The Body Dealer (A DI Erica Swift Thriller Book 5)

by M K Farrar

  She didn’t answer his question. “Are you sure you don’t recognise her?”

  “I already told you I don’t.”

  Erica retrieved the images. She tried something different. “What do you know about Beckett Enterprises?”

  His eyebrows drew together in what appeared to be genuine confusion. “Who?”

  “Kenneth Beckett is the man who owns the gym we saw you at yesterday.”

  “Why should I know him? I just go there. It doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “So, you’ve never met Kenneth Beckett?”

  “No! Why would I have?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking the question.”

  He huffed out a long breath. “This is bullshit. I didn’t have anything to do with any of this.”

  Erica paused the interview and got to her feet. “We’ll give you a minute to have a think if there’s anything you haven’t told us.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know. I haven’t done anything wrong.” He was slouched so far down in his seat, it was amazing he didn’t just slither right off.

  “What do you think?” she asked Shawn as they stepped outside and closed the door behind them.

  “I don’t think he had anything to do with it. He just seems like some young punk with an attitude who’s already had run-ins with the police and acted on instinct.”

  “He almost got you killed by running across the train track,” she reminded him.

  “But he didn’t, and running over a track isn’t the same as killing a woman and setting her body on fire.

  “There were two people in the front of the van. Two men. The friend who’s couch he’s sleeping on might be the second one.”

  Shawn nodded. “I’ll go to the address he gave us and see if I can catch the friend. I’ll keep an eye out in case the van is parked nearby, too.”

  “If only we could find that damned van. It would open up a whole heap of new leads for us.”

  He grimaced in sympathy, and she knew he felt bad that this was her first case as acting DCI.

  “Any news come from Kim yet about the dental comparisons?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not yet. Let’s keep our fingers crossed we get a hit. In the meantime, let Webster sweat while you check out his ‘friend’ story, and if he’s telling the truth, let him go with a warning.”

  There was little more they could do with him.

  Fast footsteps ran towards them, catching Erica’s attention.

  It was DC Rudd, and from her wide-eyed expression, something had happened. “There’s been another body found,” she said, slightly out of breath. “Someone set fire to it. The fire brigade managed to put it out before it was completely incinerated.”

  “Where?” Erica asked, already forgetting about Webster in the interview room.

  “Royal Docks, in the grounds of the old Spillers Mill.”

  This didn’t look like it was going to be a one-off.

  “Check Webster’s alibi,” Erica told Rudd, “and then release him.” She glanced to Shawn. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The huge ten-storey derelict building loomed over the smouldering body.

  The old flour mill had been earmarked for redevelopment for years now, but nothing seemed to have come of it. Tucked away between the now disused Royal Docks and the Thames River, the sixty-two-acre site had fallen into disrepair. Erica imagined finances were at the root cause of it being left to rot—a place of this size would cost an insane amount of money to rejuvenate.

  The body had been found on a patch of land near an empty, rusted oil barrel. A couple of geese wandered around, apparently unperturbed by the lingering smoke in the air and the officers in protective gear inspecting the scene.

  “Looks like we’ve got another one,” Police Sergeant Diana Reynolds said as Erica and Shawn approached.

  Erica nodded. “Certainly seems that way. Same MO?”

  “As far as we can tell. The smoke was spotted by workers on the opposite side of the river. By the time the fire brigade got access, the burning was already well underway.”

  Erica pulled on protective wear and slipped under the inner cordon to get a better look at the body. At least out here, they didn’t have the general public to worry about.

  She jerked her chin in acknowledgment of the Scenes of Crimes photographer who was taking images of the body.

  A combination of being spotted sooner, and the fire brigade getting access quicker meant the fire had been put out faster and so the damage was far less. Unlike with the first body, where it had been near impossible to work out if the body was male or female, this one was easily recognisable as being female. She still had pieces of her clothing intact, and some of her hair, though it had been blackened by smoke.

  While Erica hated that another woman had died, she hoped this body would be more forthcoming with information.

  “They must have been in more of a rush with the accelerant,” Shawn pointed out. “Looks as though they didn’t cover as much of it as the first one.”

  “Could they have been disturbed?” Erica cast her gaze out to the river. “Perhaps a boat went by and he thought he’d been spotted.” She directed her next question at Reynolds. “Do we have any witnesses?”

  She shook her head. “Other than the person who called it in, who can’t tell us anything other than that they saw smoke, unfortunately not.”

  “Dammit.”

  Erica glanced around. They were too far away from the derelict flour mill for any cameras that might have been positioned for security, but perhaps the cameras caught the person coming and going.

  “How did they get in?” she asked.

  “We don’t know that either yet,” Reynolds said. “The big metal gates that give the main access to the property were still chained and bolted when the fire brigade got here. They had to cut the chains to get in.”

  “So, someone either has a key to that padlock, and so already has access to the site, or they got in another way.”

