by Unknown
Valentine let his own window down. Out at sea a flotilla of sailboats was off the sandbanks, catching a brisk wind.
‘We know the deal on the street. The Organ Grinder picks up the donor, who’s already been selected by someone with access to the medical records at the hospital. But this time the timescale is a few hours, not days. So they can’t follow routine. But there’s one thing on their side: because the power’s down on Erebus Street thanks to Andy Judd’s toxic hatred for Jan Orzsak, the power company tells everyone the line’s down till, what, midnight or later. So at least with the lights out, getting the donor is easier.
‘They know Blanket’s a match and he’s in town, so whoever does the selection finds him and marks his coat. The Organ Grinder calls. But Blanket turns him down. So the Organ Grinder does what he’s good at – he drags his donor out into the street, in the dark. Maybe a car’s waiting, or maybe he bundles him down the back alley to the dock gates. By midnight Blanket’s on an operating table. Is Peploe the surgeon? Maybe. The playboy lifestyle doesn’t come cheap. The lion’s share of that hundred and fifty thousand is all his. The rest get the crumbs.’
Valentine slammed on the brakes, cursing a cyclist weighed down with camping gear.
‘Who killed Bryan Judd, and why?’ he asked.
‘If we’re right, someone had to get rid of the waste from both ops – including Tyler’s kidney. So they go to the hospital. Either it’s the first time, or it’s what they do every time. Maybe that’s Peploe.’ Shaw clicked his fingers. ‘Tell Mark to keep an eye out on the CCTV for a cyclist. But Judd won’t play ball – or catches him slipping the stuff on the belt – or demands a bigger cut if it’s a regular system. My money’s on the last. They argue, Peploe kills Judd and puts the body on the belt. They spot the body in the furnace and shut it down, just in time to hear Peploe’s shoes running for the exit – cycling shoes.’
Valentine shook his head. ‘That’s crazy – it’s one kidney. They could just weight it and put it overboard. They don’t need Judd.’
‘But the fact is the kidney was there,’ said Shaw. ‘Know what I think? I think this is a system. This isn’t just one op – over months, over years, it could be hundreds. Sure they could dump stuff, but why take the risk if there’s a better way? The furnace is foolproof – so I think they used it. Like clockwork. A system, like I said.’
Over the rooftops of the North End they could see the superstructure of the Rosa as they approached Erebus Street. Valentine parked by the dock gates. As soon as he cut the engine Shaw’s mobile rang. It was Paul Twine. ‘It’s Orzsak,’ said Twine. ‘Tried to top himself in the house but one of the builders went up to tell him they were taking down the power for half an hour – didn’t get an answer. Then he heard a sound, legs kicking out, hitting the banisters and the wall. So they broke the door down. He was swinging on a rope. He’s down at A&E. Looks like he’ll live.’
45
Shaw stood at the dock gates at the foot of Erebus Street, and despite the windblown rubbish and weeds he could see the Rosa along the quayside, a single crane hauling crates from the open hold. Across the deserted concrete quay was the agent’s offices – Galloway had been right, you couldn’t see anything behind the tinted, tilted glass of the first-floor offices. DC Campbell was still on shift, and Birley was still in the security booth at the gates checking back over the old CCTV cassettes. On board the ship the two Filipino crew were working, but the ABs had gone ashore, a plainclothes unit tailing them through the Vancouver Shopping Centre. Captain de Mesquita had invited Galloway aboard for coffee – a regular courtesy. Shaw had advised him to take up the offer, keep his eyes open, but play it straight. Don’t even think about a few clever questions.
Shaw turned his back on the docks and looked up the street. A sign hung in the window of the Bentinck Launderette: BACK IN 20 MINS.
The sun pounded down, and Shaw stood in an ink-blot of shadow. He saw Father Martin locking the door of the Sacred Heart of Mary, with Ally Judd beside him. They walked through the gravestones to the presbytery, close enough to share a shadow, while she held the back of her wrist to her lips and the priest held her by an elbow, his neck bent down to listen to something she was trying to say. Shaw recalled the last time he’d talked to Ally Judd – in the shadows by the cypress tree behind the church. He’d sensed then that she still harboured secrets about the Judd family. Did she share those secrets with her lover?
