‘Before we go any further,’ she said, ‘and for the reason you’ve already touched on, this has to be in absolute confidence until we can be sure that we know where we’re going.’
‘That,’ Kristmeier said, ‘is pretty much what I was going to say to you. I can keep a confidence and I’m sure that you can.’
The questions were becoming clear in Honey’s mind, but she was distracted by the ringing of the doorbell. There was no sound of June, so presumably she had already left the house. Honey got up and went to the front door.
Chapter Sixteen
Honey jerked open the front door, determined to give the visitor a flea in his or her ear. She was not prepared to tolerate any interruption of what Kristmeier was, she hoped, about to reveal. But she suffered an instant mood swing. There were now two motorcycles on the brick paving, and so similar that for a moment she blinked in case she was seeing double.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
‘If you’re becoming a biker, Inspector,’ said Dodson, ‘we’ll have to found our own chapter of the Hell’s Angels.’
‘Come in, Allan,’ Honey repeated, ‘and cut out the nonsense. We have a busy time ahead. Get rid of your leathers and fetch another chair from the kitchen. I have Mr Kristmeier here.’
‘Oho! I was going to talk about yesterday with you, but for this I can wait.’
‘If I still have a job in three days time, I’ll take you out and show you how to decoy pigeon. For now, we’re detectives.’
While Dodson fetched a chair, Honey called up Mr Blackhouse’s email. Honey introduced the men. There were faint but immediate signs of hostility, the usual reaction of two men, each blessed after his own fashion with sex appeal, in the presence of an attractive woman. Honey, who was hardly unaware of her own attractiveness, took the familiar vibrations as normal. She turned the monitor so that Dodson could read it.
‘Now Mr Kristmeier,’ Honey said. ‘Tell us as much as you can about the foreign trips that Dr McGordon and Mr Samson have been making.’
Kristmeier nodded slowly and put something special into his smile. ‘You’re onto those already are you? I thought that that might be what’s rattled your cage. For as long as I knew them – ten years or more – the Doctor and his nephew have been going abroad, at their own expense, wherever they felt that the need was greatest – usually to a country struggling to recover from the aftermath of war. They never looked for any publicity and most people who heard about the trips were impressed by the deeds and by the modesty.’
‘But you were not?’ Honey suggested.
‘No I was not.’ Kristmeier’s lip curled. ‘I was always sure that there was something wrong. They were genuine medical trips and I made sure that any tax deduction claimed was valid and within the rules, and yet there were a dozen discordant elements. They were mostly tiny things and never anything one could take hold of except for my blind certainty that Dr McGordon was a trustworthy doctor but an untrustworthy man. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Only too well. I’ve met a hundred of them. Who sent the pair of them out to wherever they went?’ Honey asked. She glanced at Allan Dodson, who was glaring at the monitor screen. ‘I mean, you can’t just say to yourself, “I bet they could make use of my skills in Azerbaijan,” and pack your bags and go and put up a brass plate or knock on the door of a clinic. There would have to be arrangements in advance or most of your time there would be wasted.’
Kristmeier smiled indulgently. ‘Of course there would. They were sponsored by a surgical offshoot of Médecin Sans Frontières. Dr McGordon would do the diagnosis and medication while Mr Samson performed any surgery that was possible in the poor conditions. Sometime, if it wasn’t possible on the spot, they’d bring the patient back with them.’
‘I suppose,’ Honey said, ‘that they went very early in the year because colder weather would be less favourable to infections or to the insects that carry them.’
‘Exactly. They not only paid for their own fares and accommodation but when they brought back a patient who needed treatment that they couldn’t manage in the primitive conditions they paid for it themselves. I don’t know what the treatment cost them – Dr McGordon was always careful to keep his dealings with the clinic to himself and out of my hands. That, if nothing else, seemed out of key because it was just the sort of thing that he should have expected me to deal with for him. What’s more, I know that they never claimed tax relief on those patients’ air fares. Yet neither of them ever seemed charitably inclined in any other way. I’ve even heard them exchanging laithfu jokes about poor patients.’ The escape of the broad Scots word made Kristmeier hesitate. When he resumed, his accent was more carefully neutral. ‘Uncharitable, I mean. The kind of joke that would be denounced as politically incorrect.’
‘The world might think their activities very commendable,’ Honey said. Hope was being replaced by certainty and a beginning of triumph. Even the day outside the window was looking brighter. ‘So might I have done. Except,’ she said, ‘that I had the radio on this morning and some member of the Godly was telling the old story about the elderly Spaniard who crossed into France every day by bicycle. The local customs officer was sure that he was smuggling something, but he searched him again and again and even took his bicycle to pieces and found nothing. So when the Spaniard was very old and on his deathbed the customs officer, who was now retired, went to see him and said, “You’ve nothing to lose now so please satisfy my curiosity. I know that you were smuggling and I can’t think what. Please tell me.” And the Spaniard smiled and said, “Bicycles.” I forget what moral was drawn from the story. It’s been ticking over in the back of my mind ever since and now I know why.’
