Dead of Winter Tr (32 page)

Robbo nodded. ‘I expect so but, Ebb . . . just get on with your job. Carmichael is one of those that you couldn’t keep out if he was determined. You saved him a bit of time maybe,
but you couldn’t have stopped him.’

‘I take full responsibility, Ebb,’ said Carter. ‘I sent you up there on your own. It was always risky.’

Robbo shook his head. ‘Just because he hacked into your phone doesn’t mean he doesn’t trust you, Ebb; the opposite. He chose to see the investigation through your eyes. He
trusts your interpretation of it.’

‘Exactly,’ said Carter. ‘Try phoning him again on the way to the de Langes’ apartment. He must know we know about him now. He’s on his own now.’

Ebony hadn’t got through by the time they parked up and Carter rang the bell for the janitor at the block of flats in the grounds of the Mansfield, opposite the hospital
entrance. They didn’t get any reply. Carter pressed all of the buttons and someone buzzed and let them in.

‘Second floor, Sarge.’

They walked up the stairs. On the second floor a woman came out of her flat to see who it was that she’d let in.

‘Hello . . . police.’ Carter showed his warrant card. ‘Thanks for helping us. We’re rubbish at breaking and entering aren’t we, Ebb?’

The woman smiled. ‘I thought you might be the postman. I’ve been waiting for days for a parcel.’

‘Been a long stay for you here, has it?’

‘Yes . . .’ She sighed. ‘My husband is in the hospital. I’m desperate to get home but he wants me here so . . . what can I do?’ She rolled her eyes and smiled.
Ebony checked the address she had for Justin and Nikki de Lange. She knocked on the flat door opposite.

‘There’s no one in there.’

‘You sure?’ asked Carter.

‘Very sure. I wish there was. There’s no one but me in this whole place . . . ’

They left the apartment block and crossed over the car park to the hospital. Ebony caught a glimpse of Justin de Lange at his office window.

‘What exactly is it you need from me, detectives?’ Justin asked as Ivy escorted Carter and Ebony into his office.

‘A little girl, Shannon Mannings? Her body was found in the garden at Totteridge.’

‘I am really sad to hear about it.’

‘We thought the name might ring a bell? She was from a children’s home in Wales. It’s one that the Chrissie Newton Foundation help,’ said Ebony.

‘Well I didn’t know her personally. I’ve never met any of the children that we help.’

‘Of course, just thought I’d ask.’ Carter smiled and continued: ‘One of the things we have to consider is whether someone is conducting a personal vendetta against Mr
Martingale or whether he is somehow linked to the killer without knowing.’

‘I don’t see how.’

‘Chrissie Newton, Mr Martingale’s daughter, was murdered, and now one of the children that her foundation helps is also murdered. Do you see what I’m getting at?’ Carter
asked.

‘The Chrissie Newton Foundation has helped many thousands of children over the years. It would be impossible to link one little girl’s death to it.’

‘Mrs Warrell, who runs the home in Wales, seemed to think you accompanied them on outings sometimes,’ said Ebony.

‘Me? No . . . I’m afraid not. I wish I had the time. I’m sure she has seen me in my official capacity as one of the directors of the Chrissie Newton Foundation. I remember
visiting the home on a few occasions over the years. But I don’t get time for much else.’

‘We need help really, sir.’ Carter took the lead.

‘Of course . . .’ He smiled sweetly. ‘If you think I can.’

‘We now think that this group of Bloodrunners in the news at the moment were responsible for killing Chrissie Newton all those years ago. This is a team of people – we know there are
more than one. We believe they kill to order. We presume Chrissie Newton was a match for someone and Louise Carmichael must have been the same.’

Justin de Lange shook his head. ‘It’s just incredible.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. I know it seems far-fetched,’ Carter carried on. ‘Seems like it couldn’t happen. We were the same . . . weren’t we, Ebb?’ He turned to
her; she nodded. ‘We thought it sounded like one of those science fiction films. Then, like so many things . . . the more we looked into it the more we found it wasn’t so uncommon. We
also found out that you once unwittingly bought a product for use in one of the Mansfield Group’s cosmetic procedures that was traced back to someone’s dead husband?’