Shaw and Valentine traced the line of the hot rails up the street and then crossed into the graveyard. Shaw touched the stones as they threaded a path to the door, and he thought how odd it was that even on the hottest day tombstones were always cold. Father Martin’s door was open, the interior cool and dark, a single Virgin Mary in blue and white lit by an unshaded bulb. At the end of the hall corridor there was another door – green baize, a servants’ entrance into the old kitchen. Father Martin came out, businesslike, head down, and only saw them when he was almost upon them.
His face was almost unrecognizable; both eyes were black, a bruise disfigured the left cheekbone and the upper lip was split and stitched. He held up his mobile. ‘I was just calling. If you have a second. I’ve been hearing confessions. Ally came to me – but I think it’s for you, as much as me.’
His eyes looked everywhere except at Shaw.
In the small plain kitchen Ally Judd sat on a chair beside the washing machine, upon which she laid a hand, as if it was a touchstone. On the floor was a large laundry bag. She had a glass of water before her and she held a wad of tissue to her mouth. When she saw them she tried to stand, knocking the chair backwards, but she didn’t seem to hear the crash. Martin put the seat back in place, and with a hand on her shoulder pushed her down, as though she were lighter than air.
‘Who did this?’ asked Valentine, gesturing at the priest’s mangled face.
‘It’s all right,’ said Martin.
Shaw thought about that; in what circumstances could that kind of beating be all right?
‘Was it Neil, Mrs Judd? Was it Neil who did this? He found out, didn’t he – about both of you?’ Or did Neil know something else, wondered Shaw. Was this really just about a secret love affair?
Martin shook his head for both of them. ‘That’s not what Ally has to say. Just show them,’ he said.
It was a letter, in a plain envelope, marked simply with her name. The handwriting in the note was neat, purposeful, and in aquamarine.
Ally.
I got your letter, finally – I was at Colchester, in the glasshouse. I’m sorry, you know I am, to hear that he’s dying. I didn’t want that, and I don’t want it now. He’s my father – still my father – despite what Bry says he did. What I think we all know he did.
So I’ve come back as you asked. I’m here now, with you, but you won’t see me. Don’t try to find me. I have to keep in the shadows – the Red Caps will come here – or they’ll get the police to watch out. I just don’t want you to feel alone. And don’t tell anyone. When the time is right I’ll talk to him. You want me to make my peace? I don’t think I can do that. But I can tell him I love him.
Again – don’t look for me. But we can meet. On Thursday, at noon, I’ll be in The Walks, on one of the benches by the Red Tower.
Sean
‘You should have shown me this,’ said Shaw. ‘This is from Bryan’s brother, isn’t it? Sean? When did you get it?’
‘A week ago. It was left at the launderette.’
‘What did Sean say when you met?’
‘He didn’t turn up,’ she said. ‘I waited, right by the Red Tower, but nothing. And there’s been nothing since – like he’s gone again, and the only thing to prove he was here is this.’ She touched the letter, making the paper crackle, then pressed her hands against her cheeks. ‘And then we saw the newspaper – the artist’s impression of the tramp who went missing from the Sacred Heart.’
She pulled the piece of paper from her pocket, a scrunched-up copy of Shaw’s forensic reconstruction o
f the face of Blanket.
‘It was him, you see – looking out of the page at us. Right here, amongst us, watching. And now he’s gone.’
‘You’re sure this is Sean?’ asked Shaw.
She nodded. ‘That’s Sean.’
‘What did you tell him that brought him back?’
‘That Andy’s dying. I promised Sean when he left that I’d always make sure he knew if there was bad news. About Bry, or Neil, or his father. He couldn’t stay, not after what had happened to Norma Jean. Every time he saw Bry he said the pain was as sharp as it had always been – and the guilt. He was the one who inherited Andy’s strength, he’d have been the rock – our rock. But he couldn’t stay, and he couldn’t let go, not for ever. So I was his link.’
