Bex Wynter Box Set 2 Page 7

  As Bex sat at the table nursing a cup of coffee that looked like Georgie had scooped up a dirty puddle, she heard her landlady giggling and Eli guffawing heartily over some silly nonsense. She had never seen the dour Eli so happy.

  “Hell-oooo!” Reuben’s voice floated towards them from the hallway. “So, you are here, Bex! Mum said you were having dinner together,” he hailed her. “Did you know your bloody phone’s dead? Quinn’s been ringing with no answer.”

  “Sorry, Reuben.” Bex checked her phone. Sure enough the battery was flat. “I must’ve forgotten to charge it last night. Have you come to visit your mother or me?”

  Georgie bustled out of the kitchen, a guilty look on her face as she spotted Reuben.

  “I thought I heard your voice, luv. What’s up?” she asked anxiously.

  “Hi, Mum, sorry to barge in on your dinner with Bex.”

  Reuben moved forward to give her a hug. When Eli emerged from the kitchen Reuben’s face was almost comical with shock.

  “Eli? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Sorry, I gatecrashed the dinner.”

  “Not at all!” Bex protested. “I invited Eli to join me for dinner and your mom kindly cooked for both of us tonight.”

  Reuben stood back from Georgie, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pants’ pockets, his eyes narrowed slits of suspicion. Eli and Georgie’s faces, which had previously been shining, bright and alive with joy, now clouded over.

  “I’d best be on my way,” Eli said. “Thank you, Georgie, that was a truly lovely meal and I’ve enjoyed your very gracious company.”

  As Georgie pinked, Reuben’s face grew thunderous.

  “I’ll see you out, old man,” he said, with just a hint of nastiness, as though he wanted to ensure that Eli really was leaving the house.

  As the two men disappeared down the corridor, Bex reached over to grasp Georgie’s fidgeting hand. She was biting her lips with distress.

  “I’m sorry, Georgie. I hope I haven’t made things awkward by bringing Eli along tonight.”

  “He’s a lovely man and in need of some good home care. I was going to sew that button on for him. But Reuben always put his dad on a pedestal, so…” her voice trailed away.

  Reuben didn’t talk about his father, but Bex knew from Georgie that Alastair Richards had died when Reuben was just eighteen.

  “Sorry I interrupted your dinner, Mum,” Reuben said, returning to the room. “But I’ve come to discuss work with Bex.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. I’ll just pop upstairs to watch the telly then.”

  Georgie bustled away, her face still creased with worry.

  “What’s up, Reuben, that couldn’t wait until the morning?”

  “Quinn said you’d be keen to hear this as soon as possible so I thought I’d drop by mum’s. Royal College Hospital’s Post Mortem Department has just been in touch with him. They’ve got a match for Mikayla Parkinson’s DNA.”

  Chapter 10

  Thursday March 8

  The post mortem examination room of Royal College Hospital was all gleaming white tiled walls, smooth white autopsy tables and stainless steel finishes on bench tops, sinks and equipment. A rumpled sheet covered a body lying on one of the tables.

  Huge, foil-wrapped air conditioning conduits snaked above their heads, vibrating and humming as air churned through them. A large round clock ticked the minutes away on one wall as Bex met with the hospital’s head pathologist, Linda Putnam.

  Last night Reuben had filled her in on the details relayed by the hospital. Abigail Ewing, a 63-year-old businesswoman, had collapsed during a meeting and been rushed to hospital. Despite their best efforts, they had been unable to revive her. Cause of death was unknown, so hospital staff had obtained her family’s consent to do a post mortem to establish the exact reason.

  In the course of the autopsy it had become clear that Abigail Ewing was the recipient of a liver transplant. An analysis of the liver had pinged with a DNA match flagged by police with Mikayla Parkinson’s DNA.

  Linda Putnam was a petite woman, short enough for Bex to notice the line of dark roots along her parting. She introduced the man standing beside her.

  “This is Stefan Osborne, our anatomical pathology technologist,” she said.

