The Kidney Donor (Dave Slater Mystery Novels Book 8)

by P. F. Ford

  ‘He could murder us?’ Norman meant to say it under his breath, but it came out much louder than he intended, and the chauffeur picked up on it straight away.

  ‘I have been told to assure you Mr Coulter only wishes to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ said Norman, wearily. ‘Where is he?’

  The chauffeur indicated an open gate just before the Jaguar on the right. ‘If you drive through the gate, you’ll see his house at the top of the drive.’

  ‘His house?’ asked Norman, quietly, as he drove through the gate. ‘He has a house here?’

  Up ahead, about sixty yards away, they could see what Slater guessed must once have been the coach house and stables, only now it had been converted into a rather good-looking residence. Behind them, the chauffeur was following in the Jaguar, and Norman realised there was no way back.

  ‘I hope I’m not going to regret this,’ he said. ‘It feels like a trap.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Slater. ‘We’ll be fine.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘If he wanted to do us any harm he could do it anywhere, couldn’t he? And there’s no way he could have known we were going to turn up here today, so I don’t see how he could have had time to plan a murder and arrange to dispose of our bodies.’

  There were parked up in front of the house now, and Norman swung his door open. ‘If that was supposed to reassure me,’ he said as he climbed from the car, ‘I’m afraid you failed miserably.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ said Slater, climbing from the passenger side. ‘A nice positive attitude.’

  ‘This way, gentlemen,’ said the chauffeur, indicating a path that led around to the side of the building. ‘Mr Coulter is waiting in the garden.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘How nice to see you two boys again! Do come and have a seat.’

  Coulter, looking every inch the English gentleman in his immaculate white shirt, cream trousers and panama hat, was sitting on one of three easy chairs arranged around a table set upon a small patio area at the back of the house. A cream parasol kept the table and chairs in the shade. He looked genuinely pleased to see them.

  ‘Oh dear, Norm, your friend looks a little damp,’ he observed, as they walked over to join him.

  ‘I got caught in the thunderstorm,’ said Slater, ‘I was just going home to change.’

  Coulter beamed his best smile in Slater’s direction. ‘Yes, I’m sorry about the delay,’ he said, ‘but I won’t keep you long. You can always put your chair in the sun if you’re cold.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m getting used to it now.’

  ‘I don’t know your name, do I?’ asked Coulter, pleasantly. He looked distastefully at Norman. ‘I think Fat Norman has forgotten his manners and failed to introduce us.’

  ‘Dave Slater,’ said Slater, but he didn’t offer to shake hands.

  ‘I’m Stan Coulter, but I’m sure Norman’s already told you that.’

  They took the two empty chairs. They had been arranged so they were opposite Coulter and were both smaller and lower than his chair so he could look down on them. They were also given a clear view of two familiar-looking, besuited heavies hovering in the background, about ten yards behind Coulter. They both wore stereotypical aviator shades.

  ‘Coffee? Or would you prefer tea?’ asked Coulter.

  ‘I’ll pass,’ said Norman.

  ‘Coffee for me,’ said Slater, affably. He had decided that whatever was going to happen, there was no point in trying to rile Coulter just yet. He was going to go with the flow and see how it panned out, and besides – he genuinely fancied a cup of coffee.

  Coulter made a big show of pouring Slater’s coffee and handed it over to him. He pushed a plate of biscuits in his direction, and then poured another cup of coffee for himself. He lifted the cup from its saucer and sat back in his chair.

  ‘Isn’t this nice?’ he said.

  ‘Okay,’ said Norman, ‘so you’ve had your fun and hijacked us . . .’

  ‘Hijacked?’ said Coulter, sounding horrified at the idea. ‘I didn’t hijack anyone. I merely invited two acquaintances in for coffee. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ said Norman, wearily. ‘So, why are we here?’

  ‘Now that’s funny,’ said Coulter, his voice no longer quite so friendly. ‘That’s exactly what I was going to ask you.’

  ‘We’re here because your chauffeur gave us no choice,’ said Norman.

