Beautiful Death E-Book

Fiona McIntosh

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: DCI Jack Hawksworth
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 606

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'Kept me on the edge of my seat,leading me a dance full of intrigue, twisting & turning from page to page' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Every Little Breeze 'I really, really enjoyed this novel and struggled to put it down and get on with my work at times' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Critical Critic 'Excellent, gripping story' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ Real reader review From the seedy underbelly of London's back streets and New Scotland Yard to the dangerous frontiers of modern medicine, this is a gripping crime thriller by million-copy bestselling author Fiona McIntosh A calculating serial killer, who ′trophies′ the faces of his victims, is targeting Londoners and committing the most gruesome of murders. With each new atrocity, the public and the police are getting more desperate for results. Under enormous pressure, DCI Jack Hawksworth and his team begin their investigation and soon find it taking them into the murky world of illegal immigrants and human organ trading. But when the murderer strikes closer to home than Jack could ever have imagined possible, the case becomes a personal crusade – and a race against time.

Leseprobe

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This book remembers the wonderful Anthony Berry, friend and fellow writer, without whom DCI Jack Hawksworth would not exist.

1

FEBRUARY 2005

The two men frowned at the map. It made little sense and one referred to the detailed instructions he’d taken good care to note down. Hiran needed to make this new life in England work; he had a wife and five children back home, whereas Taj only had two little ones. Hiran suspected he might be taking this opportunity more seriously than his friend.

They’d been given the name of a contact. Apparently they’d find him somewhere in the corridors of the Royal London Hospital…orrather,hewouldfindthem.HewascalledNamzul buttheyknewnothingmoreabouthim,otherthanwhathe might be prepared to organise for them. Hiran thought Taj would runscaredwhenthemomentcame,especiallynowthattheywere accommodated after a fashion, with the prospect of work and wages in precious pounds sterling. So be it; for the moment the companionship of Taj gave him courage in this strange world he now walked. He would need it to face the decision ahead of him.

Londonwasdaunting,butthispart–Whitechapel–felt more like home than anywhere he’d been the past few weeks. He’d travelled overland into Europe, paid his money and been smuggled into England in a container from Calais by friends of friends of strangers who knew lorry drivers who were part of the internationalracketofhumantrade.Hewasputintoaramshackle house – a squat – in a place called Broadway Market, a rundown part of Hackney, not far from the Whitechapel area of London. He shared the squat with a transient population of about fourteen men, not all Bangladeshi; some were Pakistani, there were a couple of Turks, a handful from other impoverished nations. It helped. They were all strangers but they were all here for the samereason–togivetheirfamiliesachancetobreakoutof the grinding poverty of their lives back home. If he could just stick this out for a year, he and Chumi would save enough to get their children into school. He might be able to start that food stall he knew he could make work if he just had the opportunity and the small amount of capital it would take. He could be happy,feel safe.

‘Look out, mate,’ a man in uniform said, interrupting his thoughts. He seemed to be a guard of some sort.

Hiranturned,startled.‘Sorry,please,’hesaid,anxietyjumbling the language he’d worked hard to get his tongue and mind around. English was so confusing.

Just say sorry for everything, his teacher had once said lightheartedly. If you tread on an Englishman’s foot, he’s the first to apologise. Manners get you everywhere and saying sorry gets you out of most dilemmas.

‘Don’t want you to get knocked down, mate,’ the guard said, pointing to the Audi waiting to get into the Sainsbury’s car park and the driver who looked appropriately furious at her way being blocked. Everyone was in a hurry in London. Hiran wondered if he was going to survive here.

‘Are you lost?’ the guard asked, friendly enough, noticingtheir map and moving closer. ‘Whoah. That’s a strange look you havethere,friend.’Hesmiled,nowthathewascloseenough toseeHiran’sdifferentcolouredeyes–onechocolatey,one softgreeninhisbrownskin.Hewasneverallowedtoforget his defect; many people back home found it hard to look upon himforfearhetravelledwithanevilspirit.Yethiseyeswere the reason Chumi had been drawn to him – they made him appealing and vulnerable, she said. She had never been frightened of him.

‘Please,’ he began again, apology in those strange eyes now, ‘we’re looking for the hospital.’

Theguardgrinnedandgesturedpasttheirshoulders.‘Youcan’t miss the bugger! Straight through there,’ he said, pointing down the road, speaking loudly, giving plenty of hand signals. ‘Turn right and then look across the road. Big dark-red building sitting opposite all the Paki tents. Er, no offence,’ the man concluded, suddenly embarrassed that he was talking to two men likely to have come from the same region. Hiran had been warned about this.Hecouldhearhisteacher’svoice:Everyone’s Paki or Indian, according to the man on the street in Britain, although today’s favoured terminology is ‘Muslim’. Lumps us all in together. If you’ve got this colour skin, you go into one basket whether you’re from Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka… Don’t be offended and remember, it cuts both ways – you won’t be able to tell whether they’re from England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland. They all look the same and will all be impossible to understand, so just accept it.

Itwassound advice.

‘Thank you,’ he said several times to the guard, bowing with each utterance.

‘Yeah, okay, mate. No trouble,’ the fellow said, slight bemusementinhisexpression.‘Justfollowthesmellofthecurry and you’ll find it.’ He laughed, thinking they would understand his light jest.

NeitherdidbutHirannoddedandsmiledandpushedTajinthe direction the guard indicated. They rounded the corner to see a longrowofcanopiedmarketstallssellingeverythingfrompirated DVDs to vegetables. Vendors fought for space to display shoes, fish, watches, pulses. Colourful saris hung as beautiful drapes. Every inch of the street was filled with voices, bodies, laughter. Hiran recognised snatches of Urdu among a hubbub of Gujarati and Hindustani. He understood the guard’s quip now, for small eateries selling mainly spicy foods peppered the street, nestled among ‘proper’ shops offering luggage, mobile phones, freakish clothesandgroceries.Garishlylitconveniencestorespromisingto sell everything to anyone were open all hours.

Hiraninstantlyfeltmorecomfortableinthisthrong.Andjustas their helpful guard had said, right across the road, towering over the swarm of humanity, was the Royal London Hospital. It wasan impressive building, but its glory had faded. Even so it swallowed up dozens of people at a time and spewed out dozens of othersfromitsgreatarchedentranceasanendlesssnakeofbodies crossed the madly busy Whitechapel Road, heading to or fromthe famous hospital infirmary.

They waited for the walking figure at the traffic lights to flash green and were carried along by the haste of others towards the entry, moving into the less frenzied darkness of the hospital vestibule.

‘Wherenow?’Tajaskedin Urdu.

Hiran deliberately answered in English. He needed to keep practising.‘Wehavetofindthewestwingbasement.It’snearthe library and the prayer rooms.’

They looked up at the signs affixed to the dingy yellow walls and were relieved that they were repeated in Urdu among other languages.

