Private London

Chapter 57

Kirsty Webb was beginning to dislike Penelope Harris.

The woman seemed to be angry not at her brother’s death but at the inconvenience it was causing her.

‘I just want to go home,’ said the woman in question.

‘And you will. I just need to go over a few things first,’ replied Kirsty, trying to keep her own anger in check.

‘Oh, for God’s sake – I’ve been over it a hundred times. And it isn’t me you should be interrogating.’

‘It’s an interview, not an interrogation…’

‘It’s those surgeons. They’re the ones who killed my brother, who took his heart like some kind of spare part.’

‘Your brother was declared brain-dead, Miss Harris. And he carried an organ-donor card.’

‘It wasn’t his.’

‘They don’t just go by the card, Penelope,’ Kirsty said softly, using the woman’s first name to try and get her on side. It didn’t work.

‘“Miss Harris” is fine, thank you very much!’

Kirsty sighed inwardly but kept her expression neutral. ‘Like I say,’ she persisted. ‘They don’t just go with the card – they check with the organ-donor registry and your brother’s name was on it.’

‘So that just gives them the right to go ahead and do what they did, does it?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it does.’

‘Well, it shouldn’t.’

‘Do you have a particular reason to be so against organ donation?’

‘We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.’

Kirsty frowned, puzzled. ‘I understood that Jehovah’s Witnesses aren’t against organ donation, just blood transfusions.’

‘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.’