faces. Just to prove him wrong, one of the men laughed at something the other had said, then both men’s faces glowed with shared amusement. John smiled to himself, almost wishing he knew what had sparked the laughter.

They glanced his way but immediately returned to their conversation. It was time to head back. Rory must be tired anyway. He began to call to the old
fellow, who was well in the distance, rooting around in the riverbank. He hoped Rory hadn’t found a rat or a vole to traumatise. He sped up, leaving the pair of men on the bridge talking quietly and chanced a whistle to Rory. The dog looked up, wagged his tail excitedly and then returned to whatever had taken his attention. He looked to be gnawing at something.

John whistled again. ‘Rory!
Rory
!’ he yelled, knowing he would be disturbing others. The dog ignored him as the men had earlier. It was no use. Once Rory got himself into a lather over something he was hard to move and John knew it would be a case of physically dragging the dog off whatever it was that had his interest. He jogged towards his dog, looking at his watch. It really was time to head back and get ready for the movies. He’d promised Cathie he’d take her to see
Ocean’s Twelve
. It had been so long since they’d been to the movies that they were well behind their friends’ dinner conversation. He was, however, still hoping he could persuade Cathie to see
House of Flying Daggers
instead. He loved Zhang Yimou’s work.
Hero
was spectacular and he knew the new release would be just as accomplished, and far more thought-provoking than the heist of a casino. Besides, Cathie just wanted to ogle Clooney and Pitt! He sighed. ‘Rory!’
Wretched dog
.

John picked up the pace slightly and closed on his excited pet before suddenly stopping short. His breath caught in his throat. Rory was tugging at a hand. There was no mistaking it — those were fingers his dog had between his teeth and was pulling at, growling as he did so. Rory made this sound when he was playing tug o’ war — it was his happy sound, but John felt ready to vomit. It took a couple more seconds for John to override his shock, and
then he was reaching for his phone and dialling 999. Police sirens could be heard within moments. John Sherman was impressed, although he finally lost the fight to retain his lunch.

2.

He touched his mouth to the flawless skin of her back, gently tracing the curve of her shoulder blade, revelling in the velvety feel of her against the sensitivity of his lips. He touched them now to a tiny blemish, a coffee-coloured birthmark at the top of her arm that he liked to think looked like a heart. She always scoffed at the suggestion.

‘
Ni de bi hu hao xiang si chou
,’ he intoned as expertly as he could in Mandarin, and smiled at her inevitable giggle. She teased him ruthlessly about his dreadful Chinese. ‘I only know a little,’ he admitted.

‘Then we’re blessed because your pronunciation is horrible and you just told me I’m a lizard, or rather that my lizards feel like silk,’ she groaned, still to emerge fully from the sated doze of their lovemaking.

‘Really?’ He sounded hurt.

‘
Ni de
pi fu
hao xiang si chou
,’ she corrected. ‘Easy mistake, I suppose, for a beginner.’

‘Damn. And there I was thinking the evening classes were working.’

‘They are,’ she said, stroking his squarish face sympathetically. She tugged at this thick, dark hair. ‘And I love that you’re taking them. What else would I laugh at?’

Jack Hawksworth sighed. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, sliding a hand around her slim waist, and snuggling close to show his reluctance.

Lily turned in his arms to look at him, her exquisite, almond-shaped eyes sparkling darkly, her smile dreamy and generous. Her hair was soft and shiny against his face. He loved its slippery feel and the way Lily would shake it carelessly back into the perfect, sharply cut bob that ended just below her chin. ‘Me too,’ she murmured. ‘I can only use the excuse of Sally’s break-up with John so many times. I can’t risk my parents finding out about us, or telling Jimmy.’

Jack frowned, and repeated a question he had asked in the earliest days of their relationship now three months old. ‘Why don’t you tell them the truth? Your parents may surprise you,’ he urged.

