Death Watch

by Unknown

  Denver arranged for a taxi to call at the dock security booth and pick up the written record of vehicles entering and leaving the quayside, then drop it at the agent’s office. The CCTV footage from dock security was available at the booth – there was a back room for viewing and DC Birley was on his way down to start running it through. The Port Authority manager was told that on no account was he to meet any request from the Rosa to leave Lynn; if asked, he was to say that the Home Office had an immigration issue and was sending up an officer to interview the captain.

  Shaw arranged for a former colleague in the Met to liaise with Whitehall to make sure they had a credible set of case notes to begin an inquiry. Meanwhile, Shaw got Twine to search for the Rosa online; he wanted details on ownership, crew, and cargoes.

  At ten DC Jackie Lau arrived by courier motorbike. She took over surveillance while Shaw settled down with the security log. The record for Sunday, 5 September, the day Bryan Judd died, showed thirty-five vehicles in, thirty-seven out. Shaw dispensed with all commercial vehicles: HGVs, container lorries, and Port Authority personnel. That left a BMW series six which had come onto the docks at 7 a.m. The Monday record showed another early-morning visit. He rang Birley, who’d just slipped into the dock security booth office, and told him to run the tapes covering the quayside for those periods. It took him twenty minutes to locate the BMW parked by the Rosa’s gangplank at 7.06 a.m. It was booked out at 8.13 a.m. At 4.30 a.m. the next morning it returned, leaving at 5.13 a.m. Each time there was a chauffeur. The man who was the passenger – dropped on the first morning, picked up the next – was grossly overweight and walked badly. The Rosa sailed at six on Tuesday morning.

  The BMW’s registration plate led them to a car-hire firm in Lynn. The vehicle was still on hire, at a private address in Burnham Overy Staithe, a village deep in the heart of ‘Chelsea-on-Sea’, booked out in the name of a Ravid Lotnar.

  Shaw left by taxi, meeting Valentine in the Mazda on the Tuesday Market in a lay-by on the east side. First, news from St James’s. Andy Judd had been charged with arson and criminal damage and then released on police bail. Three conditions: he had to report daily at St James’s, had to stay within a mile of Erebus Street, and he had to keep away from Jan Orzsak.

  Valentine also had a brief run-down on Ravid Lotnar gathered online. He was an Israeli, and a man of some substance; rich, but not in the super-rich league. Aged seventy-six, married, with six children. Born in Slaný, Bohemia, the son of a Jewish printer. Fled to the USA with his mother in 1938. Emigrated to Israel in 1947; now the MD of a publishing company which produced one of Israel’s national newspapers, and a string of magazines. The registered head office was in Tel Aviv. His home address was also in the city.

  ‘Jewish,’ said Shaw, as they picked up the coast road running east. ‘Peploe gave me some files, background material on the organ traffic trade. Israelis are major customers – know why?’

  Valentine drummed his fingers on the steering wheel; the Mazda was trapped behind a caravan. ‘Money?’

  ‘Nope. It’s one of the few developed countries which do not recognize the concept of brain death. That seriously reduces the supply of organs for transplant, which forces thousands onto the black market. Which means we are almost certainly about to meet our first organ transplant customer.’

  The radio crackled. It was Birley. He’d cut into the CCTV footage at hourly intervals for Sunday. The power had gone at 12.15 precisely. Luckily, the CCTV cameras were on a circuit which fed the new dock, so had remained live. He was able to see that at dusk most of the ships had switched to their onboard generators and had begun to show lights. The Rosa, however, had remained in darkness until 12.13 a.m. Shaw worked with that time frame: if an operation had been under way on the Rosa it had been cruelly interrupted by nearly twelve hours of darkness. He tried to imagine the chaos on board, the botched operation, and the freezers, slowly warming.

  They got to the village and turned off towards the beach, the lane snaking through an ocean of reeds where the spring tides flooded the marsh.

  ‘One other thing,’ said Valentine. ‘Bad news. Twine’s picked up a note sent out by Lincoln CID. They’re looking for background info on a Benjamin David Ruddle – the father of Norma Jean’s baby. He’s alive and well in one of their cells and has given Erebus Street as his home address. Little fucker; killed a prison officer with a Stanley knife as he walked home through the park after dark. Then he just stood there with the knife until he got picked up. Claims the bloke abused him at Deerbolt. Other than that, he ain’t talking.’ Valentine shifted his weight, trying to reduce the pressure on his bladder. ‘Look’s like he’s settled that score.’