‘It was a long time ago. Now I’m more careful about where I source our products.’ Justin’s face had taken on a grey hue.

‘Where do you get them now?’

‘They come from large medical research companies who specialize in it.’

‘We believe you’re involved with a company who specialize in cadaver products?’

‘It’s not looked on like that. People donate their organs for use after death. They donate their bodies for medical research in certain fields. Or if they are healthy, their bodies
go to help cure many horrible conditions: diabetes, heart conditions, burns . . . inevitably some ends up in the beauty business but it’s still a very worthwhile medical procedure. What is
sometimes considered left over can be used for other procedures. One dead body can provide many living ones with a range of products. It’s perfectly legal.’

‘Give me an example. It’s fascinating.’

‘A lot can be achieved without using invasive surgery. Wrinkles, for instance. A filler for the upper lip, to smooth it out. It’s a gel made from human skin.’

‘Dead people’s skin? Where do they get their bodies that they harvest?’ asked Carter.

‘As I said . . . we wouldn’t use the term “harvest” and that’s not my side of the work but I know they come from donated bodies or bodies left for
research.’

‘Research? So helping someone’s lips to look plump is research?’

‘Correct. Sold legitimately by non-profit-making companies.’

‘Companies that pay their execs huge money and offset the rest? Like Remed Ltd?’ Carter shook his head as if he could hardly believe what he was saying.

Justin smiled at Carter. ‘Very cynical. Not us. We pay huge taxes in several different countries, as you will know if you have my finances under scrutiny.’

‘Are these procedures you carry out here?’ asked Ebony.

‘Some of them, yes . . . all legitimate, widespread, well-tested procedures.’ Justin looked momentarily riled but was met with Ebony’s deadpan face.

‘My understanding is that these people – Bloodrunners – offer a black market in living donor products: organs, stem cells, foetuses. Is it the same thing?’

‘Of course not. These are cadaver products, legitimate.’

‘You used to perform transplants?’

‘I used to assist, when there was a need.’

‘In the Mansfield?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I have done but not for a long time.’

Carter turned back from looking at the picture on the wall . . . a blow-up photo of an orchid on canvas. ‘You’re a very clever bloke. You must have studied very hard for two careers.
Must have been hard to choose which one to go for.’

‘As I told you before . . . I preferred business to medicine.’

‘Back in the days when you did transplants all the time. Did you know where those organs came from?’

‘Sometimes we might meet the donor – if, say, a relative was donating their kidney.’

‘What about a liver? Can more than one person share a liver?’

‘A liver can be split and used for more than one patient. Yes. It is grafted onto the unhealthy liver.’ Justin stared at Carter. The room had become very still.

‘So that has to come from a dead person?’

‘Correct.’

‘Clinically dead, braindead? Heart still beating sometimes?’

‘Sometimes . . . correct.’

‘Would you see that dead person?’

He shook his head. ‘That wouldn’t be my department. When a match is found a team goes into action and the organ is delivered to the waiting team.’

‘So you have no idea where it came from?’

‘You know where it came from because there is a nationally recognized transplant team in operation who match donor with recipient and they organize delivery.’

‘Is it always them?’

‘Yes . . . unless it is being done illegally, which doesn’t happen in the UK.’

‘And you would know that? You would trust the people on your team to know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why? Because you work in countries where it does happen?’

‘No, absolutely not.’

‘Well, thanks for your time.’ They went to leave. Carter stopped at the door. Justin had turned his attention back to the laptop on his desk.

‘Just one more thing, Mr de Lange. Do you know Digger Cain – he’s a nightclub owner who owns shares in your publicly listed company.’

‘No, sorry. I don’t.’

‘It was a girl who worked at Digger’s club who was found by the M25 the other day. She had also been harvested. Actually she was a lucky break for us because we have got the
killer’s DNA from her. It’s just a matter of time now before we get the person responsible.’

‘That’s good news. I have a busy day . . . excuse me.’ De Lange stood and gestured towards the door.

‘Of course . . . but . . . is your wife here?’ Carter said. ‘We went to say hello over at the flat where you live. Doesn’t seem to be anyone living there?’

