Peter James - Dead Tomorrow

‘Gift of the gab?’

‘You could say.’

They were heading west, away from the village of Storrington, with the softly undulating South Downs to their left. She peered at the map on her knees.

‘Should be the next right.’

They turned into a narrow country lane, barely wider than the car and bounded by tall hedgerows. After a quarter of a mile, Emma-Jane directed him to turn left, into an even narrower lane. Police cars, Batchelor thought, were going to be the last vehicles on the planet without SatNav – and the ones that needed it the most. He was about to comment on that to E-J when he heard a muffled call-sign on his radio. Although he was driving, he lifted it to his ear, but it was a request for assistance in a different part of the county, not remotely near them.

‘Should be coming up on the left,’ Emma-Jane said.

He slowed the blue unmarked Mondeo down. Moments later they saw a pair of imposing wrought-iron gates between two pillars topped with stone balls. Written in gold letters on a black plate was the name, THAKEHAM PARK.

They pulled up in front of the gates, under the cyclops gaze of a security camera mounted high up. On the opposite pillar was a yellow sign, with a grinning face, beneath which was written the legend SMILE, YOU ARE ON CCTV.

The young DC climbed out and pressed the button on the speakerphone panel beneath. Moments later, she heard a crackly, broken-English, female voice.

‘Hello?’

‘Detective Sergeant Batchelor and Detective Constable Bout-wood,’ she announced. ‘We have an appointment with Sir Roger Sirius.’

There was a sharp crackle from the speakerphone, then the gates began to open. She climbed back into the car and they drove through, along a tarmac drive, lined by mature trees on either side, which wound steadily for about half a mile up an incline. Then a huge Jacobean mansion came into view, with a circular driveway in front, in the grassed-in centre of which was a lily pond.

Several cars were parked in front of the house including, Guy recognized, a black Aston Martin Vanquish. To their right, on a large concrete circle in the middle of a manicured lawn, sat a dark blue helicopter.

‘Seems like there’s money in medicine!’ he commented.

‘If you are in the right area of it,’ she retorted.

‘Or maybe the wrong area,’ he corrected her.

Emma-Jane did not even bother trying to count the number of windows. This place must have twenty or thirty bedrooms – maybe more. It was on the scale of a stately home.

‘I think we chose the wrong career,’ she said.

He drove slowly around the pond and pulled up almost directly in front of the grand front door. ‘Depends what you want out of life, doesn’t it? And the moral code by which you choose to live.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Have you ever met Jack Skerritt?’

‘A few times,’ she said. ‘But only briefly.’

Jack Skerritt was the Chief Superintendent of HQ CID – the most senior detective in Sussex. And the most respected.

‘I had a drink with him a couple of years ago,’ Batchelor said. ‘In the bar at Brighton nick, when he was Commander of Brighton and Hove. We were talking about what coppers earned. He told me he was on seventy-three thousand pounds a year, plus a couple of grand more in allowances. That might sound a lot , he said, but it is less than a school headmaster earns – and I’m in charge of the entire city of Brighton and Hove. He then said something I’ll never forget.’

She looked at him inquisitively.

‘He said, In this job, the riches come from within.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘And true. Being a copper, doing this job, makes me feel like a millionaire, every day of my life. I never wanted to be anything else.’

They climbed out of the car and rang the doorbell.

Moments later the huge oak front door was opened by a slight, unassuming-looking man of about seventy. He had a trim figure, a kindly, bird-like face, with a small, crooked nose and alert, wide blue eyes filled with curiosity. His thinning head of hair was grey, going on white, and tidy, and he was dressed in a beige cardigan over a gingham shirt, with a paisley cravat around his neck, rust-coloured corduroy trousers, which looked like they were used for gardening, and black leather slippers. The only hint from his appearance that he was a rich man was the faint, but distinct, glow of a tan.

‘Hello,’ he said in a cheery, cut-glass voice that belonged in a 1950s film.

‘Sir Roger Sirius?’ Batchelor asked.

‘That’s me.’ He held out a slender, hairy hand, with long, immaculately manicured fingers.

The detectives shook hands with him, then Batchelor pulled out his warrant card and held it up. Sirius gave it only the most cursory of glances and stepped aside with a theatrical wave of his hand.

‘So, do come in. I’m intrigued to know how I can be of help. Always fascinated by you chaps. Read a lot of crime novels. I quite like The Bill . Ever watch it?’

Both officers shook their heads.

‘ Morse. Used to like him. Didn’t care too much for that John Hannah in Rebus , but thought Stott was a lot better. D’you watch them?’

‘Don’t get a lot of time, sir,’ Batchelor said.

They followed the distinguished transplant surgeon across a grand oak-panelled hall. It was filled with antique furniture, as well as several gleaming suits of armour. On the walls was a mix of antique swords, firearms and oil paintings, some of which were portraits, some landscapes.

Then they entered a magnificent study. The walls in here were panelled in oak, too, and hung with certificates evidencing the surgeon’s qualifications. All around were framed photographs of him with numerous famous faces. One was Sirius with the Queen. In another, at a black-tie function, he was with Princess Diana. Others showed him with Sir Richard Branson, Bill Clinton, François Mitterrand and the footballer George Best. Batchelor peered at that photograph with particular interest – Best, famously, had had a private liver transplant.

The two police detectives sat on a studded red leather sofa, while a raven-haired beauty, whom Sirius introduced as his wife, brought them coffee. Sirius was briefly distracted by his BlackBerry buzzing, and Batchelor and E-J used the opportunity to exchange a brief glance. The surgeon was clearly a complex character. Modest in appearance and manner, but not in ego – nor in his taste in women.

‘So, how can I help you?’ Sirius asked, after his wife had left the room, settling down into an armchair opposite them, across the oak chest that served as a coffee table.

Guy had already rehearsed this with E-J on the way over. Suddenly he was feeling badly in need of a cigarette but knew, from the fresh smell of the room and the total absence of ashtrays, that he had no chance. He would have to sneak one later, something he had become used to these days.

Watching the surgeon’s eyes carefully, he said, ‘This is a very beautiful house, Sir Roger. How long have you lived here?’

The surgeon reflected for a moment. ‘Twenty-seven years. It was a wreck when I bought it. My first wife never liked it. My daughter loved it here.’ His eyes went misty, suddenly. ‘It’s just a shame that Katie was never able to see it finished.’

‘I’m sorry,’ E-J said.

The surgeon shrugged. ‘A long time ago, now.’

‘You’ve been quoted many times in the press over your views on the UK organ donor system,’ Guy Batchelor went on, still watching his face intently.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, nodding vigorously, instantly animated by the subject. ‘Absolutely!’

‘We thought that you might be able to help us.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ He leaned towards them and, looking even more bird-like, smiled eagerly.