by Andrew Lowe
‘Excellent. So let’s talk to Sheffield. Find out where Palmer’s liver came from.’
Walker hesitated. ‘Shepherd tried that. They said the person we need to talk to isn’t there until tomorrow.’
‘Okay, I’ll go with him in the morning.’
‘Sir…’
Sawyer sighed. ‘No. We don’t need three people. It’s not a drugs raid. I know you’re keen, DC Walker, and you’ve done some fine work. But I need to be smart with resource. This isn’t on-the-job training. Work with Moran and Rhodes. Find me that van. If we can connect it to both scenes, then we can push it at the press conference. Someone will have seen it parked up somewhere. Then we’ll have an address, and then you can tag along and see some fireworks.’
Sawyer spent the evening at the cottage, butterflying around various distractions, never quite settling enough to become absorbed. Videogames, online articles, Wing Chun forms. He sprawled on the sofa in his workout vest and tracksuit trousers, and played an old Future Sound of London album. He tried to dip into The Gift of Fear, but his eyes kept sliding off the page.
Barefoot, he padded into the kitchen and dug out an oversized bag of salt and vinegar crisps. He leaned in close to the small window and peered out. It was late, and there was nothing to see: just unpolluted blackness, with a few distant speckles of light from the sparse suburbs of Chisworth and Holehouse.
Two slow, solid raps on the front door.
He glanced at the microwave clock. 23:10. Nobody came calling, on phone or in person, with good news at this time.
He walked to the door and listened.
Shuffling feet just outside. More than one person.
He opened the door.
Two men stood in the doorway. The one nearest the step was tall, maybe six-five, and bulky. Strong-looking. His colleague was almost as tall, but more heavyset. Cheap suits, expensive haircuts. The shorter one was bald, with an arch little goatee, while the other was clean shaven, with the tendrils of a tattoo design curling up the side of his neck. They looked like reconstructed bouncers.
Sawyer quickly checked them up and down. Empty hands. The short one had something bulky in his inside pocket; the tall one looked clean. ‘Bit late for canvassing, fellas.’
‘What?’ Tall one.
‘Or are you preaching? For Jehovah?’
The short one stepped forward. ‘We’re not stopping, Mr Sawyer.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘How’s your boss?’
Tall one. ‘We don’t have a “boss”’.
‘Freelance goons, eh? Good for you. The gig economy is pretty seductive. Must be tough getting a mortgage, though.’
No smiles. The short one held out his hands, palms up. ‘This time, we’ll keep it nice. We’re hoping you can help us solve a problem.’
‘Lads. It’s late. I’m tired. Two questions. One. What’s the problem? Two. Can I get you both a glass of warm milk?’
The tall one stepped up into the house, just over the threshold. He leaned in close to Sawyer. He was wearing at least half a bottle of Joop! cologne. ‘You need to stay away from her.’
‘Who?’
‘You know.’
Sawyer nodded and put on a stern face. ‘And might I enquire whose interests you’re representing in this matter?’
‘We know you’re a copper,’ said the short one. ‘But that don’t mean nothing to us.’
‘Doesn’t,’ said Sawyer.
‘Eh?’
‘Doesn’t. Not “don’t”. And that’s a double negative. It should be, “That doesn’t mean anything to us.”
The tall one squinted, his eyes flitting to his colleague. ‘You’re not untouchable, Mr Sawyer. You’re not the only one with long arms.’
Sawyer shook his head. ‘So you work for Mr Tickle?’ He braced, ready to move. He was expecting at least an attempt at a stomach punch.
The short one leaned in. ‘You know who we’re talking about. Like we say, this time we’re nice.’
‘And what happens next time? Naughty?’
‘Next time,’ said the tall one, ‘we’ll cut something off you.’
23
‘Big night?’ Shepherd side-glanced at his passenger, keeping his hands at the regulation ten to two position.
‘Not sleeping well,’ said Sawyer, staring out at the shorn farmland on Sheffield’s western fringe.
‘You in pain?’
Sawyer turned. ‘What?’
