Beautiful Death

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘Claudia, why so sad?’

  She looked up to see the long face of Moshe. He always reminded her of a horse. It was a habit of hers, sizing up people and finding the animal that would be their ideal companion. His was definitely a horse, and not a thoroughbred either. But he was no dumb packhorse. Moshe was smart — she could see it in his eyes. Behind them was a busy brain, constantly working.

  ‘Hello Moshe. Forgive me … not sad, angry actually. I’m worried about one of the girls. She’s a friend.’

  He sat down. ‘Oh, what’s happened?’ He pointed at her bagel and when she shook her head, he picked it up and bit into it, crumbs falling onto his coat.

  ‘I can’t find her.’

  He nodded. ‘How long has she been missing?’

  Claudia sipped her coffee. ‘I don’t know that she is missing, that’s the thing. I’m probably worrying unnecessarily.’

  ‘You probably are,’ he agreed gently, taking another bite of the bagel, glancing around the café. ‘My, it’s quiet tonight.’

  Her gaze followed his and she suppressed a shiver as she thought of Aniela, unaccounted for this freezing night. ‘You’re right. Shall we go upstairs?’ she said, finding a practised seductive smile for him.

  He nodded. ‘I don’t have much time tonight.’

  She stood. ‘Your family?’

  Gluck shrugged. ‘Busy.’

  It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her life. She didn’t care anyway. Money, security, warmth — she was sure Mrs Gluck had it all and although she envied her that, she had to wonder what Moshe might be like as a husband. Maybe not so easy to get along with as he was with her. She’d hardly noticed that they were already upstairs and that Moshe’s bony fingers had begun to claw at her clothing. She refocused and unhooked her red lace bra — the one she knew he liked.

  14.

  It was going to take weeks of recovery, but he knew instinctively that this was his finest hour. Even though he’d earlier thought that Lily’s transplant might have that honour, this one transcended it. It was beyond skill — it was art. A rush of adrenaline spiked through his body as he dabbed once again at the pinpricks of blood that bloomed through the tiny stitches. He pulled back his shoulders and stretched, feeling the satisfying crack in his spine after eighteen hours of surgery. He was drained, but still he felt like running through the streets proclaiming himself ‘King of the World’ like that director of Titanic. He knew how the guy felt. What he had just achieved no one else had. I win! he exulted inwardly.

  ‘Who was she?’ his surgical nurse asked, breaking into his private celebration.

  He shrugged, knew to whom she referred. ‘I told you before I never ask,’ he lied. He wanted to add that neither did he care, but that would sound perhaps too heartless. Julie was one of the best surgical nurses he’d struck in his illustrious career, and he needed her more than she realised. He had to keep her onside. Of course the wads of cash he was prepared to pay for her skill, her willingness to break the law and her silence helped. He secretly believed she harboured a private desire to be part of the team that broke through one of the remaining frontiers in medicine. Then again, with her husband in jail, her children under threat from the guys he owed money to, her mortgage, car repayments, bank loans … no, any sense of personal achievement would have to wait until Julie had paid off her husband’s gambling debts.

  ‘How can you protect us, then?’

  ‘You’ve asked me that before, Julie.’

  ‘I know, but this is our fifth. And those bodies.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m nervous now that it’s hit the papers and television. What about the police?’

  He looked at her over his mask. ‘What about them?’

  ‘Relax, Jules.’ It was Blake. The anaesthetist checked some of his read-outs. ‘Don’t you think our famous surgeon here is keen to protect his own arse?’

  ‘I know, but …’

  Blake reassured her with a hand on her shoulder. ‘Just keep her sedated and quiet. I’m bringing Mrs M out now. You know the drill.’

