‘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.’
‘Luckily, a good friend, Geoff Benson is working there too.’
‘Ah, that’s right. He’s a good man.’ He waited for Jack to say more.
‘Er, the internal investigation into Suffolk Constabulary now means we have two officers suspended pending a court case.’
Sharpe frowned. ‘That sounds serious. When they requested a trusted member of my team I thought it was just to bring some clout to the investigation.’
‘No, it’s pretty bad, Malcolm. There’s a third officer still under investigation. I’m quite surprised too that the drug and prostitution racket has obviously been on the march.’
‘Ipswich? A market town!’
Jack shrugged. ‘Four prostitutes are already dead.’
‘Connected to our officers?’
‘Not sure yet. I don’t think so but we’re digging.’
‘Well, I’ve spoken to Superintendent Chalmers. I need you back.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘There’s mischief afoot in the city, Jack,’ he finally said.
‘And what do we have?’
‘Currently three bodies. One was found ten weeks ago, dumped in one of the dried-up navigation canals on Walthamstow Marshes. A male. We know very little about him but we’re thinking he could be one of the many Eastern European gypsies who seem to be enjoying southern England. The other two were found together, not quite four weeks ago, unearthed just down from the Lea River Rowing Club over at Springfield Park.’
Jack frowned. ‘What are the bodies telling us?’
‘Two of the victims are of Asian origin. Subcontinental, we think at this stage.’
‘Unknowns, I suppose.’
‘Correct. Almost certainly illegals, probably from the squats. No identification on them, but their fingerprints, teeth and so on give us nothing either. One had different coloured eyes, can you believe, but even that description has got us no further. They don’t exist as far as any authorities are concerned.’
‘Have they shown the mug shots around Whitechapel? Broadway Market and the like?’
‘No point.’
Jack raised an eyebrow. Sharpe was carefully building towards something. Jack waited.
Sharpe explained. ‘They had no faces, all the skin removed.’
‘I did hear that right, didn’t I?’
‘Their faces had been removed, Jack. Eyes were left, pathology confirms. Also the first one we found had both kidneys removed so there was no intention for him to survive. We immediately thought he was a victim of organ theft but the other pair were curiously left intact, other than their faces. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing of value was being stolen.’
Jack sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘Very grisly. What has pathology given us?’
‘Not that much. The surgery was neat, clean. Professional.’
‘How did they die?’
‘Morphine — not a stupid amount, but enough to slowly suppress the respiratory system, compromise the body’s efficiency.’
‘But enough opiate that it’s deliberate,’ Jack qualified.
‘Oh yes, it’s deliberate, especially when all the other elements are considered.’
‘Clothes?’
‘Very worn but also very clean. We’re guessing they were laundered before being put back onto the corpses. Another tick for the deliberate death box.’
Jack bit into a biscuit, thinking as he was chewing. ‘And the common factor is the removal of the face and the victims’ ethnicity.’
Sharpe shook his head, reached for a biscuit as well. ‘No, the faces are the only common denominator here apart from pathology’s observation that these were all healthy, fit men.’
‘But no one’s come forward?’
‘No. We don’t have names or records for any of them.’
‘And you’re offering me this case?’
‘It’s been two years since Danube. You’re healthy again and I’ve been hearing only good things from DPS about you. I know you’ve only been assisting in Ghost Squad. Time to get you back to the coalface. I think you’re ready for Operation Panther and frankly, Jack, I need my best man on this. It has all the hallmarks of a nasty mess, I’m afraid, so before Britain panics and the media turns this into a circus, please wrap it up for me. You have carte blanche on your team, premises, whatever you need; this is getting a very high priority as you can imagine.’
‘Thank you, Malcolm,’ Jack said, adrenaline beginning to course through his body at the notion of heading a major operation again.
‘I know I can count on you,’ Sharpe said matter-of-factly, clearly trying to hide the paternal instincts he held for Jack.
‘Files?’
‘Already prepped, your name a
ll over them.
You’re off Ghost Squad as of today.’
Jack nodded. ‘Have you heard anything from Deegan?’
‘Ghost Squad has little time for DCI Deegan’s simmering rage. Since your undercover operation that led to the death of PC Conway, Deegan has taken an almost unnatural interest in you and I don’t think he’s completely given up his desire to nail your arse to a post, so you do need to stay very clean. Mind you, Benson will watch your back. Where do you want to be based?’
