‘Fat chance. They’re not on the record, and we don’t have the missing lung that proves a third party was involved. The only way we can use them to get a warrant is to arrest them, prove one has never had a transplant, and leverage that to get the records.’
‘But if we do that, we warn the real donor to run.’
‘Exactly. Morton, you’re going to have to find me something else. Look into this Ebstein. I want to know about every penny he’s ever earned or spent, and I want a forensic accountant to examine every single transaction. Nobody just gives away a lung.’
Chapter 44: Heartless
Saturday April 18th 12:00
Saturday morning was both bliss and hell. Morton slept in ‘til gone ten in the morning, and then rowed spectacularly with Sarah when he said he would have to work over the weekend.
Ebstein couldn’t wait. The twins could warn him at any moment, and any evidence Ebstein might have would go up in smoke.
The good doctor was an emergency room surgeon for The Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel, which was conveniently located opposite Whitechapel Station. Normally Morton would prefer to drive, but parking near The Royal London on a weekend during visiting hours would have been nigh on impossible.
It was a quick jump on the District Line to Whitechapel in Zone 2, giving Morton plenty of time to nab a sandwich at the station before heading for the hospital.
It would have been impossible to miss the hospital. The building had The Royal London Hospital stamped in gold lettering on the side of it facing the road. Morton joined the crowd thronging towards it. Allegedly temporary fences ran around the front perimeter. Still going, Morton thought. It seemed as if the hospital was a perpetual building site.
A temporary sign nailed to the temporary fence advised that the Accident and Emergency department was to Morton’s left, and here the throng split as most carried on around to the main entrance. Morton left them behind and turned off down East Mount Street, past an old pub on the corner, and into a dead end where chevrons blocked off the entrance from the street.
The hospital car park lay to the left, where ambulances and paramedics were parked outside. As Morton approached, he saw a woman being unloaded from the nearest ambulance, raw burns down the left-hand side of her face.
It took Morton a moment to realise that the smoke in his periphery had nothing to do with the woman. Pedestrians lined the concrete benches outside the entrance, many of them smoking right next to the No Smoking signs.
Morton quickly strolled past the smokers into the building and made a beeline for the main reception.
‘Good morning. I’m here to see Dr Ebstein. Would it be possible for you to page him, please?’
The receptionist looked at him as if he were daft. ‘This is the Accident and Emergency department, sir. Do you have an emergency?’ She fixed him with a withering stare.
‘I’m here on police business. I urgently need to speak to him.’
The receptionist reluctantly pecked away at her keyboard, and Morton caught sight of a calendar program before she turned back to him with a haughty look. ‘Well, you’ll just have to wait. He’s in surgery.’
Morton headed for the plastic seats in the waiting room, but the receptionist called out.
‘Sir! Not here. You can wait outside his office.’
‘Very well. Where is that?’
‘I’ll show you.’
***
Ebstein’s office was one of several examinations rooms off of a small hallway on the fourth floor of the building. It was quieter up here, away from the A&E department. There was a shared reception where the back room hallway met the main artery near the lifts, and a smiling fifty-something receptionist flirted shamelessly with Morton upon his arrival.
Rebuffing her advances, Morton took a seat in the waiting room and began to flick through the case files on his mobile. He was in for a long wait. Ebstein didn’t appear until nearly three hours later. Morton almost missed his arrival; thankfully the flirty receptionist nodded in the doctor’s direction to alert Morton of his presence.
‘Doctor Isaac Ebstein?’
‘That’s me.’
Ebstein had the look of a man who had had far too many coffees and far too few hours of sleep. His attire was creased, and bags were clearly visible under his eyes. He had a cup of coffee in his left hand.
‘DCI Morton, Metropolitan Police.’ Morton offered a handshake.
‘I don’t shake hands.’
Rude. ‘Can we talk in private?’
‘My office, then.’