  Reynolds nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s going to be hard to narrow down. There’s chain fencing around most of the site that doesn’t lead onto the water, but like the building, most of it has been left to fall apart. Large chunks of it have fallen down, and there are holes cut in other parts. It’s a big site.”

  “Or they could have come from the water,” Shawn said. “The first body was also found near water. Perhaps we should consider whether or not they’re moving the body via boat.”

  Erica bit her lower lip, considering the possibility. “They wouldn’t have poured the accelerant from over the wall if they’d accessed the canal path by boat.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Might be trying to put us off the scent.”

  “True. We can’t rule it out.”

  That would mean they’d been on the wrong path all along by tracking the white van, however, and that would be frustrating.

  “Any idea who this one might be?” Erica checked with Reynolds.

  “We didn’t find any ID on the body,” she replied, “but it might have been destroyed by the fire. I didn’t want to poke around too much in case I did more damage than good.”

  “I think the water from the fire hose already did that.” She shook her head, annoyed at how both the water and fire would have destroyed pretty much any DNA that might have been useful.

  Erica stared out across the water and then turned to Shawn.

  “We’re not far from Canary Wharf and the construction site where Bradley Webster said he was working.”

  “We’ve had him in custody most of the day. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “Unless he’s working with someone and they found out he’s been picked up. They might have thought he was going to talk. Maybe they already had the girl and panicked and killed her and burned the body to destroy the evidence. There were two people in the front of the white van, remember?”

  Shawn nodded. “True, but right now we can’t pin anything o
n him.”

  Erica gave a frustrated growl. “No witnesses, no DNA, no identity of the victims. Someone smart is behind this, and it’s not just idiots like Bradley Webster.”

  They searched the surrounding area, trying to pin down the most likely point of access. By the time they were done—and had narrowed it down to one real possibility, a part of the fence that was completely flattened with tyre marks on the ground on either side—the sun had sunk low, painting the sky with reds and oranges.

  They left Scenes of Crimes taking prints of the marks in the hope they’d be able to compare them, possibly to the tyres of a white van that had a boxing gym sticker on the bumper, should they ever find it.

  Erica knew one thing—her workload had just got a whole lot bigger.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Angela had barely slept. By five a.m., she’d given up and had come downstairs to work on her laptop at the kitchen table.

  She had a backlog of emails from her constituents, so worked through them, doing her best to focus on their concerns, rather than the meeting she had ahead of her. She wondered if the constituents would notice the time stamp on the emails she’d sent and actually think she’d been earning her wages for once. Angela was more than aware that the vast majority of the population thought MPs were overpaid with far too many expense claims.

  They were probably right.

  She hit ‘send’ on another email and then crept back upstairs to check on Milly. She was relieved to be able to bring her daughter home from hospital yesterday. There was nothing worse than having to leave her there and coming home without her. She might not be a little girl anymore, but when she was sick, it was hard not to think of her in that way. It had broken Angela’s heart to hear Milly talk in the way she had that previous afternoon, but that hadn’t been the first time her daughter had said such things. When her kidneys had first started failing, Milly had sunk into deep depression, believing her life was over. But as the months and years had passed, she’d learned to live with her illness, and Angela had seen her daughter return to her. Then they’d had the massive let-down with the cancelled transplant, and Milly’s depression had returned.

  She hoped her daughter wasn’t going to be as badly affected this time.

  Maybe, after today, she’d finally be able to give her some good news.

  Her stomach churned at the thought. Was she doing the right thing? She shouldn’t let herself get her hopes up. This was probably all some scam by some bastard taking advantage of vulnerable people. Desperate people, too.

  She left Milly still sleeping and went back downstairs. Her phone was next to her laptop, and she picked it up to check the messages that had been sent about the meeting. She’d read and reread them so many times she’d lost count, judging each word, trying to look into everything that had been said for an ulterior motive.

  If a friend came to her right now and the situations were reversed, she would tell her friend to walk away. She’d say that this person had offered no proof and was just after her money. But still there was that niggling possibility that they might be able to help. She didn’t care about the money. She would give every last penny she had if it meant Milly got better and went on to live her life.

  Angela left Milly with Magda and went into the office. Everyone asked her how her daughter was doing, to which she smiled and told them Milly was over the worst and back home. The whole time, she felt as though she was an actor in a play, saying only what people wanted to hear. She struggled to focus on her work, constantly glancing at the clock and simultaneously wanting them to move at the same time as dreading the hours passing.

  When it was time to leave for the meeting at two, she caught a taxi to the address the mysterious messenger had given her. She didn’t want to use her driver. While she trusted him, she also didn’t want to put him in a difficult situation if he was ever asked questions about this.

  She felt sick with nerves as she climbed from the taxi and paid.