‘Downstairs, it says.’ Taj pointed to what appeared to be the last glorious element of this decaying building – the sweeping Victorian iron staircase that wrapped itself around the central lacework lift. It was beautiful and Hiran, momentarily entranced by its elegance, had to be urged by Taj to get a move on.

In the basement, any pretence at aesthetics had withered away. A series of bleak, low-ceilinged corridors emanated greyness. A geometric pattern was stencilled, like an afterthought, in a vain attempt at decoration and had failed miserably to compete with the dirty brownish walls that were once presumably a buttery yellow, and damaged floors, repaired with gaffer tape to stop the lino from lifting.

‘Whatdotheinstructionssaynow?’Taj whispered.

Hiran shrugged. ‘We wait,’ he answered. ‘It’s almost time for prayers,anyway.Theprayerroomisjustoverthere.’Hemotioned with his chin.

Taj nodded, and slid down the wall to sit. Hiran paced the corridor, reaching for the photo of Chumi and the little ones that hekeptclosetohisheartinhisshirtpocket.Noonewassmilingin thephotoandtheirclotheswereragged.Andthat’swhyheneeded it… needed the solemn image to remind him that he was doing the right thing by being in London, taking all these risks – and especially this next one. This opportunity would make a world of differencetotheirlivesifallwentwell.

‘Areyoucomingtoprayers?’he asked.

Tajshookhishead.‘I’mnotsureAllahwillforgiveus,’hesaid. ‘I need to think.’

Hiran understood, but he was devout and duly removed his shoes before stepping silently into the airless room. There was onlyoneothermaninthewestwingwhoneededtopray. The time went faster if more people gathered for prayers, but todayHiranwashappythatthechamberwasallbutdeserted. He needed to concentrate; needed to beg forgiveness of his god for what he intended to do.

Hiranfoundhimselfalonewhenheemergedfromhisquiettime and felt better for his communication with Allah. He was convinced his prayers would be answered. In the hallway he found Taj awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, reluctantly keeping company withamanHiranrecognisedashisfellowcommunicantfromthe prayer room.

‘YoumustbeHiran,’themansaidin Urdu.

Hirannodded.‘AreyouNamzul?’herepliedin English.

The man smiled beatifically. ‘I am. Salaam. Welcome to my office.’

Neither of them smiled at his words although Hiran murmured ‘Salaam’inreturn.Hefeltadampnessathisarmpits.Thiswasit. Would he go through with it?

‘It’s stuffy down here,’ Namzul said. ‘Why don’t we get some air? Let me buy you both a hot drink.’

Tajsaidnothing.Hirannodded.‘Thank you.’

‘Come,’Namzulsaid,histoneavuncular,hissmilegentle and his gaze offering sincerity and trust. ‘Don’t be scared. I will explain everything.’

The younger men followed the stranger like children. Namzul seemedtoknowhiswayaroundthehospitalcorridors,smiling at people, even pausing to talk to a few. One beautiful Chinese woman, carrying flowers into a ward, stopped to exchange pleasantrieswithhim.Namzulgaveadeepbowandshesmiledwidely at his theatrics. Then their guide danced off again, light on his feet. He looked around from time to time with an encouraging smile, reiterating his assurance that they were not to worry.

Suddenly they were pushing through double doors and emerging blinking into daylight. It was sharply cold and Hiran pulledhisthird-handanorakcloseraroundhisthinbody.It had been thrown at him when he’d first arrived by the ‘supervisor’, who oversaw their transfer from France into Britain. He hatedthe cold and longed for summer; longed harder for his home in Dhaka and for the embrace of Chumi.

They were in a small garden courtyard enclosed by hospital buildings. ‘We’ll talk here,’ Namzul said. ‘Take a seat and I’ll be right back. Coffee?’

‘Thankyou,’Hiransaid,nudgingTajto respond.

Namzul danced off, returning swiftly as he’d promised, balancing cardboard mugs with lids and food in plastic boxes. ‘You look hungry. I took the chance with some tandoori chickenwraps. They’re not great but they’re okay; eat, eat.’

He pushed the boxes into their hands, laid out the coffees on the bench and then began digging around in his pockets for sugar sachets and lollipop sticks to stir with.

‘Good?’ he asked them as they bit into their food. ‘They’re supposed to be healthy.’ He tapped his belly and grinned.

Hiran bit into his wrap, finding it fridge-cold and damp. Hewas grateful for any food in his stomach. Taj, too, attacked his meal with the determination of a famished man. People moved in a steady stream before them, either entering or leaving the hospital’s east wing.

‘Whoisthisfamousperson?’Hiranasked,pointingatthestatue they sat near.

Namzul shrugged. ‘Who cares? No one here even notices it. One of the many royals of Britain, I imagine.’ Namzul’s playful manner changed smoothly. ‘Let’s get down to business, my friends.Youknowwhywe’rehere.’Itwasastatement,nota question, but they both nodded anyway. ‘Good. I am purely a middle man,’ he went on. ‘I am not involved in anything other than striking the bargain. I will give you the money but I don’t provideit.Thatisfundedby… well,aricherman,shallwe say. I bring you into contact with each other and allow the transaction to take place. Do you understand?’

All of this was murmured in Urdu. Again the men nodded.

Hiranaskedtheburningquestion,eventhoughhefelt scared. ‘How much?’

‘Ah,’ Namzul said brightly. ‘Straight to the heart of it, eh?’ He laughed, adding in English, ‘No pun intended.’

Hiran wasn’t sure what that meant so he remained silent, watchingNamzulcarefully.Themandrainedhiscoffeeanddeftly tossed his empty cup into a nearby bin. Once more he became serious.

‘You will be given three hundred pounds each, providing your kidneys are healthy.’

ItwasafortunetoHiran.‘Willtheygotofellow Muslims?’

Namzul nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, quickly, firmly, as though anticipating the question.

Hiran let out a breath. That another of his kind would benefit fromhisgiftwasimportant.Thathewasgainingfinanciallyfrom giving up something precious that Allah had given him was not irrelevant but it was of less consequence to Hiran. He had sought atonement and felt he had already been forgiven by Allah. But Allah would revoke that if a non-Muslim received part of his body, so he needed to be sure.

‘When do we get the money?’ he asked, knowing his children desperately needed shoes and new clothing.

‘Today,ifyoubothagree.’

‘You have it?’

‘AtmyhomeIdo.’

‘Wheredowe go?’

Namzul held up a pudgy hand. ‘Let me explain everything.You will be taken by canal boat to Hertford. There you will be metandtakenbymotorvehicletoaplaceyoudon’tneed to know the name of. It is about an hour from your pick-up point.At the hospital various tests will be run, none of them too worrisome, to ensure the surgical team know everything about your kidneysandyourhealthingeneral.Itcouldtakeseveraldays butyouwillbewelllookedafter.Youdon’thaveanyillnesses I should know about, do you?’

