by Peter James
‘I am so sorry to be late. There was a delay because of snow in München. But now I am here, alles ist in Ordnung, ja?’
Thrown for a second by the sudden switch of language, Lynn mumbled, ‘Um, yes, yes,’ then stepped back and ushered her into the hall.
Marlene Hartmann strode past her and Lynn noted, with dismay, the faintest hint of a frown of disapproval on her face. Directing her into the sitting room, she asked, ‘May I take your coat?’
The German woman shrugged it off her shoulders with the haughtiness of a diva, then handed it to Lynn, without looking at her, as if she were a cloakroom attendant.
‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’ Lynn was cringingly conscious of the woman’s roaming eyes, clocking every detail, every stain, every chip in the paintwork, the cheap furniture, the old telly. Her best friend, Sue Shackleton, had once had a German boyfriend and had briefed her that Germans were very particular about coffee. At the same time as buying the flowers last night, Lynn had bought a packet of freshly ground roasted Colombian beans.
‘Do you have mint tea, perhaps?’
‘Er – mint tea? Actually – yes, yes, I do,’ Lynn said, masking her disappointment at her wasted purchase.
A few minutes later she came into the living room, carrying a tray with a mint tea and a milky instant coffee for herself. The German woman was standing at the mantelpiece, holding a framed photograph of Caitlin, who was dressed as a Goth, with spiky black hair, a black tunic, a chin stud and a ring through her nose.
‘This is your daughter?’
‘Yes, Caitlin. It was taken about two years ago.’
She replaced the photograph, then sat down on the sofa, placing her black attaché case beside her.
‘A very beautiful young lady. A strong face. Good bone structure. She could model, maybe?’
‘Maybe.’ Lynn swallowed, thinking, If she lives. Then she put on her most positive smile. ‘Would you like to meet her now?’
‘No, not yet. Give to me first a little of her medical history.’
Lynn put the tray down on the coffee table, handed the woman her cup, then sat in an armchair beside her.
‘Well, OK – I’ll try. Up until nine she was fine, a normal, healthy child. Then she started having bowel problems, strong occasional stomach pains. Our GP diagnosed it initially as indeterminate colitis. That was followed by diarrhoea with blood in it, which persisted for a couple of months, and she felt tired all the time. He referred her to a liver specialist.’
Lynn sipped her coffee.
‘The specialist said that her spleen and liver were enlarged. She had a distended stomach and she was losing weight. Her tiredness was getting worse. She was always falling asleep, wherever she was. She was going to school, but needed four or five naps a day. Then she started getting stomach pains that went on all night. The poor kid was really distressed and kept asking, “Why me?”’
Suddenly, Lynn looked up and saw Caitlin entering the room.
‘Hi!’ she said.
‘Angel – this is Mrs Hartmann.’
Caitlin shook the woman’s hand warily. ‘Nice to meet you.’ Her voice was quavering.
Lynn saw the woman studying her daughter closely. ‘It is very nice to meet you, Caitlin.’
‘Darling, I was just telling Mrs Hartmann about your stomach pains that used to keep you awake all night. Then the doctor put you on antibiotics, didn’t he? Which worked well, for a time, didn’t they?’
Caitlin sat down in the opposite sofa. ‘I can only sort of remember.’
‘You were very young, then.’ Lynn turned back to Marlene Hartmann. ‘Then they stopped working. That was when she was twelve. She was diagnosed with a condition called PSC – primary sclerosing cholangitis. She spent almost a year in hospital – first down here, then in London, in the liver unit at the Royal South London. She had an operation to put stents inside her bile ducts.’
Lynn looked at her daughter for confirmation.
Caitlin nodded.
‘Can you understand what it is like for an active teenager to spend a year in a hospital ward?’
Marlene Hartmann smiled sympathetically at Caitlin. ‘I can imagine.’
