James Patterson - Private London

‘Yeah.’

I hefted the bag. ‘And I appreciate the assist.’

‘You got it. You taking Sam with you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘See if you can persuade him to carry, then.’

I smiled regretfully. ‘Never going to happen.’

Di Kirsty Webb was wishing she had simply switched off her mobile phone and taken the weekend off.

The drive out of London heading west into the boondocks had been a nightmare, with traffic clogging up Western Avenue and the air-conditioning unit on her car packing up. The first truly hot day of the year and that was when it decided to go on the blink! She had kept the windows open for a while but anyone who has been stuck in traffic in London knows it’s not an ideal solution for long.

When she had broken clear of the M25 the roads had cleared, though, and she made better progress. But all in all she couldn’t help feeling it was bound to be a bit of a wild-goose chase.

The old market town of Aylesbury is only some forty-five miles north and west of London, but on a good day it could still take an hour and a half to get there. Kirsty would have taken the A41 route but roadworks on the North Circular would have made the journey even more unbearable.

Nice to get out of London, though, she thought, goose chase or not, as she drove into the large car park of Stoke Mandeville hospital and switched off the car radio.

A female DI from the local force was waiting to meet her as she headed into reception. A formidable-looking woman in her late thirties but with steel-grey already dominating her hair.

‘Natalie James,’ she said, holding out her hand.

‘Kirsty Webb.’

‘You’d better come with me.’

The DI walked off briskly and Kirsty followed her into the hospital, through reception and down a series of corridors.

The body had been moved to a small side room. A young uniformed officer was standing guard outside. DI James gave him a cursory nod and opened the door, leading Kirsty in.

The corpse was lying on a gurney and had been covered once more with a sheet.

‘His car was hit by a high-speed train going at full tilt. Brain death would have been near-instantaneous.’

‘I can well imagine.’

‘And his body took a considerable amount of trauma.’

‘So the injury to his hand could have happened at the same time?’

‘We thought so at first,’ said the grey-haired detective. ‘But a pathologist took a closer look. The top half of his finger was definitely severed post-mortem. No blood loss, et cetera. There’s no doubt about it.’

The DI lifted the blanket covering the left side of Colin Harris’s body and showed Kirsty the mutilated hand.

Kirsty shook her head, not quite believing it. ‘Do we know what was used?’

‘We think a scalpel.’

‘Right.’

‘I understand you have some similar cases?’

‘Kind of. Only ours were two women. Early to mid-twenties. Both as of yet unidentified.’

‘And both had the same finger chopped off.’

‘The wedding-ring finger. Half of it, anyway. And they both had organs removed.’

‘What the hell is going on?’ The DI was obviously a little rattled. You weren’t supposed to have serial killers in Buckinghamshire.

‘I don’t know, inspector. But we’ve got a break in the pattern here. That could be significant.’

‘How could somebody have known, though? Then sneak into our morgue and cut a finger off a dead body in broad daylight!’

‘Who was it who authorised the transplant? What’s the procedure?’

The DI pulled out a small black book and consulted her notes. ‘First of all, brain death has to be established by two independent doctors.’

‘Independent of the hospital?’

‘No, of the doctors involved with the donation or the transplantation team.’

‘So brain death was established by two independent doctors. And then what happened?’

‘The body was kept alive by life-support machinery, the heart removed and transplanted into the recipient.’

‘And the sister maintains that her brother was vehemently against being a donor.’

‘It’s what she says. Although she also says she had become estranged from her brother. They hadn’t talked in quite a few years.’

‘Why was that?’

‘She didn’t say. I get the feeling that Penelope Harris isn’t much of what you might call a people person.’

‘Can I speak to her?’

‘Of course you can. We’ll do all we can to help.’

‘I have to warn you, inspector…’

‘Go on.’

‘If this is our serial fruit-loop, or even if it is a copycat, London serious crimes squad are going to be down here en masse. You’re going to be kept busy.’

‘Why didn’t they come straight away, then?’

‘Because they didn’t think there was a connection and my time is a lot less valuable to waste.’

‘But you do think there is a connection with your two Jane Does?’

‘Yes, Inspector James. I do.’

Kirsty Webb was beginning to dislike Penelope Harris.

The woman seemed to be angry not at her brother’s death but at the inconvenience it was causing her.

‘I just want to go home,’ said the woman in question.

‘And you will. I just need to go over a few things first,’ replied Kirsty, trying to keep her own anger in check.

‘Oh, for God’s sake – I’ve been over it a hundred times. And it isn’t me you should be interrogating.’

‘It’s an interview, not an interrogation…’

‘It’s those surgeons. They’re the ones who killed my brother, who took his heart like some kind of spare part.’

‘Your brother was declared brain-dead, Miss Harris. And he carried an organ-donor card.’

‘It wasn’t his.’

‘They don’t just go by the card, Penelope,’ Kirsty said softly, using the woman’s first name to try and get her on side. It didn’t work.

‘“Miss Harris” is fine, thank you very much!’

Kirsty sighed inwardly but kept her expression neutral. ‘Like I say,’ she persisted. ‘They don’t just go with the card – they check with the organ-donor registry and your brother’s name was on it.’

‘So that just gives them the right to go ahead and do what they did, does it?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it does.’

‘Well, it shouldn’t.’

‘Do you have a particular reason to be so against organ donation?’

‘We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.’

Kirsty frowned, puzzled. ‘I understood that Jehovah’s Witnesses aren’t against organ donation, just blood transfusions.’

‘It’s a matter of personal conscience and a number of us are against it. And those that are for it still demand that all blood be drained before transplantation.’

‘I see.’

‘And was it?’

Kirsty shrugged ever so slightly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, isn’t that what you should be finding out?’

‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘What on earth do you mean? Of course it matters.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. But what I meant is that the woman who received your brother’s heart is not a Jehovah’s Witness.’

Penelope Harris considered it for a moment. ‘It’s the principle,’ she said finally, putting the detective in mind of a sulky schoolchild.

Kirsty pulled out a piece of paper enclosed in a clear plastic envelope.

‘Is that the note he left?’ asked Penelope Harris.

‘Yes,’ said Kirsty.

‘Can I see it, please?’

Kirsty put it on the table in front of her. It consisted of two simple lines and read: I am sorry for what I have done. But at least the suffering will stop now. Colin.

The Harris woman looked at it briefly, then back up at Kirsty, the angry defiance back in her eyes.