Theyshooktheir heads.

‘Anyway, that’s the doctors’ problem, not ours. I will pay you and I imagine you are planning to send the money home, is that right?’

‘Yes,’ Hiran said, ‘to our families.’

‘Then I understand that you will probably want to send the money before your operation?’ Hiran nodded. ‘So I will accompany you to the bank and you can watch me transfer the amount from my account to an account of your choice in Dhaka. That way it’s allneatandtidy.IwillevenallowyouaphonecallthatIwillpay forsoyoucanletyourfamiliesknowthatthemoneyhasbeensent. Andthenyouwillimmediatelyneedtocomewithmetothecanal boat. A driver will take us there. That’s when I leave you, but the driverwilltravelwithyouallthewaytothehospital.’

‘And then what happens?’ Hiran asked, his nerves betraying him as he began to feel his throat close, his heartbeat quicken.

‘Well, I don’t know all the surgical terms,’ Namzul said, his voice kind, ‘but you will be in good hands, professional hands. This is England, after all, and you are going to a private surgery. Itisarelativelystraightforwardprocedurewithfewcomplications, as I understand it. I’m sure you know it is performed regularly in Asia. They will remove one of your kidneys and once you are well enough to be released from hospital, you will be brought back to the house you’re staying in now to recover fully. Don’t worry,’ he continued, seeing Hiran frown, ‘I will look after my fellow countrymen. We are all Banglas, after all.’

‘Howlongbeforeweare well?’

Namzul tipped his head one way, then another, as though weighinguphisanswer.‘Youngmenlikeyou,Iwouldsaywithin two weeks.’

‘We’llbeableto work?’

‘Light duties, as they say. In a month you can take on normal work and within eight weeks you’ll hardly know it has occurred. The scar alone will tell you it has been done.’ He tapped Hiran’s hand. ‘Nothing to worry about and then we can get you working in the restaurant, as promised.’ He looked over at Taj. ‘How about your quiet friend here?’

‘I’m not doing it,’ Taj answered as they glanced his way. ‘Anything could go wrong,’ he said to Hiran, ignoring Namzul.

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ Namzul insisted. ‘We’ve done this manytimes.TherearemanywealthyArabswhopayhandsomely forakidney.Tellyouwhat–perhapsIcanincreasethefeealittle bit. You boys have been very good about coming to London and not beginning work immediately. I know you’re keen to start earningandthishasdelayedthingsalittlebitbutit’safinewayto earnalotofmoneyinonehit.Yourwiveswillsurelybegrateful. So I’ll show some appreciation. Let’s say three hundred and fifty pounds apiece?’ He looked at Taj expectantly.

‘Taj,’Hiranbegan,eyeswide,‘itisalotof money.’

‘And we’ve already paid all our savings to get here so we can earn. Now they want part of my body.’ He glared at Hiran before shifting his attention back to Namzul. ‘Four-fifty,’ he said.

Hiran gasped in surprise, but the trader smiled. ‘Quiet but cunning,’ he said. ‘All right, my final offer is four hundred each, but the clock is ticking, boys, and my offers stands only until the bankscloseat4p.m.’Hemadeapointofconsultinghisoversized watch. ‘So hurry up and make a decision.’ He took them both in withonesweepinggaze,beforeflinginghisuneatenwraptowards the bin. He looked back at them. ‘What’s it to be?’

Theynoddedtogether.

‘Excellent. I need to make a quick phone call and then you can follow me home. It’s just around the corner.’

John Sherman was walking his old dog, Rory, around sprawling Springfield Park in north London. He was lost in his thoughts, musing on how much this neighbourhood had changed since he was a boy. He’d lived in the area since birth and had watched it being steadily overtaken by the Hasidic Jewish community, until now it virtually owned all of it. He lived happily among them in CastlewoodRoadatthetopofStamfordHill,withitsgreatviews over the marshes and the meandering River Lea. He had always got on well with the Jewish community, although the Hasidim – ultra-Orthodox followers of the religion – pretty much stuck to themselves, so it was hard to know them intimately. He wouldn’t call any of his neighbours friends, but they were all amicable enough, quiet and considerate people. None followed the British tradition of keeping dogs. Someone once told him it was because dogs were non-kosher animals and having their non-kosher food inthehousewouldpresentproblems.Buthe’dspokenwithafew of the younger men in the neighbourhood who suggested that dogs were considered dangerous by the community. The cultural dislike evidently harked back to the olden days of persecution when the baying of dogs was the first warning a Jewish community might have of an approaching attack.

John respected this notion and was always careful not to let Rory off the lead around his neighbours. Rory was really too old to bother anyone, but even so John had seen some of the neighbourhood women panic when a dog had wandered into a Jewish family’sfrontgarden.‘Thechildren,thinkofthechildren…’one ofthewomenhadbleated,terrifiedbythesmallspanielnosing aroundaflowerbed,simplyenjoyingthejoyofsniffinginthedirt. John had been vigilant ever since, but the women’s attitude vaguely annoyed him. Britain was a nation of dog-lovers; look at any British mantelpieceandyou’dseephotosofvariousbelovedfamilymutts alongside the kids and grandparents. Yes, the Brits loved their dogs but the Hasidic people’s fear was not John’s gripe… Britain no longer felt British, he thought, as he stepped off the bridge he’d navigated to stride along the riverbank. Rory was already bounding ahead. He loved it down here by the water.

Johnallowedthefamiliarthoughtstoflow.Britainwassuch a blend of cultures that it had long ago ceased to have a pure flavour of its own – certainly in London. What tourists saw and what living breathing Londoners saw were entirely different, as far as he was concerned. Visitors headed back to comfy hotels in and around central London, not far from where they might have spentafundaysightseeingandenjoyingthebuzzthatVisitBritain promised in its promotional material. From this point of view John knew London rarely let its visitors down. But the working Londoner not only had to cope with the gawping, shouting, always-photographing,ever-millingtourists,butheusuallyhadto commute home miles on the Underground – so convenient forthe odd tourist excursion between Victoria and Knightsbridge, perhaps, but hell itself if you were facing the trek twice daily between Victoria and Cockfosters. No smiles down there, then. It’sallsogrimandgrey,hethoughttohimself,feelingaspike of guilt that these days he worked shifts and used a car to move againstthetraffic,travellingoutofLondon,neverhavingtonegotiate the bastard M25 that most motorists had to run the gauntlet ofdaily.HewassuretheM25accountedformanyasuicide.And that was his other gripe: London traffic.

Oh, don’t get started, John,hetoldhimself,shakinghisheadto dispel the negative notions.