Lynn shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think you can imagine what it is like in an English hospital, I really don’t think so. She was at the Royal South London, one of our top hospitals. At one point, because of overcrowding, they put her, a teenage girl, in a mixed ward. No television. Surrounded by deranged elderly people. She had to put up with confused women and men climbing into bed with her, day and night. She was in a terrible state. I used to go up and sit with her until they threw me out. I’d then sleep in the waiting room or in the corridor.’ She looked at Caitlin for corroboration. ‘Didn’t I, darling?’
‘It wasn’t that great in that ward,’ Caitlin confirmed, with a wistful smile.
‘When she came out, we tried everything. We went to healers, priests, tried colloidal silver, a blood transfusion, acupuncture, the lot. Nothing worked. My poor angel was like a little old person, shuffling along, falling over – weren’t you, darling? If it wasn’t for our GP, I don’t know what would have happened. He’s been a saint. Dr Ross Hunter. He found a new specialist who put Caitlin on a different regime of drugs, and he got Caitlin’s life back – for a while. She returned to school, was able to swim, play netball, and she took up music again, which had always been a big love of hers. She started playing the saxophone.’
Lynn drank some more of her coffee, then noticed, to her irritation, that Caitlin’s concentration had gone and she was texting on her phone.
‘Then about six months ago, everything went pear-shaped. She started finding her breathing difficult on the saxophone, didn’t you, darling?’
Caitlin raised her head, nodded, and returned to her texting.
‘Now the specialist has told us that she needs to have a transplant – as a matter of urgency. They found a matching donor and I took her up to the Royal for the operation a couple of days ago. But at the last minute they said there were problems with the donor liver – although they never explained exactly what those problems were – not to my satisfaction. Then we were told – or at least, it was hinted to us very strongly – that she was not being treated as a priority. Which meant that she could be in that group of 20 per cent of those waiting for a liver transplant who . . .’
She hesitated, looking at Caitlin. But Caitlin completed the sentence for her.
‘Who die before they get one, is what my mother is saying.’
Marlene Hartmann took Caitlin’s hand, and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘Caitlin, mein Liebling, please trust me. In today’s world, no person needs to die because they cannot get the organ they need. Look at me, OK?’ She tapped her chest and pouted her lips. ‘You see me?’
Caitlin nodded.
‘I had a daughter, Antje, who was thirteen, two years younger than you, and needed a liver transplant in order to live. It was not possible to find one. Antje died. On the day that I buried her I made a promise, that no one would ever die again, waiting for a liver transplant. Nor for a heart-lung transplant. Nor a kidney transplant either. That was when I set up my agency.’
Caitlin pushed her lips out, the way she always did when she agreed with something, and nodded approval.
‘Could you guarantee finding a liver for Caitlin?’ Lynn asked.
‘Natürlich! That is my business. I guarantee always to find a matching organ and to effect the transplant within one week. In ten years I have not had one failure. If you would like reassurance from my past clients, there are some who would be willing to contact you and tell you their experiences.’
‘One week – even though she’s an AB negative blood group?’
‘The blood group is not important, Mrs Beckett. Three thousand five hundred people die on the roads, around the world, every day. There will always be a matching donor somewhere.’
Lynn suddenly felt overwhelmed with relief. This woman seemed credible. Her years of experience in the
world of debt collecting had taught her a lot about human nature. In particular, telling the genuine people from the bullshitters.
‘So what would be involved in finding a matching liver for my daughter?’
‘I have a worldwide network, Mrs Beckett.’ She paused to sip some of her tea. ‘It will not be a problem to find an accident victim, somewhere on this planet, who is a type match.’
Then Lynn asked the question she was dreading. ‘How much do you charge?’
‘The complete package, which includes all surgical fees for a senior transplant surgeon and a second surgeon, two anaesthetists, nursing staff, six months’ unlimited post-operative care, and all drugs, is –’ she shrugged, as if aware of the impact this was going to have – ‘three hundred thousand euros.’
Lynn gasped. ‘Three hundred thousand?’
Marlene Hartmann nodded.