Father Martin moved his hands to the nape of her neck, and Valentine watched the movement. The priest knelt beside her and took her face in his hands. ‘Everything, Ally. You must.’ Shaw noticed the contrast between their fingers, his tanned with the gold ring, hers bleached and powder dry.
She turned her face to them. ‘I should have told you about the blood. On that Sunday – the night Bry died. Late, after midnight, I went down to the shop because when the power came back on all the machines began a new cycle. One of them had jammed – a piece of clothing caught in the seal. So the water was leaking. Bloody water. When I got the stuff out it was covered in blood.’
‘Clothing? What kind of clothing?’ asked Valentine.
‘A pair of overalls.’
‘Did you recognize them?’ asked Shaw.
‘They could have been a stranger’s,’ she said. ‘The shop was open – I’d left the latch up. So – anyone, I guess. Anyone in Erebus Street.’
‘But they weren’t a stranger’s, were they?’ asked Shaw.
She pressed her knees together and Shaw thought she was considering a lie, but Father Martin watched her, waiting.
‘No, they weren’t. There was a name tag – they were Andy’s.’
46
DC Mark Birley stretched out his legs under the table which held the CCTV screens in the security booth at the dock gates; his left leg was bandaged from the game on Saturday, when the opposition fly-half had raked his boot down Birley’s shin bone, lifting the skin away, damaging the muscle. He looked at his left fist where the knuckles were still swollen. If he’d hit him any harder he’d have had to arrest himself. He grinned, drank some cold coffee, rubbed the heel of his palm into his right eye, and focused again on the screen.
He was good at this, he knew enough about Peter Shaw’s methods to know that. The DI didn’t do Buggins’ turn – he worked out what you had a skill for and made sure it wasn’t wasted. Since the inquiry had begun Birley had spent eighty hours in front of CCTV screens, because he had an eye for detail and the strength of mind to concentrate when every nerve in his body wanted sleep. Beside the table was a pile of video cassettes running back a month. His job was to locate the Rosa’s dockings, then see if he could pick up the registration numbers of any cars making double visits. And any signs of a bicycle, too – high-tech, a racing model, with a pannier.
He watched the film at treble speed; cars swishing across the quayside, HGVs, the stevedores swarming like ants when a ship came in. The date/time display on the screen buzzed forward. His finger hung ready over the pause button, waiting for the Rosa to appear off the dockside. There! It docked, in Keystone-cop time, and the captain’s Volvo was winched off the fo’c’s’le onto the quayside. He ran the film speed down to real time and began to make a note.
Despite his level of concentration he was still half listening to the real world. A car engine idled as someone pulled up at the barrier. In the outer office he heard the security guard separating the glass screens so that he could take the driver’s ID and paperwork.
‘The Rosa,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Captain should have left a note.’
Birley stood quickly, moving to one side so that he could see through the hatch to the security window. He watched the guard flicking through a pile of documents.
‘Here it is…’ He made a note and passed a book across for the woman to sign. Birley clocked the car: a Vauxhall Zafira, new, spotless, with a parking permit in the window marked QUEEN VICTORIA HOSPITAL – SENIOR STAFF.
Then she was gone. Birley stepped into the guard’s booth. Turned the book round to see the scrawled name.
Mrs Jofranka Phillips.
47
By the time Shaw was in Galloway’s office on the dockside Jofranka Phillips’s car was parked at the foot of the gangplank and she’d gone aboard, carrying – according to DC Campbell – nothing more than a paper bag from Thorntons.
‘So she likes chocolates. Anything else?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. She looked at her notes. ‘Dark glasses, black summer dress. One of the crew met her at the top of the gangplank – they kissed, cheek-to-cheek, like friends would.’
‘Right – George, ring Ravid Lotnar. He told us he could get a set of documents to prove his operation had been legally conducted in Israel. Get me the name of the hospital.’
He asked Galloway if he could use his broadband link. The Scot said he’d need a minute to finish an e-mail. Shaw bounced on his toes, reviewing in his mind the interview they’d just completed with Andy Judd under caution at St James’s, with the duty solicitor present. They’d hauled him in quickly before he’d any time to discover that his eldest son had been living secretly in Erebus Street. Or did he know? That was the problem with the Judd family: trying to see its internal workings, its alliances and feuds, was impossible – the more you looked, the less you saw.
