DARK TRADE a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Helen H. Durrant

  “They rang me from downstairs. You’re police?”

  Greco and Grace showed her their badges.

  “Have you caught my husband’s killer yet?”

  “No, Mrs Crompton,” Grace told her as they walked. “We think your husband’s murder is linked to two others we’re investigating. We were hoping you might be able to add something to the statement you gave our colleague.”

  “I told him everything I know. I’ve no idea what else I can tell you. Adam mixed with some odd types, Rouse for one, but murderers?” It was obvious that the idea had thrown her. “He must have got himself involved in something really shady this time. Adam had his nose in a lot of things. He didn’t tell me much, but I reckon that Tony Rouse has a lot to answer for.”

  “Do you have any idea what they were working on?” asked Greco. “Anything you can tell us might help.”

  “I know that it was big. Rouse stood to make money from the story, so he’d promised Adam a generous fee. He was working all hours. Stayed out all night a week ago, staking out a private hospital in Chorlton.”

  “The Rashid Clinic?”

  “Yes, but Rouse must have got it wrong. That clinic is one of the best. I told Adam so too. I’ve worked with Faisal Rashid and Jason Horton, and they are both excellent surgeons. I know that for a fact because I used to work for Jason Horton, here, in this very department before he left and Doctor Banister joined us. There is no way he’d be mixed up in anything unlawful. I told Adam to tell Rouse as much, and to stop wasting their time.”

  “Do you have any idea what he thought the clinic was up to?” Grace asked her.

  “No, it could be anything. Perhaps something to do with the clientele. The Rashid Clinic carries out mostly cosmetic procedures these days. They have some very wealthy people queuing to get stuff done. Perhaps they’d heard a whisper about some celebrity or other.”

  “They do other things, apart from the cosmetic stuff, don’t they?” Grace prompted.

  “Nothing heavy. If people want to jump the queue they can pay privately and still see the same NHS doctor in an NHS hospital. Hospitals like the Rashid Clinic would not have the resources to carry out the procedures you could get done here for example. However they might specialise in something else other than plastics. Doctor Horton did work in urology, so he may offer certain procedures in that field. ”

  “Apart from your husband, did anyone else help Rouse with research?” asked Greco.

  She thought for a moment. “Rouse has a girlfriend. Her name is Jean Smethurst. She used to work with the paper but took early retirement. She probably helped him.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “I’ve no idea. We did have dinner a couple of times, but always at a restaurant. He kept Jean very much in the background.”

  Then they heard a woman shouting from the end of the corridor. “Someone help us! My husband has collapsed!”

  The woman was pushing a man in a wheelchair. He looked terrible — hunched over and barely conscious.

  “Mr Khan!” Molly Crompton shouted, rushing to his side.

  “Doctor Horton can’t help us anymore. Everything has gone wrong. We’ve been left high and dry.”

  “He needs to see Doctor Banister right away.” Molly Crompton called out to a porter. “Take Mr Khan to the dialysis ward!”

  She turned to Greco and Grace. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

  “That man is in a bad way,” Grace said, watching them enter the lift. “This is a renal unit. He must have kidney problems.”

  “So what was he doing looking to the Rashid Clinic for help?”

  “I don’t know, Stephen. If it’s serious then a transplant is his best bet. The clinic is in no position to offer a procedure like that, so what were they trying to do for him?”

  Greco looked back at the lift doors. “No one will discuss Mr Khan’s illness with us — patient confidentiality. But we could talk to his wife. We’ll give the Khans a little time, and then we’ll do just that.”

  Grace nodded. “Is that what Rouse was investigating? Perhaps he thought the clinic was giving people false hope. You know, saying they could sort things when they couldn’t and charging a fortune.”

  “A clinic like that could carry out a kidney transplant if they had a live donor, perhaps a close relative,” Greco replied. “I’ve read that it isn’t as complicated as it sounds. If the donor is healthy, the outcome is usually good. We could do with knowing what Rashid thought he could do for that man.”