Shepherd kept his eyes on the road. ‘With the hand.’
‘Oh. No. That’s fine. Just the usual deep-rooted existential terror. Nothing to worry about.’
Shepherd got the message. No talking. He slid a CD—Leftism by Leftfield—into the ancient sound system and steered the mustard yellow Range Rover deeper into the city. The fields fell away, replaced by modular estates, chain pubs, hypermarkets, industrial blight. They passed the rows of compact terraces around the back of the Hillsborough football stadium.
He stopped at a light and looked at Sawyer: slumped onto his left, arms folded. ‘Did you go? To Hillsborough? Too young for it?’
Sawyer shrugged. ‘I was six. My dad was a mess, trying to keep things together. Football wasn’t really a thing then. I saw it on TV, though. Weird season, with the Michael Thomas goal at the end. Fucking cruel. It poisoned us.’
Shepherd checked the satnav and pulled out onto the road for the Northern General. ‘No league title since.’
‘Thanks for the reminder. At least we’ve gone close a few times.’
Shepherd smiled. He was getting through. ‘Hey. With Everton, there’s no weight of expectation. It’s all about the chequebooks these days, anyway.’
Sawyer sat up in his seat, in mock surprise. ‘Fuck! You’re right. Money is ruining football. I’d never thought of it that way.’
Shepherd didn’t dignify the sarcasm. ‘Busy one, then? Yesterday? Couldn’t switch off?’
‘Saw my dad. That always puts a strain on the relationship.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Walker is good. Soon be a DS.’
‘For sure. Don’t tell him that, though.’
‘Bit rough round the edges. Spoke over Keating a couple of times at the press conference.’
‘Really? I bet he loved that.’
‘Called him in for “a word” after.’
Sawyer laughed. ‘I don’t think we’ll find the van. Not distinctive enough. And he’s too sharp to leave it in a drive or take it to Tesco. He might have used a different vehicle in both murders. It’s just busy work. Logging dead-end calls, tracing and eliminating.’
‘Logan was there, badgering me about whether we can “confidently keep the public safe”.’
‘That’s an easy one. No, we can’t. Safer, but not safe. Our biggest chance is to work backwards. Look at what he’s doing, the presentation, the method, the themes.’
Shepherd lowered the music volume. ‘Two stab wounds. Both victims had recent organ transplants. Method is a link, but the transplant thing could be coincidence.’
‘At the moment, yes. But both transplanted organs originated from the same hospital.’
They bought coffee at the cafeteria and found a table in a quiet corner, away from the vast window that overlooked the car park. Sawyer prodded at his pecan pastry. He took a bite, made a face, and flopped it back onto the plate.
‘You leaving that?’ said Shepherd.
‘I thought you were on a new regime. Yoga or whatever.’
‘Pilates. And, yes. I’m not hungry. Just surprised to see you turn down something sweet.’
Sawyer stood up, looking over Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘Too sweet. Even for me.’ He raised a hand.
Shepherd smiled. ‘You have quite a camp wave.’
He stood and turned. A young woman in a dark blue nurse uniform approached their table. Mousey brown hair folded over one ear, nervous smile. She hesitated at the edge of the serving counter, and Sawyer caught her taking a quick look around the room, then out of the window. It reminded him of an ex-SAS frien
d who had to routinely check the exits in any new public area before he could relax.
The woman held out her hand. ‘Are you the police?’
‘Surely it’s not that obvious,’ said Sawyer, shaking. ‘Amy Scott?’
She smiled and shook Shepherd’s hand. ‘Yes. Hello.’ She was struggling to mask her nerves.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Sawyer, this is Detective Sergeant Shepherd. There’s nothing to worry about. We just wanted to speak to someone about a specific matter, and we were advised that you might be best placed to help.’
‘I’ll do what I can, of course.’
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ said Shepherd.
Amy waved him away. ‘No. I’m fine. Just really busy.’
They sat down.