  Stefan Osborne had an unruly ginger thatch of hair and an equally wild beard of reddish brown curls. His cheeks in between were speckled with freckles. He wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses that magnified his pale blinking eyes.

  Osborne held out a hand with slender fingers and carefully trimmed nails for Bex to shake.

  “I understand the autopsy was carried out yesterday,” Bex said.

  “That’s right.” Linda’s voice was surprisingly vibrant in the hollow space around them. “Stefan did the actual evisceration. Do you want to tell DCI Wynter about the results?”

  Osborne moved to one of the tables behind them and threw back the sheet with a flamboyant flourish, revealing an expanse of pale, mottled skin that had once been a living being. Bex had checked online before attending the hospital. By all accounts Abigail Ewing was a “mover and shaker of the energy industry” according to her company’s website biography. She had a vision of Osborne’s carefully manicured hands curled around a scalpel slicing through Abigail’s flesh.

  “Are you alright, DCI Wynter? I sometimes forget not everyone is as comfortable around dead bodies as we are.”

  Osborne’s glassed eyes seemed to pin her to a piece of cardboard. Bex couldn’t read any apology in them.

  “I’m fine, thanks. I’ve seen my share of bloodbaths, so another corpse won’t make me lose my lunch.”

  “Right then.” Osborne sounded almost disappointed. “Here are the details you’ve come for. Abigail Ewing’s organs show she suffered from heart disease. Her heart was actually enlarged with scarring that left it in quite poor condition. It seems likely that she suffered from a heart attack at an earlier time which left the heart in this circumstance.

  “Our guess is it could have been a ‘silent attack’ and the woman didn’t even know she had experienced it. These kinds of attacks leave damage behind, but provide no symptoms, no shortness of breath or chest pains to indicate what is going on inside the body. That being the case people suffering silent attacks don’t actually receive the attention they need to alleviate the problem and prevent further deterioration of the heart through more attacks.

  “In such cases the next attack is quite likely to be the fatal one causing a full cardiac arrest and that is what seems to have happened in this case. While silent attacks are not as common in women as men, women who experience them are more likely to die.”

  Osborne’s voice maintained a quiet monotone as he recited his findings. Bex felt a shiver shimmy up her spine at the appalling bleakness that this was all that was left at the end of a successful life. She quashed thoughts of Zane threatening to invade her mind. She couldn’t afford to get emotional on the job. She brought her attention back to Osborne who was still speaking.

  “…determined that she had a liver transplant within the last six to eight months. Since this was a full liver, not a partial transplant, we have to conclude that the organ came from a deceased person. It’s impossible to live without a liver.”

  “Let me just clarify. If the liver had been a partial transplant, it could have been donated by a living person?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There’s no doubt the liver belongs to Mikayla Parkinson?”

  “The organ tissue is consistent with a donor in their mid-teens and the DNA analysis is an exact match to Mikayla Parkinson’s DNA sample,” Osborne confirmed.

  “What is puzzling about this transplant, however, is that the recipient of the organ should have undergone a thorough health examination, including an ECG which would have highlighted problems with her heart,” Laura interjected. “That being the case, Abigail Ewing would have been ineligible for a liver donation given her medical condition. No reputable hospital in
London would perform such an operation.”

  “And yet she clearly was in receipt of a donated liver. Just so that we’re not confused, Dr. Putnam, what you’re saying is that Abigail Ewing must have gone through unofficial channels to receive her liver donation because any official transplant would have ruled her out as ineligible?” Bex asked.

  “That is correct, detective.”

  “How do you suggest she obtained her liver transplant?”

  The crisp white overcoat rustled as Linda shrugged her shoulders. “I really can’t speculate,” she protested.

  “Did you speak with Ms. Ewing’s family?”

  “We did,” Osborne said. “They’ve given us permission to keep the liver, but they had no idea that she had undergone a liver transplant operation.”

  “Is it possible that Ms. Ewing was admitted to a hospital in another part of the country for her liver transplant?”

