by Scott Hunter
‘No.’ Moran showed his warrant card.
‘Oh! You’re not going to arrest Mrs Gordon, surely?’ She looked aghast at the prospect, but only half-seriously, so ludicrous was the suggestion.
‘I hope not.’ Moran gave her a tight smile. ‘Which way is–’
‘Up the stairs on the right – she insists on using the stairs, never the lift – first door on the right. Just knock. Her hearing is top notch. Better than mine, probably.’ Mrs Brown smiled her professional smile. ‘Anything you need, I’ll be here.’
‘Thanks.’
Moran went past the residents’ communal lounge, found the stairs as directed, went up. Everything looked brand new. The paintwork gleamed, the fixtures and fittings shone.
He found number three, knocked. Waited.
The door opened at his second knock. He recognised her immediately from the forecourt shop.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Gordon? My name’s Detective Chief Inspector Brendan Moran. Do you have a minute?’
‘Oh, my, but how exciting. Do come in, please.’ She stood aside, held the door open.
Moran was shown into a smartly furnished lounge and directed to the two-seater settee. Mrs Gordon settled herself into an armchair, alongside which a cup and saucer, a paperback and a folded pair of glasses had been placed on the uppermost of a nest of small rectangular leather-topped tables.
‘I’ll come straight to the point, if I may,’ Moran said. ‘I’m given to understand that a man named Gruffydd is known to you?’
‘Gruffydd? Yes, he’s a friend of Morag’s – my daughter.’
Mrs Gordon’s voice was rich and cultured. She was as smartly dressed as he remembered from the garage; as before, her makeup had been carefully applied, scarf and earrings chosen with taste, and her eyes, he now noticed, were bright and attentive. This was a lady whom, in her day, would have been a force to be reckoned with.
‘I see,’ Moran nodded. ‘And is he a regular visitor?’
‘He pops in, just now and then,’ she told him. ‘He looks rather scary, doesn’t he? But he’s a lamb, really, deep down. What’s he been up to? Not any mischief, I trust?’
‘Well, perhaps I’ll come to that presently,’ Moran said. ‘Is that your late husband?’ He pointed to a framed photograph, which had been placed in a central position on the mantelpiece.
‘Yes, that’s John.’ She smiled, a brief but profoundly sad expression.
‘An English name? I was told he was Swedish.’
‘He adapted. When we first met he was Johann Gronlund. Settling here, it was easier to Anglicise his name.’
‘And when did he die?’
‘Two years ago next week.’
‘I’m so sorry. It must be hard.’
‘Forty-five years, we were together,’ Mrs Gordon said. ‘And in all that time, never a cross word. I know it’s a dreadful cliché, but it’s true.’
‘A rare thing, indeed.’ Moran nodded again. ‘Many are not as lucky.’
‘He would still be alive, you know, but for that awful waiting list. He was as fit as a fiddle, apart from that one thing – oh, forgive me. How rude, I haven’t offered you anything to drink. Can I make you a cup of coffee? Tea, perhaps?’
Moran raised his hand. ‘No, no. Thank you. I’m fine. Waiting list, you say?’
‘His kidneys, they were the problem. He died of acute renal failure, you see. The most dreadful thing was just waiting, watching it happen. I felt utterly powerless – you’ve no idea, Chief Inspector.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Can you? Can you, really?’ She sat forward in her chair, so that Moran could see the hurt, the anger and frustration in her eyes. ‘Do you know how many people are on the waiting list? Five and a half thousand! And over five hundred of those poor souls have been waiting for over five years.’ She sat back, radiating anger. ‘Most of them won’t ever receive a transplant. Most of them will die eventually, just like my John. Well, that can’t be right, Chief Inspector, can it?’
‘It’s hard, I understand that,’ Moran said gently. ‘Mrs Gordon, you’d do anything to help one of those needy people receive the medical attention they need, wouldn’t you?’
Mrs Gordon’s face relaxed a little as the tension drained away. ‘Of course, she said. ‘Of course I would. Any compassionate human being would.’