‘Not at the Empress building, Malcolm.’
‘Now then, Jack, I thought you appreciated stunning, state-of-the-art-structures.’
‘I don’t want to be based at Earls Court for this if I can help it.’
Sharpe gave a grunt. ‘So be it. You can base the operation out of Victoria Street.’
‘Top floor again, Malcolm?’ The senior man gave him a baleful look. ‘My staff will work better with nice views,’ Jack added.
‘You mean you want to look out over Westminster and not Little Oz. I’ll tell your sister that.’
Jack drained his coffee, smiling. ‘I’ll start making some calls.’
‘Anyone you want can be seconded into the operation, although I reckon I can take a pretty good guess at your top layer,’ Sharpe said, picking at his teeth. ‘Got some almond stuck, damn! Now my gum will swell.’
Jack laughed. ‘I think you’re getting grouchier by the year, Malcolm.’
‘I’m allowed to: I’m sixty-one! Where are you going to start?’
Jack didn’t hesitate. ‘With the river, I reckon. Someone must have seen something down there — the bargees themselves, perhaps. Bodies can’t just be left in shallow graves without such a close community knowing something.’
Sharpe agreed. ‘Good.’
‘And then I think we need to canvass the area around Springfield and Whitechapel.’
‘You’ll need translators.’
Jack made a mental note to get immediately on to the National Register of Public Service Interpreters. ‘I’ll call NPRSI this afternoon.’
‘I’ll organise for all files to be delivered to the Yard at Victoria Street and Helen will save you time by arranging phone lines, computers etc. Don’t worry about any of the administrative stuff, just organise your team and get started.’
‘Right. I’ll see you back to the tube, unless you’d like a tour of Greenwich?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Sharpe said, eagerly standing. ‘I’m ready to return to the real world.’ They shared a smile. ‘Whoever’s behind this is clearly clever and driven, Jack. That’s the worst kind of criminal. Our problem is we have no idea of who or where or why this is happening. We need some leads — drum them up.’
Jack nodded. His gut was already telling him that if there were three bodies then others would turn up soon.
The hollow-looking man gazed bleakly at his anxious companion. ‘Calm down,’ he cautioned. ‘You’ll draw attention to us.’
Namzul took a steadying breath, watched his companion wave to the Gluck family — the horde — as the children were given a rare outing in the park. He looked at Mrs Gluck; he suspected she was only in her early thirties but she looked like a woman well into middle age after giving Moshe three daughters and six sons. There would be more, Namzul was sure of it; after all, their marriage was meant to be a vehicle for populating the world with people of their faith.
Namzul hated Moshe Gluck. But he needed him too.
‘Haven’t I always looked after you, Namzul?’ Moshe asked, not looking at him but gazing at his family from the park bench where they sat in Springfield Gardens, near the White Lodge Mansion, now transformed into a trendy café.
‘You have, Moshe. But this is getting way beyond my league. I agreed to spot potential donors, I didn’t —’
‘That’s right. I pay you a lot of money to persuade those donors. I also give you free board in a very nice flat in central London, which I could easily be renting out at a tidy sum if I wanted to. I make your job so easy by paying plenty to those truck drivers for the human traffic and they take their cut from the Banglas. Thieves those drivers are! And Namzul, I even put the illegals up in my own accommodation to make it still easier for you to meet them in Whitechapel. And when you’ve worked your magic of coercement, I clean up the mess after you. I think you have a very cosy arrangement.’
‘Moshe, they were meant to be live donors, returned to their lives.’
‘What lives?’ He laughed and it was a sinister sound. ‘I know they’re your countrymen so forgive my candour, but these are not the kind of citizens any country wants. These are illegal immigrants with no social standing in either their home country or their adopted one. They are the poverty-stricken, the homeless, the ones who keep bringing more children into poverty . . . and so the cycle continues. No one will miss them. No one cares.’
Once again Namzul looked over at the Gluck brood and wondered at Moshe’s heartlessness, not that he felt anything personal for Hiran or Taj. He’d barely known them and had long ago steeled himself against sharing any of his targets’ pain. No one had comforted him through his pain. After delivering them to the rendezvous point he had not intended to see them again. But to learn of their death and to know he played a part in it unnerved him. Namzul was, for the first time since he embarked on this criminal path, genuinely frightened.