  “Of course we can check for you, but, as I said, it’s highly unlikely she would have been considered for one through any official channels,” Linda said.

  If that were true, then it left only one logical conclusion: Abigail Ewing had received her liver transplant via the black market.

  Chapter 11

  Thursday March 8

  Bex dialed the number of Zoe Ewing-Hunter, Abigail’s oldest daughter, and arranged to meet her at Abigail’s home, a spacious three-bedroom apartment overlooking Regent’s Park. Bex had asked Reuben about the area.

  “Ritzy and upmarket to say the least. A lot of Grade I heritage-listed homes in the area. I think it might be out of our price range, Bex,” Reuben answered with a grin.

  “I’m perfectly comfortable at your mother’s in Ealing,” Bex retorted. “When you say upmarket, how much would it cost to purchase an apartment there?”

  Reuben whistled lightly through his teeth. “Probably upwards of twelve mill, depending on the number of beds and baths and the extent of the view. Basically you’d really have to have some quids to live in the area.”

  “Thanks, Reuben.”

  Bex left the office without saying where she was going. She knew that Dresden would strenuously disapprove of the team taking on Mikayla’s investigation. The teen appeared to be a victim, not a perp.

  Not wanting to take a police car and log in her trip, Bex caught the underground. Alighting at Regent’s Park station, she found herself within a few hundred yards of Abigail’s address, which directly bordered the park. The building itself seemed to be an ugly blend of differing styles, including turreted towers at the corners and elaborate stone scrollwork. An ornate railing separated the building from the hoi polloi walking past on the sidewalk and the neighbors on either side.

  She pressed the buzzer and identified herself, taking note of the security camera above the door. Abigail’s flat was on the first floor, which Bex now knew meant the floor above the ground, not the ground floor itself.

  Zoe Ewing-Hunter ushered her into a vast drawing room with an opulent fireplace at one end and sweeping views over the park from the bay windows. Hard wood flooring met wallpapered walls, both surfaces broken up by islands of bright rugs, stylish sofas and expensive-looking artworks.

  Slumped cross-legged on one of the rugs on which rested a glass coffee table the size of a small country, was another woman with sharp features and red-rimmed eyes.

  “Detective Wynter, this is my sister Twyla,” Zoe introduced Bex.

  Both women were of similar age to Bex. She judged Zoe older by a few years, although her flawless, buttermilk complexion had no lines. Both women’s casual jeans looked expensive, their shirts tailored. Glints of gold flashed from around Zoe’s neck and ears. Fluffy pink socks hid in a pair of black leather Gucci slip-on mules on Twyla’s feet.

  “We’re trying to sort out a few things before the funeral next week,” Zoe explained, waving her hand to indicate the papers spread across the glass surface.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt you at this time,” Bex apologized.

  “That’s quite alright, I think we could do with a break.”

  Twyla sighed and leaned back on her arms, looking up interrogatively at Bex.

  “Why are you here, Detective Wynter? Do you suspect foul play with mother’s death?”

  “No, not at all,” Bex assured them. “Actually, I want to ask about your mother’s liver transplant. Have you ever heard of Mikayla Parkinson?”

  “Is she an employee? Mother’s executive assistant can help you there.”

  “Can you tell me exactly when Ms. Ewing had her operation?”

  Zoe and Twyla exchanged looks.

  “We had no idea she’d had a transplant,” Zoe said.

  “Were you aware that your mother needed a liver transplant?”

  Another exchange of glances flashed between the sisters.

  “Mother was very private. She didn’t talk much about personal matters,” Zoe said, choosing her words.

  Bex realized Zoe hadn’t answered her question.

  “Are you telling me your mother kept her illness secret? That she didn’t tell you she was on the waiting list for a transplant?”

  “When she couldn’t hide how unwell she was becoming, she told us she had been diagnosed with chronic liver failure due to cirrhosis,” Twyla announced, while Zoe’s delicate eyebrows pinched together.

  “When was this?”

