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bench where they sat in Springfield Gardens, near the White Lodge Mansion, now transformed into a trendy café.
    ‘You have, Moshe. But this is getting way beyond my league. I agreed to spot potential donors, I didn’t —’

    ‘That’s right. I pay you a lot of money to persuade those donors. I also give you free board in a very nice flat in central London, which I could easily be renting out at a tidy sum if I wanted to. I make your job so easy by paying plenty to those truck drivers for the human traffic and they take their cut from the Banglas. Thieves those drivers are! And Namzul, I even put the illegals up in my own accommodation to make it still easier for you to meet them in Whitechapel. And when you’ve worked your magic of coercement, I clean up the mess after you. I think you have a very cosy arrangement.’
    ‘Moshe, they were meant to be live donors, returned to their lives.’
    ‘What lives?’ He laughed and it was a sinister sound. ‘I know they’re your countrymen so forgive my candour, but these are not the kind of citizens any country wants. These are illegal immigrants with no social standing in either their home country or their adopted one. They are the poverty-stricken, the homeless, the ones who keep bringing more children into poverty . . . and so the cycle continues. No one will miss them. No one cares.’
    Once again Namzul looked over at the Gluck brood and wondered at Moshe’s heartlessness, not that he felt anything personal for Hiran or Taj. He’d barely known them and had long ago steeled himself against sharing any of his targets’ pain. No one had comforted him through his pain. After delivering them to the rendezvous point he had not intended to see them again. But to learn of their death and to know he played a part in it unnerved him. Namzul was, for the first time since he embarked on this criminal path, genuinely frightened.

    He changed tack. ‘Why is this woman needed and why so specific a type?’
    Gluck shrugged. ‘Listen, our job is simply to provide. I don’t care what they want her for or why.’
    ‘But this is someone from a different background. I’m unlikely to find an illegal who fits this description.’
    ‘You can find anyone you want in and around Whitechapel, Namzul. Just look harder. They’re willing to pay a lot for this one.’
    ‘How much?’ Namzul asked.
    ‘You will get ten.’
    He was sure his heart stopped for a moment. ‘Ten thousand pounds?’
    ‘Almost enough to make you go and find her tonight, eh?’ Moshe said quietly, finally shifting his gaze from his family to Namzul. ‘Almost enough to make you realise you don’t have to do this much longer . . . but I suspect there may be more requests like these.’
    ‘What’s going on? This is not for kidneys any more is it?’
    Moshe shook his head. ‘I doubt it ever was; it was likely always a cover. And not at that price for the spotter. But I think you will earn your money this time, my friend. She must be perfect. She must fit the specifications. The client is prepared to pay handsomely as acknowledgement of the difficulty of the task . . . but I think you’re up to it, Namzul.’
    ‘She will die,’ he said baldly. It was not a question.
    ‘I imagine so at that price.’
    Namzul stared at Gluck, despising the cold, dead-looking eyes and bland expression emanating from the pale complexion. The ringlets he wore proudly down the side of his long, horselike face lookedgreasy and Namzul noticed stains on the waistcoat of the traditional dark suit. Namzul had not a fraction of Gluck’s wealth but he was sure he turned himself out much more smartly than this man. One only needed to look at the drab clothes he put his wife in to gauge that Moshe Gluck put no store in outward appearance.
    ‘But that should not trouble you, not with £ 10,000 coming your way for finding her.’
    ‘How do I find her? What is my reason? I can assure you she’s not going to agree to sell a kidney.’
    He