by Malcolm Rose
Troy grimaced. ‘You drink it?’
‘I filter it through sand and charcoal to make it drinkable.’ He waved a hand over his traditional tools. ‘Carving gives me trinkets to sell if I need money for something nature doesn’t provide for free.’
Troy wondered if he’d found that mad, tree-felling, wood-carving murderer, but Huw came across as harmless. Even so, Lexi must have been thinking the same because she was examining the sharp tools lined up on the table, almost certainly checking for bloodstains.
‘What about company?’
‘It’s not necessary,’ Huw answered. ‘But I can go into the city if the mood takes me. Before I came here, I worked as a volunteer at a homeless centre. It was good. I might do it again if I move on.’
‘Do you ever see anyone around here?’ Troy asked.
‘Sometimes. Not a lot.’
‘A woman called Avril Smallcross who lives up there?’ Troy said, pointing in the general direction. ‘She walks, collects wood.’
‘I’ve seen her.’
‘Anyone else? Any visitors in the last few days or weeks?’
‘No one I took notice of.’
‘Have you seen anything weird going on between here and Avril’s house?’
‘This is sounding like an interrogation.’
‘Do you know what happened in the clearing back there?’
Huw shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
Troy turned to look the other way. ‘What do you know about the transplant clinic?’
‘Zero.’ He thumped his chest cheerfully. ‘I’ll make do with the heart that’s got me this far. It didn’t cost anything, either.’
Troy smiled. ‘Are you staying put? Not planning to move?’
‘I’ll still be here if you come back with some more questions,’ Huw replied. ‘But I don’t know how I can help – unless you decide to break loose. Give up crime and I could show you how to live the good life.’
Lexi and Troy continued their walk. In another twenty-five minutes, they arrived at the Rural Retreat Transplant Clinic. Contrasting with Huw’s basic home, the private surgery was a large modern building with lots of gentle curves and glass. Outside was an attractive water feature with an impressive fountain. Troy guessed that it was supposed to be soothing. Inside, the floor was bare wood and the pastel walls were decorated with paintings and prints. The atmosphere was sheer luxury.
Troy and Lexi were ushered into a roomy office belonging to the manager of the clinic. Behind an enormous desk, Gianna Humble stood up, walked round and greeted them. She sat in a comfy chair and waved them towards two leather seats. Clearly, she didn’t allow a desk to come between her and her clients. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said with a bright smile, ‘but … What can I do for you?’
Troy told her that they were investigating three deaths but didn’t mention the nearby burial site. He skipped the details, giving just enough information to suggest a link to medical transplants. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I hope you can help us in a few ways. Like, we want to know if one of the victims was a patient of yours and where your body parts come from.’
Gianna cut him short. ‘Let’s take it a step at a time. Our main business here is hearts, lungs, liver and kidneys, but we’ve also branched out into hands and faces …’
‘Faces?’
She nodded. ‘For those with facial tumours, or who’ve been disfigured by fire or animal attack.’
‘Where do you get them from? Not just faces. Everything.’
‘I couldn’t possibly discuss individual donors – the source of the tissue we use. I have to protect their anonymity. Besides, talking about this heart or that hand is tactless. The bereaved family and friends wouldn’t thank me for giving the impression that the remains of their loved ones are merely spare parts – or health products.’
‘Are they legal, though?’
‘Of course,’ Gianna replied. ‘But I’m afraid you’re right to imply there’s an illegal market. We would never have anything to do with it, though.’
Troy felt as if he was under some sort of test and his new partner was the silent examiner. He imagined Lexi assessing his verbal tussle with this slick and clever manager. ‘Is it … you know … quite common? Does it happen a lot?’
‘Desperate people will part with considerable sums of money so, yes, it’s out there. You see, the human body provides a rich and long harvest.’
‘What do you mean?’ Troy asked.