‘I agree. But there’s a right and a wrong way, like everything in life.’
‘You’re Irish, aren’t you, Chief Inspector?’
‘I am indeed. County Cork.’
She sighed. ‘A beautiful county. I know it well. A native of Cork can charm the birds from the trees, isn’t that what they say?’
Moran smiled. ‘I believe so.’
‘And you’re a very charming man, Chief Inspector. But I know why you’ve come.’
‘It’s the fuel station, isn’t it?’ Moran said. ‘Is that where the list comes in? Every week, maybe, or every day?’
Mrs Gordon picked up her teacup and took a delicate sip, replaced it in the saucer with a soft clink. ‘Usually twice a week. But I always pop over in the morning to get my paper in any case, maybe a few groceries. It gets me out.’
‘And the contact’s name? If you know it?’
‘A charming young man. His name is Rajeev. Rajeev Thakrar.’
‘Thank you. And you pass the list to Morag?’
A nod.
‘And how many names are on the list, usually?
‘It varies. Twenty, thirty. Maybe more.’
‘Presumably all manner of organs are offered?’
‘Yes. Again, it varies from week to week. I like to see a lot of kidneys.’
A wave of intense weariness crept through Moran’s body. There were crimes, and there were crimes. Part of him just wanted to walk away, thank Mrs Gordon for her time, wish her well in her widowed years. As if she were reading his thoughts, Mrs Gordon spoke up.
‘It’s your duty, Chief Inspector. I won’t blame you. Not in any way.’
Moran didn’t know what to say. He thought of the vast parade of villains he had encountered during his long career; they flicked through his memory like a pack of cards being shuffled. And here was this intelligent, articulate, elderly woman, absolving him of blame for uncovering her small part in an international organ-smuggling operation. To say that the circumstances fell outside the usual boundary lines would be an understatement.
He began falteringly. ‘You do understand that … it’s impossible for me … I mean, you must be aware that I can’t allow this to continue.’ And then he heard himself add, ‘I’m sorry to say.’
‘I do believe you are,’ she said. ‘Will I go to prison? Will Morag?’
‘That’s not for me to decide, I’m afraid,’ Moran said, gathering himself. ‘But we need to talk about Gruffydd. Why did he come to see you?’
‘There was a man he used to meet from time to time. They used to rendezvous here. I didn’t like him at all, I must say. I wish I’d never given him access to John’s glory hole.’
Moran’s spine began to tingle. ‘Glory hole?’
Mrs Gordon’s face lit up at the recollection. ‘Boats. John loved his boats. He owned a little land between Pangbourne and Goring. We were going to build a property there, but the planning permission didn’t work out. He built a boathouse instead, and a basement to tinker with his engines and all things nautical. It’s quite a place. He had to engineer it so that he didn’t disturb the neighbours – who are frightful snobs, by the way. He had a lovely boat; I called it The Spirit of Adventure. We used to spend fair-weather weekends coasting up and down the Thames – rather like the three men in a boat. Have you read the book? So amusing.’
‘Where can I find the boathouse?’ Moran’s heart was hammering. ‘It’s very important.’
‘Why, very easily,’ she said. ‘From Goring, you just walk along the towpath towards Pangbourne. It’s around three-quarters of a mile. A lovely walk, in season.’
‘How will I recog
nise it?’
‘It has John’s family crest on the roof – an eagle and sword. He was very proud of that. He carved it himself. He was so good with his hands, Chief Inspector.’
‘I must go now, Mrs Gordon.’ Moran had his phone out. ‘Thank you for your help. I must ask you to curtail your visits to the forecourt – do you think you can do that for me?’
‘I shan’t go anywhere, Chief Inspector, don’t worry. My travelling days are done.’
Outside, Moran stabbed frantically on his iPhone’s number pad. He waited impatiently while George was fetched from the interview room, pacing up and down until the familiar Scottish brogue crackled through the speaker. ‘McConnell.’
‘George? Any news from Collingworth and Swinhoe?’