He smiled as Rory looked suddenly like a pup again for a few moments, gambolling beside the river, lost in a happy world of smells and carefree playfulness. It was cold but the sunlight, though thin,wasratherniceglitteringofftheLea,andJohnlikedthecanal boats down here. The bonus was that Rory didn’t trouble anyone becausetheHasidicfamiliestendedtotaketheairmuchhigherup in the park. Down here it was mainly runners, and other people letting their dogs loose on the flatlands. That said, he looked up andsawacoupleofHasidicmen,soeasytorecogniseintheirlong darkcoatsoverwhiteshirtsandblackwaistcoats,theirblackhats, and with those unmistakeable ringlets stark against pallid, seemingly sorrowfulfaces.Justtoprovehimwrong,oneofthemenlaughed at something the other had said, then both men’s faces glowed withsharedamusement.Johnsmiledtohimself,almostwishinghe knew what had sparked the laughter.

Theyglancedhiswaybutimmediatelyreturnedtotheirconversation.Itwastimetoheadback.Rorymustbetiredanyway. He began to call to the old fellow, who was well in the distance, rooting around in the riverbank. He hoped Rory hadn’t found aratoravoletotraumatise.Hespedup,leavingthepairofmenon thebridgetalkingquietlyandchancedawhistletoRory.Thedog lookedup,waggedhistailexcitedlyandthenreturnedtowhatever hadtakenhisattention.Helookedtobegnawingatsomething.

Johnwhistledagain.‘Rory!Rory!’heyelled,knowinghewould be disturbing others. The dog ignored him as the men hadearlier. It was no use. Once Rory got himself into a lather over something he was hard to move and John knew it would be acase of physically dragging the dog off whatever it was that had his interest. He jogged towards his dog, looking at his watch. It really was time to head back and get ready for the movies. He’d promisedCathiehe’dtakehertoseeOcean’s Twelve.Ithadbeen solongsincethey’dbeentothemoviesthattheywere well behind their friends’ dinner conversation. He was, however, still hoping he could persuade Cathie to see House of Flying Daggers instead. He loved Zhang Yimou’s work. Hero was spectacular and he knew the new release would be just as accomplished, and far more thought-provoking than the heist of a casino. Besides, Cathie just wanted to ogle Clooney and Pitt! He sighed. ‘Rory!’ Wretched dog.

John picked up the pace slightly and closed on his excited pet before suddenly stopping short. His breath caught in his throat. Rory was tugging at a hand. There was no mistaking it – those werefingershisdoghadbetweenhisteethandwaspulling at, growling as he did so. Rory made this sound when he was playing tug o’ war – it was his happy sound, but John felt readyto vomit. It took a couple more seconds for John to override his shock, and then he was reaching for his phone and dialling 999. Police sirens could be heard within moments. John Sherman was impressed, although he finally lost the fight to retain his lunch.

2

He touched his mouth to the flawless skin of her back, gently tracing the curve of her shoulder blade, revelling in the velvety feelofheragainstthesensitivityofhislips.Hetouchedthemnow to a tiny blemish, a coffee-coloured birthmark at the top of her arm that he liked to think looked like a heart. She always scoffed at the suggestion.

‘Ni de bi hu hao xiang si chou,’ he intoned as expertly as he could in Mandarin, and smiled at her inevitable giggle. She teased him ruthlessly about his dreadful Chinese. ‘I only know a little,’ he admitted.

‘Thenwe’reblessedbecauseyourpronunciationishorribleand you just told me I’m a lizard, or rather that my lizards feel like silk,’shegroaned,stilltoemergefullyfromthesateddozeoftheir lovemaking.

‘Really?’ He sounded hurt.

‘Ni de pifuhao xiang si chou,’shecorrected.‘Easymistake, I suppose, for a beginner.’

‘Damn. And there I was thinking the evening classes were working.’

‘Theyare,’shesaid,strokinghissquarishfacesympathetically. She tugged at his thick, dark hair. ‘And I love that you’re taking them. What else would I laugh at?’

JackHawksworthsighed.‘I’vegottogo,’hesaid,slidingahand aroundherslimwaist,andsnugglingclosetoshowhisreluctance.

Lily turned in his arms to look at him, her exquisite, almond-shapedeyessparklingdarkly,hersmiledreamyandgenerous.Her hairwassoftandshinyagainsthisface.Heloveditsslipperyfeel and the way Lily would shake it carelessly back into the perfect, sharply cut bob that ended just below her chin. ‘Me too,’ she murmured. ‘I can only use the excuse of Sally’s break-up with John so many times. I can’t risk my parents finding out about us, or telling Jimmy.’

Jack frowned, and repeated a question he had asked in the earliest days of their relationship now three months old. ‘Why don’t you tellthemthetruth?Yourparentsmaysurpriseyou,’heurged.

Lily’s eyes no longer smiled. Now their licorice darkness reflected onlybitterness.‘It’snotamatterofmefindingthecourage,Jack. Iknowmyparents.Theywon’tsurpriseme.They’reverypredictable.They’realsotraditionalandasfarasthey’reconcerned,I’m asgoodasengaged… no,married!AndtheyapproveofJimmy.’ Her expression turned glum. ‘All that’s missing are the rings and the party.’

‘Lily, risk their anger or whatever it is you’re not prepared to provoke but don’t do this.’ He stroked her cheek. ‘Forget me.I’m not important. I’m talking about the rest of your life, here. FromwhatIcanseeofmyfriendsandcolleagues,marriageishard enough without the kiss of death of not loving your partner.’

‘It’snothisfault,Jack.Youdon’tunderstand.It’scomplicated. And in his way, Jimmy is very charismatic.’

Jack didn’t know Professor James Chan, eminent physicianandcranio-facialsurgeonbasedatWhitechapel’sRoyalLondon Hospital, but he already knew he didn’t much like him. Jack might be sleeping with Lily and loving every moment he could sharewithher,butJamesChanhadaclaimonherandthatpissed Jack off. Privately, he wanted to confront the doctor. Instead, he proppedhimselfononeelbowandtriedoncemoretoreasonwith Lily. ‘It’s not complicated, actually. This isn’t medieval China or evenmedievalBritain.ThisisLondon2005.Andthefactisyou’re happily seeing me… and you’re nearly thirty, Lily.’ He kept his voicelighteventhoughhefeltlikeshakingherandcursing.

‘Areyouaskingmetomakea choice?’

He shook his head. ‘No. I’m far more subtle. I’ve had my guys rig up a camera here. I think I should show your parents exactly whatyou’redoingwhentheythinkyou’recomfortingpoorSally. I’m particularly interested in hearing their thoughts on that rather curious thing you did to me on Tuesday.’

She gave a squeal and punched him, looking up to the ceiling, suddenly unsure.

Jack laughed but grew serious again almost immediately. ‘Would it help if I—?’

