Jack Morgan 02 - Private London (14 page)

‘One of the girls was abducted. One of them was cut with a knife. And one of them had a baseball bat taken to the back of her head.’

‘Jesus. Even so, Dan. Let it go.’

I shook my head. ‘The girl someone took a baseball bat to was Chloe. It was Chloe Smith, Gary.’

He took it in for a heartbeat and then his jaw set. ‘You need backup?’

‘No. This is my shout.’

‘You’ll let me know?’

I nodded gratefully but I had no intention of involving him any more than I already had.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to go and ask him. Let him know if the girl is harmed in any way whatsoever … that there will be consequences.’

‘If he’s got her, that is. I can’t see that. Like I say, it’s not his style.’

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘If he’s got her.’

‘Brendan Ferres is a mountain gorilla in a suit. He doesn’t do anything unless Ronnie Allen tells him to.’

‘I know.’

‘And he’s engaged to his daughter.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, he is. And little Becky Allen is the apple of her father’s eye.’

He was being a little sarcastic. Rebecca Allen was thirty-two years old, five foot ten tall and built like Kirstie Alley at her curvy best. There was nothing little about her – including her sexual appetites if the rumours about her fiancé were not exaggerated. And Gary was quite right – her father treated her like an absolute princess.

‘That I did know,’ I agreed.

‘So be careful. Could turn nasty. Face is everything to a man like Ferres.’

‘Still got to ask the question.’

‘Yeah.’

I hefted the bag. ‘And I appreciate the assist.’

‘You got it. You taking Sam with you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘See if you can persuade him to carry, then.’

I smiled regretfully. ‘Never going to happen.’

Chapter 56

DI KIRSTY WEBB was wishing she had simply switched off her mobile phone and taken the weekend off.

The drive out of London heading west into the boondocks had been a nightmare, with traffic clogging up Western Avenue and the air-conditioning unit on her car packing up. The first truly hot day of the year and that was when it decided to go on the blink! She had kept the windows open for a while but anyone who has been stuck in traffic in London knows it’s not an ideal solution for long.

When she had broken clear of the M25 the roads had cleared, though, and she made better progress. But all in all she couldn’t help feeling it was bound to be a bit of a wild-goose chase.

The old market town of Aylesbury is only some forty-five miles north and west of London, but on a good day it could still take an hour and a half to get there. Kirsty would have taken the A41 route but roadworks on the North Circular would have made the journey even more unbearable.

Nice to get out of London, though, she thought, goose chase or not, as she drove into the large car park of Stoke Mandeville hospital and switched off the car radio.

A female DI from the local force was waiting to meet her as she headed into reception. A formidable-looking woman in her late thirties but with steel-grey already dominating her hair.

‘Natalie James,’ she said, holding out her hand.

‘Kirsty Webb.’

‘You’d better come with me.’

The DI walked off briskly and Kirsty followed her into the hospital, through reception and down a series of corridors.

The body had been moved to a small side room. A young uniformed officer was standing guard outside. DI James gave him a cursory nod and opened the door, leading Kirsty in.

The corpse was lying on a gurney and had been covered once more with a sheet.

‘His car was hit by a high-speed train going at full tilt. Brain death would have been near-instantaneous.’

‘I can well imagine.’

‘And his body took a considerable amount of trauma.’

‘So the injury to his hand could have happened at the same time?’

‘We thought so at first,’ said the grey-haired detective. ‘But a pathologist took a closer look. The top half of his finger was definitely severed post-mortem. No blood loss, et cetera. There’s no doubt about it.’

The DI lifted the blanket covering the left side of Colin Harris’s body and showed Kirsty the mutilated hand.

Kirsty shook her head, not quite believing it. ‘Do we know what was used?’

‘We think a scalpel.’

‘Right.’

‘I understand you have some similar cases?’

‘Kind of. Only ours were two women. Early to mid-twenties. Both as of yet unidentified.’

‘And both had the same finger chopped off.’

‘The wedding-ring finger. Half of it, anyway. And they both had organs removed.’

‘What the hell is going on?’ The DI was obviously a little rattled. You weren’t supposed to have serial killers in Buckinghamshire.

