‘What do you mean?’
‘We have a search warrant signed for these premises, which is on its way – it’ll be here in a few minutes. You can give us the guided tour, if you like, or leave us to find our own way around.’
He smiled.
She did not smile back.
120
Lynn ran through a seemingly never-ending succession of rooms with a bewildering array of signs and names. Some she checked out, some she ignored. She didn’t bother with the sauna, or the steam room, or the aromatherapy room. But she peered into the yoga classroom, the Ayurvedic Centre, several treatment rooms, then the Rainforest Experience Zone.
Every few moments she looked over her shoulder for any sign of the police officers. But they were not following her.
Out of breath and disoriented by the geography of the place, she stumbled on. She was feeling clammy and jittery, a sign, she recognized through her distress, that she was low on sugar.
Darling. Caitlin, darling. Angel, where are you?
As she ran, she dialled Caitlin’s mobile for the third time, but it again went straight to voicemail.
The ten minutes were up. She stopped and, panting, dialled Shirley Linsell and pleaded for a few more minutes, giving a half-truth that she had taken her to a spa and she had wandered off. Reluctantly, the Royal’s transplant coordinator agreed to another ten minutes. But that would be it.
Lynn thanked her profusely, then stood still, her heart thumping, thinking desperately, worried out of her wits.
Please appear, Caitlin, please, please, please.
This place was too big. She was never going to find her without help. Trying to get a grip on her bearings, she ran back, following the signs to the front lobby, and arrived quicker than she had expected. One police officer was standing by the front door, as if guarding it, and the others had disappeared.
She went through the door which was marked private. no admittance, back into the office suite area, opened the door to Marlene Hartmann’s room and went in.
And froze in her tracks.
The German woman, her arms in front of her, handcuffed together, was looking sullen but dignified. Behind her stood two uniformed police officers. Beside her stood a tall, bald black man in a raincoat and, standing at her desk, riffling through papers, was the detective superintendent who had visited her earlier this morning. He turned his head to look at her and his eyes widened in recognition.
‘Brought your daughter here for a treat before her operation, have you, Mrs Beckett?’
‘Please, you have to help me find her,’ she blurted.
‘Do you have a good reason for being here at Wiston Grange?’ he responded sternly.
‘A good reason? Yes,’ Lynn said, venomously, suddenly angered at his attitude. ‘Because I want to look good at my daughter’s funeral. Is that enough of a reason?’
In the silence that followed, she covered her face with her hands and began sobbing. ‘Please help me. I can’t find her. Please tell me where she is.’ She looked at the German woman through her blurry eyes. ‘Where is she?’
The broker shrugged.
‘Please,’ Lynn sobbed. ‘I have to find her. She’s run off somewhere. We have to find her. They have a liver for her at the Royal. We have to find her. Ten minutes. Just have ten minutes. TEN MINUTES!’
Roy Grace stepped towards her, holding up a sheet of paper, his face hard.
‘Mrs Beckett, I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to traffic a human being for organ transplantation purposes, and on suspicion of attempting to purchase a human organ. You do not need to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’
Lynn could see what the sheet of paper was now. It was the fax she had sent, just a short while ago to her bank, instructing them to transfer the balance of the funds to Transplantation-Zentrale.
Her legs felt weak suddenly. She balled her hands, pressing them against her mouth, sobbing hysterically. ‘Please find my daughter. I’ll admit to anything, I don’t care, just please find her.’
She looked imploringly at the black man, who had a sympathetic face, then at the cold carapace of the German woman, then at the Detective Superintendent.
‘She’s dying! Please, you have to understand! We have a ten-minute window to find her, or the hospital will give her liver to someone else. Don’t you understand? If she doesn’t get that liver today, she will die.’
‘Where have you looked?’ Marlene said stiffly.
‘Everywhere – all over.’
‘Outside, also?’
She shook her head. ‘No – I-’
‘I’ll call the helicopter,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Can you give me a description of your daughter? What is she wearing?’
Lynn told him, then he brought his radio to his ear. After a brief exchange, he lowered it.
‘They spotted a teenage girl who matches that description getting into a taxi about fifteen minutes ago.’
Lynn let out a shocked wail. ‘A taxi? Where? Where was – where was it going?’
‘It was a Brighton taxi – a Streamline,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We should be able to find out, but it’s going to take more than ten minutes.’
Shaking her head in bewilderment, Lynn said, ‘Fifteen minutes ago, in a taxi?’
Branson nodded.
Lynn thought for a moment. ‘Look – look, she’s probably gone back to our house. Please let me go there. I’ll come back – I’ll come straight back, I promise.’
‘Mrs Beckett,’ Roy Grace said, ‘you are under arrest, and you are going to be taken from here to the Custody Centre at Brighton.’
‘My daughter is dying! She can’t survive. She will die if she doesn’t get to hospital today. I – have to be with her – I-’
‘If you like we’ll have someone go there and see how she is.’
‘It’s not that simple. She has got to go to hospital. Today.’
‘Is there anyone else who can take her?’ Grace asked.
‘My husband – my ex-husband.’
‘How can we contact him?’
‘He’s on a ship – at sea – a dredger. I – can’t remember – what his hours are – when they’re ashore.’
Grace nodded. ‘Can you give us his phone number? We’ll try him.’
‘Can’t I speak to him myself?’
‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘Can’t I just make – I thought I could make – one phone call?’
‘After you are booked in.’
She looked at both men in despair. Grace looked back at her with compassion but remained firm. She gave them Mal’s mobile number. Glenn Branson wrote it on his pad, then immediately dialled it.
121
There were only two things to read in the room. One, pinned to a green door with a small window in it, said, NO MOBILE PHONES TO BE USED IN THE CUSTODY AREA. The other read, ALL DETAINED PERSONS WILL BE THOROUGHLY SEARCHED AS DIRECTED BY THE CUSTODY OFFICER. IF YOU HAVE ANY PROHIBITED ITEMS ON YOUR PERSON OR IN YOUR PROPERTY TELL THE CUSTODY OFFICER OR YOUR ARRESTING OFFICER NOW.
Lynn had read them both about a dozen times each. She had been in this grim room, with its bare white walls and bare brown floor, seated on the rock-hard bench that felt like it was made of stone for over an hour now, sustained by two small packets of sugar she had been given.
She had never felt so terrible in her life. None of the pain of her divorce came close to what she was experiencing inside her mind and her heart now.
Every few minutes the young police officer who had accompanied her here from Wiston Grange glanced at her and gave her a helpless smile. They had nothing to say to each other. She’d made her point over and over to him, and he understood it, but he could do nothing.
Suddenly his phone beeped. He answered it. After a few moments, during which he gave monosyllabic responses, he held the phone away from his ear and turned to Lynn. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Branson – he was with you earlier, at Wiston?’