Lilyplacedherfingertipsonhismouthtohushhim.Shekissed him long and passionately before replying. ‘I know I shouldn’tbe so answerable at my age but Mum and Dad are so traditional.I don’t choose to rub it in their face that I’m not a virgin.Nothing will help, my beautiful Jack. I will marry Jimmy Chan but we have a couple more weeks before I must accept his proposal. Let’s not waste it arguing and let’s not waste it on talk of love or longing. I know you loved the woman you knew as Sophie, Jack. I know you’ve been hiding from her memory ever since and, as much as I could love you, I am not permitted to because I’m spoken for and you aren’t ready to be in love again. This is not a happy-ever-after situation for us. I know you enjoy meandperhapscouldlovemebutthisisnottheright moment for us to speak of anything but enjoying the time we have, because neither of us is available for anything beyond that.’

‘You’rewrong, Lily.’

Shesmiledsadlyandshookherhead.‘Ihavetogo.’

Jack sighed. ‘I’ll drop you back.’

‘No need,’ Lily said, moving from beneath the quilt, shivering as the cool air hit her naked body. ‘I have to pick up Alys from school. She’s very sharp and I don’t need her spotting you – especiallyasshe’shadacrushonyousinceyoufirstcameintothe flower shop.’ Suddenly she grinned. ‘If you hurry up, at least we can shower together!’

Jack leaped from the bed and dashed to the bathroom to turnon the taps. He could hear her laughing behind him but he felt sad.Twomoreweeks.Itwasn’tfair–andthen,asifthegodshad decidedtopunishhimfurther,hismobilerang,theominoustheme ofDarthVadertellinghimthiswasnotacallhecouldignore.

He gave a groan. ‘Carry on without me,’ he called to Lily, reachingforthephone.‘Hello,sir,’hesaid,waitingfortheinevitable apology from Superintendent Martin Sharpe.

‘Jack,I’msorry.Iknowyou’vegotacoupleofdaysoff.’

‘That’s all right, sir. Has something come up?’

‘Ithas–andithasyournamealloverit.’

‘Where shall I meet you?’

‘Areyouat home?’

‘Yes,butIcanbeatEmpressin—’

‘No,Ifeellikesomeair.I’llcomeoveryour way.’

‘You’regoingtocrosstheriver,sir.DidIhearright?’Mirth laced Jack’s tone.

‘I’m interested to see what you Mexicans find so special about the place. Where shall I meet you?’

Jackscratchedathisunshavenface.‘Er,CanaryWharfis probably best, unless you want to meet me here in Greenwich?’

‘Canary Wharf’s ideal. I’m near the tube that way. I’ll see you around three-thirty, shall I?’

‘Yes, see you in an hour, sir, at the station,’ Jack said, closing his phone.

Lilyemerged,gracefulasacat,fromthesteamybathroom,and letdownthehairshe’dpinnedup.Itfellinstantlyintoplace.‘You missed all the fun,’ she teased.

‘Well,Idemandarepeatperformance,’Jackrepliedindignantly as she finished towelling herself dry.

‘I can see you Friday,’ she offered.

‘No sooner?’

Shepulledafaceofapology.‘I’vegotalotofdeliveriesat the hospital over the next couple of days, starting this afternoon, buttomorrow’sanightmare.Ihavetobeoveratthemarketby 3 a.m.!’

‘Okay. I’ll call you,’ he said, planting a soft kiss on her mouth. ‘I’vegottomeetmyboss,soI’mgoingtojumpin.’Henoddedat the bathroom.

‘Iwon’twait,then,butI’llseeyou Friday.’

‘I’ll take you out,’ he said, and at her instantly anxious expression he calmed her, raising his hands. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll go out of London. You won’t be seen by anyone, I promise. I know a lovelyspotinStAlbans–ithasabeautifulrestaurantwithanopen fire. You’ll enjoy it – fantastic food.’

Shesmiled,‘Can’twait,’andblewhimakissassherushedout, hunting for her car keys.

JackmetSharpeashespilledoffthetubeatCanaryWharf in a mass of business people and tourists. He led his chief, complaining bitterly at the cold, to a watering hole called All-Bar-One.

‘Iforgethowimpressivethisplaceis,’Sharpeadmittedasthey travelledupanescalatorfromthetubestation.‘It’slikesomething from a science fiction movie.’

‘The design is brilliant,’ Jack agreed, pulling his scarf over a shoulder and pointing to the most prominent structure, One Canada Square. ‘The tallest building in Britain. It can be seen from Guildford on a clear day. Thirty-one miles away!’

Sharpegroaned,hisbreathcurlinglikemist.‘I’venotletmyself in for another of your architectural lectures, have I?’

Jack ignored him good-naturedly. ‘Want to know how many storeys, how many windows, even how many lifts? Or perhaps why it’s called Canada Square?’

‘No I don’t! You’re a walking, talking architectural encyclopaedia, Jack. Don’t you have normal hobbies?’

‘Well,asyouknow,Martin,Idoliketo bake.’

Martingaveasoundofdisgust;heknewJackwastaking the piss. ‘Anyway, I thought it was historical places that firedyou up.’

‘Thisalreadyishistory,sir–builtin1991–andno,I’mexcited by all design, so long as it’s beautiful and has something to say. This building clearly does, sir.’

Sharpe flicked Jack’s arm with a gloved hand. ‘We’re both off duty, we can drop the formality and the lesson, thank you.’

‘What’s your poison then, Martin?’ Jack replied, looking up at the obelisk atop the building.

‘Coffee’s fine. Too cold for much else and, anyway, Cathie’s gotmedoingthebloodydrinksforherwretchedbookclubgathering tonight at our house,’ he complained, his lip curling at the thought. ‘Why is it always Jane Austen? Or Maeve Binchy? It’s never anything I’d like to read.’

‘That’s because all you read are things like autopsy reports. When was the last time you settled down with a good novel?’

Sharpegaveasilentgrimace.‘Youcanbuy,’hesaid,choosinga table.‘Normalcoffeeforme,please,notoneofthosefancythings and I want it strong with full-cream milk, none of that skimmer rubbish or I might as well just drink water.’

‘Back in a minute. Stew quietly and enjoy the view,’ Jack said, waving his hand expansively towards the river, ringed by the surrealistic buildings glittering in the thin winter sunlight.

He returned with two steaming coffees in glasses, balancing a small plate that bore a couple of the chewy almond biscotti he found irresistible.

‘Enjoy,’ he said, grinning at his chief’s horrified glance at the glass ofcoffee,apaperservietteneatlytiedaroundit.‘Youneedtojoin this century, Martin. We don’t drink coffee any more, we drink lattes or cappuccinos or espressos. Trust me, this is delicious.’

‘Well,youarechirpy.Isthereawomanbehindthisloopysmile of yours?’ Martin asked, feigning sourness.

