Dead Tomorrow

HOLMES analyst’s scoping.
    Trafficking of humans for organ transplantation was one of the major lines of enquiry on the list. But in the absence of any evidence that this practice had happened before in the UK, Grace was concerned not to throw all his resources into this one line, despite all the pointers to it.
    It could simply be some kind of maniac killer.
    Someone with surgical skills.
    But then why would that person have just stopped with those four organs. The high-value ones?
    What would Brother Occam have done? What is the most obvious explanation here? What would the great philosopher monk cut through with his razor?
    Then Cleo cut through his thoughts. Dinner, she called up sweetly to him, was on the table.

74
    Lynn heard the sound of music blasting outfrom the living room as she arrived home, shortly before nine. She slammed the door behind her against the icy wind and unwound the Cornelia James shawl she had bought on eBay–where she bought most of her accessories–a few weeks earlier.
    Then, with her coat still on, she peered around the living-room door. Luke was lounging on the sofa, drinking a can of Diet Coke, his hair looking even more stupid than ever, most of it hanging in one big, gelled, lopsided spike over his right eye. But he did not look as stupid as the two slender girls dancing on the screen, in the pop video that was playing.
    Clad only in black bras and briefs, wearing silver boxes on their heads, they were gyrating in jerky, mechanical movements to a hard, repetitive beat. Various phrases were stencilled in crude black letters on different parts of their arms, legs and midriffs. DO IT! MAKE IT! WORK HARDER! EVER BETTER!
    ‘Daft Punk?’ Lynn said.
    Luke nodded. ‘Yeah.’
    Jabbing the remote, she turned the volume down. ‘All OK?’
    He nodded. ‘Caitlin’s sleeping.’
    With this fucking racket? she nearly said. Instead she thanked him for looking after her, then asked, ‘How is she?’
    He shrugged. ‘No change. I checked on hera few minutes ago.’
    Still with her coat on, Lynn hurried up the stairs and went into her daughter’s bedroom. Caitlin was in bed with her eyes closed. In the weak glow of the bedside lamp, she was looking even more yellow. Then she opened one eye and peered at her mother.
    ‘How are you, angel?’ Lynn leaned down and kissed her, stroking her hair, which felt damp.
    ‘I’m quite thirsty actually.’
    ‘Would you like some water? Fruit juice? Coke?’
    ‘Water,’ Caitlin said. Her voice was small, and reedy.
    Lynn went to the kitchen and poured out a glass of cold water from the fridge. She noticed, to her dismay, a buildup of ice at the back of the fridge–a sure sign, she knew from past experience, that the appliance was on its last legs. Yet another expense looming up which she could not afford.
    As she closed the door, Luke came in, barefoot, in a grey cardigan over a ragged shirt and baggy jeans.
    ‘How did you get on today, Lynn?’
    ‘Raising money?’
    He nodded.
    ‘My mother’s come up with some. And Caitlin’s father has offered his life savings. But I still need to find one hundred and seventy-five thousand.’
    ‘I’d like to help,’ he said.
    Surprised, she said, ‘Well, thank you–that’s–that’s very kind of you, Luke. But it’s an impossible sum.’
    ‘I’ve got some money. I dunno if Caitlin ever told you about my dad–not my stepfather–my real father.’
    Holding the glass of water in her hand, and anxious to take it up to Caitlin, she said, ‘No.’
    ‘He was killed in an accident at work. On a building site–a crane toppled on to him. My mum got a big compensation payment, and she gavemost of it to me, because she didn’t want my stepdad getting it–he has a gambling habit. I’d be happy to contribute it.’
    ‘That really is very kind of you, Luke,’ she said, genuinely touched. ‘All contributions are more than welcome. How much could you spare?’
    ‘I’ve got one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I want you to have it all.’
    She dropped the glass.

75
    Sometimes, Roy Gracethought, it was easy to become overconfident and forget the most elementary stuff. It was good, occasionally, to go back to basics.
    Seated in his office at quarter to seven in the morning, drinking his second cup of coffee of the day, he pulled down from his bookshelves the Murder Investigation Manual , a massive but definitive tome, compiled by the Centre for Policing Excellence for the Association of Chief Police