‘What’s going on?’ Andy Judd had asked, running his fingers through the wallpaper-brush hair. ‘This is fucking harassment,’ he said, turning to the solicitor, a woman in a cheap suit. ‘You got that down? I’m spending my life in this place.’
It was well after opening time and Judd was sober, which didn’t suit him. He held a pea-green cup of tea on a saucer, but every time he tried to lift it to his lips he’d given up. They’d been talking for an hour: question, answer, question, answer… routine, aimless, designed to confuse the suspect. Every time Valentine got up to take a cigarette break – which was every ten minutes – he’d ostentatiously taken his packet of Silk Cut with him. Judd didn’t just have a craving for nicotine, he had a dependency; they could see it was beginning to make his yellow-stained fingers shake.
Then Shaw showed him the artist’s impression that Ally Judd said was an accurate depiction of his oldest son.
‘This was in all the local papers, TV. I gave you your own copy too.’
‘Yeah – so?’
‘Your daughter-in-law says it is unmistakably your son, Sean.’
‘Looks like him, all right. You’d think I’d come and tell you that? I can look after my own…’ He regretted that, they could both see it in his eyes. Because he couldn’t look after his own.
‘He came back because you’re dying. But he couldn’t – didn’t – feel he could talk to you. Why was that? He thought Bryan was right, didn’t he? That you’d killed Norma Jean?’
Judd had leant in over the narrow interview table. ‘He was keeping his head down. We knew – everyone knew – he’d broken out of the glasshouse. Like he’s gonna knock on his own front door. Give me a fucking break.’
‘So you knew he was back in Lynn?’
Judd whispered to the solicitor. ‘I don’t have to answer that question,’ he said, smiling through wrecked teeth.
‘Can you explain how a pair of your overalls came to be found in the launderette, Mr Judd – soaked in blood – on the night your son died?’
The solicitor stiffened, as though she’d got a shock off a cattle fence. But Judd pushed her hand aside when she tried to place it on the table in front of him. ‘I’ve got a bag of special tokens – Ally gives ’em to me. I work in an abattoir. You’ve seen it – seen what I do. You got me in here to ask a fucking question like that? That is harassment. You’
ve got me on the arson charge – there’s a date, for the court. I’m sticking my hand up for that – OK – so well done, boys. Isn’t that enough?’
He hadn’t missed a beat and the explanation had been fluid and calm.
‘But that’s not how it works, is it?’ said Shaw. ‘The abattoir collects the overalls and gets them washed in town, on contract. But not this set of overalls. And not on the night your son died.’
Judd’s eyes widened. ‘It’s Bry, isn’t it? You still think I killed him? You think I don’t love my kids? You think I don’t ever wake up and not think of them first? I’d die for them.’ He fingered a gold cross which had fallen out of his open-necked shirt, and Shaw noticed the contrast between the fragile filigree of the icon and Judd’s swollen working hands.
‘There’s twenty – more – who’ll tell you I was out on the street that day – by the fire, drinking. I didn’t kill Bry – I didn’t go anywhere near him. It was cow’s blood on the overalls. Your lot in the white coats too stupid to work that out? It’s not Silent Witness, is it?’
Shaw didn’t have an answer to that, because there was one irritating flaw in Ally Judd’s statement: why had she put the blood-soaked overalls back in the wash? Andy Judd had been released, still constrained by the conditions of bail previously set.
In the shipping agent’s office overlooking the Alexandra Dock Galloway finished his e-mail exchange and Shaw took his place at the computer, punching two words into Google: Kalo Kircher.
He’d been a fool. Phillips’s tangential link with Israel had been a coincidence he should have checked out. DC Twine’s summary of her background had included the fact that Kalo Kircher’s children supported a charitable medical programme in Israel. Ravid Lotnar – the Rosa’s last patient – was an Israeli citizen who had tried to claim that there was documentary proof he’d had his organ transplant in his own country.