  ‘So he isn’t Blanket.’

  ‘Nope. Less he’s a quick mover. Plus Twine says he looked at personal details – he’s thirteen stone. Kennedy says Blanket’s eight, nine tops.’

  They’d reached the house. A new wall in Norfolk stone, an iron set of security gates with a security keypad. Staithe House itself was minimalist modern in blinding Greek white, but hidden beneath a grove of pines which had been forced to bend with the wind until they caressed the building, softening its lines, making it part of the sinuous wave of dunes. A pair of Dobermann pinschers ran down to the gates to greet them, mouths open and wet, like flesh-eating plants.

  Shaw got out and stood pressing the call button, then identified himself when a voice crackled. There’d been a series of burglaries in the Burnham area, he explained, all on properties owned by the letting agency Mr Lotnar had used. It was a routine check, with some timely advice. A voice said to wait. Somewhere he could hear splashing in a swimming pool, and the screams of women. The dogs disappeared to the sound, presumably, of an inaudible whistle, and the gates opened.

  A silent servant, a young man dressed in black shorts and a black T-shirt, said his name was Charlie and led them into the house, guarding them for twenty minutes while Mr Lotnar readied himself to meet them. Shaw noticed that Charlie was all muscle, with the kind of biceps that need daily care. They sat in an open-plan living room, spotless, in dark polished wood, watercolours of the north Norfolk coast spotlit on the white walls. Shaw asked for the toilet and started climbing the stairs, waiting for directions.

  ‘First left,’ Charlie said, trying to work out if he should stay with Valentine or follow Shaw.

  Shaw found the toilet, washed his hands, left a tap running, then slipped along the corridor to a bedroom door. He pushed it open and stood on the threshold. A set of leather cases stood open, packed neatly with clothes. Then he heard a sound that didn’t fit, a kind of rhythmic mechanical breathing. He followed the sound back to the top of stairs and into the opposite wing. But he’d only taken a few steps when a door opened and a woman stepped out onto the expensive carpet pile: a nurse, immaculate private-healthcare white, the sound of the machine louder, swelling in the hall.

  ‘I needed the loo,’ said Shaw.

  She pointed behind him. ‘First left at the top of the stairs.’ The voice had a syrupy sibilance, and Shaw guessed she was an Israeli too.

  He went to the toilet, turned off the tap, flushed the loo, and padded down the stairs, rubbing damp hands together. They all sat amongst the dark polished wood, feigning patience. A buzzer sounded, the noise coming from an antique desk set in the bay window. Charlie took them through into the back garden, which featured an emerald green lawn in alternate stripes, and a pool that sparkled. Lotnar was in a recliner, and Shaw wondered what he’d been doing while they’d been decanted through the house. Had he been upstairs with the machine that mimicked breathing? A woman in a bikini stood drying herself with a fluffy towel in front of him. Shaw couldn’t help thinking that her business was her body: tanned, toned, and as curved as the sand dunes. She took a lot of time making sure the skin on her thighs was dry.

  Lotnar didn’t introduce her, or the other two girls in the pool, floating topless on lilos, their breasts pale against deep tans.

  ‘Inspector.’ Lotnar didn
’t get up. In fact he didn’t look like he did a lot of getting up. He weighed, Shaw guessed, at least twenty stone. His torso sagged in a pair of Bermuda shorts, like a Walnut Whip, the overhang of fat covered by an expensive silk shirt, the top six buttons open.

  ‘I’d like to talk privately, if that’s OK,’ said Shaw. ‘We have some information concerning these break-ins which is confidential.’

  Lotnar shrugged and dismissed the girl. She went to frolic with the others in a half-hearted way, but they made enough noise to cover any conversation. That was the way Shaw wanted it; only Lotnar was going to hear what he had to say.

  He gave Lotnar a version of the real reason they were in his house, a version Shaw thought would worry him just enough: that there had been a murder, evidence of an illegal trade in human organs, and links with a ship in Lynn docks.

  Lotnar’s face froze, and with a hand he began to pat the Bermuda shorts.

