Next Of Kin (Unnatural Selection #3)

by Somerville, Ann

  “What’s your gut feeling?”

  “I think it has to be connected to Nick and the other guy.”

  “Here’s something else.” I told him what Michel had told us. “Harry’s going to chase down any rumours of clinics here using ISH. I’ve made a list of clinics and I have a list of possible connections to Brazil.”

  “Good work, Anton. I’ll pass that on to the team investigating Nick’s disappearance.”

  “Uh...any luck with ‘Gregorio’?”

  “Not a fucking thing. Interpol haven’t got the smallest lead. He’s just not in the system at all.”

  “That’s weird, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, I do. Anyway, you probably want some more sleep.”

  On cue, I yawned again. “Probably. I’m supposed to be doing some work-work too. I have to go to Milton Keynes tomorrow.”

  “I’ll let you go then. Keep your chin up.”

  I couldn’t go back to sleep after that. I went downstairs, put on the coffeemaker, and opened up the laptop while the coffee was brewing. Three mysterious disappearances and a death from the same small group of people in a short period couldn’t be coincidence. That one of those three cases was a definite death didn’t exactly cheer me up. Now I wished I’d asked Andy exactly when those cases had occurred. But the fire death would have been in the news, surely.

  It was, and I now had a name for all the good it did me. Murray Norwood, aged fifty, found dead in his blazing car off a quiet country lane five months ago. Severn Bridge man went missing three months ago, Andy said. Nick went missing two and a half month ago. So there was a two-month gap between the first and second cases, and only a couple of weeks between the second and third.

  I stared at my laptop screen, trying to work out if that meant anything. What if Charlotte had been right, only about the wrong person? What if Murray Norwood’s death was a kidnapping that had gone horribly wrong, and the arson was to cover their tracks? The longer gap could have been while the people behind this rethought their tactics.

  I looked up this Richey Edwards case that Andy had mentioned, and immediately saw what he meant. The details of the two disappearances were eerily similar, except Edwards had a history of serious depression, and the second disappeared vee didn’t. Edwards was almost certainly dead. To an experienced police officer like Andy, the vee story didn’t pass the smell test.

  Someone wanted the world to believe that two otherwise unconnected vees had either been murdered or killed themselves. Oscar Wilde might have said that to lose one early adopter vee was unfortunate, but losing two was carelessness. And losing three? Either it was another serial killer or someone was trying to collect a set.

  I spent three hours playing creepy stalker with the personnel listed as connected to the longitudinal study on its website. I chased down every bit of available information I could find on the internet for them, but not one had the smallest connection with Brazil or with cosmetic surgery. All the researchers were either solidly respectable medical professionals, or young post-grads with impressive CVs.

  Frustrated by the lack of clues, I wanted to examine the cosmetic surgery doctors I had flagged as potentials in more detail. But I was also guiltily aware that I was way behind on my paying job. I compromised by emailing the list to Harry with the information Andy had given me, then forcing myself to attend to the agenda for the staff meeting the next day, and an urgent grant application.

  Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe it was emotional exhaustion, but for the first time since I’d started work at the OU, I found myself unable to give a shit about the meeting or the grant. I loved my job. If I lost my enjoyment for it on top of losing Nick, there would be very little left for me. Research, sure, and Karl at least pretended he wanted me to continue our collaborations. But being an educator and being Nick’s husband, were my two proudest achievements. Was I going to lose both?

  It was the lack of sleep doing this to me. Not just one lost night, but weeks of them. I could try to deal with that, at least. I found the store of sleeping pills that I had ignored quite deliberately for weeks, and took the recommended dose. I needed to be sensible about this. I could worry about becoming addicted to sleeping pills, or I could worry about Nick and do my job. I couldn’t do both. When Nick came home, I’d deal with any addictions and bad habits I’d picked up then.

  The pills worked, and next morning the worst of the depression had disappeared with the tiredness. I reread my notes for the meeting as I travelled to King’s Cross to catch the train, and they seemed modestly coherent—a minor miracle under the circumstances. After today, I had a two-week break from attending the campus in Milton Keynes. If I managed to get more sleep, I should be able to catch up with my OU work and still investigate the new lines of enquiry.

  My mobile rang. It was Andy.

  “Hi. Have you got more news?” I asked.

  “Uh...not good news, unfortunately.”

  “They’ve found Nick? His body?”

  “Hell, nothing like that. I didn’t mean to frighten you. No, it’s the missing persons investigation. I passed on what you’d told me, made the links with the study, and they said they’d already looked at the study when Gordon Dangerfield disappeared.”

  “That’s the fellow at the bridge?”

  “Yeah. They said there’s nothing suspect about the personnel there, and it’s just an awful coincidence.”

  “But the ISH thing?”

  “Same problem. Nothing to link anyone in Britain with what’s going on in Brazil, and nothing to link it to the study group. They said they’d look at anything I could give them that did link it. Or if there was a link between the three vees at least. They can’t apply for a warrant just on a theory that has no factual basis.”

  “I thought you said they were putting in a special effort because Nick’s a cop.”

  “They are. They just need something to tie it all together.”