  “If that is what the Rashid Clinic is doing, they are keeping very quiet about it. I’ve seen nothing in their literature. It’s all full of cosmetic procedures.”

  “Perhaps it’s a rarity, a one-off,” Greco added. “It’s the only way they could do any transplants at all. The transplant programme is run by the NHS. The clinic would never be able to offer heart transplants for example, because they don’t have access to the donor register. When we get back, check thoroughly and see what else they do offer, Grace.” Greco checked his watch. “According to that map on the wall the dialysis ward is on the third floor. We’ll have a cup of tea in the canteen then stroll up and see if Mrs Khan will talk to us. I wouldn’t mind another word with Molly Crompton too.”

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived on the renal unit. Grace peeked through the glass window in one of the doors. Khan was alone in the room with his wife and hooked up to a machine. Greco knocked and smiled as Mrs Khan looked up.

  “We’re sorry to intrude,” he began. “We’re police officers investigating several murders. One of them is your nurse’s husband. Would you mind talking to us for a few minutes?”

  Mrs Khan shook her head, looking doubtful. “We know nothing about any murders.”

  “I’m curious about the Rashid Clinic. What did they offer to do for your husband?”

  She hung her head. “We trusted Doctor Horton. Hamid should never have got this ill. We were promised that he would get better. It was going to cost every penny we had and what we could borrow from the family, but it would have been worth it.”

  “Did Doctor Horton explain how he hoped to make your husband better? What treatment did he have planned?” asked Grace.

  “I thought he was a good man. I trusted that he wouldn’t let us down.” She wiped her eyes. “We have paid over most of the money and we are unlikely to get it back. We can’t afford to go private again. If Hamid doesn’t get a transplant, he will . . .” At that, she burst into tears.

  “Did Doctor Horton offer your husband a transplant, Mrs Khan?” Greco asked bluntly.

  “He is a good man. I know he meant well, but he raised our hopes and now we have been left like this.”

  “Who was going to be the donor?” Grace asked. “Did a close relative offer?”

  “I trusted the doctors. They do wonderful work. They have saved many lives.”

  All very laudable, but she was deliberately ducking the question. Greco would have questioned her some more, but Hamid Khan started groaning. He was pale and clammy looking. His wife pressed the bell to summon a nurse.

  “I must look after my husband. I can’t tell you anything else.”

  Greco thanked her and left the room. Outside in the corridor, Grace was talking to Molly Crompton. “A sad case. The Rashid Clinic gave them hope.”

  “Mr Khan isn’t up to being questioned right now,” Molly told him firmly.

  “I know that. I simply asked his wife about the treatment they’d hoped to get.”

  “I don’t know what they were told. But I doubt they will have understood all of it. Doctor Rashid and his partner will have done their best but they can’t work miracles.”

  “What about Horton? Mrs Khan speaks highly of him,” Greco told her.

  “I know his reputation but I haven’t worked with him for a few years. If you want to know more, then go and ask them yourselves.”

  “Did Adam have a computer at home?” asked Grace, abruptly changing the subject.

 
“A laptop, yes. You are welcome to it, if you think it will help.”

  “It might. We think the killer took his notebook, so anything he’d stored on computer could be useful.”

  She smiled. “The notebook won’t do him any good. Adam made his notes mostly in shorthand. But he did do a great deal of research for Rouse. His browser history might give you a clue.”

  “I’ll send a PC round later,” Greco told her.

  “Did Adam never say anything about the Rashid Clinic?” Grace reiterated. “Not even in a casual conversation? You work in the medical profession. Didn’t he ever ask you any questions, discuss anything he didn’t understand with you?”

  Molly Crompton thought for a moment. “Adam did want me to accompany him to an open evening at the clinic. It was about a month ago. Doctor Rashid was giving a talk about organ donation. He thought I would be interested, but I was working.”

  Grace frowned. “But the clinic is into cosmetic stuff.”

  “Yes, but Doctor Rashid tries to persuade all his clients to join the donor register. I don’t think Doctor Horton was so keen. I’ve a feeling they don’t get on that well anymore.”