Lily’s eyes no longer smiled. Now their licorice darkness reflected only bitterness. ‘It’s not a matter of me finding the courage, Jack. I know my parents. They won’t surprise me. They’re very predictable. They’re also traditional and as far as they’re concerned, I’m as good as engaged . . . no, married! And they approve of Jimmy.’ Her expression turned glum. ‘All that’s missing are the rings and the party.’

‘Lily, risk their anger or whatever it is you’re not prepared to provoke but don’t do this.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘Forget me, I’m not important. I’m talking about the rest of your life, here. From what I can see of my friends and colleagues, marriage is hard enough without the kiss of death of not loving your partner.’

‘It’s not his fault, Jack. You don’t understand, it’s complicated. And in his way, Jimmy is very charismatic.’

Jack didn’t know Professor James Chan, eminent physician and cranio-facial surgeon based at Whitechapel’s Royal London Hospital, but he already knew he didn’t much like him. Jack might be sleeping with Lily and loving every moment he could share with her, but James Chan had a claim on her and that pissed Jack off. Privately, he wanted to confront the doctor. Instead, he propped himself on one elbow and tried once more to reason with Lily. ‘It’s not complicated actually. This isn’t medieval China or even medieval Britain. This is London 2005. And the fact is you’re happily seeing me . . . and you’re nearly thirty, Lily.’ He kept his voice light even though he felt like shaking her and cursing.

‘Are you asking me to make a choice?’

He shook his head. ‘No, I’m far more subtle. I’ve had my guys rig up a camera here. I think I should show your parents exactly what you’re doing when they think you’re comforting poor Sally. I’m particularly interested in hearing their thoughts on that rather curious thing you did to me on Tuesday.’

She gave a squeal and punched him, looking up to the ceiling, suddenly unsure.

Jack laughed but grew serious again almost immediately. ‘Would it help if I —?’

Lily placed her fingertips on his mouth to hush him. She kissed him long and passionately before replying. ‘I know I shouldn’t be so answerable at my age but Mum and Dad are so traditional. I don’t choose to rub it in their face that I’m not a virgin. Nothing will help, my beautiful Jack. I will marry Jimmy Chan but we have a couple more weeks
before I must accept his proposal. Let’s not waste it arguing and let’s not waste it on talk of love or longing. I know you loved the woman you knew as Sophie, Jack. I know you’ve been hiding from her memory ever since and, as much as I could love you, I am not permitted to because I’m spoken for and you aren’t ready to be in love again. This is not a happy-ever-after situation for us. I know you enjoy me and perhaps could love me but this is not the right moment for us to speak of anything but enjoying the time we have, because neither of us is available for anything beyond that.’

‘You’re wrong, Lily.’

She smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘I have to go.’

Jack sighed. ‘I’ll drop you back.’

‘No need,’ Lily said, moving from beneath the quilt, shivering as the cool air hit her naked body. ‘I have to pick up Alys from school. She’s very sharp and I don’t need her spotting you — especially as she’s had a crush on you since you first came into the flower shop.’ Suddenly she grinned. ‘If you hurry up at least we can shower together!’

Jack leaped from the bed and dashed to the bathroom to turn on the taps. He could hear her laughing behind him but he felt sad. Two more weeks. It wasn’t fair and then, as if the gods had decided to punish him further, his mobile rang, the ominous theme of Darth Vader telling him this was not a call he could ignore.

He gave a groan. ‘Carry on without me,’ he called to Lily, reaching for the phone. ‘Hello, sir,’ he said, waiting for the inevitable apology from Superintendent Malcolm Sharpe.

‘Jack, I’m sorry, I know you’ve got a couple of days off.’

‘That’s all right, sir. Has something come up?’

‘It has — and it has your name all over it.’

‘Where shall I meet you?’

‘Are you at home?’

‘Yes, but I can be at Empress in —’

‘No, I feel like some air. I’ll come over your way.’

‘You’re going to cross the river, sir, did I hear right?’ Mirth laced Jack’s tone.