‘That’s –’ Lynn did some quick mental arithmetic – ‘that’s about two hundred and fifty thousand pounds!’
Caitlin gave her mother a forget-it look.
Marlene Hartmann nodded. ‘Yes, that is about right.’
Lynn raised her hands in despair. ‘That – that’s a huge sum. Impossible – I mean, I just don’t have that kind of money.’
The German woman sipped her tea and said nothing.
Lynn’s eyes met her daughter’s, and she saw all the earlier hope in them had gone.
‘I – I had no idea. Is there any – any – payment plan that you offer?’
The broker opened her attaché case and pulled out a brown envelope, which she handed to Lynn.
‘This is my standard contract. I require half upfront and the balance immediately before the transplant takes place. It is not a big sum, Mrs Beckett. I never went to see anyone who could not raise this amount.’
Lynn shook her head in dismay. ‘So much. Why is it so much?’
‘I can go through the costs with you. You have to understand that a liver starts to deteriorate if it is more than half an hour out of a body. So the person this comes from will have to be flown here in an air ambulance on life support. As you know, it is illegal in this country to do this. All the medical team take a great risk, and of course we have to use top-quality people. There is one private clinic here in Sussex, but they are extremely expensive. I personally make very little out of this, after covering my costs. You could save some money by flying with your daughter to a country where legal issues are not such a problem. There is a clinic in Mumbai, in India, and also one in Bogotá, in Colombia. That would be perhaps fifty thousand euros less.’
‘But would we have to stay there for a long time?’
‘For some weeks, yes. Perhaps longer in case of complications, like an infection. Or rejection, of course. You must also think financially, beyond our six-month period, of the cost of anti-rejection drugs, which your daughter will have to take for life.’
Lynn shook her head, feeling in total despair.
‘I – I don’t want us to be somewhere we don’t know. And I have to work. But it’s impossible, anyway. I don’t have that kind of money.’
‘What you have to think of, Mrs Beckett – may I call you Lynn?’
She nodded, blinking away tears.
‘What you have to think of are the alternatives. What are Caitlin’s chances otherwise? That is what you must be thinking, no?’
Lynn sank her head into her hands and felt tears rolling down her cheeks. She was trying to think clearly. A quarter of a million pounds. Impossible! She thought for an instant about some of her clients at work. She offered them payment plans spread over years. But an amount this large?
‘Perhaps you could raise a mortgage on this house?’ Marlene Hartmann said helpfully.
‘I’m mortgaged up to the hilt already,’ Lynn replied.
‘Sometimes my clients get help from family and friends.’
Lynn thought about her mother. She lived in a rented council flat. She had some savings, but how much? She thought about her ex-husband. Malcolm earned good money on the dredger, but not this kind of money – and he had a new family to take care of. Her friends? The only one who had money was Sue Shackleton. Sue was divorced, from a wealthy guy, and had a nice house in one of Brighton’s smartest districts, but she had four children in private school and Lynn had no idea what her finances were like.
‘There is a bank in Germany that I work with,’ Marlene said. ‘They have arranged finance in the past for some of my clients. Five-year-term loans. I can put you in touch.’
Lynn stared at her bleakly. ‘I work in the world of finance. At the tragic end of it, the debt-collecting end. I know that no one is going to lend me that kind of money. I’m sorry, I’m desperately sorry, but you’ve had a wasted journey. I feel so stupid. I should have asked you on the phone yesterday and that would have been the end of it.’
Marlene Hartmann sipped some more tea, then put her cup down.
‘Mrs Beckett, let me tell you something. It is ten years now that I am doing this work. Not once, in all this time, have I made a wasted journey. This may seem a lot of money to you at this moment, when you have not had time to think clearly. I will be here in England for a couple of days. I want to help you. I want to do business with you.’ She handed Lynn a business card. ‘You can reach me on this number 24/7.’
Lynn stared at it, through her blur of tears. The printing was tiny. And her hopes of raising the money were even smaller.