‘Think of what it offers and when. There are useful parts from before birth until after death. From female eggs – especially majors’ eggs – through to skin, hearts and kidneys as soon as the old owner no longer needs them. Some are more valuable than others. Of the common transplants, a lung costs the most. Then it’s heart, liver, kidney, cornea, and eggs in that order. On top of that, genetics enters into the reckoning. If a woman’s young and healthy, tall, good-looking, athletic and musical, she’ll get a higher price for selling her eggs because that’s what the clients value most.’
‘You know a lot about it.’
Gianna’s eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘It’s my job to know – without getting personally involved in the illicit trade. You’re welcome to look around anywhere you like – apart from sterile treatment areas, of course – and check our records if you wish, with the exception of confidential files.’
On the surface, Gianna Humble gave the impression of being helpful and open, but Troy realized that she would reveal only a little. He guessed that the confidential files were the ones he most wanted to see. ‘We’d like a tour, for sure – and as much information on your clients and sources as you can give us – but first … These people whose body parts get harvested illegally. Who are they? Where do they come from?’
‘Mortuaries mainly, I believe,’ she answered. ‘Rumour has it that certain overseas prisoners are executed for their organs as well.’
‘What about people who’ve killed themselves?’
‘I’m not aware of that. But …’
‘Yes?’
‘It makes a perverted sort of sense. If someone were helping people to commit suicide, they could make sure the method doesn’t damage the valuable organs and then remove them quickly. After all, the deceased don’t need them.’
Troy said, ‘People thinking about killing themselves aren’t in it for money.’ Thinking aloud, he added, ‘I suppose their friends and family might be, though. Someone could assist a suicide, take the valuable bits, pay the relatives or whoever, and then sell the organs on the black market.’
Gianna shrugged. ‘Sounds feasible, but it’s all guesswork.’ She got to her feet, saying, ‘I’ll show you around.’
While she escorted them along clean, quiet and classy corridors, Troy asked, ‘Why are you here? I mean, tucked away in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Our clients recover much quicker in a relaxed atmosphere. They appreciate tranquillity.’
It was certainly peaceful. No one was rushing around with patients on trolleys. Two nurses walked from one room to another, talking quietly to each other. At the far end of one passageway, a man was mopping the floor almost noiselessly. There were no alarms or sirens, no traffic noise, no obvious emergencies. Faint regular bleeping noises sounded from some of the side-rooms. Everywhere was the reassuring whiff of disinfectant.
‘Have you transplanted a right hand recently?’
‘No. A left, yes, but not a right.’
Gianna took them into a reception area at the back of the building. ‘This,’ she announced, ‘is where all our tissue arrives. Out of a specialised delivery van, straight through that hatch and into here where the barcodes and details are double-checked.’
Troy and Lexi looked around. It was a simple room containing a large chiller, two computer terminals, various medical tools and small pieces of equipment. ‘So,’ Troy said, ‘you don’t get whole bodies.’
‘No. The organs arrive – usually from hospitals – in sealed sterilized containers. Each is barcoded
at source.’
‘Have you ever heard of a major getting an outer body part by accident?’
She laughed dismissively. ‘It can’t happen. We have strict procedures. From here they go to a sterile area for visual and analytical checks. Some are used as soon as the tests are complete. Some are chilled until the recipient is prepared.’
‘But could a mix-up happen? Somewhere else?’
‘Not in any hospital adhering to the right and proper guidelines. If there was a rogue clinic – an underground one – I suppose the standards wouldn’t be so rigorous.’
‘Do you know any illegal places?’
‘No,’ she answered tersely.
‘Where’s your nearest competition?’
On her way out of the room, she replied, ‘I don’t regard other clinics as competition. And I like to think we’re unique around here.’
Following her, Lexi said, ‘You must have very experienced doctors.’
‘We used to have two house surgeons. Ely Eight and – appropriately enough – Blade Five, but we lost Ely to retirement. When necessary, Blade brings in specialists to assist with particular transplants. But, yes, he’s highly skilled.’