  ‘Why did you visit the Rosa on Sunday morning, and why did you stay aboard until the following morning?’

  Lotnar’s smile contained two gold teeth. ‘Inspector, Inspector… I visited an old friend. Beckman – the engineer. A wandering Jew. A Pole. He rang – he knew I was here. We had some food, then too much vodka, much too much vodka. So I slept it off. This isn’t a crime, is it?’

  Shaw coughed, the chlorine from the pool making his throat hurt. ‘The scar’s in your groin. I hope it was a neat job. It’s in the groin because the new kidney is attached to the urethra – but you’ll know that by now. The man who donated that kidney is missing, by the way. But when the lights went out they had someone else on the operating table – a man called Tyler – he’s dead. Not such a neat job. But then he wasn’t paying.’

  Lotnar’s smile slid off his face like an iceberg calving.

  ‘I can’t let you – or anyone – contact the Rosa for the next forty-eight hours,’ said Shaw. ‘That will mean taking everyone into custody. But there is another way.’

  Lotnar was thinking fast, and Shaw could see that he hadn’t yet given up all hope that his money could buy a way out of this – a way out that didn’t involve a prison cell.

  ‘I’m an ill man, Inspector. Yes, I have a new kidney. There is a perfectly legal record of the operation, I assure you. A private hospital near my home in Tel Aviv. That is why I am here. To relax, to recover. I have telephone numbers if you wish to check…’ He took the mobile out of his shorts, began scrolling.

  Valentine had it off him before Shaw had even thought what he might be doing.

  Lotnar held his hands up, showing them clean palms.

  ‘DS Valentine will stay with you while you change, Mr Lotnar,’ said Shaw. But Lotnar didn’t move. ‘You’ll need an overnight bag.’

  ‘A better way,’ said Lotnar, licking fat lips. ‘You said, there might be a better way.’

  Shaw took a seat. The girls were out on towels now, rubbing suntan lotion onto slim backs.

  ‘You have an Israeli passport?’ asked Shaw.

  Lotnar nodded, eager now, seeing that there was a way out.

  ‘We’d need a statement. I can’t promise you won’t be called to give your evidence in person – but it’s unlikely. You are one, I suspect, of hundreds. Perhaps you are a victim too…’ Shaw watched the girls mixing drinks from a trolley the T-shirted muscle had just wheeled out. ‘Just tell the truth.’

  ‘A lawyer,’ said Lotnar.

  ‘You can have a lawyer before you make a formal statement. But I don’t have much time. The Rosa is back in port. Tell us the truth.’

  Lotnar’s throat was dry so he asked for a drink. Shaw said he could have one but he had to talk to Charlie first – in front of them. There was a deal, and Charlie was in the deal too. Lotnar took Charlie’s mobile and gave it to Valentine. He told him to fetch drinks, to ring nobody, to cut the landline.

  Lotnar’s account was chillingly businesslike. His health had deteriorated badly eight months earlier. One kidney had failed, the other was just 20 per cent efficient. He’d been confined to his home in Tel Aviv, undergoing twice-daily dialysis. He had expensive medical insurance and was on a private clinic’s waiting list for a kidney transplant. But donor organs were rare in Israel, and while his money could buy him a place on the scheme, it couldn’t get him to the front of the queue and it couldn’t buy him a kidney. There were other problems. Even his own doctor told him he needed to lose five stones before the operation and radically alter his diet and reduce his alcohol consumption. A medical agency in Haifa made inquiries on his behalf at European and US clinics. All had waiting lists and insisted on a pre-op examination. The US offered the best opportunities, but he’d have to fly out and effectively live in a clinic on dialysis while the queue shortened. And the US surgeons would also demand that he met strict criteria before the procedure was undertaken – including a complete ban on alcohol. It might take months to get on the operating table.