‘I’m interested to see what you Mexicans find so special about the place. Where shall I meet you?’

Jack scratched at his unshaven face. ‘Er, Canary Wharf is probably best, unless you want to meet me here in Greenwich?’

‘Canary Wharf’s ideal. I’m near the tube that way. I’ll see you around 3.30 shall I?’

‘Yes, see you in an hour, sir, at the station,’ Jack said, closing his phone.

Lily emerged, graceful as a cat, from the steamy bathroom, and let down the hair she’d pinned up. It fell instantly into place. ‘You missed all the fun,’ she teased.

‘Well, I demand a repeat performance,’ Jack replied indignantly as she finished towelling herself dry.

‘I can see you Friday,’ she offered.

‘No sooner?’

She pulled a face of apology. ‘I’ve got a lot of deliveries at the hospital over the next couple of days, starting this afternoon, but tomorrow’s a nightmare. I have to be over at the market by 3 a.m.!’

‘Okay, I’ll call you,’ he said, planting a soft kiss on her mouth. ‘I’ve got to meet my boss, so I’m going to jump in.’ He nodded at the bathroom.

‘I won’t wait then, but I’ll see you Friday.’

‘I’ll take you out,’ he said, and at her instantly anxious expression he calmed her, raising his hands.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll go out of London. You won’t be seen by anyone, I promise. I know a lovely spot in St Albans — it has a beautiful restaurant with an open fire. You’ll enjoy it — fantastic food.’

She smiled, ‘Can’t wait,’ and blew him a kiss as she rushed out, hunting for her car keys.

Jack met Sharpe as he spilled off the tube at Canary Wharf in a mass of business people and tourists. He led his chief, complaining bitterly at the cold, to a watering hole called All-Bar-One.

‘I forget how impressive this place is,’ Sharpe admitted as they travelled up an escalator from the tube station. ‘It’s like something from a science fiction movie.’

‘The design is brilliant,’ Jack agreed, pulling his scarf over a shoulder and pointing to the most prominent structure, One Canada Square. ‘The tallest building in Britain. It can be seen from Guildford on a clear day. Thirty-one miles away!’

Sharpe groaned, his breath curling like mist. ‘I’ve not let myself in for another of your architectural lectures, have I?’

Jack ignored him good-naturedly. ‘Want to know how many storeys, how many windows, even how many lifts? Or perhaps why it’s called Canada Square?’

‘No I don’t! You’re a walking, talking architectural encyclopaedia, Jack. Don’t you have normal hobbies?’

‘Well, as you know, Malcolm, I do like to bake.’

Malcolm gave a sound of disgust; he knew Jack was taking the piss. ‘Anyway, I thought it was historical places that fired you up.’

‘This already is history, sir — built in 1991 — and
no, I’m excited by all design, so long as it’s beautiful and has something to say. This building clearly does, sir.’

Sharpe flicked Jack’s arm with a gloved hand. ‘We’re both off duty, we can drop the formality and the lesson, thank you.’

‘What’s your poison then, Malcolm?’ Jack replied, looking up at the obelisk atop the building.

‘Coffee’s fine. Too cold for much else and, anyway, Mary’s got me doing the bloody drinks for her wretched book club gathering tonight at our house,’ he complained, his lip curling at the thought. ‘Why is it always Jane Austen? Or Maeve Binchy? It’s never anything I’d like to read.’

‘That’s because all you read are things like autopsy reports. When was the last time you settled down with a good novel?’

Sharpe gave a silent grimace. ‘You can buy,’ he said, choosing a table. ‘Normal coffee for me, please, not one of those fancy things and I want it strong with full-cream milk, none of that skimmer rubbish or I might as well just drink water.’

‘Back in a minute. Stew quietly and enjoy the view,’ Jack said, waving his hand expansively toward the river, ringed by the surrealistic buildings glittering in the thin winter sunlight.