  “About four years ago,” Zoe resumed the lead. “We kept it quiet. No one outside the family knew, because of her business. She didn’t want people, especially shareholders, worrying that she wasn’t capable of running the company. She even refused to let us tell Dad.”

  “Were your parents close?”

  “God, no!” Twyla gave a bark of harsh laughter. “Our parents divorced about eight years ago. It was bitter. Mum didn’t want to give up any of her equity in the business so she paid him out over time. Neither of them was happy with the arrangements. After she told us about her diagnosis Zoe and I tried to talk her into retiring, but she couldn’t bear to relinquish the power.”

  “And you never suspected she’d had a transplant?” Bex pushed.

  “Her health did pick up, but we thought it was because of the retreat,” Zoe said.

  “What retreat?”

  “Last year she took time off work to go to a health retreat. When she came home she looked so much better and over the next few weeks she was able to slowly resume activities that she hadn’t participated in for a long while, like hiking and playing golf.”

  “Was it a retreat here in London?”

  “Yes, at least, I think so. I don’t remember her saying she was going out of the country. Do you, Twyla?”

  “No idea. She said she didn’t want any visitors and didn’t want to be disturbed for the month. She’d been forced to take more and more time off work, but usually days here and there. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time she took such a large chunk of time off work.”

  “And you have no idea of the name of the retreat?”

  Both women shook their heads.

  “You could talk to her executive assistant at work. Randall makes her appointments and bookings, including flights and travel arrangements. It must’ve taken some juggling to pry her away from the office for a month,” Zoe said with a touch of bitterness.

  “You said that after the retreat her health showed a noticeable improvement? Did you ever wonder about that?”

  Twyla shrugged.

  “She called it her miracle cure. We thought she’d got lucky or the doctors had got her diagnosis wrong. It happens, after all.”

  “Is it possible to get access to your mother’s medications?”

  Zoe’s face turned to dismay.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, we started the clean out with the bathroom. Basically, we dumped everything from the cupboards into the rubbish. It was collected yesterday.”

  Bex’s heart sank. Medications had to be prescribed and she had hoped to find the name of Abigail’s doctor.

  “Thank you for yo
ur openness. If I could have Randall’s details, I’ll leave you in peace.”

  Zoe scrolled through her phone and Bex copied the details.

  “Can you think of any reason why your mother didn’t tell you about her transplant operation?”

  “She valued her privacy. She never gave away more information than she had to,” Zoe answered.

  “Really, it would’ve been more unusual if she had told us her plans,” Twyla chipped in.

  “Thank you again for your time,” Bex nodded to both women before Abigail Ewing’s housekeeper showed her to the door.

  Chapter 12

  Friday March 9

  “I want you to keep an eye on this character, Fitzy Barnet. The word on the street is that he’s moved into Bridesmead after being released from Her Majesty’s last week. He’s got a string of burgs to his name, and is known to run in a gang offloading stolen goods. I don’t want crud like him on our turf looking to stir up trouble.”

  Cole leaned back in his leather office chair, coolly holding Yabsley’s gaze. Yabsley shifted in his chair.

  “How do you want me to handle it, guv? Tell the guys to lean on him?”

  “Circulate his photo to the team and tell them to keep their eyes open for him. I don’t want him taking a shit without wondering if we can see him. If he so much as drops a lolly wrapper I want him booked for littering. We get him for anything and everything until he gets the message to take his trouble elsewhere.”

  “I’m onto it, guv.”

  Yabsley shoved back his chair and stood. Cole’s crooked smile widened.

  “Good man. I’ll do the rounds next week and talk to the local businesses, make sure they tighten their security for the next few —”

  A sharp knock at his door pulled Cole up short. Through the rectangular glass panel he could see Bex Wynter. A smug look lit up Yabsley’s face.

  “Looks like the lady boss just can’t stay away,” he murmured. Anticipation brightened his eyes and he rubbed his hands together. “How long would you say, guv? Less than a week before you pull a tidy one with her?”