  She nodded. ‘What about the donor?’ she asked the surgeon. She loaded the final word with irony, clearly still worried about the freshly dead, newly faceless corpse in the next room. Aniela’s body was still stuck with the needles and hooked up to the equipment that had until very recently kept her alive — not that anyone knew that was her name. All they

  knew was that her very young and still flawless complexion was near enough the perfect match for 26-year-old Mrs M — who was vain enough and had a husband wealthy enough to purchase a new face to replace the original ravaged in a car accident. Mrs M now looked pale and puffy, but whole again. The colour match was superb. It might take a few years for her to get used to her new appearance, she might even need therapy — but that was not his domain, nor his concern. He had given her back a face that she could take out in public with confidence. It was up to her now to wear it well.

  He began absently humming the old Rod Stewart song to himself as he worked.

  Blake looked at the surgeon — the master of their mission — probably surprised by his humming. ‘This corpse mustn’t be found,’ the anaesthetist prompted.

  ‘It’s in hand,’ he answered. ‘But Julie, make sure she’s cleaned, although we’ll do it more thoroughly at disposal time. Her clothes must be —’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to be caught so I’ll be very careful.’

  He nodded. ‘I can finish up here with Blake if you want to get on to that now.’

  She looked exhausted, and he knew they all looked and felt the same. Apart from the fatigue of the two surgical procedures, there was the need for secrecy, precaution and ongoing care. The clinic was far enough away that they felt no immediate threat, but he would be lying if he didn’t admit — to himself anyway — that he was constantly on alert during these operations.

  Julie quietly left and the two men looked at each other. The surgeon knew he and Blake were thinking precisely the same thing. It was confirmed as the anaesthetist lowered his mask and grinned.

  ‘You’re a genius.’

  The surgeon grinned, too, beneath his mask. ‘As if I need to be told.’

  ‘World’s first.’

  ‘It has to take yet,’ he cautioned, but he had no doubt about this one. Mrs M would be walking testimony to his genius.

  ‘It looks pretty amazing, even now,’ the anaesthetist assured him.

  He nodded. ‘I have to agree.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘We have to lie low, unfortunately. But no one else is even close to this. We might have to sit on it for six, maybe twelve months.’

  Blake nodded sympathetically.

  ‘We can’t be connected with the corpses, but I don’t think anyone should worry. I can assure you that this one won’t turn up at all.’ He sighed. ‘The wait will be worth it. I want Mrs M to look as lovely as possible when we reveal her to the world, out of the American clinic, of course.’

  ‘And you’ll claim this came from cadavers?’

  ‘I’ll prepare one especially,’ he quipped, laughing.

  Blake joined in. ‘If I wasn’t so fucked, I’d suggest champagne, my friend. Everything’s going your way — the clinic, the TV show, your research, now this!’ He turned back to his flashing lights and the equipment that was maintaining Mrs M’s oxygen levels.

  The surgeon began clearing up. ‘I hate this bit.’

  ‘That’s because you’re used to slaves doing it for you.’

  ‘True. I can’t be the genius and the cleaner.’

  ‘I’ll help. We’ve kept it between the few of us for so long. We need no extra eyes or ears. I worry about when they’re going to get too inquisitive over there.’

  The surgeon smirked. ‘My partner respects my research.’

  ‘If only he knew,’ Blake said over his shoulder, flicking at switches.

  ‘He knows how private I am.’

  ‘Not even curious?’

  ‘Doesn’t s
eem to be. I leave him to his research; he leaves me to mine. He’s working on some rather intriguing new discoveries to do with ageing and fat compartments in the face. Great for the clinic, ultimately.’

  ‘And this?’ Blake pointed to the sleeping Mrs M. With zig-zag stitches surrounding her hairline, the Californian looked more like Mrs Frankenstein than Eastern European Aniela.

  ‘Oh, this is so much more, Blake. In less than a decade this is probably all we’ll be doing in this clinic. We’ll be the world centre for innovation in facial surgery. And I know I will no longer need to steal my donors off the streets — families will agree to us harvesting their loved ones’ faces, although we’ll probably call it “skin” to save them emotional trauma.’