Troy knew by instinct that Lexi was wondering who was capable of removing the heart, liver and kidneys of L4G#1 with a sharp knife or scalpel. He hung back by the window for a moment, watching a smartly dressed and broad-shouldered man walking away from the clinic’s rear exit. His baseball cap seemed out of place.
‘Come,’ the manager said. ‘I’ll show you all our records – at least the ones without patients’ confidential details.’
‘We could force you to hand everything over,’ Troy told her.
‘To get a warrant,’ she replied, ‘you’d have to have good evidence we’d done something wrong.’ She spread her arms. ‘There’s no such evidence – because we haven’t.’
SCENE 6
Tuesday 8th April, Evening
They’d visited the water treatment office, the yachting club and every farm in the area and learned nothing more. Tired and hungry, they’d wolfed down their main courses and were finishing off their meal with puddings. Troy tucked into ice cream and Lexi had a plateful of chocolate-dipped candied ginger crickets.
Troy swallowed a mango-flavoured mouthful. ‘Maybe the Rural Retreat’s got a hidden basement for illicit transplants.’
‘Or – what did Kofi say? – bizarre medical experiments.’ Lexi glanced down at her vibrating life-logger and read the incoming message. ‘The weapon search didn’t turn anything up.’
Troy groaned, because any investigation was a lot easier when forensics had the murder weapon. ‘At least you’ve got the measurements you need to pin down when the latest body was left in the wood, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. And the footprint data.’
‘The last meal he had,’ said Troy. ‘Locust burger. Is that common?’
‘As common as … chips. Which he also had. So you can’t trace him through a restaurant or kitchen where he got it.’ Tapping her life-logger, Lexi said, ‘I’m requesting a list of all known patients who’ve had a hand transplant.’
‘That fits. I’d really like to talk to whoever’s got Dmitri Backhouse’s,’ Troy replied. ‘And if someone helped him to die … I’ll check out suicide chat rooms.’
Grinning, Lexi said, ‘That’ll be a right good laugh.’
Troy grunted. Changing the subject, he asked her, ‘Do you speak outer?’
‘Not very well. English got forced on us at school. Rotten language.’
‘Is it?’
‘What are you eating?’
Troy looked down. ‘Ice cream.’
‘Yes. It’s a stupid language when you can’t tell the difference between your pudding and “I scream”.’ She mimicked a silent scream. ‘Then there’s “I sing” and the stuff on a cake.’
Troy nodded and smiled. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘It’s even tricky to tell the difference between “new displays” and “nudist plays”.’
Troy laughed. ‘I’ve never been to a nudist play. Sounds revolting.’
After the meal, Lexi settled into a chair and calmly closed her eyes. She took five deep breaths and relaxed into meditation.
With a sigh, Troy turned on his computer and went online. He knew he’d have fifteen uninterrupted minutes.
According to the police files on Dmitri Backhouse, he’d visited a suicide chat room under a username of Backdown. Troy scrolled through endless entries, reading Backdown’s gloomy contributions and looking for any other user who’d encouraged him to die.
There was nothing obvious. Some contributors discussed methods of dying, mostly focusing on degree of pain and certainty of success. Some visitors were endlessly optimistic, probably part of a caring charity, pleading with visitors to seek help. Others were supportive of the decision to end life, but they stopped short of promoting it.
It was clear from his postings that Dmitri Backhouse had lost his faith in God. Like an outer, he saw nothing but the laws of nature. And that had destroyed his sense of worth.
‘If there’s nothing after death, why am I bothering to live? What’s the point? Eighty pointless years. I don’t get it.’
Three visitors had responded almost immediately.
‘Take heart. Outers have no faith. They still lead fulfilling lives.’
‘No road goes on for ever, but they all pass through interesting places before they come to an end.’
‘The point is to help others. There are many ways of doing it. Some are surprising.’
