‘What will that mean to him?’

‘At this stage, he should be lucid enough to understand what’s going on, and to be aware that it will get worse. He’ll be facing up to the horror of what he might do at the urging of those voices, and the options he has left to save himself, to avoid turning back into the evil monster he once considered himself to be.’

‘I can think of one option,’ said Cooper, holding his eye. ‘He might feel the only way he can prevent himself from turning into that monster is to end his own life.’

Sinclair nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. John Lowther is a much greater risk to himself than to anyone else.’

‘Thank you.’

As Cooper stood up to leave, Sinclair seemed to slip from the script again, just for a moment. ‘A grasp of Mr Lowther’s thought process is essential, you know, Detective Constable.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘Because it’s counter-intuitive.’ The psychiatrist made a weary gesture. ‘I realize it’s difficult to understand. Most of us know what it means to be afraid to die. But it’s rare to meet someone who’s scared to live.’

Fry burst into the office anxious to know whether Cooper had returned from his visit to Dr Sinclair. But Murfin was taking a call as she walked through the door. His eyes were wide, and she watched him expectantly when he put the phone down.

‘According to the authorities in Pleven, the Mullens’ adoption application was never fully processed,’ he said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means they didn’t complete the adoption procedures. There were some legal problems with the papers, apparently, and their application was rejected by the court.’

‘And what happened to Zlatka Shishkov?’

‘They say they can’t tell us that, for reasons of confidentiality. But one thing’s for certain – she wasn’t adopted by the Mullens.’

Fry stared at him in amazement, wondering whether she’d heard him right.

‘So where did their baby come from?’ she said. ‘And who the hell is Luanne?’

31

The bar of the Mulberry Tree in West Street was deserted in the afternoon, once the lunchtime rush was over. It was hardly worth staying open, except as a matter of principle. This afternoon, there were only two customers – and one of them was there reluctantly.

For a moment, Georgi Kotsev smiled at Diane Fry and placed a strong, brown hand on the table between them, like an offering.

‘Baby smuggling,’ he said. ‘It’s very regrettable.’

‘Is that the word you’d use?’

‘Forgive me. My English is not adequate, perhaps.’

‘It’s just fine, Georgi.’

Fry couldn’t remember when she’d last sat in a bar with so little atmosphere. The walls were subdued pastel colours, designed in a mock Georgian style, but with ornate chandeliers. The armchairs were imitation leather and so deep that she had to sit forward on the edge of her chair to remain upright. Kotsev had left his glass of vodka untouched in front of him out of politeness, though she’d refused his offer of a drink.

‘Until the year 2004, baby selling wasn’t a crime in Bulgaria,’ he said. ‘Even now, a woman who sells her baby has committed no offence. By law, she is regarded as a victim.’

‘But what about the dealers? The middle men?’

‘Yes, their activities are now a criminal offence. If they’re caught, they might face a year in prison.’

‘A year? Are you kidding?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Things are changing. But perhaps not quickly enough for some.’

‘Why would a mother sell her baby, Georgi?’

‘Ah, babies are a valuable commodity. A mother might sell one to buy a house, or to feed the rest of her family for a little while.’

‘It can’t be so easy to smuggle babies out of the country, can it?’

‘What? Bulgaria has five borders – Romania, Serbia, Macedonia, Greece, Turkey – and all of them leaky, like a sieve. And we have the Black Sea coast, with little ports where you can sail a boat across. Yes, our country has become a corridor for smuggling of all kinds. Drugs, cigarettes, vegetables, people …’ Kotsev fingered his drink. ‘A while ago, our authorities broke a kidney-trafficking ring. Six people had been taken to a clinic in Istanbul, where their kidneys were sold to transplant patients. This is a rich business for someone – kidneys are worth between two and five thousand dollars each. It depends on the blood type, you see.’

‘Did you say vegetables just now, Georgi?’

‘Ah, yes. Potatoes, for example. Also apples. Any kind of food that is scarce. In Sofia, the police arrested a smuggler known as Nick the Chicken, on account of his speciality.’

Fry sat back, fighting the feeling that she’d stepped into some kind of Russian farce. The armchair squeaked at her movement. Taped music played somewhere, and a barman appeared to wipe glasses that hadn’t been used.

Kotsev couldn’t resist a sip of vodka. ‘The main interest to us might be in the connection with the victims of the double shooting in Pleven. It seems they not only had a personal relationship, but they were also colleagues.’

‘That’s not unusual.’

‘No. But guess where Dimitar Iliev and Piya Yotova worked.’

Fry didn’t like being asked to guess. Someone who asked you to guess expected you to be wrong, and she usually was. But as she remembered the photo of Iliev’s red Ford Escort with its shattered back window and BG plates, Fry thought she heard distant screams, and the voices of children. And she realized she didn’t have to guess. ‘An orphanage,’ she said.

‘You are almost correct. Iliev and Yotova were employed by an official organization which places children in state orphanages.’

‘So they had a lot of power in deciding the fate of those children?’

‘Da, razbira se.’

‘And perhaps they were in a position to falsify paperwork, remove records, take illegal payments –’

Kotsev threw out an arm dramatically. ‘Where money is involved, someone will become corrupt. But perhaps they thought they were doing good work too.’

‘Doing good? How?’

‘At one time, our Bulgarian orphanages were not very pleasant places to be. Some children stayed in them for many years, without ever finding homes. Who can say whether it might not have been better to find a child a home, even if illegally?’

‘Somehow, Georgi, I suspect these people aren’t too scrupulous about checking where children are going to end up.’

He bowed his head slightly. ‘Perhaps you’re right. It’s possible some of those orphans went to a bad fate.’

‘Why hasn’t this trade been exposed?’

‘Well, there are political ramifications …’

‘Oh, the European Union,’ said Fry. The phrase had begun to sound like the kiss of death to rationality.

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘I suppose what it boils down to is that the Bulgarian authorities wouldn’t want evidence of large-scale baby smuggling to come to light right now.’

‘Especially if other EU member states are involved. It would cause quite a scandal. Worse, it would give ammunition to those who do not want Bulgaria to join the EU.’

Fry felt suddenly exhausted. No matter how hard you tried to achieve some kind of justice, there were occasions when it was obvious you were wasting your time. The realities lined up against you were insurmountable. And this was the way it always would be. Human nature would never change.

‘So we’re looking at a baby selling ring, with at least four people involved. Is that right? The two people killed in the shooting in Pleven, plus Rose Shepherd and Simon Nichols. Or, rather, Rosica Savova and Simcho Nikolov. And what about the Zhivko brothers?’

‘There are connections between them, certainly.’

‘Were Dimitar Iliev and Piya Yotova wealthy?’

‘No, not all. They had an ordinary home in an apartment block in Pleven. They drove an aged Ford Escort, as you saw. They had no money hidden away, that we could find.’