A beat. Shepherd looked at Sawyer, stirring his coffee, and got the eyebrows. He turned to Amy. ‘Ms Scott. You’re involved in the administration around organ donation at the hospital. Is that right?’ She nodded and crossed her legs, hands clasped together over one knee. ‘Could you tell us a bit about your role? About how it all works?’
Amy took a breath. ‘I’m a Specialist Nurse, Organ Donation. They call us SNODs. We maintain lines of communication with the transplant surgeons, recipient transplant co-ordinators, other relevant staff in the donation centres. We liaise with NHS Blood and Transplant on all the relevant documentation, including audit requirements. And if I have any time left after all that, and I don’t, then I work on promotion and education of health care professionals and the general public, about the benefits of organ and tissue donation.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘And so you’re right at the frontline when it comes to harvesting the organs of the recently deceased?’
Amy winced. ‘A lot of donor families and medical staff consider the term “harvesting” offensive. It can also put people off. We use “donated” in everyday comms, and the clinical community uses “retrieved”. So, the teams of surgeons who are sent to donors are all part of the National Organ Retrieval service.’
‘Okay. So, assuming the potential donor is on the… National Organ Register?’
Amy nodded. ‘Organ Donation Register. ODR.’
‘Right. Assuming a recently deceased person was on the ODR, and they died at this hospital, then you would be involved in the retrieval of their organs?’
Amy glanced at Sawyer. He was picking the pecan nuts out of the pastry. ‘Yes, I would. I would check they’re on the register, and discuss the possibility of donation with the family. Even if the deceased person is already registered, then I will still need to seek family approval. It’s a myth that your donation wishes will be blindly followed after your death. If the family blocks the donation for whatever reason, then it won’t go ahead.’
‘And would you ask families about donation, even if the deceased wasn’t on the ODR?’
‘Of course. The ODR is just a way of recording a person’s wishes. It’s not legally binding. Once we have the family’s blessing, then information about the patient is transmitted electronically to relevant hospitals. Then, the transplant surgeons can decide whether to accept the organs or not. Obviously, organs are not retrieved unless they are accepted for transplant.’
‘They’re never just retrieved and then offered?’
‘No. Bodies are not preserved. Once brain death is clinically confirmed, then the deceased may spend hours, or sometimes a day or two, on ventilation to support organ function before donation begins. Once the ventilator is switched off, then death naturally occurs, and retrieval begins.’
Shepherd took out his notepad. ‘And how long does that process usually take?’
‘From the point where the family agrees to donation up to the operation going ahead? Minimum of a few hours, maximum of one to two days. It’s all about preparing and co-ordinating the two surgical teams.’
‘And one body, one deceased person, can donate several organs?’
‘Yes. The organs will be transported to units around the country. Kidneys, heart, lungs, liver, small bowel, pancreas. Also, tissue. Eyes, heart valves, bone, skin, veins, tendons. The only complication is cornea transplant. The whole eye is retrieved, but only the cornea, the clear lens on the front of the eye, is transplanted. Not the iris or any other parts.’
‘Ms Scott,’ said Sawyer, still picking at the pastry. ‘We’re investigating a double murder in the Derbyshire area, and we’ve discovered that both victims received a transplant organ which originated at this hospital, last year. A heart and a liver.’
Amy’s eyes widened. She looked from Shepherd to Sawyer. ‘That is possible. We’ve coordinated hundreds of donations over the last eighteen months.’
Sawyer pushed the plate aside and leaned forward. ‘I have a question. The answer could prove to be extremely helpful to the investigation. Could you give us the details of the liver donor? I’d like to explore the possibility of connections between the—’
‘I couldn’t do that. I’m sorry. We operate on strict grounds of confidentiality. The families of the donor and recipient sometimes choose to maintain a relationship, but we’re not at liberty to make that public knowledge.’
Shepherd flicked through his notepad. ‘We know from the husband of one of the victims that the heart came from a Roy Tyler, aged forty-six. He was injured at a gym in Bole Hill, and brought here, in April last year.’
Amy shuffled in place, agitated. ‘I’m sorry, but…’ She lowered her voice. ‘I appreciate you’re doing a difficult job, but I can’t see how I can help.’
