Private London (Private 4)

‘It’s a matter of personal conscience and a number of us are against it. And those that are for it still demand that all blood be drained before transplantation.’

‘I see.’

‘And was it?’

Kirsty shrugged ever so slightly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, isn’t that what you should be finding out?’

‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘What on earth do you mean? Of course it matters.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. But what I meant is that the woman who received your brother’s heart is not a Jehovah’s Witness.’

Penelope Harris considered it for a moment. ‘It’s the principle,’ she said finally, putting the detective in mind of a sulky schoolchild.

Kirsty pulled out a piece of paper enclosed in a clear plastic envelope.

‘Is that the note he left?’ asked Penelope Harris.

‘Yes,’ said Kirsty.

‘Can I see it, please?’

Kirsty put it on the table in front of her. It consisted of two simple lines and read: I am sorry for what I have done. But at least the suffering will stop now. Colin.

The Harris woman looked at it briefly, then back up at Kirsty, the angry defiance back in her eyes.

‘Okay, he may have decided to carry an organ-donor card. I doubt it very much.’ She shrugged. ‘But he definitely didn’t write that!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he never called himself Colin – he absolutely hated the name. It’s his real name but he always used his second name: Paul. He only ever used Colin on official documentation because he had to.’

Kirsty nodded.

‘You don’t seem surprised,’ said the dead man’s sister.

‘I’m not, Miss Harris,’ said the dark-haired detective. ‘I think your brother was murdered.’

Chapter 58

WALKING INTO THE Turk’s Head Tavern in Tufnell Park with a gun in your pocket is seriously not a good idea.

But I did it anyway.

The conversation didn’t exactly stop when Sam and I stepped through the pub’s door. But it was pretty damn close.

The Turk’s Head was just one of many buildings owned by Ronnie Allen. And every Saturday night the man himself was usually in attendance, playing poker or dealing with business. Not the sort of business the revenue men got a cut of.

Sure enough, that night Allen was at his usual table at the back of the bar. I knew it was his usual table because I had done some business with him before. That is to say Private had. He’d bought a dog-racing track two years ago and had totally refurbished it. He had hired us to overhaul and update all the security. A lot of money changes hands at a dog track, millions of pounds over the year, and there are people in the world stupid enough, seemingly, to try stealing from the man. Brad Dexter had been in charge of the project and we had never had any complaints from Ronnie Allen. He even paid his bill.

Like I said, there were very few people stupid enough to cross him but here Sam and I were, about to beard the lion in his den.

We walked towards his table and a couple of very large men in regulation goon suits stood up and glared at us.

‘Bottle of Corona for me, and …’ I looked across at Sam.