The two men looked puzzled. ‘And what moral do you draw from it?’ Dodson asked. ‘Were they smuggling people? Didn’t the same person go back after the operation?’
‘You’re still not quite there. About the bringing back of patients for treatment in this country, what better way to smuggle body parts? I’d been thinking along the lines of refrigerated containers, but I’m sure that that wouldn’t be practical and it would attract the attention of all the wrong officials.’
Harry Kristmeier snapped his fingers. ‘That’s the missing element,’ he said. ‘I should have thought of it.’
‘I still don’t understand,’ Dodson said plaintively. ‘Are body parts worth smuggling?’
Dodson was not usually so slow. Honey could see that half of his mind was wrestling with the problems posed by Mr Blackhouse’s email. ‘Look at it this way,’ she said. ‘There’s a law in this country against buying or selling body parts. But imagine being a very rich person and you or somebody dear to you desperately needs a kidney to save his life. There’s no relative suitable and willing to donate one and a long queue for donors. But just suppose that two doctors go to conduct clinics in the poorest country imaginable, somewhere where a war has just finished and people are starving. Those doctors keep a check on their patients, looking for somebody with a compatible kidney and in dire need of money to feed their family, pay the rent or buy a house or a bit of land. The doctors might even have taken a shopping list with them. How much do you suppose that rich person would be prepared to pay?’
Dodson had changed colour and his eyes were very wide. ‘You mean that somebody might sell bits of himself? I don’t believe it.’
‘That’s because you’re young and innocent,’ Honey said, ‘and you’ve lived a comparatively prosperous life in the bosom of a protective family. When you watch the TV, look hard at some of the news stories, at the aftermath of wars and earthquakes and famines, tsunamis and general damned incompetence and corruption. There are people out there who have literally nothing, who don’t know where the next meal is coming from or how to provide for their children. Imagine yourself in that predicament and ask yourself whether you wouldn’t give up a kidney, or anything else that you have two of, for enough to give you a fresh start, or even just to tide you over unti
l things might, just might, change for the better.’ She tried to keep her tone dispassionate but it was a subject that always touched her on the raw. What she never said aloud, even to Sandy, was that most of her allowance from Mr Potterton-Phipps went by direct debit to Oxfam.
‘That was a kidney,’ Kristmeier said. ‘But eyes are even more difficult. They have to match for size and fit the socket. And preferably match for colour, although I suppose a coloured contact lens would do the trick. Think of a fabulously wealthy man who’s losing his sight because of some congenital defect of the retina. What would he pay for a serviceable replacement?’
Honey was nodding. ‘To a starving peasant, a sum that to us would seem comparatively trifling might be a lifeline to himself and his family. Compared to what a wealthy citizen in the West might pay, that would leave a very healthy mark-up for the two doctors to share between them. Totally illegal; and ethically, of course, making an enormous profit off a desperate man’s body parts stinks to high Heaven. So,’ Honey said, ‘we have a possible scenario. But it’s still no more than a theory, a possibility. No, let’s call it a probability. To test it, we need to know the answers to three questions. One, what patients did the doctors bring back to this country? Two, did those visits coincide with transplant operations? Three, were there payments into Dr McGordon’s personal bank account later, at appropriate dates?’
Kristmeier gave an expressive shrug. ‘Much though I’d love to uncover any shenanigans on Dr McGordon’s part,’ he said, ‘I can’t help you with the last one.’
Honey and Dodson exchanged glances. ‘The bank accounts? You can leave that one to us,’ Honey said. ‘Can you help with the first two?’
‘I think so. I’m told that the computer system that I set up is still up and running, so they haven’t brought in a new manager, just a senior receptionist and bookkeeper. There’s a link between the computer at Dr McGordon’s surgery and the one at the Gilberton Clinic, so that he can read his case-notes wherever he is at the time. If – and I don’t think that it’s too big an if,’ Kristmeier said thoughtfully, ‘– if they haven’t rewritten the computer codes, I can get details of the operations. I’m not sure whether the donors brought into the country masquerading as patients would be listed.’
‘They might very well not be travelling under their own names and passports,’ Honey said.
‘True. But I think that I could persuade Donna Michelet to help me out. She’s the executive at the agency that arranged the foreign trips.’
‘You know her well?’
‘I think you could say that,’ Kristmeier said. There was a touch of complacency in his manner that made Honey want to slap him, an absolute confidence that this woman or any other would still be so enamoured of him that she would do his bidding. ‘She comes over to interview surgeons and doctors about twice a year. We used to meet.’ The feminist streak in Honey was deeply buried but he was jerking it to the surface. He still exuded sexual magnetism but she found his self-satisfaction a total turn-off. She was careful not to show any signs of disenchantment. She needed him. She didn’t have to like him as well.
Honey was sure that there was one more avenue to explore. It had entered her mind while they spoke but after a long period of near stagnation events were now moving so quickly that she had to pause and struggle to recall what it might be. It came to her at last. ‘You know Ms Michelet well enough to get details of the donors’ progress after their return to their own countries? I’m going to need it tomorrow.’