  ‘What about the Chinese girl? That was a mistake, surely, because she was no streetwalker or vagrant.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t,’ he admitted, trying to keep the guilt from his voice. He was glad no one knew just how close to him the ‘Chinese girl’ had been. Still, he was angered by what he’d discovered and her death was convenient for him as much as it was necessary. Yet it was the first time he’d ever hesitated to cut.

  Lily Wu’s exceptionally beautiful face had defied him to spoil its perfection. He recalled how he had paused, weighing in his mind what he was about to do and the potential repercussions, but he had finally made the first slice and once he felt scalpel cutting through flesh it became easy. The bottom half of Lily’s face now adorned a Ms Chen from Hong Kong, a formerly highly paid model who, during a drug binge, had badly damaged the nose and mouth that had earned her millions. She’d probably never do close-up photographic modelling again, but at least her fledging singing career might get off the ground.

  Really, he didn’t care why they came to him. He cared only about the prestige, the money and — most importantly — the race. He’d won. He was the first surgeon to successfully transplant a face. It opened the doors to a blizzard of new technology and techniques. He was going to be more famous than he dared dream.

  15.

  Jack hadn’t expected to sleep well, and didn’t. Throughout his fitful dreams — none he could clearly remember — he thought he could hear Alys weeping. He woke at 4 a.m. and didn’t even try to doze. He preferred being awake, knowing he was still coming to terms with shock, grief, disbelief. He’d seen it so many times in others, experienced it twice now himself. He was almost a pro at losing people he loved, he thought grimly, as he pulled on a tracksuit, scarf, gloves, beanie. He was deliberately maintaining a distance from the memory of Lily, especially now that he knew she had been pregnant. He didn’t want to think about her because he knew it would undo him. He would grieve for her and her child — his child? — but not until he had her killer behind bars. He prayed that until then the numbing sense of dislocation from his beautiful girlfriend would prevail.

  He needed to be detached and that might make him appear hard, but that was okay; it was his only defence. And he needed to behave as normally as he could so that his team, though they might find it baffling, would continue to trust him. Which is why he sought the cold now. He opened the street door onto Croom’s Hill, and despite the freezing temperature jogged towards the park, hoping by some miracle its gates would be open. If not, he’d jog around the streets. It didn’t matter, so long as he was cold, didn’t have to think and didn’t run the risk of falling asleep to dream of a baby that might have been.

  Jane Brooks had invaded his dreams too, he thought. What a curiosity she was. Confident and in control, and yet so vulnerable. He hadn’t been prepared for her cunning assault on his own vulnerability; for some reason he’d thought psychological counselling would mean someone listening to him, or at least giving him positive strokes. Jane had gone straight to his heart and hurt him; she had her reasons and he understood that, but he didn’t need to be shown how deep the pain was. He desperately needed her support. Geoff was right and Jack was glad now he had someone in Jane he could talk to openly, without censorship, and most importantly without the threat of being hauled over the coals for it. He should phone Scotland and thank his mate, but not right now, he decided, feeling the weight of his mobile in the pocket of his hoodie. Right now he needed to run — and needed the peacefulness that London could only offer this early on a deep winter’s morning.

  He arrived at Westminster by 0645, clutching a takeaway latte and a focaccia oozing with melted cheese over a peppery mortadella. Not healthy in terms of GI load and fat count perhaps, but absolutely what he needed to quieten his grinding belly and release more of the endorphins the exercise had begun. He might even eat the block of chocolate he’d already thrown into his top drawer for emergencies.

  Jack had barely got halfway through his breakfast when Sarah rolled in.

  She smiled tentatively. ‘Morning, chief, sorry to disturb you.’

  ‘You’re not, you’ve come to work very early, that’s all,’ he replied. ‘You won’t hear me complain.’

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked, and he pointed to his takeaway as he bit again into his focaccia, mumbling thanks.

  She disappeared for a minute or two, returning with a steaming mug. ‘How are you, sir?’

  He knew what she meant. ‘I’m doing all right, Sarah,’ he answered gently.