‘I don’t know, inspector. But we’ve got a break in the pattern here. That could be significant.’

‘How could somebody have known, though? Then sneak into our morgue and cut a finger off a dead body in broad daylight!’

‘Who was it who authorised the transplant? What’s the procedure?’

The DI pulled out a small black book and consulted her notes. ‘First of all, brain death has to be established by two independent doctors.’

‘Independent of the hospital?’

‘No, of the doctors involved with the donation or the transplantation team.’

‘So brain death was established by two independent doctors. And then what happened?’

‘The body was kept alive by life-support machinery, the heart removed and transplanted into the recipient.’

‘And the sister maintains that her brother was vehemently against being a donor.’

‘It’s what she says. Although she also says she had become estranged from her brother. They hadn’t talked in quite a few years.’

‘Why was that?’

‘She didn’t say. I get the feeling that Penelope Harris isn’t much of what you might call a people person.’

‘Can I speak to her?’

‘Of course you can. We’ll do all we can to help.’

‘I have to warn you, inspector …’

‘Go on.’

‘If this is our serial fruit-loop, or even if it is a copycat, London serious crimes squad are going to be down here en masse. You’re going to be kept busy.’

‘Why didn’t they come straight away, then?’

‘Because they didn’t think there was a connection and my time is a lot less valuable to waste.’

‘But you do think there is a connection with your two Jane Does?’

‘Yes, Inspector James. I do.’

Chapter 57

KIRSTY WEBB WAS beginning to dislike Penelope Harris.

The woman seemed to be angry not at her brother’s death but at the inconvenience it was causing her.

‘I just want to go home,’ said the woman in question.

‘And you will. I just need to go over a few things first,’ replied Kirsty, trying to keep her own anger in check.

‘Oh, for God’s sake – I’ve been over it a hundred times. And it isn’t me you should be interrogating.’

‘It’s an interview, not an interrogation …’

‘It’s those surgeons. They’re the ones who killed my brother, who took his heart like some kind of spare part.’

‘Your brother was declared brain-dead, Miss Harris. And he carried an organ-donor card.’

‘It wasn’t his.’

‘They don’t just go by the card, Penelope,’ Kirsty said softly, using the woman’s first name to try and get her on side. It didn’t work.

‘“Miss Harris” is fine, thank you very much!’

Kirsty sighed inwardly but kept her expression neutral. ‘Like I say,’ she persisted. ‘They don’t just go with the card – they check with the organ-donor registry and your brother’s name was on it.’

‘So that just gives them the right to go ahead and do what they did, does it?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it does.’

‘Well, it shouldn’t.’

‘Do you have a particular reason to be so against organ donation?’

‘We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.’

Kirsty frowned, puzzled. ‘I understood that Jehovah’s Witnesses aren’t against organ donation, just blood transfusions.’

‘It’s a matter of personal conscience and a number of us are against it. And those that are for it still demand that all blood be drained before transplantation.’

‘I see.’

‘And was it?’

Kirsty shrugged ever so slightly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, isn’t that what you should be finding out?’

‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘What on earth do you mean? Of course it matters.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. But what I meant is that the woman who received your brother’s heart is not a Jehovah’s Witness.’

Penelope Harris considered it for a moment. ‘It’s the principle,’ she said finally, putting the detective in mind of a sulky schoolchild.

Kirsty pulled out a piece of paper enclosed in a clear plastic envelope.

‘Is that the note he left?’ asked Penelope Harris.

‘Yes,’ said Kirsty.

‘Can I see it, please?’

Kirsty put it on the table in front of her. It consisted of two simple lines and read: I am sorry for what I have done. But at least the suffering will stop now. Colin.

The Harris woman looked at it briefly, then back up at Kirsty, the angry defiance back in her eyes.

‘Okay, he may have decided to carry an organ-donor card. I doubt it very much.’ She shrugged. ‘But he definitely didn’t write that!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he never called himself Colin – he absolutely hated the name. It’s his real name but he always used his second name: Paul. He only ever used Colin on official documentation because he had to.’