  Meanwhile, he was dying. One of the senior consultants at the Tel Aviv clinic told him there was another way. That phrase again, and Lotnar rolled it round with his fat lips: ‘another way’. Lotnar paid the consultant $10,000 to find out what that other way was. He was given a number in Cyprus to call. A man answered the phone, took his details, and told him to wait. Nothing happened for a week. Then, suddenly, at his bedside a young man appeared. His name was Rudi and he said a new kidney would cost Lotnar

  $150,000. This, Lotnar could afford, although he resented every cent. Rudi was given a duplicate set of his medical records and in return Lotnar received his instructions. He needed to rent a house within an hour’s drive of the Norfolk port of King’s Lynn. On the morning of Sunday, 5 September he should arrive by car at the docks and ask for the MV Rosa and its captain, Juan de Mesquita. He should have had no alcohol for a week beforehand, no food for twenty-four hours, no water for six.

  He did as he was told. He was taken to the captain’s room. He lay down for four hours. Somewhere, the captain said, his new kidney was being removed from its healthy – and willing – donor. He didn’t ask any more questions. It was hot, he remembered, and the first sign that something was wrong was when the fan stopped revolving over his head. He heard footsteps on the metal stairways, people running. Voices: angry, impatient, in many languages.

  Then de Mesquita had come with a bottle and two glasses. There would be a delay. The main power supply had failed and the engineer – a drunken Pole called Beckman – was ashore in some whorehouse and they couldn’t get the generators to cut back in. But they’d find him, it just meant they had some time to kill. Six hours, perhaps. So – a drink. Just one – because the doctors said that was OK. But he never saw these doctors.

  Lotnar slept. When he woke, the cabin was dark. A few minutes later the lights flickered on and the fan’s blades began once more to turn lazily overhead. De Mesquita gave him the anaesthetic. He’d held his hand as they watched the fan turn. It was the first time he’d regretted his decision, lying there, with this man who’d just pumped liquid sleep into his vein.

  And that was all he recalled until he woke the next morning. He was in the captain’s cabin. They had a wheel-chair at the foot of the gangplank. Charlie had returned in the BMW. The pain had been distant, his body soaked in barbiturates. He’d passed out on the journey. But that night, in the bath, he’d examined the small scars: neat and bloodless. And that was the word Lotnar used. ‘Bloodless,’ as if there were no victims.

  ‘Did you pay in cash?’ asked Valentine.

  Lotnar seemed to shake himself out of the memory. ‘No, by cheque – an offshore trust. I’ve got a note…’

  ‘We need the name,’ said Shaw. He stood. ‘And no after-care? Nothing?’

  ‘No, that was part of the deal. I had to set that up. I’m fine. Thriving,’ he added, patting his thigh. The girls were at the far end of the pool, lying together, their heads touching.

  ‘The Rosa is trapped,’ said Shaw. ‘It’s not sailing anywhere. You make any contact at all, or allow anyone else to m
ake contact, and our deal’s off.’ He looked around at the flowering borders, the bent pines, the distant marram grass on the dunes. ‘And you stay here – until it’s over. Break your word and you’ll have the best functioning kidney in the British penal system.’

  As the gates closed on Staithe House the dogs rushed from around the garage block, baying, throwing themselves against the railings.

  Shaw let Valentine drive. He felt an almost overwhelming urge to spell it out, tell someone outside his own head what had really happened that night on the dockside beyond the gates at the bottom of Erebus Street. The car was steamy, the windscreen smeared with dead wildlife. So Shaw wound the window down and spoke out of it, letting the wind cool his skin.

  ‘So the Rosa comes into port. They’ve already got Tyler somewhere – on board? Maybe. There’s something there we don’t understand – not yet. Then Lotnar arrives. By mid-morning on the Sunday the donor’s on the operating table and the recipient’s eager to get under the knife next. Then the power goes. So – here’s a hypothesis. Tyler’s healthy kidney has been removed, but there’s no power. He’s still opened up, on the table, and they can’t keep the kidney, because the temperature’s rocketing. What do they do? My guess is the theatre’s below the waterline so there’s no natural light. Candlelight, torchlight? Whatever, it’s panic. They botch sewing him up, and the wound gets infected. Within twenty-four hours he’s dead. Just in time to get dropped off at sea as the MV Rosa heads for Rotterdam.’

  Valentine swung the car round the roundabout at Hunstanton, clogged with tourists heading down to the beach. ‘The other corpse – on the storm-drain grid – what about him?’

  ‘Don’t know. What we do know is that back on the ship that night they’ve got a paying customer who’s still a decent kidney short of a full set. So they wait – for two things. The power, yes. But they also need a new donor.’