  Coulter looked at Norman as if he was a bad smell that had just drifted under his nose. He shook his head, sighed, and placed his cup carefully back on its saucer.

  ‘Tut, tut, tut, Norman,’ he said, patiently. ‘If you’re really determined to try my patience, this little chat could turn into something that takes a lot longer, and I don’t think your friend Dave here would be too pleased if that happens. I mean sitting there in wet clothes? He could end up catching a chill’–his voice suddenly changed from affable patience to serious threat–‘or something a whole lot worse could happen to both of you.’

  There was brief standoff where Coulter and Norman glared at each other, but no one said anything until Coulter spoke again, his voice once again full of patience.

  ‘Now then, let’s start again, shall we? What were you doing in my son’s bedroom?’

  Norman glanced in Slater’s direction.

  ‘Don’t look at him for a bloody answer,’ snapped Coulter. ‘I know he was your diversion to get past the receptionist, but you were the one who was found in my boy’s room. I want to know why.’

  Despite their rather precarious situation, Slater found himself thinking it was actually a perfectly reasonable question for Coulter to ask. After all, he was the sick guy’s father. He just hoped Norman was going to see it the same way, or he was pretty sure things could soon get nasty, and he hadn’t finished his coffee yet.

  ‘We heard he was ill, and I wanted to know what was wrong with him,’ said Norman.

  ‘So why didn’t you ask me, if you were so concerned?’ asked Coulter.

  Slater had to admit this was another perfectly reasonable question.

  ‘I figured I wasn’t likely to get the truth out of you about any of it,’ said Norman.

  ‘About any of what?’ asked Coulter. ‘My boy’s sick, that’s all there is to it. You make it sound like you’ve discovered I’m involved in some huge conspiracy.’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly what you’re involved in, but one thing’s for sure – it won’t be anything good.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ said Coulter, innocently.

  ‘So how about all that money you’ve been pouring into this hospital?’ asked Norman.

  ‘They’ve taken very good care of my son,’ said Coulter, indignantly. ‘He could easily be dead by now if it wasn’t for the way they’ve looked after him, so yes, I’ve shown my appreciation by investing money that will allow them to become even better. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘What about this house? How has this happened?’

  ‘You think you’ve got it all worked out, don’t you?’ said Coulter. ‘But it’s not my house, dickhead. It belongs to the hospital. I wanted to be near my son, they had an empty property, so I rent it for as long as I need it. It’s a win-win for both of us.’

  ‘And what about Clara Sterling and her husband Fabian?’ persisted Norman. ‘That’s all a bit cosy, isn’t it?’

  Coulter smiled genially. ‘Now, I have to admit that’s a bit embarrassing, but like I said before, there’s no law against a man having a bit on the side. It just happens to be the case that her husband, Fabian, is a brilliant surgeon and we need one at this hospital.’

  Slater could see Norman was getting wound up by the way Coulter always had a seemingly innocent answer to all his questions, so he decided to step in.

  ‘Look, we really are sorry about your son, Mr Coulter, we wouldn’t wish that sort of situation on any family, and you’re no different. What exactly is his progno
sis?’

  Now Coulter looked genuinely sad. ‘His kidneys are as good as useless,’ he said, ‘and to make matters worse, he’s now got a tumour growing in one.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Slater. ‘Can’t they remove that one?’

  ‘They might have to,’ said Coulter. ‘The problem is he’s so ill he might not survive the surgery.’

  ‘Is there no hope at all?’

  ‘The only hope is a transplant, but somehow he’s managed to get himself a rare blood type and it’s almost impossible to find a donor who would be a good enough tissue match to make it worth the risk. We’ve all been tested, but none of us are a good enough match. We even thought we had a donor a couple of weeks ago, but it turned out he wasn’t a match after all. The real bugger is he had a brother who was the same blood group, but he was a soldier – got killed in Afghanistan, God rest him.’

  ‘Now that’s interesting,’ said Norman. ‘A guy turned up dead in Tinton recently. He had just had a kidney removed.’