‘I’m seeing a very nice woman, thank you, Martin. And before you ask, she’s not a schoolteacher as you suggested… but she has absolutely nothing to do with the police and is unlikely to commit a crime – so I think I’m pretty safe.’ It was said with levity but they both knew that Jack’s brightness hid the heartbreak that still loomed over him.

‘Any more postcards?’

Jack looked pained. ‘The last one was about nine weeks ago. I gave it to SOCA. But she’s too clever to get caught that way.’

‘Anne McEvoy is certainly clever, but they all slip up eventually, Jack, you know that.’

Jack sipped his coffee. He said nothing, but he nodded. It was obvious that Anne still haunted him. Jack’s most recent major operation had been ‘Danube’, involving the hunt for a serial killer who had been selecting very specific victims in southern England, and who had turned out to be a woman he was seeing romantically. She had escaped police clutches by a hair’s breadth and was now being hunted internationally.

‘I know all your team privately sympathised with her situation. I did too,’ Sharpe said. ‘But in the eyesofthelawshe’sacriminal and you know that when she does slip up you’ll have to pick up the threads of the case again. It can’t be passed to anyone else.’

‘Iknowhowitworks,sir,’Jackrepliedsoftly.‘Andwhenthey catchher… if they catch her,’ he warned with a private sense of satisfaction that Anne had eluded the international police for so long,‘I’llbetheretomeetherandescortherstraighttoHolloway.’

Sharpe nodded his approval, seemingly reassured. ‘How’s Amy?’

NowJacksmiled.‘Gushing!Thebabiesareracingtowards turning two. I’ve rigged up a camera on my computer and she’s donethesame.ItmeansIcanseethemoften.Itstillseems onlyyesterday I was holding them as newborns in Sydney.’

‘UncleJack,eh?’Sharpesmiled.‘Andyourhand?’

They both looked down at Jack’s left hand, scarred by aninjury suffered during the infamous McEvoy case. He’d takenten months’ leave to recover and gone to Australia to visit his sister, and try to forget. On his return he’d moved to a Georgian flat in Greenwich, crossing the river, arguably one of the greatno-no’s for a Londoner. Jack didn’t mind; he loved the elegance of this area of south London, probably best known for its famous maritime landmark, the Cutty Sark, and for its Prime Meridian Line at the Royal Observatory by which time all across the world was measured. He enjoyed running in the Royal Park and never tired of the grand Maritime Museum.

‘It’sstillverytight,’hereplied,flexinghisfingers.‘Idon’tthink thescarswillimprovemuchmorebutI’mkeepingupmyphysio. I’m just glad it’s my left hand.’

Sharpe nodded, apparently happy with the answer. Jack knew hewasbeingtested.Itwassimplyacaseofwaitingitout until his chief offered him whatever case had dragged a diehard north Londoner across the Thames.

‘How’veyoubeengettingonat DPS?’

‘GhostSquad’sokay.’Heshrugged.‘Icatchcriminals;whether they’re civilians or police matters not to me.’

Sharpenodded.‘IrememberwhenIworkedthereforastint as an inspector from traffic. There had been some intel from a probationeraboutafewconsignmentsofcigarettesfrommainland Europe which had apparently made their way into some officers’ personal lock-ups. The claims were not substantiated but I found it hard to simply ghost the suspects – our own guys. My initial reaction was to dive in head first and confront them rather than gather the evidence to make a case without the label of victimisation. It turned out that our guys were working together with border control and sure enough the agencies don’t work together. Still, I was glad to get out of there – DPS is not exactly there to help you win friends.’

‘Luckily, a good friend, Geoff Benson, is working there too.’

‘Ah,that’sright.He’sagoodman.’HewaitedforJackto saymore.

‘Er, the internal investigation into Suffolk Constabulary now means we have two officers suspended pending a court case.’

Sharpe frowned. ‘That sounds serious. When they requested a trusted member of my team I thought it was just to bring some clout to the investigation.’

‘No, it’s pretty bad, Martin. There’s a third officer still under investigation. I’m quite surprised too that the drug and prostitution racket has obviously been on the march.’

‘Ipswich? A market town!’

Jack shrugged. ‘Four prostitutes are already dead.’

‘Connected to our officers?’

‘Notsureyet. Idon’t thinkso butwe’re digging.’

‘Well, I’ve spoken to Superintendent Chalmers. I need you back.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘There’s mischief afoot in the city, Jack,’ he finally said.

‘And what do we have?’

‘Currently three bodies. One was found ten weeks ago,dumpedinoneofthedried-upnavigationcanalsonWalthamstow Marshes. A male. We know very little about him but we’re thinking he could be one of the many Eastern European gypsies who seem to be enjoying southern England. The other two were found together, not quite four weeks ago, unearthed just down from the Lea River Rowing Club over at Springfield Park.’

Jackfrowned.‘Whatarethebodiestelling us?’

‘Two of the victims are of Asian origin. Subcontinental, we think at this stage.’

‘Unknowns,I suppose.’

‘Correct. Almost certainly illegals, probably from the squats. Noidentificationonthem,buttheirfingerprints,teethandso on give us nothing either. One had different coloured eyes, can you believe, but even that description has got us no further. They don’t exist as far as any authorities are concerned.’

‘Have they shown the mug shots around Whitechapel? Broadway Market and the like?’

‘No point.’

Jack raised an eyebrow. Sharpe was carefully building towards something. Jack waited.

Sharpeexplained.‘Theyhadnofaces,alltheskinremoved.’

‘I did hear that right, didn’t I?’

‘Theirfaceshadbeenremoved,Jack.Eyeswereleft,pathology confirms. Also the first one we found had both kidneys removed so there was no intention for him to survive. We immediately thoughthewasavictimoforgantheftbuttheotherpair were curiously left intact, other than their faces. It doesn’t make sense. Nothing of value was being stolen.’

Jack sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘Very grisly. What has pathology given us?’

‘Notthatmuch.Thesurgerywasneat,clean.Professional.’

‘How did they die?’

‘Morphine–notastupidamount,butenoughtoslowly suppress the respiratory system, compromise the body’s efficiency.’

‘But enough opiate that it’s deliberate,’ Jack qualified.

‘Ohyes,it’sdeliberate,especiallywhenalltheotherelements are considered.’

‘Clothes?’

‘Verywornbutalsoveryclean.We’reguessingtheywerelaunderedbeforebeingputbackontothecorpses.Anothertickforthe deliberate death box.’

Jack bit into a biscuit, thinking as he was chewing. ‘And the common factor is the removal of the face and the victims’ ethnicity.’

Sharpe shook his head, reached for a biscuit as well. ‘No, the faces are the only common denominator here apart from pathology’s observation that these were all healthy, fit men.’

‘Butnoone’scome forward?’

‘No.Wedon’thavenamesorrecordsforanyofthem.’

‘And you’re offering me this case?’