He returned with two steaming coffees in glasses, balancing a small plate that bore a couple of the chewy almond
biscotti
he found irresistible.

‘Enjoy,’ he said, grinning at his chief’s horrified glance at the glass of coffee, a paper serviette neatly tied around it. ‘You need to join this century, Malcolm. We don’t drink coffee any more, we drink lattes or cappuccinos or espressos. Trust me, this is delicious.’

‘Well, you are chirpy. Is there a woman behind this loopy smile of yours?’ Malcolm asked, feigning sourness.

‘I’m seeing a very nice woman, thank you, Malcolm. And before you ask, she’s not a schoolteacher as you suggested . . . but she has absolutely nothing to do with the police and is unlikely to commit a crime — so I think I’m pretty safe.’ It was said with levity but they both knew that Jack’s brightness hid the heartbreak that still loomed over him.

‘Any more postcards?’

Jack looked pained. ‘The last one was about nine weeks ago. I gave it to SOCA. But she’s too clever to get caught that way.’

‘Anne McEvoy is certainly clever, but they all slip up eventually, Jack, you know that.’

Jack sipped his coffee. He said nothing, but he nodded. It was obvious that Anne still haunted him. Jack’s most recent major operation had been ‘Danube’, involving the hunt for a serial killer who had been selecting very specific victims in southern England, and who had turned out to be a woman he was seeing romantically. She had escaped police clutches by a hair’s breadth and was now being hunted internationally.

‘I know all your team privately sympathised with her situation. I did too,’ Sharpe said. ‘But in the eyes of the law she’s a criminal and you know that when she does slip up you’ll have to pick up the threads of the case again. It can’t be passed to anyone else.’

‘I know how it works, sir,’ Jack replied softly. ‘And when they catch her . . . if they catch her,’ he warned with a private sense of satisfaction that Anne had
eluded the international police for so long, ‘I’ll be there to meet her and escort her straight to Holloway.’

Sharpe nodded his approval, seemingly reassured. ‘How’s Amy?’

Now Jack smiled. ‘Gushing! The babies are racing towards turning two. I’ve rigged up a camera on my computer and she’s done the same. It means I can see them often. It still seems only yesterday I was holding them as newborns in Sydney.’

‘Uncle Jack, eh?’ Sharpe smiled. ‘And your hand?’

They both looked down at Jack’s left hand, scarred by an injury suffered during the infamous McEvoy case. He’d taken ten months’ leave to recover and gone to Australia to visit his sister, and try to forget. On his return he’d moved to a Georgian flat in Greenwich, crossing the river, arguably one of the great no-no’s for a Londoner. Jack didn’t mind; he loved the elegance of this area of south London, probably best known for its famous maritime landmark, the
Cutty Sark
, and for its Prime Meridian Line at the Royal Observatory by which time all across the world was measured. He enjoyed running in the Royal Park and never tired of the grand Maritime Museum.

‘It’s still very tight,’ he replied, flexing his fingers. ‘I don’t think the scars will improve much more but I’m keeping up my physio. I’m just glad it’s my left hand.’

Sharpe nodded, apparently happy with the answer. Jack knew he was being tested. It was simply a case of waiting it out until his chief offered him whatever case had dragged a diehard north Londoner across the Thames.

‘How’ve you been getting on at DPS?’

‘Ghost Squad’s okay.’ He shrugged. ‘I catch criminals; whether they’re civilians or police matters not to me.’

Sharpe nodded. ‘I remember when I worked there for a stint as an inspector from traffic. There had been some intel from a probationer about a few consignments of cigarettes from mainland Europe which had apparently made their way into some officers’ personal lock-ups. The claims were not substantiated but I found it hard to simply ghost the suspects — our own guys. My initial reaction was to dive in head first and confront them rather than gather the evidence to make a case without the label of victimisation. It turned out that our guys were working together with border control and sure enough the agencies don’t work together. Still I was glad to get out of there — DPS is not exactly there to help you win friends.’