It was the third message that grabbed Troy’s attention. Was it referring to donating organs after death? It had been posted by someone with a username of Charon Angel.
That triggered something in Troy’s memory. He’d heard of Charon. Two minutes of online research told him that, in mythology, Charon was the ferryman who carried the souls of the dead across the River Styx to the underworld. He was the guide between the land of the living and the land of the dead. And he always required payment.
Troy was still staring at the information on the legend when Lexi stirred. Looking up, he said, ‘All systems back up and running?’
‘Mmm. How’s it going?’
Troy shook his head grimly. ‘This job really depresses me.’
Lexi looked surprised. ‘Does it? But you’ve hardly …’ She stopped when she saw Troy break into a mischievous smile.
‘Razor-sharp mind after you’ve turned it back on again, eh?’ he said.
Lexi nodded. ‘You’re going to play a suicidal role online. You want our bad guy to notice your postings and get in touch – if he exists.’
‘Exactly,’ Troy replied. ‘I’m a waste of space. Someone else could do so much more than me. At least, that’s the sort of thing I’m going to write. My body’s the bait.’
‘Good idea. Dangerous tactic.’
‘I don’t mind a bumpy ride – as long as it works.’
Lexi turned towards her own terminal. Her forensic software soon identified the tread of Avril Smallcross’s walking boots among the three sets of impressions near the burial site. The computer defined Unknown Shoeprint 1 as trainer-type, 29.6 cm length (size 12), manufactured by Adibok, no significant wear on either tread. Unknown Shoeprint 2 was smaller: standard walking shoe/boot, 26.2 cm length (size 8), unknown manufacturer, both heels worn, chipped rubber in centre of left shoe.
Putting the graph of round-the-clock temperatures on screen, Lexi assumed that the conditions hadn’t changed much in the last few days. She added into the equation the extent of maggot development and L4G#1’s body temperature when she measured it yesterday. And she calculated that L4G#1 had died on Friday evening and been dumped in the wood very shortly afterwards.
‘It’s warmer than average for April,’ she said. ‘The maggots have lapped it up. I’m pretty sure all the action was on Friday night.’
‘Someone used the cover of darkness to dump the body, then.’
‘M
ore than likely.’
SCENE 7
Tuesday 8th April, Night
The experimental music wafted around the room where Lexi relaxed with friends. An outer boy said with a grin, ‘So, you’ve got a new partner in crime. A major. Watch your back is all I’m saying.’
Lexi smiled. ‘He’s on trial with me. And my guess is he’s not the back-stabbing type.’
A girl sucked her forefinger to wet it, dunked it in the pot of termites and then popped them into her mouth. ‘Brain the size of a termite’s,’ she teased, licking her lips.
‘He might not be as stupid as you think. We’ll see.’ Lexi alternated between the bowl of crispy-fried bugs and the live food, pausing only to flick a carapace out from between her teeth.
Another girl exclaimed, ‘You don’t like him, do you? A major!’
Lexi shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Too early to say. But I’ve known a lot worse.’
‘Have you seen what they do after they’ve had a few drinks?’
‘Hey. Just because I’ve got a major partner doesn’t mean it’s my job to defend them,’ Lexi replied. ‘But they’re not the only ones who make a nuisance of themselves.’
‘Have you heard – or seen – how their females go to the toilet? They sit down! Yes, they actually come into contact with it. Hygiene, please!’
Grimacing, Lexi said, ‘So do the boys. On occasions.’
‘Yuck.’
‘Gross!’
Lexi laughed. ‘And you know how they have children, don’t you?’
Almost together, the outers cried, ‘Don’t go there!’
SCENE 8
Tuesday 8th April, Night
Grandma was tinkering around in the kitchen. ‘How’s it gone, honey?’ she called out.
‘Okay,’ Troy answered.
‘Is it an interesting case?’
Troy put his head round the door. ‘You don’t want to know the details.’