  ‘I’m very sorry about Ms Wu,’ she said, her voice laden with sympathy, but then she sensibly switched to something that she probably sensed was far more valuable to him than her pity. ‘I’ve got some information on the black-market stuff you asked about.’

  He raised his takeaway cup. ‘Want to do it now over your cuppa before the gang arrives?’

  She nodded. He suspected she appreciated time alone with the boss. Sarah was ambitious, that much was obvious; but what wasn’t obvious to a lot of people was just how smart and thorough this young DS was. He would always want Sarah on his team.

  She bustled back with a file and a notepad he could see was covered in pen marks of different colours. As she put it down on his desk, he tried to put her at ease. ‘I used to write in colours. It helped me memorise pages of notes for exams. Quite a clever trick you have there.’

  ‘No, sir, I ran out of biro twice while I was furiously writing and couldn’t find the same colour pen,’ she answered seriously.

  Jack hid his quiet amusement behind his coffee cup. Sarah really needed to gauge when to lighten up a little, although he recognised that her habitual gravity was one of her greatest assets.

  ‘Hit me,’ he said, but they were interrupted by the arrival of Kate.

  ‘Morning, sir. Hi, Sarah,’ she said, wincing at the heat of her takeaway coffee.

  He looked up awkwardly. ‘Hi Kate.’

  ‘How are you?’ she risked, as hesitant as Sarah had been minutes earlier.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said, hoping it was enough for her. She looked lovely — she always did — but today there seemed to be something else. A glow?

  ‘You seem …’ He searched for the right word, ‘bright.’

  She demurred, shrugging. ‘I don’t know why.’

  But he could see it and was glad for it. ‘Well, perhaps it’s that blue really suits you.’

  ‘Thank you. What’s going on here?’

  ‘Sarah’s got some research on black-market trading of human organs. You should sit in.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Give me one moment,’ she said, shrugging off her tan leather jacket and unfurling her cashmere scarf.

  Sarah gave a soft groan as Kate disappeared to dump her bags. ‘How does she look that good each morning?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘She could give us all a masterclass,’ he mumbled, looking at his phone for any messages.

  Kate returned. ‘Sorry.’

  Jack gestured to Sarah that she had the floor.

  ‘Well, sir, a human kidney can fetch up to ten thousand quid, depending on the age and health of the donor and how badly someone wants it,’ she began. ‘Of course the donors don’t get anything like that. From what I can gather, the going rate on the black m
arket for the donor is around £2000.’

  Jack drained his coffee as he absorbed her information. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Sir, I can’t imagine anyone’s getting hideously rich either donating or harvesting kidneys. If harvesting kidneys is what they’re after then they’re going to a whole lot of trouble and risk for what is essentially a small amount for a criminal.’

  ‘So …?’

  ‘Well, it just strikes me that if our killer is into organ harvesting, then why stop at the kidneys? There are eyes, livers, lungs, hearts, any number of amazing bits and pieces we take for granted that could be sold on at a decent price — tendons, for example. And get this. Arguably the most lucrative sale of all is skin product.’

  Kate made a gagging sound, apologised with a self-conscious shrug and drank from her hot coffee to cover her outburst.

  Sarah continued. ‘Skin is easy to transport, it can be frozen or used fresh and it doesn’t seem to have the same stigma attached to it as other organ donations and transplants. Each adult corpse has something in the order of eighteen square feet of skin.’ Now Kate just looked disgusted. ‘Skin cells know how to regenerate themselves. Then there’s bone. I won’t begin to bore you with the potential for human bone products. What I’m trying to say is that a single adult corpse is worth a whole lot more money than a kidney, but our killer, if he is trading in organs, is ignoring most of them and that doesn’t sit straight in my mind.’

  ‘What does?’

  ‘I believe the person we’re chasing has only a cursory interest in kidney retrieval. Perhaps he’s only removing the kidneys to throw us off the scent. And I think that theory gains some weight when you consider that two of our victims’ kidneys remained intact, but that’s as far as I can take it right now.’