  “Why don’t they look for it?”

  “Because they don’t have the manpower to chase down every possibility based on your gut instinct, Anton. It’s not like television. We don’t have officers sitting around working on a single case and spending days and days following up every idea that pops into their heads.”

  “So Nick can rot, is that what you’re saying? Because the Met can’t be bothered?”

  “Maybe I should call you back later. I’ve got to go.” He hung up.

  I shoved my phone back in my coat with a growl. The police had bloody databases and computers now. I’d have thought they could look up reports of illegal ISH treatment or something like that. Had anyone even bothered to check if there were vees missing in other parts of the country? What about Europe?

  I was nearly at Milton Keynes and so I could do nothing but fume. I did my best to respond politely to people wishing me well after my three-week break, and asking after my health and for news of Nick, but my thoughts kept drifting during the meeting. My contribution was far from stellar. When Prof Carter wondered if I had time to chat, I knew what he wanted to talk about. I tried a pre-emptive apology.

  “Prof, I’m sorry. I had some unhelpful news on the train about the investigation into Nick’s disappearance.”

  “Yes, I thought something of that sort had happened. Anton, why are you back at work?”

  “My leave is over, Prof.”

  “But your spouse is still missing, and you’re clearly not capable of attending to other matters.”

  “He could remain missing for a long time. I don’t want to lose my job too.”

  “I’m not suggesting in the least you should. You’re a valued member of this department. I want to help you manage this situation. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” He shook his head at me with a smile as if to wonder how I could be so stupid. “What do you suggest?”

  We discussed the things that took up most of my time—grant applications—and while these couldn’t be dropped entirely, he offered to make help available
to write them. He suggested I skip the departmental meetings for the next month at least, and longer if I felt I needed it. My graduate students were fortunately mature and independent souls, and bedded in well with their research projects. Prof Carter said he would offer guidance in the first instance if they needed it, and call me in if necessary. One was writing his thesis to defend in the New Year. Prof Carter said he would help him with that and I could take over when I was able.

  “Now, will that be enough, do you think?”

  “I hope so. I’m very grateful. I’m sorry—”

  “Never mind the apologies, Anton. I can imagine how stressful this must be for you. Now I suggest you talk to your students and let them know what we’ve discussed, and see if there’s anything we haven’t foreseen. Then go home and deal with this latest business. I take it that there has been no positive development.”

  “Unfortunately, no. But there haven’t been any negative ones either. The absence of bad news is good news.”

  “Yes, I imagine it is. I’ll talk to you later this week about that application.”

  Three hours later I was calmer and more rational. Amazing how being around calm and rational adults will do that for you. Now I realised I had been an utter prat to Andy who wasn’t responsible for Met policy or the decisions of another team. I needed to call him and apologise.

  But I had barely settled in my seat on the train when my mobile rang. “Hello, Harry. Listen about that list—”

  “Forget the list, Anton. I’ve got the name of a clinic that’s offering ISH treatment here. Heartwell Medical Centre in Braintree.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I spoke to someone whose sister-in-law had ISH treatment with them. And it was definitely for cosmetic reasons.”

  “That’s fantastic. Is that person willing to talk to the police?”

  “God no. They only spoke to me on the basis that it was all off the record.”

  “Bugger. Still, now I’ve got a name. Andy said the Met investigators didn’t think there was a link between the vees and the cosmetic treatment angle. We're going to have to do the work for them.”

  “Not surprised. Heartwell’s director runs a number of clinics—including one in Brazil. One that offers ISH there too.”

  “That’s the one! I don’t suppose he’s called ‘Gregorio Goncalves’.”

  “Nope. He’s a Brit called Henry Burton. But he’s married to a Brazilian woman. I’m digging as much on the two of them as I can.”

  “This is brilliant. If we can just get a link between Burton’s outfit and someone working on that study....”

  “It’s possible there isn’t one. If the data was obtained without their cooperation, I mean.”

  “We have to get the police to look at it again. Find out if there’s been a break-in. But Andy said they already looked at the study and found nothing suspicious.”

  “Maybe they didn’t look in the right place.”

  “Maybe. I’ll call Andy now. Keep going, Harry.”

  I resisted the temptation to punch the air or bounce up and down on the chair like an overexcited toddler, but damn it. Our first real break!

  I called Andy. He picked up on the first ring. “Andy, it’s Anton. Listen, I’m sorry about earlier.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m as frustrated as you are.”

  “I’ve got some information.”

  He listened carefully, but his reaction was less than I hoped for. “It’s not exactly conclusive.”

  “No, but this is what we wanted—a link between the UK and Brazil, and on the ISH thing. Your colleagues can use this, can’t they?”

  “I don’t think so. Look, don’t yell at me, okay? The ISH thing is still just a theory.”

  “But can’t they search this clinic for evidence?”

  “Based on what? An anonymous source who won’t talk to us?”

  “Then what the hell do we do?”

  “I’ll check Burton out, see if there’s any history of complaints or if he’s been mentioned in enquiries. I can check his wife too.”

  “But we need to get inside the clinic.”

  “I can’t help you with that.”