Ebstein led the way through, and as soon as he had taken his seat, he produced a chicken salad from a mini-fridge underneath his desk. ‘You don’t mind, do you? I’ve got twenty-two minutes until I need to scrub up again.’
‘Not at all. I’d like to talk about one of your patients, Primrose Kennard.’
‘I can’t talk about my patients.’ Ebstein sipped at his coffee.
‘Then, let me do the talking,’ Morton said. ‘Primrose Kennard suffered from chronic obstructive pulmonary disorder. She needed a lung transplant. Luckily for her, she had two twin sons who were both a match. They agreed to each donate one lobe.’
‘I’m not hearing a question.’
‘You agreed to operate on the three of them. Primrose Kennard received two new lung lobes, and went on to live in reasonable health for several months before being murdered.’
Ebstein spluttered, spewing droplets of coffee across his desk. ‘Murdered? You don’t think I...’
‘I don’t know what to think. Mrs Kennard did receive a transplant. But I’ve been led to believe that only one of her sons donated. Where did the other lung lobe come from, Dr Ebstein?’
‘Beats me. I have no clue what you’re talking about. I just take parts out and put them in. Some days I’m in the emergency room; some I do transplants. I see thousands of patients every year, Detective. I don’t remember them.’
‘The twins specifically remember you being their mother’s surgeon.’
‘Maybe I was. Maybe the paperwork is in error. I don’t know anything.’
‘That’s convenient.’
‘Detective Morton, I don’t know what you’re insinuating. Either tell me what you want or get the hell out of my office. I have a busy afternoon ahead.’
‘I want a copy of all your records relating to this surgery.’
‘Consider it done. I’ll ask Caitlyn to get you everything you need. Now, can I go prep for my next surgery?’
‘Absolutely.’
Caitlyn turned out to be the flirty fifty-something from the hallway. She led Morton to a room full of records and helped him to find the Kennard file. After much assurance that he was, in fact, happily married, she agreed to leave him alone to read the files.
‘The code for the copier is 1967, and there are some empty plastic folders on the top shelf.’ Caitlyn pointed to a corner shelf. ‘Let me know when you’re done, hun, and I’ll come lock up.’
‘Thanks very much.’
Morton quickly scanned through the paperwork. The paper trail for Primrose’s treatment matched the twins’ claims. She had received two live lung lobe donations in one fourteen-hour surgery. Morton turned on the photocopier, punched in 1967 (which, he noted wryly, was the year of the first human organ transplant), and made a copy of each page of Ebstein’s file on Primrose Kennard.
He went to replace the file, and then it struck him. The file cabinet that Caitlyn had unlocked held hundreds of ‘K’ surname records. Surely there couldn’t be...
The twins were in the cabinet too. Morton grabbed their files and laid them side-by-side with Primrose’s. Just like Primrose, they had Dr Isaac Ebstein listed as the surgeon of record. He had lied about knowing nothing.
Even more curiously, the name of the anaesthetist, Dr Byron Carruthers, was the same for all three surgeries. The paperwork would need to be checked for potential forgeries... and that would require the original documents.
Morton qui
ckly copied the remaining files, tucked the originals into one of the plastic folders that Caitlyn had indicated, and put the copies back in place of the originals.
Chapter 45: Sunday Roast
Sunday April 19th 11:30
‘Gerroff me.’ Morton rolled over away from his wife’s voice and pulled the duvet tighter about his person before allowing his eyelids to sag back down.
‘David, wake up. It’s half past eleven. The kids will be here at midday.’
‘Urgh.’
Morton rolled out of the shower ten minutes later looking every bit as tired as Dr Ebstein had the previous day. He pulled on his Sunday best and set about laying the dining table.
‘David, don’t forget the gravy boat.’
Who on earth needs a gravy boat? It’s instant gravy mixed up in a jug. Grudgingly, he set about fetching the ornate gravy boat from the bowels of the kitchen cupboard, fumbling his way past a long-since-discarded juicing machine to do so.
‘David. Your tie. It’s not straight.’