‘Ah . . . my wife and I are going through some personal and very private problems at the moment; we had intended to live there together but at present I am bedding down here and my wife
stays with her father, I believe.’

Tina sat in the departures lounge at Stanstead airport eating a panini with everything in it. She had no need to worry about the diet any more. A machine was going to suck out
all her fat. She’d walk in a size sixteen and walk out a six. As she glanced at the newsstand outside the nearby WHSmith she saw the headline:

For a few seconds she thought about phoning Ebony and asking her if she was alright. Asking her if she wanted any fat bringing back. Might actually give her some breasts . . .
ha-ha . . . hard to know what was rib and what was breast with Ebony. Tina took out her phone and was about to press speed-dial when she thought twice: she knew that Ebony would be quietly stressed
to hell; really feeling it. She knew it was her first murder investigation and it was a whopper. What if Ebony was in the middle of something? The last thing Tina wanted was to cause her more
stress. Tina would tell her all about it when she was coming round from the operation. She’d ring from Poland.

Two and a half hours later she was collecting her bag and making her way through the ‘nothing to declare’ tunnel in Krakow John Paul II International Airport. On the other side of
the doors, behind the barrier, a crowd of people looked her way hopefully.

She stopped wheeling her new case for a moment and looked for her name.

Stefan had been told exactly what to look out for.

He waved at her.

Tina wished she’d worn something smarter. He was not bad-looking, bit old, but worth a few hours of her holiday.

‘Tina?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Please follow me. I am your guide.’

He took the handle of her pull-along case and marched off towards the door. ‘Follow, please. You have a coat? Very cold here in Poland. Minus twenty.’

‘Jesus!’ Tina caught the blast of arctic air as they neared the doors. It took her breath away.

‘Here . . . please . . .’ Stefan gave her a spare coat he was carrying for the purpose. He turned round to smile at her. ‘Very lucky, huh?’

She smiled at him. She would have felt luckier if she had been about to walk out to heat and tropical paradise instead of minus twenty. Once they were in the car, it was not long before Stefan
pulled up outside the hospital. He took her case out of the boot.

‘Please . . .’ He indicated the steps towards the hospital entrance and the reception just inside. Stefan went ahead and spoke to the receptionist.

Christ, what was it with these receptionists? Dark lipstick, severe pulled-back hair. Great body. The kind that Tina wanted. Tina looked around. The smell of the hospital hit her. It looked
smart, but she was expecting to be shown to a luxury hotel first. She was hoping for a couple of nights’ fun before any cutting began.

‘Am I going to a hotel first?’ she asked Stefan.

The receptionist answered for him: ‘Hello, Tina, welcome. There has been a small change of plan and we think it is better you are prepared for your procedures today. When it is over you
will have a long time to rest.’

Digger had retired upstairs to his apartment above the club for the evening. He was in a reflective mood. He sat in his old tapestry cloth armchair with his miniature dachshund
on his lap. His apartment had not been decorated since the Seventies. Brown swirls went from the carpet to the walls. Above Digger’s head hung a frosted-glass chandelier on spidery black
fittings. At the other end of the phone he could hear the sound of breathing and in the background a woman was singing. Digger stroked the dog as he talked on the phone.

‘It seems like just the other day when Maria died. Thirteen years go by in a flash.’ He could feel the resentment coming down the phone but at least the line was still live. At least
the person at the other end was still there.

‘I have known you many years and I count you as a friend but you are a hard man to love. You kill everything that shows weakness. You demand submission and you kill those that kneel. You
are a Praying Mantis. Ha-ha . . . You are a Black Widow spider. Ha-ha . . . you weave your web and you eat your prey and then you wonder why you’re alone.’ He listened in hope of an
answer, but he got silence. He could no longer hear the woman singing.

‘Listen to me, old friend, let bygones be bygones. You cannot help who you love. Maria was everything to me.’ Digger listened. He heard an exhalation of breath. He heard the sound of
someone’s lips move as if to speak, but no words came.

‘I know what you are going to say: she wasn’t mine to love, but I could not help it. She was nothing to you. In the end we both lost her to madness.