‘They’ve drawn a blank at the Caversham Road hotel, guv. Room’s empty. Manager described the guy, but hasn’t seen him for a day or so. No sign of the car. Forensics are mobilising.’
‘Don’t bother for the moment,’ Moran said. ‘Get onto Barraclough’s team, pronto. Target is a boathouse near Goring. Tell him to meet me outside St Thomas’ in the village centre.’
‘Is it Tess?’
‘I believe it might be,’ Moran said. He could feel George’s tension, even at this distance. ‘But stay out of it, George – and yes, that’s an order. Don’t worry, I’ve plenty to keep you occupied in the meantime.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tess’ head jerked up at the sound. Had she imagined it? Her dreams had been lucid, surreal, terrifying, but the reality she awoke to was infinitely worse. Tracy Jones was still lolling, open-mouthed, in her chair. The atmosphere was close and foetid, and nearby, perhaps just beyond the door, someone was whistling.
She strained at the cords but her wrists were bloody and raw, the pain intolerable. She could only watch and wait as the door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges, and then once again he was standing before her, the deep-socketed eyes taking everything in, checking, assessing.
Apparently satisfied, he closed the door behind him, removed his hat and coat, set them down carefully on a workbench, and rubbed his hands together in a gesture of preparation. Fear wrapped itself around her. This was the end. Her time had come. An image of her parents, bewildered and grief-stricken as they learned of their daughter’s fate, swam briefly across her mind. She shut it out.
Talk to him. Don’t give up…
‘Why are you doing this?’
He looked up, paused. ‘Why?’
‘Yes, why?’ Her mouth was dry, like sandpaper. ‘May I have a drink?’
He half-filled a glass from the water jug beside her. The liquid was straw-coloured, dirty-looking. He held it to her lips. She took a gulp, gagged, drank some more.
‘You are strong,’ he said. ‘As she was.’ He put the glass down.
‘I’ve been through more crap than most, that’s for sure.’ She looked at him, defiant. If she had to die, she’d do it on her own terms.
He laughed, stood back, folded his arms.
‘You ask why. I will tell you something. When I was a boy, everything I had was taken from me. I will mention one word – Sarajevo. My family were in hiding, my sisters, brother, mother and father, cousins. We were separated. The mortars fell from the sky, like rain. I was lucky; I was small, nimble. The soldiers, they did not miss me until I had slipped away. I lived on rats, seeds, whatever I could find.’ Now his face was close to hers, the dark eyes wide and revealing. ‘I vowed this: when I am a man, I will never allow this to happen again. I will not be controlled. I will not be marginalised, persecuted. I will survive. I will be who I will be. I will live for those who died.’
‘I’ve read about the conflict,’ Tess said quietly. ‘But haven’t you seen enough death? Don’t you want to be a life-giver, not a life-taker?’
‘My current employers facilitate the preservation of life. For me, it is enough. I provide a service to allow the continuance of their business, that is all.’
He straightened, took a step back.
‘What kind of business?’ Tess asked quickly. While he was talking, he wasn’t doing whatever he intended to do at the workbench.
‘You see her?’ he pointed to Tracy Jones. ‘Too many questions.’
‘You killed Michelle LaCroix. I don’t understand why.’
‘It was necessary.’
‘You treat death so lightly.’
He got down on his haunches. ‘DC Martin, I will tell you this: I know death well. For a long time, he was my only friend. He was with me day and night, he followed me wherever I went. This you will not understand. You cannot, unless you have been there, unless you followed in my path.’
‘Go on, please.’
‘I have talked enough.’ He presented his back, went to the workbench.
Tess’ heart thumped. ‘What’s your name?’
He spun, thrust his finger so that she flinched. ‘Be quiet.’
‘I’m just collateral damage, is that it? And this poor girl, what about her family? How will they live with the knowledge of what you’ve done to her?’
A swift, deft movement of his hand, faster than Tess could follow. Then he was at her side, the cold barrel of an automatic pistol pressed to her forehead.