  “Andy—”

  “Anton, I can’t help you with that. Listen to what I’m saying.”

  I stopped and replayed his words. “But maybe I know people who can?”

  “I think you need to have another meeting—without me this time.”

  Finally I worked it out. “No, you better not be there. But you’ll tell me if you find anything on Burton?”

  “Of course. Anton, whatever you do, you make damn sure you’re careful. I don’t want to find your body on fire somewhere.”

  Chapter 8

  Less than a day later, Charlotte had come up with a plan to get us into the clinic to snoop around. Two days later, we knew how we would do it. And four days later Charlotte and Beth were presenting themselves as Essex county council health inspectors, carrying out a snap inspection of the Heartwell clinic as a result of anonymous complaints. Harry and I weren’t with them, but were listening through hidden microphones, and watching through a camera in Beth’s briefcase. Both women were also wearing micro-cameras connected to recorders. Charlotte’s was hidden in a button on her suit, and Beth’s was in her glasses.

  Our two doctors were almost unrecognisable under wigs and prosthetics. Harry had been the one to point out that, to pick Nick and the other two men off, they had to have been under surveillance. This meant that Nick’s circle of friends would be known to whoever took him. So Charlotte and Beth had been transformed thanks to a make-up artist friend of Karl’s, who had done amazing, fast work for us and had only charged for the materials. Even at point blank range, Charlotte’s new nose and blonde wig were undetectable. A padded bra gave her a bosom that Beth—now a redhead with altered eyebrows and high heels that added four inches of height to her natural five feet—rather obviously admired.

  “Not that I need big tits to keep me happy,” Beth had assured us all.

  “Bit late to complain, my love,” Charlotte said.

  Beth had dated an assistant council inspector and knew how they operated. They looked the part. I just hoped they would fool the clinic staff.

  The clinic was located in a lovely Georgian mansion which was also Henry Burton’s residence. The clinic area occupied the east wing, and the family lived in the southern part of the house. The west wing was apparently unoccupied and somewhat dilapidated, but it had bars on the windows, even the upper floor ones, and all the windows had shutters across them. Nothing to say that this wasn’t just the family’s way of keeping that part of the mansion from deteriorating further, but if they wanted a place to hide at least two men, that’d be what they could use.

  We didn’t have anything on Burton to suggest he was up to anything, other than what Harry’s informant had said. I trusted that information but the police couldn’t use it. Burton was an upstanding, law-abiding citizen according to his non-existent police record, a well-regarded plastic surgeon with an equally well-qualified wife. She also had a clean record, and had lived in Britain for the last fifteen years. Burton’s company operated clinics in France, Poland, Russia and Brazil, though local doctors staffed them. He apparently worked exclusively in Britain, though he and his wife travelled to Brazil several times a years.

  He might not be our guy. Harry was still following up leads. So far, though, the Heartwell clinic was the only one which had been named so emphatically, so it was our best hope right now.

  Charlotte was talking to the clinic manager, Mary Fry. So far it had all gone smoothly, Charlotte playing it firm but polite. Beth hadn’t taken part in the conversation yet but her camera scanned the wall and door which I presumed led to the unused west wing. The door looked well maintained and secure, and to emphasise that fact, a security guard was positioned next to it. He could have been stood there to give him a vantage point from which to observe the reception area—but he served equally well to deter
anyone using that particular door. Beth casually turned, moving the briefcase so the camera could take in details of security cameras, windows and other doors.

  Harry and I watched intently as the manager showed Charlotte and Beth around the clinic, describing procedures for cleaning the wards and other hygiene procedures. Nothing of interest appeared until the three of them were on their way back to Reception.

  “Who’s that?” I asked. “Damn. I wish Beth would turn to her right. There. Bloody hell! That’s ‘Gregorio’!” A dark-haired man in a nurse’s tunic was passing the women in the hallway. I’d only caught a flash of his face.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No. But...now he’s going away. Bugger.”

  “Maybe the other cameras caught him. Calm down, Anton. We can always come back for another look if we have to.”

  I fidgeted, hoping the man would return to the reception area. But he didn’t. Charlotte and Beth were apparently preparing to go....

  “Oh, we haven’t looked in there,” Beth said, pointing to the door into the west wing.”

  “It’s not part of the clinic. It’s not in use at all.”

  “Do you mind if we confirm that? Just dotting the i’s and so on.”

  Fry hesitated, then said, “Not at all.” She motioned to the guard to unlock the door. “I advise not going in too far. It’s not safe.”

  I held my breath as the door opened...onto darkness. “There’s no electricity connected to this part of the house,” Fry said. “Joseph, could you lend me your torch?”

  The guard obliged, and Fry swung the beam around long enough for Beth to see that yes, the wing was unused and in ruins. There were doors off the main corridor, but the peeling paint and uneven floor, along with a damaged ceiling, showed an uninhabitable area.

  “Thank you,” Beth said. “Can’t imagine your patients wanting to stay there.”

  The door was smartly locked behind Beth and Charlotte. “No, I think not,” Fry said with a thin, humourless smile. “Was there anywhere else you wanted to see?”