‘This is where we come to the bigger ifs,’ Kristmeier said. ‘If she’s in her office and not travelling tomorrow and if they retain that sort of information and if she hasn’t forgotten dear old Harry Kristmeier, then there’s a chance. The time difference could help. You’ll pay for a call to France? Is it important? It could be a long call, to Paris.’
‘I don’t think she’ll have forgotten you,’ Honey said before she could stop herself. She went on in a hurry. ‘Yes, it could be very important and I’ll see that you get reimbursed for the call, however long it takes. I suggest that you two work in liaison and try to find the answers to those questions. Meanwhile, I’ll prepare a report on what progress we’ve been able to make so far and I’ll trawl through all that’s gone before in the hope of spotting whatever we’ve missed.’
‘You think we’ve missed something?’ Dodson asked.
‘I’m damn sure we’ve missed something,’ said Honey. ‘In hindsight, you always find that you’ve missed something.’
She let Dodson see Kristmeier out. When the PC returned he said, ‘We’re meeting later today, when we’ve gathered up what we need. You’re going to have an exciting morning on Tuesday.’
‘So are you,’ Honey said. ‘I’ll want you standing by. You’re the only witness who can say that Mr Blackhouse ever told me to investigate Dr McGordan.’
Chapter Seventeen
Honey spent a largely restless night, fruitlessly reviewing possible scenarios for the coming day’s activity and Tuesday’s meeting. She could see disastrous possibilities ahead. Quite apart from the termination of her career, she might even be vulnerable in criminal law for participating in breaches of the Data Protection Act. The only conclusion that she arrived at was that if Detective Superintendent Blackhouse did indeed try to climb out of the mess by way of her shoulders she would spare no effort to climb out via his. In the small hours she fell suddenly asleep, waking after her usual time, thick headed and alone. She rose too quickly, sat with her head tilted back until it cleared and then dragged on a dressing gown.
She found Sandy already dressed as if for golf and lingering with the morning paper over the remains of a hearty breakfast. ‘I let you sleep,’ he said. ‘You’ve plenty of time to prepare for your meeting tomorrow.’
Honey found herself pulled in different directions. She was touched by his consideration and annoyed that valuable time had been wasted. She managed what she hoped was an affectionate grunt. ‘You may as well go and play golf,’ she said.
‘Have you looked outside?’
Honey looked out of the window for the first time. Fog had closed in. ‘Not nice,’ she said.
‘Very much not nice. Can I help at all?’
‘Probably not, but if you’re going to be at home I shan’t hesitate to call on you. How’s that?’
‘That’s acceptable. Just don’t overdo it. And don’t worry.’
That, Honey decided, was all very well. There was a very vague line between profitless worrying and profitable thought; and it could be impossible to tell them apart until after the event. Her sleepless worrying during the small hours had probably been of the unprofitable variety and yet there was an idea trying to form in the back of her mind. Something she herself had said almost casually . . .
She carried a cup of tea and a bowl of cereal through to the study and looked for emails. Among the junk mail was a message from Allan Dodson.
The unexplained payments correspond approximately with the dates of returns from abroad plus a month or two. I have a list of possible recipients and another of donors; I think they match up. Kristmeier has been in touch with his contact who confirms the identities of patients brought back to this country. She will try to trace their subsequent histories and call him back. He has to go to work today and he can’t take phone calls there so he gave her your phone number. I am looking for payments that may coincide.
Honey was perturbed to see such damning material committed to a medium that would be all too permanent and accessible to hostile superiors. On the other hand, it seemed that things were beginning to move. Perhaps they were already past the point at which caution was useful. Should she try to profit from vague and unsubstantiated allegations? Perhaps it would it be safer to say, ‘Yes, Sir, Mr Blackhouse did suggest that I investigate the Doctor but I had my doubts as to whether that constituted a valid order and in view of my delicate condition I did nothing about it.’ As a defence it would be of doubtful value, might be easily disproved and would
be disloyal in the extreme. Perhaps Sandy’s suggestion was the best, that she skip the meeting altogether and see what came out of it. And yet, at some time in every quandary came the moment of no return, the time when the odds favoured continued attack rather than defence. A constable had once, in her hearing, used the expression Shit or bust! She had given him a good tongue-lashing but even at the time she had known that it was more for carelessness in failing to notice the presence of a superior officer rather than for the words themselves. She now thought that she understood the meaning.
Before returning upstairs to prepare herself for the day, she visited the kitchen and found June performing her endless cleaning and tidying. ‘This is urgent,’ Honey told her. ‘I want to know what the Doctor’s mood is. Can you get hold of your pal next door?’
‘I think so,’ June said. ‘She said that we must get together again. I’ll phone her.’
‘Do that. I want to know if the Doctor’s still happy and confident. Does he show signs of worry? This could help you towards your holiday.’
Honey retired upstairs to wash, dress and make up for the day. When she came down again she could hear June’s voice. From the short sentences and silences she knew that June was on the phone. When the sounds of the phone call ended, June appeared in the study doorway.
‘She’s coming round for a cup of tea this afternoon,’ she said.
‘Not until then?’
A Dead Question (Honey Laird Book 2) Page 15