‘It’s been two years since Danube. You’re healthy again and I’ve been hearing only good things from DPS about you. I know you’veonlybeenassistinginGhostSquad.Timetogetyou back to the coalface. I think you’re ready for Operation Panther and frankly, Jack, I need my best man on this. It has all the hallmarksofanastymess,I’mafraid,sobeforeBritainpanicsandthe media turns this into a circus, please wrap it up for me. You have carte blanche on your team, premises, whatever you need; this is getting a very high priority as you can imagine.’

‘Thankyou,Martin,’Jacksaid,adrenalinebeginningtocourse throughhisbodyatthenotionofheadingamajoroperationagain.

‘IknowIcancountonyou,’Sharpesaidmatter-of-factly, clearly trying to hide the paternal instincts he held for Jack.

‘Files?’

‘Alreadyprepped,yournamealloverthem.You’reoffGhost Squad as of today.’

Jacknodded.‘Haveyouheardanythingfrom Deegan?’

‘Ghost Squad has little time for DCI Deegan’s simmeringrage.Sinceyourundercoveroperationthatledtothedeathof PCConway,DeeganhastakenanalmostunnaturalinterestinyouandIdon’tthinkhe’scompletelygivenuphisdesire to nail your arse to a post, so you do need to stay very clean. Mind you, Benson will watch your back. Where do you want to be based?’

‘NotattheEmpressbuilding, Martin.’

‘Now then, Jack, I thought you appreciated stunning, state-of-the-art-structures.’

‘Idon’twanttobebasedatEarlsCourtforthisifIcanhelp it.’

Sharpe gave a grunt. ‘So be it. You can base the operation out of Victoria Street.’

‘Topflooragain,Martin?’Theseniormangavehimabaleful look. ‘My staff will work better with nice views,’ Jack added.

‘YoumeanyouwanttolookoutoverWestminsterandnot Little Oz. I’ll tell your sister that.’

Jackdrainedhiscoffee,smiling.‘I’llstartmakingsomecalls.’

‘Anyoneyouwantcanbesecondedintothe operation, although I reckon I can take a pretty good guess at your top layer,’ Sharpe said, picking at his teeth. ‘Got some almond stuck, damn! Now my gum will swell.’

Jack laughed. ‘I think you’re getting grouchier by the year, Martin.’

‘I’mallowedto:I’msixty-one!Whereareyougoingto start?’

Jack didn’t hesitate. ‘With the river, I reckon. Someone must have seen something down there – the bargees themselves, perhaps.Bodiescan’tjustbeleftinshallowgraveswithoutsucha close community knowing something.’

Sharpe agreed. ‘Good.’

‘And then I think we need to canvass the area around Springfield and Whitechapel.’

‘You’ll need translators.’

Jackmadeamentalnotetogetimmediatelyontothe National Register of Public Service Interpreters. ‘I’ll call NRPSI this afternoon.’

‘I’llorganiseforallfilestobedeliveredtotheYardatVictoria Street and Helen will save you time by arranging phone lines, computers etcetera. Don’t worry about any of the administrative stuff, just organise your team and get started.’

‘Right. I’ll see you back to the tube, unless you’d like a tour of Greenwich?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Sharpe said, eagerly standing. ‘I’m ready to returntotherealworld.’Theysharedasmile.‘Whoever’sbehind this is clearly clever and driven, Jack. That’s the worst kind of criminal. Our problem is we have no idea of who or where orwhy this is happening. We need some leads – drum them up.’

Jack nodded. His gut was already telling him that if there were three bodies then others would turn up soon.

Thehollow-lookingmangazedbleaklyathisanxiouscompanion. ‘Calm down,’ he cautioned. ‘You’ll draw attention to us.’

Namzul took a steadying breath, watched his companion wave to the Gluck family – the horde – as the children were given a rareoutinginthepark.HelookedatMrsGluck;he suspected she was only in her early thirties but she looked like a woman well into middle age after giving Moshe three daughters and six sons. There would be more, Namzul was sure of it; after all, their marriage was meant to be a vehicle for populating the world with people of their faith.

Namzul hated Moshe Gluck. But he needed him, too.

‘Haven’tIalwayslookedafteryou,Namzul?’Mosheasked,not lookingathimbutgazingathisfamilyfromtheparkbenchwhere they sat in Springfield Gardens, near the White Lodge Mansion, now transformed into a trendy cafe.

‘You have, Moshe. But this is getting way beyond my league.I agreed to spot potential donors, I didn’t—’

‘That’s right. I pay you a lot of money to persuade those donors. I also give you free board in a very nice flat in central London,whichIcouldeasilyberentingoutatatidysumif I wanted to. I make your job so easy by paying plenty to those truck drivers for the human traffic and they take their cut fromtheBanglas.Thievesthosedriversare!AndNamzul,Ieven put the illegals up in my own accommodation to make it still easier for you to meet them in Whitechapel. And when you’ve worked your magic of coercement, I clean up the mess after you. I think you have a very cosy arrangement.’

‘Moshe, they were meant to be live donors, returned to their lives.’

‘What lives?’ He laughed and it was a sinister sound. ‘I know they’re your countrymen so forgive my candour, but these arenotthekindofcitizensanycountrywants.Theseareillegalimmigrants with no social standing in either their home country ortheir adopted one. They are the poverty-stricken, the homeless, the ones who keep bringing more children into poverty… andso the cycle continues. No one will miss them. No one cares.’

OnceagainNamzullookedoverattheGluckbrood and wondered at Moshe’s heartlessness, not that he felt anything personal for Hiran or Taj. He’d barely known them and had long agosteeledhimselfagainstsharinganyofhistargets’pain.Noone had comforted him through his pain. After delivering them to the rendezvous point he had not intended to see them again. But to learn of their death and to know he played a part in it unnerved him. Namzul was, for the first time since he embarked on this criminal path, genuinely frightened.

He changed tack. ‘Why is this woman needed and why so specific a type?’

Gluck shrugged. ‘Listen, our job is simply to provide. I don’t care what they want her for or why.’

‘But this is someone from a different background. I’m unlikely to find an illegal who fits this description.’

‘You can find anyone you want in and around Whitechapel, Namzul.Justlookharder.They’rewillingtopayalotforthis one.’

‘How much?’ Namzul asked.

‘You will get ten.’

He was sure his heart stopped for a moment. ‘Ten thousand pounds?’

‘Almost enough to make you go and find her tonight, eh?’ Moshe said quietly, finally shifting his gaze from his family to Namzul. ‘Almost enough to make you realise you don’t have to do this much longer…butIsuspecttheremaybemorerequestslikethese.’

‘What’sgoingon?Thisisnotforkidneysanymore,is it?’

