Dead Tomorrow

the very long list, looking for anyone who might be capable of organ transplantation work, he was amazed at the variety of offences.
    He hadalways loathed the idea of bent doctors, almost as much as he loathed the idea of bent coppers–of whom he had encountered mercifully few. He hated anyone in public service, in a position of trust, who exploited it through either corruption or incompetence.
    The first name on the list was a detox doctor struck off for negligence leading to the death of a heroin addict. Not a likely candidate, Grace thought.
    Next were a husband and wife GP team who ran a private nursing home. He read more. They had been struck off for the disgusting condition of the place and leaving elderly patients in a state of distress. Not likely either.
    A junior doctor who failed his training was struck off after lying to get a job as a consultant. Grace read on, with interest. This was just the kind of person–while not actually a transplant surgeon–who might get taken on to assist in illegal operations at a private clinic. He wrote the man’s name down in his policy book: Noah Olujimi.
    Then he had a sudden thought, and wondered why it had not occurred to him sooner. What procedures were in place at UK hospitals, and UK Transplant, the national transplant centre, where transplants were coordinated, to prevent an illegally acquired organ entering the system? Plenty of rigorous ones, he was sure, but he made a note for this to be followed up.
    He continued reading down the list.
    A GP struck off for downloading child porn. No.
    The next held his interest. A GP who was struck off for committing euthanasia on a cancer victim patient. Euthanasia was something Grace had sympathy with. He remembered, as a child, visiting his beloved, dying grandfather, a tall bear of a man who had lain in bed, screaming in pain, begging for someone to help him, to do something, and then sobbing, while everyone in the room looked on helplessly, except his mother who sat by his bed, holding his hand, praying. He had never forgotten that visit, the last time he had seen him. Nor the uselessness of his mother’s prayers.
    Euthanasia , hethought again. There were doctors who broke the rules because they didn’t agree with the system. For sure there would be transplant surgeons who did not agree with it either. But the list of surgeons the researcher, Sarah Shenston, had come up with was far longer than he had expected.
    His computer pinged, as it did every few minutes, with yet another incoming email or batch of emails. He glanced up at the screen. Some new Health and Safety crap that he and every other serving police officer was being copied in on. In recent months he had started to hate Health and Safety even more than the whole political correctness ethos. The latest rubbish to come through was a warning that any police officer climbing up more than six feet would be deemed to be working from a height , and only allowed to go higher if properly qualified in working at heights.
    How sodding great is that? he thought. If an officer was in pursuit of a criminal, was he going to have to shout out, Oi! Don’t climb higher than six feet or I’ll have to let you go?
    There was a rap on his door and Glenn Branson came in.
    Grace nodded at his shiny tie. ‘You need to replace the batteries. It’s not glowing so brightly.’
    ‘Very witty, old-timer.’ Then he looked at the Detective Superintendent. ‘You got new batteries in? You’re glowing!’
    ‘Want acoffee?’ Grace gestured for him to sit.
    ‘Nah, I’m OK. Just had one.’ Branson eased himself on a chair, gave his friend a curious look, then leaned forward, plonking his massive arms on Grace’s small desk. ‘How do you find anything, working in such a mess?’
    ‘Well, normally I’d take my files home and sort them at night, but I loaned my house to a nine-hundred-pound gorilla who swings around it, dangling from the light cords, and trashes it.’
    The DS suddenly looked a tad sheepish. ‘Yeah, well, I’m actually planning to do a big tidy-up–you know, like a spring clean–this weekend. You won’t recognize the place.’
    ‘I don’t at the moment.’
    ‘You know, half your CDs were in the wrong sleeves–I’m sorting it all out for you. Problem is, it’s such a rubbish collection.’
    ‘How can a man who worships Jay-Z say that with a straight face?’
    ‘Jay-Z’s the man! He’s, like, God! You are so much on another planet with your taste.’