  Coulter briefly looked shocked but managed to keep his composure. ‘What are you suggesting? Do you think you can just go around hacking out people’s kidneys and hope they’ll be a good fit? It doesn’t work like that, you ignorant prick.’

  ‘Oh, I know that,’ said Norman, ‘but I’m not a father with a dying son.’

  ‘Are you suggesting I took one of his kidneys and then killed him? Why would I kill someone who had donated a kidney to my son?’

  ‘How about because it didn’t match?’ asked Norman. ‘I mean, that would be really frustrating for you.’

  ‘It would be worse than frustrating, but killing they guy wouldn’t help my son, would it?’

  ‘So, does the name Morgan mean anything to you?’ asked Norman.

  It was obvious it did, and Norman sat back, clearly waiting for Coulter to splutter and deny it all.

  ‘Christ! He’s dead? What happened?’ said Coulter, incredulous.

  ‘Someone set fire to the skip he was sleeping in,’ said Slater.

  ‘You mean he was homeless? Ex-services, and he was homeless? How the hell does that happen?’

  ‘You know who he is, you know he was ex-services, but you don’t know how he died?’ said Norman. ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  ‘Why would I kill the guy?’

  ‘Why not, if you thought he’d let you down?’ asked Norman.

  Coulter looked as though he was struggling to decide how much he should tell them. ‘Look, I’ll tell you what happened,’ he said. ‘But I swear I didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Go on then,’ said Slater. ‘What did happen?’

  ‘This guy contacted me. He said his name was Morgan.’

  ‘Christian name?’ interrupted Norman.

  ‘He just said his name was Morgan. He said he had been there when my other son, Bobby, got killed in Afghanistan. He said he felt responsible for Bobby’s death, and he knew nothing could bring him back, but he’d heard Terry was sick. He offered to donate a kidney to make up for what had happened to Bobby.’

  ‘If he was responsible for Bobby’s death, you’ve got another reason for wanting him dead,’ said Norman.

  Coulter looked at him as if he were completely stupid. ‘Don’t be an idiot. If I was going to hold anyone responsible, I’d start with the people who sent him out there, not the poor sods who were sent out there to fight alongside him.’

  ‘We think his kidney was taken against his will,’ said Norman.

  ‘He donated it,’ said Coulter. ‘I can assure you. He signed a consent form and everything.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he tested before the kidney was removed?’ asked Slater. ‘Isn’t that how it normally works?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Coulter. ‘You’d have to ask the surgeon who removed it.’

  ‘I will,’ said Slater. ‘What’s his name?’

  Coulter opened his mouth to speak and then clamped it shut. After a moment, he spoke again. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I don’t have to tell you anything, and I’m not going to. You’re not even the police are you? Just two nosey busy-bodies. I can’t afford to have you going upsetting the people who might be able to save my son’s life.’

  ‘Where was this?’ asked Norman. ‘Which hospital?’

  ‘I just told you, I’m not saying, and what does it matter?’ said Coulter. ‘It wouldn’t have worked whichever hospital it was in. The guy didn’t match, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘D’you know a guy called Doddsy?’ asked Slater, deciding this might be a good time to change direction.

  Coulter seemed thrown by the sudden change in trajectory. ‘I don’t think I do,’ he said, looking genuinely puzzled. ‘Is there any reason why I should?’

  ‘He’s another homeless ex-services guy who was found dead recently,’ said Norman.

  ‘What is this, some sort of witch hunt?’ asked Coulter, the patience that had been present earlier now completely gone. ‘Do you really think I’ve got nothing better to do than go around bumping off homeless people?’

  ‘Not just homeless people, but homeless ex-soldiers,’ said Norman.

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ said Coulter. ‘I think it’s a sin that these people are homeless. If they’ve been prepared to fight for this country, they should be treated like heroes, not dumped on the scrapheap. I actually donate to put a roof over these people’s heads. Why would I do that if I wanted to kill them?’

  There was an uncomfortable silence as Slater and Norman considered what little they had learned so far, and how they weren’t likely to learn any more even if they continued all day.