Tess bit her lip, tasted blood. She could smell his breath, warm, minty, a faint hint of garlic. ‘You speak of death, yet you know nothing.’
‘I’m a fast learner.’
God, what was she saying? Where was this coming from?
The pressure eased. He slid the barrel along her skin, from her forehead to her temple. Withdrew it. ‘So.’
He stepped back, looked at her, as if weighing options. Then he said, ‘This room, it is not possible to hear any noise from the outside. It is soundproof. Completely. The lock is a combination of key and code. You cannot go out unless you have the key and know the code. If you use the key without the code, the lock will seal. The door is very strong. It cannot be broken. The air, you notice, cannot be refreshed. We are in a sealed box. Maybe the oxygen lasts for 12 hours. Not much more. Unless the door is opened, and the air is replaced.’
He dragged the table in front of her, put the gun down with a soft clunk.
‘You can kill me, if you like. But you will never get out. No one will hear, no one will know. In fifteen hours, you too will be dead. So. What shall we do?’ He folded his arms, watched for her reaction.
The automatic lay on the table, close enough to pick up, had her hands been untied.
‘Shall we see?’
He moved behind her and she felt him cutting, pulling. One hand came free, and then the other. She gasped as the blood flooded into her muscles and tendons, pins and needles pricking her skin like the teeth of countless tiny rodents. She eased her arms forward, flexed her fingers.
He folded his arms again, watched her massage her wounded wrists. Tess continued the rubbing action, her brain working frantically.
What shall I do… ?
The gun lay just inches away, butt towards her. What would he do if she made a grab for it?
He’ll be quicker. You’ve been tied to a chair for hours … he’ll just shoot you out of hand…
‘Well?’ His chin came up a fraction.
‘Are you serious?’ The tingling had stopped, the warmth returning to her fingers.
‘As I have explained. Death, I do not fear.’
‘But why would you let me do this?’
‘You have spirit. I give you a choice.’
‘Some choice. Die now, or a bit later.’
The moulded, impassive expression shifted a little, like a locked drawer sliding briefly open to reveal hidden secrets. ‘But your dilemma is surely: can I kill a man in cold blood? A police officer, as you are. Such an act would contravene your country’s laws, would it not? And, I suspect, your own moral law.’
‘You’re beyond morals, I can see that.’ Tess pointed at Jones’ prone body. ‘Or at least, you’ve redefined your own.’
‘Are not all morals
relative? Who is to say that mine have any more validity than yours? They are mere conventions, conveniences for communal living.’
‘Sorry, but killing another human being is clearly wrong. How can it not be?’
‘According to whose law?’
‘The law of common compassion and humanity.’
‘Ah, humanity. What has become of humanity? Where was the humanity when my sister was killed? There was none. Only hatred, and blood lust. The human condition. It is like a raging bull, contained for much of the time, yet ready to break out at a moment’s notice.’
‘You’re saying all human beings are like this? That the human race is basically evil, but is corralled by societal convention?’
‘Precisely. You are a Christian country and you do not understand this?’
‘Christian?’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe once, not now. Most of my friends and colleagues are atheists.’ She massaged her fingers, made sure her eyes were locked onto his, engaging him.
Keep talking. Keep talking, and stay alive…
He nodded. ‘You see? You have abandoned one of the major moral restraints, that of religion. And this gives further license to moral decline. Do you not see it in its many forms? Teenage street gangs roam free, ruthless drug cartels control the inner cities, eastern European organisations flout your immigration policies with their blatant people-trafficking and prostitution.’
He was warming to his theme. ‘You are obsessed with your human rights in the West, is it not so? You are blind to moral decline, and support only the right of the individual.’ He made quotation marks in the air. ‘Criminals avoid jail, murderers roam free. And what do the people think? What do they do? They turn to their social media feeds to see which celebrity has undergone the latest transgender procedure.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘The West is sick, very sick – in the head.’
‘But you’ve risen above it all?’ Tess said. ‘Accountable to no one except your latest paymaster?’
‘No man is my master. They are merely a means to an end.’
‘Well, thanks for the philosophy.’