James Patterson - Private London

So that Saturday lunchtime found her there – pushing her trolley round in a foul mood.

The place was busier than ever and Penelope had to manoeuvre her way around hordes of extremely overweight shoppers. But Tesco stocked a ready meal called Finest Spaghetti Bolognaise, perfect for one. It was her Saturday-night treat when she settled down to watch Casualty, her favourite soap, and she would be very put out if she missed out on it. Luckily they had some in stock. She had backup in the freezer, but it wasn’t the same thing as fresh. Not the same thing at all.

Still, she was a bit flustered, a bit hot and not in the best of tempers when she returned to the surgery.

She had left her mobile to charge and there were three missed text messages on it waiting for her return, and one voice-recorded message.

As Penelope listened to the message the fragments of any remaining hope of a better day vanished quickly. The phone fell from her hand to clatter on the hard floor of the dental surgery’s staffroom.

Her colleague Debra Brooking turned in surprise as she poured hot water from the kettle into a Pot Noodle.

‘Everything all right, Penelope?’ she asked. ‘Not bad news, is it?’

Penelope nodded, her face ashen. ‘It’s my brother. He’s just been run over by a train.’

Half an hour later Penelope Harris was standing in front of the reception desk at the Stoke Mandeville hospital, her face flushed with anger.

‘What do you mean, I can’t see him? He’s my brother!’

‘I know that,’ said the increasingly flustered receptionist on the general admissions desk. ‘You are aware of the circumstances of the accident?’

‘His car was on the railway line. A train hit him.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

‘I know he was badly mutilated. But I should still be able to see the body.’

‘It’s not so straightforward, I’m afraid.’

‘Why the hell not?’

The receptionist reddened and shrugged apologetically as a man in his fifties, wearing a white coat and with the obligatory stethoscope round his neck, appeared. ‘It’s okay, Maureen,’ he said. ‘I’ll take this.’

Penelope turned to him. ‘Are you in charge here?’

‘I’m Mister Ferguson, one of the surgical registrars,’ he said.

‘Good. I want to see my brother.’

Ferguson nodded. ‘Please come with me.’ He gestured with his hand and led Penelope into a small room with a couple of sofas and a cold-water dispenser.

‘I don’t understand. Why can’t I just go and see him?’

‘He’s in surgery, Miss Harris.’

Penelope stepped back. ‘What are you talking about? They told me he’s dead.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to confuse you. He had a donor card. His heart was viable. He’s going to save a young woman’s life.’

Penelope shook her head, not believing what she was hearing.

‘I understand that your brother was a teacher. The young lady receiving his heart is a gifted young pianist. She’s recently been given a musical scholarship to Corpus Christi College at Cambridge University.’

‘No,’ said Penelope.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘My brother would never have carried a donor card. We have discussed this.’

The surgical registrar gestured apologetically. ‘I can assure you that he had a card in his wallet…’ He hesitated. ‘And he left a note.’

‘What note?’

‘I’m sorry, Miss Harris, but your brother committed suicide.’

‘No… there’s been some mistake. It’s not my brother. You’ve got the wrong person.’

‘The man had your brother’s wallet and was driving his car.’

Penelope shook her head again. ‘Maybe they were stolen.’

The registrar didn’t respond and Penelope tilted her chin defiantly. ‘Well, if it is him, then I don’t want the transplant to go ahead. He wouldn’t have wanted it – I know that for a fact.’

‘It’s too late, Miss Harris.’

‘I refuse. Let us be very clear about this: I am not giving you permission.’

‘The girl’s heart has already been removed. They are in the process of replacing it with your brother’s now.’

‘Well, I want it stopped!’

Sam turned the steering wheel and glanced across at me.

‘Friends in high places, Dan?’

‘Seems that way. Jack Morgan has, at least.’

‘The Foreign Office?’

‘Homeland Security stateside contacted their opposite numbers here. They arranged the passport for Hannah Shapiro in the first place. All above board.’

‘The ex not too pleased, I take it?’

‘Actually, Kirsty was fine with it. Her boss wasn’t quite so.’

‘Shame.’

‘Shame indeed.’

My phone rang and I looked at the caller ID. It said withheld. ‘This better not be a bloody marketing company,’ I said and clicked the green telephone on. ‘Dan Carter.’

A mechanical voice spoke. ‘Be at your office in two hours. We’ll give you instructions then. If you have just been speaking to the police you’ve signed her death warrant.’

The line went dead.

Sam looked across. ‘That them?’

I nodded.

‘What’s the plan?’

‘They’re calling back in a couple of hours with details.’

‘What did he sound like?’

I shrugged. ‘They used a voice distorter.’

‘How did they get your number?’

‘I would imagine Hannah gave it to them. She knows who we are, after all.’

‘They say anything else?’

‘They said if I’d been speaking to the police about it all bets were off.’

‘They knew you’d been arrested?’

‘Yup.’

‘Sophisticated operation, then?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Which is a good thing, I guess.’

‘I guess so too,’ I agreed. Thinking that Hannah Shapiro already knew only too well how messy things could get with amateurs.

A short while later Sam pulled the car to a stop in the car park of one of the CUL sports grounds. It was based off the city centre and had a brick-built single-storey clubhouse and two rugby pitches. One of them was being used by the CUL squad who were running training exercises.

We walked over to the sidelines and watched for a while. Suzy had learned that they would be playing later that afternoon, in the annual grudge match between them and UCL. Just like the annual boat race between Oxford and Cambridge. If you added the victories up, then Chancellors would be slightly ahead, but UCL had beaten them in the last two encounters and they were keen to redress the balance, as I explained to Sam.

‘They’re so keen to redress the balance,’ replied Sam, ‘you’d think they wouldn’t be out partying the night before.’

I looked at him and grinned. ‘College boys. They have a quicker recovery time. You’re getting old, is all.’

‘Old nothing. I could give those silver-spoon-eating bookworms a two-minute start and still beat them over a mile.’

He probably could have, too.

‘You ever play rugby?’

‘Rugby? Are you out of your Caucasian mind?’ Sam said, laying it on thick. ‘I went to the college of hard knocks, my friend. We don’t got no rugby in that particular school.’

I smiled. I knew for a fact that he had gone to a Catholic grammar school, could have gone to a university of his choice. He’d chosen Hendon Police College instead. Something about growing up on an estate with limited life expectancy, I reckon. Where he’d watched two of his brothers getting themselves killed. Like I said earlier, he could have gone either way. Lucky for us he chose as he did.

The practice session finished and the young men started walking towards the clubhouse. I jogged across to join them.