He changed tack. ‘Why is this woman needed and why so specific a type?’
Gluck shrugged. ‘Listen, our job is simply to provide. I don’t care what they want her for or why.’
‘But this is someone from a different background. I’m unlikely to find an illegal who fits this description.’
‘You can find anyone you want in and around Whitechapel, Namzul. Just look harder. They’re willing to pay a lot for this one.’
‘How much?’ Namzul asked.
‘You will get ten.’
He was sure his heart stopped for a moment. ‘Ten thousand pounds?’
‘Almost enough to make you go and find her tonight, eh?’ Moshe said quietly, finally shifting his gaze from his family to Namzul. ‘Almost enough to make you realise you don’t have to do this much longer . . . but I suspect there may be more requests like these.’
‘What’s going on? This is not for kidneys any more is it?’
Moshe shook his head. ‘I doubt it ever was; it was likely always a cover. And not at that price for the spotter. But I think you will earn your money this time, my friend. She must be perfect. She must fit the specifications. The client is prepared to pay handsomely as acknowledgement of the difficulty of the task . . . but I think you’re up to it, Namzul.’
‘She will die,’ he said baldly. It was not a question.
‘I imagine so at that price.’
Namzul stared at Gluck, despising the cold, dead-looking eyes and bland expression emanating from the pale complexion. The ringlets he wore proudly down the side of his long, horselike face looked greasy and Namzul noticed stains on the waistcoat of the traditional dark suit. Namzul had not a fraction of Gluck’s wealth but he was sure he turned himself out much more smartly than this man. One only needed to look at the drab clothes he put his wife in to gauge that Moshe Gluck put no store in outward appearance.
‘But that should not trouble you, not with £10,000 coming your way for finding her.’
‘How do I find her? What is my reason? I can assure you she’s not going to agree to sell a kidney.’
He watched Moshe blink in irritation but his bored tone did not change. ‘Get her to your flat. Schlimey will take care of the rest.’
‘To my flat?’ Namzul’s voice squeaked. ‘How am I to do that?’
‘That’s your problem. If you want the money, take the job. If you don’t . . .’ Moshe shrugged, then called to his wife that it was time to go.
‘Cash up front?’ Namzul couldn’t afford to let this pass. It was more money than he’d ever held at once in his lifetime. Moshe was right. He could actually begin to think about
a different sort of life . . . perhaps even finally put the past behind him. There were times when he couldn’t believe he was on this dark path, and now it was getting darker.
‘As soon as she’s delivered,’ Moshe answered. He stood. ‘So what’s it to be, Namzul? Do we have a deal?’
‘The deadline’s tight.’
‘It’s then or forget it.’
Namzul nodded, hating himself now as he realised with a shiver that he already knew the perfect girl. She fitted the specifications so neatly, it was terrifying. Could he do it to her? She was so very beautiful, and not just in looks. He swallowed. So was his daughter, Anjali. And no one had cared about her dying of renal failure before a donor was found. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, a surge of anger stinging at his already deep-seated guilt.
‘I knew you would,’ Moshe said, his sly tone infuriating Namzul, but he still felt powerless. The £10,000 would stop that helplessness.
‘Let Schlimey know as soon as you have her. You know what to do.’
Namzul nodded, trying to hide his misery.
‘Meet me at Amhurst Park tomorrow, around eight. I’ll pay you there.’
He had only hours but he knew exactly where he’d find her tomorrow morning.
3.
Lily’s mobile sounded and she struggled to balance the vase of flowers on the reception counter of the maternity ward. It was too late, others had already heard it.
A senior nurse frowned at her over her glasses. ‘No mobiles on the ward. You know that.’
‘Sorry, Sister,’ Lily said. She snatched it from her pocket and despite her irritation she smiled. It was Jack. A text giving her an idea of what he had in mind for her tomorrow evening. She giggled and gave the sister more reason to frown. ‘I’m switching it off,’ she assured the irate woman.
‘What’s your name?’
Lily didn’t want to tell her but she could hardly refuse. ‘Lily Wu. I deliver flowers here regularly.’
‘Well, Ms Wu,’ the sister bristled, ‘by all means deliver your flowers but don’t let me hear your phone ring again on any ward that I’m in charge of.’
Beautiful Death Page 3