Mosheshookhishead.‘Idoubtiteverwas;itwaslikelyalways acover.Andnotatthatpriceforthespotter.ButIthinkyou will earn your money this time, my friend. She must be perfect. She must fit the specifications. The client is prepared to pay handsomely as acknowledgement of the difficulty of the task… but I think you’re up to it, Namzul.’

‘Shewilldie,’hesaidbaldly.Itwasnotaquestion.

‘I imagine so at that price.’

Namzul stared at Gluck, despising the cold, dead-looking eyes and bland expression emanating from the pale complexion. The ringlets he wore proudly down the side of his long, horselikeface looked greasy and Namzul noticed stains on the waistcoatof the traditional dark suit. Namzul had not a fraction of Gluck’s wealth but he was sure he turned himself out much more smartly thanthisman.Oneonlyneededtolookatthedrabclothes he put his wife in to gauge that Moshe Gluck put no store in outward appearance.

‘But that should not trouble you, not with ten thousand pounds coming your way for finding her.’

‘How do I find her? What is my reason? I can assure you she’s not going to agree to sell a kidney.’

He watched Moshe blink in irritation but his bored tone didnotchange.‘Gethertoyourflat.Schlimeywilltakecareof the rest.’

‘Tomyflat?’Namzul’svoicesqueaked.‘HowamItodothat?’

‘That’syourproblem.Ifyouwantthemoney,takethejob. If youdon’t…’Mosheshrugged,thencalledtohiswifethatitwas time to go.

‘Cash up front?’ Namzul couldn’t afford to let this pass. It was more money than he’d ever held at once in his lifetime. Moshe was right. He could actually begin to think about a different sort of life… perhaps even finally put the past behind him. There were times when he couldn’t believe he was on this dark path, and now it was getting darker.

‘As soon as she’s delivered,’ Moshe answered. He stood. ‘So what’s it to be, Namzul? Do we have a deal?’

‘The deadline’s tight.’

‘It’sthenorforget it.’

Namzulnodded,hatinghimselfnowasherealisedwithashiver that he already knew the perfect girl. She fitted the specifications so neatly, it was terrifying. Could he do it to her? She was sovery beautiful, and not just in looks. He swallowed. So was his daughter, Anjali. And no one had cared about her dying of renal failure before a donor was found. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said, a surge of anger stinging at his already deep-seated guilt.

‘I knew you would,’ Moshe said, his sly tone infuriating Namzul, but he still felt powerless. The ten thousand pounds would stop that helplessness.

‘Let Schlimey know as soon as you have her. You know what to do.’

Namzulnodded,tryingtohidehis misery.

‘Meet me at Amhurst Park tomorrow, around eight. I’ll payyou there.’

He had only hours but he knew exactly where he’d find her tomorrow morning.

3

Lily’s mobile sounded and she struggled to balance the vase of flowersonthereceptioncounterofthematernityward.Itwastoo late. Others had already heard it.

Aseniornursefrownedatheroverherglasses.‘Nomobileson the ward. You know that.’

‘Sorry, Sister,’ Lily said. She snatched it from her pocket and despiteherirritationshesmiled.ItwasJack.Atextgivingher an idea of what he had in mind for her tomorrow evening. She giggledandgavethesistermorereasontofrown.‘I’mswitchingit off,’ she assured the irate woman.

‘What’s your name?’

Lily didn’t want to tell her but she could hardly refuse. ‘Lily Wu. I deliver flowers here regularly.’

‘Well, Ms Wu,’ the sister bristled, ‘by all means deliver your flowers but don’t let me hear your phone ring again on any ward that I’m in charge of.’

Lily felt herself flush with embarrassment. ‘Um, can I take this to a…’ she checked the order, ‘Mrs Holt?’

‘You can leave it here,’ the brusque woman said. ‘One of the nurses will take it through.’

‘Thank you,’ Lily said, flashing the sister a dazzling smile. It didn’t work.

She hurried back outside. She had an enormous number of deliveries this morning. It was lucky she’d found favour with the hospital car park attendants who let her bring the van in for a precise twenty minutes. Fortunately the cranky sister had saved hersomedeliverytimeandsherangJackassheranbacktowards the van.

He answered quickly. ‘Can’t bear to be apart from me, can you?’

She laughed. ‘You’re on for tomorrow night, but you’d better make good on that promise.’

‘I’mgoingouttobuyeverythingweneedlatertoday.’

This set her giggling again. Jack needed no props. Lily wasn’t whatanyonecouldpossiblyconsiderenormouslysexuallyexperienced, but it didn’t take much to know whether you were satisfied.AndLilyfeltonlyjoyandpleasureinJack’sarms.

‘Sowhereareyou?’he continued.

‘The hospital. Deliveries. The usual stuff. You?’

‘Huge day. You won’t hear much more from me. I’m justabouttogointoameeting.I’mheadingupanewoperationthat I suspect is going to be all-consuming.’

‘Bad timing,’ she said quietly.

Sheheardhimsighsoftly.‘Yes,itis.ButI’lldefinitelyseeyou tomorrow evening.’

‘Is this our goodbye, Jack?’ she suddenly asked, her throat tightening.

‘No. Are you crazy? But yesterday I didn’t know I was goingto be handed one of the most urgent police operations in the country.’

‘Okay, sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’m just going to be hard to reach and not always reliable. I gotta go, Lily.’ He sounded distracted, as though someone had called him.

‘I’llcometoyourplacetomorrowatseven.’

‘I’ll be undressed.’

She smiled sadly. ‘Bye.’

Leaving Jack was going to be so hard. Whenever she thought about it she felt miserable. The fault was hers for allowing this doomed relationship any oxygen to breathe and flourish. She had known better than to accept his first tentative invitation to go out some time. Her mother had seen her talking to him outside the floristshopinChinatownalmosttwelveweeksagonow.ButLily had been appropriately evasive and Jack had fortunately stepped intothestoreandboughtsomecarnationsasthoughtheirconversation had been purely incidental. Far from it, of course; he had deliberately come to talk to her. And the truth was Jack had been irresistiblefromthemomenthehadbreezedintoherparents’shop two years ago, running desperately late for a date and needing to apologisewithflowers.Thatinitselfhadendearedhimtoher.Any man who pauses long enough to know that flowers always help earnedpointswithher.Andhehadnotskimped.Sherecalledhow he’d agreed with her that the Dutch spring tulips, though pricey, weretheonlywaytoredeemhimselfwithhisdate.Shelovedthat he’d come looking for her again, having not forgotten her subtle flirtation. Jack made her warm in places that Jimmy would never reach,evenwithhismoneyandpromisesofalavishlifestyle.

She slammed the van’s sliding door shut.

‘Hello, Lily,’ someone said behind her, and turning around, shiftingthebouquetssheheldtooneside,shesawafamiliarface.

‘Oh,helloyou.Holdtheseasec,wouldyou?I’vejustgottolock the van again and switch off my phone or I’ll get into more trouble.’