  “Do you know why that is?”

  “I’m not sure, but Horton is a risk-taker, Rashid is not.” She thought for a moment. “Adam did tell me that Horton likes to gamble. That’s something I’ve remembered. Adam spent several nights at some club in the city the week before he died. I got annoyed with him that night he stayed out all night, so he had to tell me what he was up to.”

  “Do you know which club?” asked Grace.

  “No, but I’ll go through his stuff if you like, see if I can find a card or something.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Crompton. The information you’ve given us could be useful.”

  Molly nodded and left them.

  “Do you think Horton offered Hamid Khan a transplant?” Grace asked Greco.

  “Without a donor, I don’t see how he could.”

  “Perhaps they hoped to persuade a relative. I wonder how much money they’ve parted with.”

  “Whatever treatment he has had will have been expensive,” Greco said. “We’re unlikely to find out unless the Khans make a complaint and decide to tell us.”

  Chapter 17

  “Brighton nick has been on the phone, sir. They’ve arrested the man who tried to abduct Grace.” Joel Hough looked doubtful.

  Grace sounded put out. “He was huge, built like a barn door and not very pleasant. If he’d succeeded, I wouldn’t be standing here now.”

  “He’s Romanian, one Cezar Todoran. He didn’t say much, and no witnesses have come forward. The Brighton police had no choice but to let him go. Some fancy lawyer turned up and he got bail. They reckon they can do him for assaulting Grace, but unless we can come up with some sort of proof—”

  “It is a serious matter. He could get away with it!” Grace folded her arms. “There were dozens of folk around, but no one will come forward. I even used my rape alarm for goodness sake! But still no witnesses. If it does go to court it’ll be my word against his. Shame you can’t run faster,” she said to Greco.

  “It was all over before I got there,” he explained. “Too many people in the way for me to see anything.”

  Speedy smirked. “Stinks, doesn’t it? You pressed your rape alarm?”

  “Yes, I damn well did. The lump was about to bundle me into a car! What would my chances have been then?” She glowered at him.

  Greco raised his voice above the chatter. “Any news on Rouse? Time is moving on. We need to wrap this up before we have another victim on our hands.”

  Joel shook his head.

  Greco looked at him. “Find out all you can about a Jean Smethurst, Joel. She lives locally and is connected to Rouse. He may be staying with her. An address would be useful.”

  “It’d help if we knew what it was all about,” Speedy added. “We’re going around in circles but getting no nearer.”

  “I did as you suggested, sir,” Leah told Greco. “But my informant hasn’t heard anything else.”

  “Do we have someone watching Rouse’s flat?” Greco asked.

  “Yes,” Joel confirmed. “And his mother’s place on the Lansdowne. If he returns to either, we’ll have him.”

  Grace looked doubtful. “It isn’t Rouse who’s killing people though, is it? That’s who we need to find.”

  “Rouse knows why our victims were killed,” Speedy reminded her. “A conversation with him could clear this up.”

  “That takes us back to the Rashid Clinic. That was what he was interested in.”

  Greco looked at the blank faces. “The clinic, Slicer Shaw, and young men being brought into the country from the Calais camp. What does that suggest to you?”

  “Slave labour?” suggested Speedy. “Taken to the Rashid Clinic to get a clean bill of health. Perhaps one of the doctors is involved. That could be what Rouse had found out.”

  “It’s a nice theory,” Greco said, “But that’s all it is. We need solid proof.”

  “I’ve made some enquiries, sir,” Joel told them. “Within the last month a backstreet factory has sprung up in Openshaw, behind the takeaway on the High Street. I spoke to the manager, a Mr Hussain. He was very guarded, and wouldn’t say where he got his labour from. Reckons he advertises in the local press but I’ve checked and I can’t find anything.”

  “See if there is any link between the factory and the clinic. Go back, take Speedy and talk to the workforce. Find out what nationality they are and if they’re being paid properly. If necessary bring the manager in. Perhaps an hour or so hanging around in an interview room will loosen his tongue.”