Kirsty nodded.

‘You don’t seem surprised,’ said the dead man’s sister.

‘I’m not, Miss Harris,’ said the dark-haired detective. ‘I think your brother was murdered.’

Chapter 58

WALKING INTO THE Turk’s Head Tavern in Tufnell Park with a gun in your pocket is seriously not a good idea.

But I did it anyway.

The conversation didn’t exactly stop when Sam and I stepped through the pub’s door. But it was pretty damn close.

The Turk’s Head was just one of many buildings owned by Ronnie Allen. And every Saturday night the man himself was usually in attendance, playing poker or dealing with business. Not the sort of business the revenue men got a cut of.

Sure enough, that night Allen was at his usual table at the back of the bar. I knew it was his usual table because I had done some business with him before. That is to say Private had. He’d bought a dog-racing track two years ago and had totally refurbished it. He had hired us to overhaul and update all the security. A lot of money changes hands at a dog track, millions of pounds over the year, and there are people in the world stupid enough, seemingly, to try stealing from the man. Brad Dexter had been in charge of the project and we had never had any complaints from Ronnie Allen. He even paid his bill.

Like I said, there were very few people stupid enough to cross him but here Sam and I were, about to beard the lion in his den.

We walked towards his table and a couple of very large men in regulation goon suits stood up and glared at us.

‘Bottle of Corona for me, and …’ I looked across at Sam.

‘Mineral water for me,’ he said. ‘Ice, no slice.’

‘You’re going to need a straw to drink it through the face cast, motherfucker!’ said the first goon.

‘It’s okay, Ralph – this man is known to me,’ said Ronnie Allen.

Ralph, for God’s sake. Seems even meatball-headed thugs had designer names now.

Ronnie Allen was sitting with Brendan Ferres. Another dark-suited man with an extremely glamorous blonde was sitting opposite them. I didn’t know the other man. He was in his late forties, with sleek silver hair, and was wearing sunglasses. I didn’t know his companion either but she looked like she had been poured into her cream-white dress and was nearly spilling out of it.

Ronnie Allen himself was a small man, five seven at a push, with cropped grey hair and amused eyes. Apparently they stayed amused even if one of his associates was taking a baseball bat to someone’s knees, or a blowtorch to their bare feet.

I flashed a smile at the blonde woman. ‘Sorry to interrupt your evening,’ I said.

‘Spit it out, Carter. I’m in a business meeting,’ said Allen.

‘Hannah Shapiro,’ I said simply.

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She was kidnapped last night.’

He shook his head, genuinely puzzled as far as I could tell. ‘The fuck has that got to do with me?’

I pointed a finger at Brendan Ferres. ‘Little Boy Blue here was seen at the premises shortly before she was taken.’

Allen looked over at Ferres who shrugged. It was like a bison rolling its shoulders. His cold, piggy eyes weren’t amused. They were full of hate. I managed to stop my knees from knocking as he glared at me.

‘I ain’t got a clue what he’s on about, Ronnie,’ he said.

‘Chancellors University. Yesterday afternoon. I take it you weren’t there getting a thesis marked.’

He ignored me and turned to his employer. ‘How about I just bounce these bozos out and teach them some manners?’

‘How about you just answer the question?’ Allen replied rhetorically.

‘What, I have to answer to some pansy-assed window peeper now, do I?’

‘No, Brendan. You answer to me.’

He said it quietly but Ferres got the point. He shrugged

‘Okay. It’s just business. One of the guys there at the college … we have dealings with him. I don’t know the first flying fuck about some cooze being kidnapped.’

Allen turned to me and flashed me a quick smile. ‘That answer your questions, gentlemen?’ he asked without a hint of irony.

I nodded. I didn’t get the sense he was lying.

‘That’s good, Mister Allen,’ I replied, showing him the respect he expected. ‘But if I find out King Kong Junior here had any hand in it, I will come back and put him in the ground,’ I said, showing a little less respect.

Brendan Ferres would have leapt up but Allen put a quiet hand on his knee and he stayed put. If looks could kill I’d certainly have been dead by then. I returned his look, letting him know I meant every word.