The two detectives had decided to make for the transplant clinic on foot because a long waterside stroll would give them a better picture of the area.
While they walked, Troy said, ‘You looked … annoyed in the mortuary.’
‘Did I?’
‘Like someone or something was niggling you.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t like the idea of someone defiling bodies by removing this and that.’
‘You’re not squeamish or religious.’
‘You don’t have to be to know it’s wrong. It’s like slashing a great work of art.’ She paused before adding, ‘To me, our insides are just as beautiful as our outsides.’
Troy grimaced. ‘You get to see enough of them in this job.’
Sarcastically, Lexi replied, ‘I’m lucky like that.’
The rough path was almost straight, keeping parallel to the reservoir. At the water’s edge, there were a few wooden platforms for fishing but they were all rickety and vacant. The trees were mostly firs. Under a high green roof, the wood was bare and dark, even sinister. Tapering as it approached the end of the reservoir, it was also eerily quiet.
‘Transplants are different for outers, aren’t they?’ Troy said.
‘We don’t go in for different blood groups like you majors, if that’s what you mean. For us, it’s one type fits all. No need to match the donor and recipient. Any outer heart, liver or whatever will be okay for any other outer. Convenient.’
Abruptly, she halted.
Troy looked back at her and whispered, ‘What is it?’
‘There’s someone over there,’ Lexi said, pointing away from the water’s edge.
She was right. Troy could just make out a small log cabin, topped with a roof of bundled twigs. Outside it, a man was sitting at a crooked table, examining a piece of wood.
Lexi and Troy looked at each other. ‘Well?’ Lexi said. ‘Are we walkers who just happened to come this way or are we detectives? Official or unofficial?’
Troy knew it was his call. Lexi took care of the forensic side of the investigation. His strength was in dealing with people and questioning. He felt forced to make a quick decision because he knew Lexi did not like to be held back. ‘Er … Official but friendly. And curious.’
Lexi nodded.
Together they left the track and ambled towards the man and his shack. He wasn’t old. Perhaps nearing thirty. He was rough rather than dirty. He had long black hair but no beard. ‘Hi,’ Troy called out, noting the woodworking tools scattered around the table. A large axe and a fishing rod were propped against the side of the cabin.
The man smiled, showing startlingly white teeth. ‘Nice morning.’
‘I’m Troy. This is Lexi. For some reason, the powers-that-be made us detectives.’
‘Thought so,’ he said, putting down the piece of wood. ‘I’m not doing anything against the law.’
‘No problem. Do you live here?’
‘Yep,’ he answered, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt, he didn’t seem to feel the chill breeze.
‘You’re one of the displaced.’
‘Never did like that label but …’ He shrugged.
‘Was it your choice?’ Troy asked.
‘They called me a maths genius, but I opted out. Yes, my choice. It’s a good life.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Huw.’
Troy didn’t push for a surname. He wanted to keep it informal. ‘Not exactly state-of-the-art living.’
Huw laughed. ‘Everyone owns too much stuff. You don’t need it. I’ve got shelter, a bed, clothes, wood to keep me warm in winter, plenty of food …’
Troy interrupted. ‘Where from?’
‘I grow it, catch it or just pick it up. Fish, squirrels, road-kill, vegetables. Lots. A hole in the ground’s my toilet. For water, I filter rain through sand. Easy.’
Troy grimaced. ‘You drink it?’
‘I filter it through sand and charcoal to make it drinkable.’ He waved a hand over his traditional tools. ‘Carving gives me trinkets to sell if I need money for something nature doesn’t provide for free.’
Troy wondered if he’d found that mad, tree-felling, wood-carving murderer, but Huw came across as harmless. Even so, Lexi must have been thinking the same because she was examining the sharp tools lined up on the table, almost certainly checking for bloodstains.
‘What about company?’
‘It’s not necessary,’ Huw answered. ‘But I can go into the city if the mood takes me. Before I came here, I worked as a volunteer at a homeless centre. It was good. I might do it again if I move on.’
‘Do you ever see anyone around here?’ Troy asked.
‘Sometimes. Not a lot.’
‘A woman called Avril Smallcross who lives up there?’ Troy said, pointing in the general direction. ‘She walks, collects wood.’
‘I’ve seen her.’
‘Anyone else? Any visitors in the last few days or weeks?’
‘No one I took notice of.’
‘Have you seen anything weird going on between here and Avril’s house?’
‘This is sounding like an interrogation.’
‘Do you know what happened in the clearing back there?’
Huw shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
Troy turned to look the other way. ‘What do you know about the transplant clinic?’
‘Zero.’ He thumped his chest cheerfully. ‘I’ll make do with the heart that’s got me this far. It didn’t cost anything, either.’
Troy smiled. ‘Are you staying put? Not planning to move?’
‘I’ll still be here if you come back with some more questions,’ Huw replied. ‘But I don’t know how I can help — unless you decide to break loose. Give up crime and I could show you how to live the good life.’
Lexi and Troy continued their walk. In another twenty-five minutes, they arrived at the Rural Retreat Transplant Clinic. Contrasting with Huw’s basic home, the private surgery was a large modern building with lots of gentle curves and glass. Outside was an attractive water feature with an impressive fountain. Troy guessed that it was supposed to be soothing. Inside, the floor was bare wood and the pastel walls were decorated with paintings and prints. The atmosphere was sheer luxury.
Troy and Lexi were ushered into a roomy office belonging to the manager of the clinic. Behind an enormous desk, Gianna Humble stood up, walked round and greeted them. She sat in a comfy chair and waved them towards two leather seats. Clearly, she didn’t allow a desk to come between her and her clients. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said with a bright smile, ‘but … What can I do for you?’
Troy told her that they were investigating three deaths but didn’t mention the nearby burial site. He skipped the details, giving just enough information to suggest a link to medical transplants. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I hope you can help us in a few ways. Like, we want to know if one of the victims was a patient of yours and where your body parts come from.’
Gianna cut him short. ‘Let’s take it a step at a time. Our main business here is hearts, lungs, liver and kidneys, but we’ve also branched out into hands and faces …’
‘Faces?’
She nodded. ‘For those with facial tumours, or who’ve been disfigured by fire or animal attack.’
‘Where do you get them from? Not just faces. Everything.’
‘I couldn’t possibly discuss individual donors — the source of the tissue we use. I have to protect their anonymity. Besides, talking about this heart or that hand is tactless. The bereaved family and friends wouldn’t thank me for giving the impression that the remains of their loved ones are merely spare parts — or health products.’