‘Sarah, it’s just the boys,’ Morton said. ‘They don’t care if I even wear a tie. Don’t I get one day off from looking like I’m going to a funeral this week?’
‘Don’t start with me about you working too much. I told you to tell them you’ll only work Monday to Friday.’
‘Do we have to have this discussion again? Criminals do not work office hours, so neither can I.’
Morton was saved from what was about to be a furious tongue-lashing when the doorbell rang.
Nick was the first son to arrive. ‘Hello, Dad.’
‘Nick! How are things?’
‘Better since that fat guy stopped sleeping on my couch.’
‘Funny. Very funny. Got a job yet?’ Morton looked at his son expectantly. Nick had chosen the life of a perpetual student. He didn’t care what he was studying as long as he didn’t have to do an honest day’s work.
Instead of answering the question, Nick said, ‘Mum! You look lovely.’
‘Thanks, dear,’ Sarah said. ‘Would you help me dish up?’
Morton watched them scarper. Nick was only too keen to take any excuse to avoid a protracted discussion of his employment prospects.
His other son, Stephen, arrived shortly after, girlfriend in tow, and they were soon sitting around the dining table tucking into a traditional Sunday roast (though, Morton noted, neither Stephen nor his girlfriend touched the turkey).
‘How’s the university prep going, Mum?’ Nick asked.
Sarah had signed up to complete a degree in psychology as a way of filling her days. The arrangement was one of convenience. If Morton wasn’t on the scrap heap, then neither was she, and university beckoned.
‘It’s going well. I don’t start until the end of September, but I managed to get the course reading list from one of the lecturers via email, so I made a head start.’
‘Let me guess,’ Stephen said. ‘You’ve read them all already, haven’t you?’
‘Yes.’
Throughout the conversation, Morton and Sarah kept making efforts to get Stephen’s date, Abigail, to join in the conversation. Each time they did, Abigail replied in the shortest possible way, as if each word was costing her an enormous effort.
‘So, Abigail,’ Sarah said. ‘Stephen tells me you’re a physical therapist. That must be rewarding.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘Do you meet a lot of interesting people?’
‘Sometimes.’
Eventually they fell into silence and polished off all of the food without much more being said. After the plates for the main course had been cleared away, Stephen tapped the side of his glass with a knife, causing the unmistakeable chink of someone wishing to make a speech.
‘I’ve got an announcement to make. Last week I asked Abigail if she would allow me to make an honest woman of her–’
‘And I said yes!’ Abigail held up her hand, upon which was a minuscule diamond ring.
Morton exchanged an alarmed look with his wife. They had never met Abigail before, and this was the last thing they had been expecting after Stephen had asked if he could bring a date to their Sunday lunch.
They took slightly too long to raise their glasses and shout ‘Congratulations!’ and in that moment of silence the room suddenly flooded with tension.
Nick jumped to his feet. ‘This calls for champagne! Have you got any in, Dad?’
Chapter 46: Ring Ring
Monday April 20th 09:30
Rafferty proved to be a sympathetic ear on Monday morning when she arrived just after Morton.
‘So, you’ve never met her before? Has he talked about her a lot? Have they been together long?’
‘I didn’t even know she existed.’
‘Weird,’ Rafferty said. ‘Are there any clues on his social media profiles?’
‘I’m not on social media.’
Rafferty burst out laughing. ‘You’re serious?’
‘I just don’t see the point,’ Morton said. ‘Everyone I like, I talk to in person. Everyone I don’t like, I avoid. Social media makes both of those things much harder. If I can see what you’ve been doing this week, I can convince myself that I somehow have a connection to those things: that night out, that trip to Paris. Isn’t it better to be there?’
‘When you put it like that... hang on. You just said you talk to the people you like. Either that’s a lie or you’re basically saying you don’t like your son.’