Sawyer smiled. ‘You can give us the details of Sam Palmer’s liver donor, Amy. We can get the medical records unsealed and released with a court order. But it’s messy and time-consuming. Surely you can see how your information might open up the enquiry?’
‘Yes, but I have to operate under a strict clinical code. And we would need to coordinate with hospital administration and the NHSBT authority.’ She got to her feet. Sawyer and Shepherd mirrored her. She looked over her shoulder, took out her pocket watch. ‘I’m so sorry, but I really have to get back to work. I hope I’ve been helpful.’ She shook their hands. ‘Look. I’ll speak to NHSBT and my managers here.’
Shepherd wrote down a number on his pad and handed the paper to Amy. ‘Thank you. Please give us a call as soon as you can. I’m sure you can appreciate the seriousness of—’
‘Of course! It was lovely to meet you both. Thank you.’ She turned, stumbling over a low chair, and hurried out of the café.
Sawyer caught Shepherd’s eye. He tilted his head slowly from side to side in assessment.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘She doesn’t have the authority. Makes sense.’
Sawyer sat, tore off a chunk of pastry and popped it into his mouth. ‘We’ll work around it. It would help if we could get the donation info confirmed, but let’s do the learning while we wait. Find out more about Roy Tyler. See if anything interesting pops up.’
‘Can we get Drummond to get DNA samples from Susan Bishop’s heart and Sam Palmer’s liver? Cross-reference?’
‘Probably, but that sounds like a lot of variables and legal hoops to jump through. If we can find a way to get the information from Amy, it will save a lot of time. And I’m interested in her in another way.’ Shepherd eyed him. ‘Not that. She wasn’t busy or pushed for time. I’m interested because she was absolutely terrified.’
24
‘Bodies, DI Sawyer.’
Keating had his back turned, tapping away at his corner computer. He glanced over his shoulder.
‘Sir?’ Sawyer took a seat.
‘Too many of them. Two too many. What are your leads?’
‘Forensics are scraps. At least the two bodies give us more potential. I’m trying to establish a link between the victims. And they both had recent organ transplant operations, so we’re looking into possible angles there. I have a contact but we might need a court order.’
Keating pivoted his chair and faced Sawyer. ‘Any more?’
‘That’s it, sir. At
the moment.’
Keating scowled and smoothed down his neat crop of white hair. ‘Means? Method? Motivation?’
‘We know he can afford to buy a knife, and he’s smart enough to steal a vehicle. Method? He subdues, incapacitates, delivers a single stab wound, which he cauterises. Death from haemorrhagic shock. He’s extremely meticulous, clean, no tracks. He does the killing in the vehicle then transports the body, wrapped in plastic, to somewhere away from CCTV or ANPR.’
‘Motivation? Anything in the presentation?’
Sawyer closed his eyes, looked over the bodies in his mind’s eye. ‘He cleans them, positions them so they’re covering their private areas.’
‘So he has some respect for the victims?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Why so clean and fastidious? Why is he cauterising the wounds? Why not multiple stabs? Is he stalking easy prey, or killing to make a wider point? Like Crawley.’
‘All of this should open up if we get more victims.’
Keating sat back. ‘So, when I meet with the Chief Constable tomorrow, I tell him we’re working hard on the case, but we need a few more murders to happen before we can catch the offender?’
‘No, sir. I’m confident that we’ll find something in the connection between Susan Bishop and Sam Palmer.’
Keating nodded. ‘Well, that’s a relief. Do let me know.’ He angled his head. ‘And how about yourself?’
Sawyer read his gaze: curious, cautious. ‘You mean post-Crawley? I’m fine. A few glitches, but otherwise okay.’
‘Glitches?’
‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘I trust the glitches aren’t compromising the investigation in any way?’
‘Absolutely not, sir.’
‘You could take a TRiM assessment. If you feel you need it.’
Sawyer shook his head.
They savoured a few seconds of silence. Keating opened a file folder. He took a chunky fountain pen and made a few notes on the outside. ‘Klein is out.’
‘Yes.’