  “How are we playing it tonight, sir?” Grace asked, changing the subject.

  “We’ll be working, not playing,” he said.

  “I was thinking more about what to wear.”

  “Whatever you deem fit.” Greco shrugged.

  “The place is upmarket, sir,” Speedy said. “It might belong to Slicer Shaw, but it brings in money and faces you’ll recognise.”

  Greco saw Grace smile. She’d be done up to the nines, work or no work. “I’ll pick you up at eight, so get off if you want.” He looked at the clock. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  * * *

  Mickey was impatient. There had been no more calls from Slicer. Things were going too slow. He needed to strike again. Someone else close to Slicer had to die. He wanted in. He wanted it so bad he could think of little else. Phase one — Mickey wanted to run this patch for Costello. After that, who knew? Costello wouldn’t live for ever.

  Mickey picked up his personal mobile from off the table. His dark eyes flicked around the poky flat. He couldn’t wait to be shot of the place. Money and power would do that. If his plan worked out he’d be able to live anywhere he liked. He scrolled through the contacts until he found his sister.

  “Okay? Got anything for me?” he said to her.

  “I asked the girls in the office but they weren’t much help, Mickey. Susie said it was old-fashioned stuff no one used anymore.”

  “Well, the guy I’m after used it. Surely someone must know. Ask one of the older birds. See what they say.”

  “It won’t get me into trouble will it, bro? That notebook’s got a name inside it. The man that got himself murdered.”

  “It’s fine. Stop stressing. Just doing a mate a favour, that’s all. But I need to find out what the squiggles mean. You have to do this for me, sis. Get it right and there’s a ton in it for you.”

  “Susie did copy some of it down and she showed it to her mum. She used to be a secretary to a solicitor years ago. She couldn’t help much, but there was mention of a club in town. That posh place on Deansgate Locks.”

  “The Windfall?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Thanks, sis, I owe you one.”

  Slicer Shaw owned the Windfall. This was what he needed. Mickey couldn’t settle. There was a long night ahead and he needed action. He went to his bedr
oom and rifled through his sparse wardrobe. He had a suit, the one he used to wear for work, but he hadn’t worn the thing in months. It was dark grey, well-cut and stylish. Gran had gotten it for him when he’d left school. She’d wanted Mickey to get a job and get away from the Lansdowne. Some hope.

  Half an hour later, the suit was sponged and brushed. Even better, it still looked good on him. Add a tie and a white shirt, and Mickey looked the business. His longish hair was combed back and gelled, and he was freshly shaved — no one would recognise him. More to the point, Slicer wouldn’t.

  * * *

  Grace was wearing a short, clingy royal blue dress with a low neckline, set off with matching heels and a fur wrap. Her blonde hair was tucked into an elegant pleat. Heavier makeup than usual emphasised her dark eyes. She looked lovely. Greco couldn’t help being impressed. In fact, as she stepped through the door of her house, Grace took his breath away.

  “Cat got your tongue?” She grinned at him.

  “You . . . you’ve done something.” Stupid thing to say. Of course she’d done something. “You look wonderful. Perhaps a little . . .” She stopped him before he could say, ‘over the top.’

  “Quit while you’re ahead, Stephen. But thanks for the compliment anyway. The place we’re going to is popular with the wealthy young things that live in those swanky apartments on the Quays. They have money to burn. Who knows, some lonely footballer might come my way.”

  He bit his tongue. Any reminder that this was work would fall on deaf ears. Instead, he said, “I’m driving, but both of us should have soft drinks only.”

  “Spoilsport! What if a wealthy young thing wants to buy me champagne?”

  “Refuse,” was the sharp reply.

  “I’m only joking, Stephen. I know what we have to do. How are we going to play this?”

  “Gently. Neither of us are members, so if asked I’ll have a discreet word with the doorman and tell him we’re police.”

  “Are you expecting Slicer Shaw to be there?”

  “I’ve no idea. The man maintains he’s ill, so I’ll be surprised if he is.”