  This wasn’t some grotty café. It was an expensive restaurant that required formal dress, even during lunchtime. It certainly wasn’t the sort of place she would expect a scammer to arrange to meet. But it did make her feel more comfortable—better than a dark alley somewhere. Perhaps that was the whole point—make her think they were legitimate through an expensive meal and a glass of wine.

  Angela entered, glad she was wearing her business suit and had retouched her makeup before leaving the office. She wasn’t a stranger to these kinds of restaurants and knew full well how the type of people who frequented them judged their fellow diners.

  The hostess stepped forward to greet her, and Angela suddenly realised she had no idea what name he’d have given the restaurant when he’d booked—assuming he’d booked them a table.

  “Oh, umm, I’m just meeting someone,” she said, searching the sea of heads, hoping to spot the right person. Then she remembered the social media profile. “Name of James. John James.”

  “Of course. He’s already waiting for you. Right this way.”

  The hostess led her through the restaurant to the far end where a man was seated at a table for two. He was strikingly handsome, in his mid-to-late forties, she guessed. His broad shoulders filled out an expensive navy slim-fit suit. His bright-blue eyes were intense and set off against his dark hair.

  He flashed her a Hollywood smile and half stood, reaching for her hand to shake

  She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been this.

  “Ms Hargreaves, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “You, too, Mr James.” She shook his hand. “I assume that isn’t your real name.”

  “You’re right, it isn’t. I’m sure you understand why I need to keep that to myself.”

  “To protect yourself.”

  He gestured to the chair opposite, indicating for her to sit. She did as he suggested and slipped into the seat.

  “To protect us both. It’s better if you don’t know any real names involved here.”

  “But you know my real name, and my daughter’s.”

  “That couldn’t be helped.” He tilted his head in a vague nod of apology.

  “I didn’t have my full name on Facebook, so you must have done some digging to find out who I was. You called me ‘councillor’ so you’ve looked into me.”

  “It was important we know who we’re working with. We’re a professional setup, Angela. We don’t deal with people who we might feel we’d be unable to trust.”

  “We?” she prompted. “Who is ‘we’ exactly?”

  “The team of people I work with. I have a high-profile surgeon and an anaesthetist who would be working on your daughter.”

  Angela picked up the thick cloth napkin and smoothed her fingers over it. “Can I have their names? I’d like to research their recent work and recommendations.”

  His lips quirked in a slight smile. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I hope you understand.”

  “I understand that you’re asking me to put my daughter’s life into the hands of doctors who have never even met her.”

  The waitress came over to the table—a young woman who was probably only a handful of years older than Milly. Angela imagined the waitress was a student, working here part time to help pay towards her studies. Would Milly ever do something similar?

  “Are you ready to order?” she said with a polite smile.

  “Just some sparkling water for me,” Angela said.

  Her lunch date lifted his hand and shook his head, telling her he was fine.

  The waitress nodded and moved away.

  “Feel free to order anything you like from the menu,” he said. “I’ve already organised with the restaurant to cover the bill.”

  “Champagne and caviar it is then,” she joked, and then clamped her mouth shut. This wasn’t the time or place.

  But he didn’t rise to her comment. “Whatever you want.”

  “Actually, I’m really not hungry. How about we talk about what we were
here to discuss.”

  “Of course. We run a bespoke service for people who are of a more...privileged background.”

  “People with money, you mean?”

  He rested his elbows on the table. “I’m afraid people without money wouldn’t be able to afford the service we provide.”

  “How much money are we talking.”

  “A hundred grand.”

  She gaped at him. One hundred thousand pounds? Was he serious?

  “That...that’s an insane amount of money.”

  “This is hardly something you would want to do on the cheap. I know there’s a place in this world for saving money and cutting corners, but life-saving surgery isn’t one of them. We run a custom service, matching each donor to each recipient in as many ways as possible, so reducing the risk of rejection. This isn’t a case of waiting and hoping that the right donor comes along. We’ll make sure they do.”

  She wasn’t going to ask exactly how that happened.

  He continued. “We will look at not only the blood type, but also the body size compared to the patient. With kidneys, we also need to check there is a negative lymphocytotoxic crossmatch and the number of HLA antigens in common between the donor and the recipient.”

  She nodded. “Yes, we did that with the hospital already.”

  “We will need to repeat that test. As you know, it’s only via a cheek swab or a blood sample, so nothing too intrusive. I will provide you with what you need to take the sample, and the PO Box address to send it off to.”

  “That won’t be a problem.” She had a burning question. “Why is it Milly’s doctors say she’s too sick for the surgery, but you think she’d survive?”

  He steepled his fingers. “It’s not as though we can give any guarantees, but there’s one main difference in the service we provide.”

  “Which is?”

  “Milly’s other doctors aren’t only thinking about Milly’s survival, they’re also taking into account the survival of the kidney. Of course, we want the kidney to survive, but we want it to survive inside Milly. We don’t have any other patients to consider.”