  ‘I think it’s time you left,’ said Coulter, then he turned to call over his shoulder, ‘Gus, see these two out to their car. Make sure they go straight there, and say nothing.’

  ‘Okay, boss,’ said one of the two heavies, and he stepped forward to escort Slater and Norman back to the front of the house. Slater thought about challenging the guy about the night at the church hall, but then thought better of it.

  ‘You got that, right?’ said Norman when they were back in car, pulling away from the house.

  ‘You mean the two heavies, one called Gus? Yeah, big coincidence, huh? One minute they’re shaking down the church hall, and now they turn up here.’

  ‘But, of course, these deaths have got nothing to do with Coulter. I mean him being here with his two goons, and people dying, they’re not connected, right?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Slater, cynically. ‘The guy’s obviously a model citizen, who just happens to feel the need to surround himself with hired muscle. Nothing suspicious about that whatsoever.’

  ‘He’s right in the middle of all this, I just know it.’

  ‘You’ve certainly got it in for him, Norm.’

  ‘What? You think it’s too much?’

  ‘I think maybe you’ve been waiting a long time for revenge and you see this as your chance. Perhaps you’re just a tad over-zealous, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Norman grimly, but he kept his eyes firmly on the road, and it was clear to Slater this subject was closed, at least for now. He decided to change the subject as Norman headed back towards Tinton, ready to tackle Clara Sterling again.

  ‘So tell me,’ he asked, ‘if you had a son who needed a kidney transplant, would you have him staying fifty miles from the place where the most specialised hospitals are, or would you have him as close to those hospitals as possible?’

  ‘According to Coulter, he keeps his son out here because the care is great, and so is the environment,’ said Norman.

  ‘Yeah, but there must be plenty of places like that up in London. They can’t all be shit, can they?’

  ‘But if the boy’s terminal . . .’

  ‘You would still want to give him the best chance,’ argued Slater. ‘You’d only bring him out here when you knew there was no other option.’

  ‘Maybe Coulter does know that, but he doesn’t want to admit it,’ said Norman.

  ‘So wh
y did he think Morgan’s kidney was worth a chance?’

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean. They must have dragged the poor kid all the way up there for nothing. Just making the journey, when he’s already so weak, would really take it out of him.’

  ‘But what if they could do the transplant where he is?’ said Slater. ‘Instead of taking the boy to the transplant, bring the transplant to him. Wouldn’t that be a much better solution?’

  ‘But you’re forgetting they don’t do surgery at Heston Park yet,’ Norman pointed out. ‘That’s why they brought in Fabian Sterling to set things up, remember? And, anyway, they have to keep records and things.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Slater. ‘But do you think if someone like Coulter is involved, worrying about keeping records is likely to be a top priority?’

  Norman laughed. ‘Coulter’s not a surgeon!’

  ‘No, but he has the purse strings, and his friend Fabian Sterling is a surgeon.’

  Slater had planted the seed in Norman’s head, and he decided to leave it that, and say nothing more for the time being. However, Norman’s curiosity was obviously getting the better of him. He took a sideways glance at Slater in the passenger seat next to him.

  ‘You mean you think Morgan’s kidney was taken from him at Heston Park and they were going to do the transplant there? But how could they with no surgical facilities?’

  ‘Maybe there are no surgical facilities, officially,’ said Slater, ‘but Sterling’s been here for a year. How long would it take to get a theatre set up and running? Perhaps it is ready, but it’s not yet public knowledge. Perhaps they’re running trials or something.’

  ‘Jesus, d’you really think they could do that?’ asked Norman. ‘But surely it can’t be that easy. This stuff is all regulated, isn’t it?’

  ‘You know very well, Norm, regulation only works if everyone complies and follows the rules. Now, we know Coulter’s a man who has spent his entire life not following the rules. What if Fabian Sterling feels the same way? Or what if he owes a debt of gratitude towards Coulter for giving him this opportunity? And what if this debt of gratitude is sufficient to make him want to turn his back on the rules and regulations he would normally have to follow?’