‘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.
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
‘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.
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.
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.’
‘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.