‘You’re reading too much into it. Stephen and I are just... different. He’s always been his own man. He does everything his own way. I thought it was teenage rebellion at first, but he’s genuinely happy eating vegan food and living as an itinerant property guardian.’
‘A what?’
‘Property guardian. He gets cheap rent in return for looking after disused buildings like old schools, office blocks, churches and the like.’
‘How cheap? I wouldn’t mind saving a few quid myself.’
‘You would mind not having running water or the security of knowing where you’ll be living next month.’ Morton glanced at his watch. ‘Where on Earth has Ayala got to? It’s nearly nine thirty.’
‘I haven’t seen him since Friday.’
‘Then, I guess we start without him. We now know that Primrose Kennard received an unauthorised lung transplant. That same lung was then removed during her murder. The other three victims had a bone marrow transplant and two blood transfusions. The bone marrow was removed along with the bone, and the recipients of the transfusions were hung upside down to drain out. The pattern is pretty clear. We’ve got a serial killer on the loose.’
‘But why?’ Rafferty said. ‘I can understand Primrose Kennard’s murder. If we were looking at her case in isolation, I’d be thinking we were looking at a case of bad debt. She agrees to buy an organ, or someone does so on her behalf, and they renege on payment. It looks and feels like a repo job. Maybe bone marrow fits with that. Hogge and Kennard still seem the most strongly connected in terms of victimology.’
‘But the others don’t fit, because nobody needs to pay for blood,’ Morton mused.
‘Exactly. It’s insane. We could be dealing with two killers. Or three. A cut throat isn’t a novel or unique modus operandi.’
‘Nonetheless, we have a pattern. All four were killed by a sharp blade. The killer–’
‘Or killers.’
‘The killer,’ Morton said deliberately, ‘knew how to wield a blade. The cuts were neat, deliberate, and meticulous. I think our killer has medical training.’
‘You think this Doctor Ebstein is a serial killer?’ Rafferty said.
‘I think he fits. He has access to sodium thiopental. He knows how to cut up a human body. He knew the first victim and conspired with her children to give her a black market organ.’
‘Then, where are these body parts coming from? Are there victims-to-order floating around out there we don’t know about?’
‘I don’t know,’ Morton said. ‘The donors would
need to be nearby, assuming they are live donors. I suspect they’d need to be compliant. Can you imagine someone dragging an unconscious body into a London hospital and stealing their organs?’
‘This isn’t the third world. We’d know about it.’
‘So, then, is someone buying organs? Could Ebstein be arranging the sale of organs?’
‘And what if the body parts are from a cadaver? Can you induce cardiac arrest so the body parts are good to go?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Another good question.’ Morton pondered for a moment. ‘Could they be committing murders to obtain the body parts for reuse?’
‘No. That can’t work, can it? I think we need an expert opinion.’
‘We need the records from NHS Blood and Transplant.’
‘How do you propose we get those?’
‘We need something concrete to take to them,’ Morton said. ‘We’ve got the Kennard paperwork. If we have an expert take a look at it and determine its provenance, they might be able to join up the dots for us off the record. If I’m correct that there’s a black market in organ donation operating right here in London, that’s something they’ll want to deal with quietly.’
‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘Find Ayala. Go to the hospital and talk to Ebstein’s colleagues. Talk to his patients. Talk to the admin staff. If he’s into something dirty, one of them is bound to know something. And pull his financial records. There has to be a money trail behind this.’
‘Yes, sir!’
Chapter 47: Colleagues
Monday April 20th 15:00
Rafferty made the trek from New Scotland Yard to Whitechapel via Boris bike, the infamous blue bike service offered by Transport for London. She picked up the bike from a rack around the corner from New Scotland Yard in Butler Place. One swipe of her debit card and the bike was hers.
Approximately half an hour later she parked the bike up in Sidney Street and checked it back in. The screen read 29 minutes and 32 seconds. Less than thirty minutes. Free ride! Woohoo! Rafferty skipped the last hundred yards to the back entrance to the Royal London Hospital.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 41