66
Rares clutched the electronic game in his hands, staring out of the rear window of the Mercedes at the passing English countryside. It was a windy day, with fat, puffball clouds shunting across the blue sky. In the distance he saw a range of tall, green hills that reminded him a little of the countryside where he had lived for his first few years as a child, in Romania.
They drove across a roundabout, past a signpost to a place called Steyning, and he mouthed this name to himself. The car accelerated hard and he felt the seat back pressing against him. He was excited. Soon he would see Ilinca again. He was thinking about her smile. The soft feel of her skin. The trust in her nut-brown eyes. Her confident, independent spirit. She was the one who had found this German woman, who had arranged for their new lives. He loved that about Ilinca. The way she could make things happen. The way she seemed to be able to take care of herself. And he loved the way she told him he was the only person in her life who had ever looked after her.
He wished they could have travelled together, but the German woman had been adamant. Ilinca first, then him. There were reasons why they could not travel together, good reasons, the German woman had assured them. They had trusted her.
And now they were here!
The two men in front were silent, but that was fine. They were his saviours. It was good to be quiet, to have time to think, to look forward.
The road narrowed. Tall, green hedgerows on either side. Music played on the car radio. A woman singer he recognized. Feist.
He was free!
In a short while they would be together again. They would earn the good money they had been promised. Live in a nice apartment, perhaps even with a view of the sea. With every passing tree, hedge, road sign, his heart beat faster.
And the car was slowing now. It made a left turn through a grand, pillared gateway, past a sign which read WISTON GRANGE SPA RESORT. Rares stared at the name, wondering how it was pronounced and what it meant.
They were winding up a narrow tarmac driveway, past several warning signs, which he could not read:
PRIVATE PROPERTY
NO PARKING
NO PICNICKING
STRICTLY NO CAMPING
The hills lay ahead of them. One of them had a clump of trees on the summit. They wound past a large lake on the left, then entered a long, straight avenue of overhanging trees, the verges covered in fallen leaves. The car slowed, went over a sharp bump, then accelerated. Rares could see manicured grass to the left of them, with a flag on a pole in the centre. Two women were standing on t
he grass, one of them holding a metal stick, about to tap a small white ball. He wondered what they were doing.
The car slowed again, went over another sharp bump, then accelerated again. Finally, at the end of the drive they stopped outside an enormous, grey-stone house, with a circular tarmac driveway in front. Rares had no concept of architecture, but it looked old, and very grand.
All kinds of smart cars were parked here. He wondered if it was a very expensive hotel. Was this where Ilinca was working? Yes, he decided, that must explain it, and he would be working here too.
It seemed isolated, but that would not matter so long as he was with Ilinca, and they had a place to sleep and be warm and food to eat, and no police threatening them.
The Mercedes turned sharply right, passing under an archway, then pulled up at the rear of the house, which looked less smart, beside a small white van.
‘Is Ilinca here?’ Rares asked.
Cosmescu turned his head. ‘She’s here, waiting for you. You just have to have a quick medical and then you will meet her again.’
‘Thank you. You are so kind to me.’
Uncle Vlad Cosmescu turned back in silence. Grigore looked over his shoulder and smiled, revealing several gold teeth.
Rares pressed down on the door handle, but nothing happened. He tried again, feeling a sudden stir of panic. Uncle Vlad climbed out and opened the rear door. Rares stepped out and was then steered by Uncle Vlad up to a white door.
It was opened, as they reached it, by a big slab of a woman in a white medical tunic and white trousers. She had a square, unsmiling face with a flat nose and her black hair was cut short, like a man’s, and gelled back. Her name tag read Draguta. She looked at him with stern, cold eyes, then her tiny, rosebud lips formed the thinnest of smiles. In his native Romanian tongue she said, ‘Welcome, Rares. You had a good journey?’
He nodded.
Flanked by the two men, he had no option but to step forward, into a clinical-feeling, white-tiled corridor. It smelled of disinfectant. And he felt a sudden, deep unease.
‘Ilinca?’ he said. ‘Where is she?’