Dead Tomorrow

incoming text.
    It was from his biggest source of money, Marlene Hartmann, in Munich.
    Like himself, to make it harder for the police to monitor her, she acquired a new pay-as-you-go mobile phone each week.
    The text said: Do you know this man?
    Two photographs were attached. He opened them. Moments later, he was reaching for a cigarette.
    When he had first set up shop here, he had made it his business to learn the face of every police officer who might be interested in him. He had followed the career path of this particular detective, thanks to the Argus newspaper, for several years, watching his rise up the ranks.
    He dialled her number. ‘Detective Superintendent Roy Grace from Sussex CID,’ he informed her.
    ‘He has just been in my office.’
    ‘Maybe he needs an organ?’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ she said humourlessly. ‘But I think you should know I just received a phone call from Sir Roger Sirius. The police went to interview him at his home just now, this morning.’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘I think it was just a fishing trip. But we should put Alternative One into operation right away. Yes?’
    ‘Yes, I think so.’
    Fishing trip . The words make him squirm.
    ‘I’m bringing everything forward. Please be on standby,’ she ordered.
    ‘I am ready.’
    She terminated the call with her usual abruptness.
    Cosmescu lithis cigarette and smoked it nervously, thinking hard, going over the list for Alternative One in his mind. He did not like it that the police had been to see the surgeon and the organ broker–and on the same day. Not good at all.
    Then he was distracted by a news item that suddenly appeared in front of him.
    CHANNEL TRAWL PRODUCES FOURTH BODY , the headline shouted.
    He read the first few lines of the story. A police diving team, searching for the missing Shoreham-registered fishing boat, Scoob-Eee , recovered a body from its wreckage.
    Futu-i! he thought. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit .

91
    Lynn sat at her workstation, her throat tight with anxiety. The tuna sandwich she had brought in for her lunch lay in front of her, with one small bite taken from it, along with her untouched apple.
    She had no appetite. Her stomach was full of butterflies and she was a bag of nerves. Tonight, after work, she had a date. But the butterflies were not the kind she used to have, all excited, before going to meet her boyfriend as a teenager. They were more like dark, trapped, dying moths. Her date was with the odious Reg Okuma.
    Or more specifically, so far as she was concerned, it was with his promised £15,000 in cash.
    But, from all his innuendo over the phone earlier this morning, he was clearly expecting more than just a quick, happy-hour cocktail.
    She closed her eyes for a moment. Caitlin was worsening by the day. Sometimes, it seemed, by the hour. Her mother was sitting with her this morning. Christmas was looming. Marlene Hartmann had guaranteed a liver within one week of receipt of the deposit, and she had that now. But regardless of the organ broker’s promises–and all the references which had checked out reassuringly–the reality was that a lot of activities shut down over Christmas, and the wheels of those that did not turned at a slower pace.
    Ross Hunter had phoned her earlier today, imploring her to get Caitlin into hospital.
    Yeah, to die, right?
    One ofher colleagues, a lively, friendly young woman called Nicky Mitchell, stopped by and put a sealed envelope on her desk.
    ‘Your secret Santa!’ she said.
    ‘OK, right, thanks.’
    Lynn stared at the envelope, wondering who it was in the office she would have to buy an anonymous gift for. Normally she would have enjoyed doing that, but now it was just another hassle.
    On the big screen on the wall ahead of her the words, CHRISTMAS BONUS! were flashing, surrounded by little Christmas trees and spinning gold coins. The bonus was over £3,000 now. There was a feeling of money everywhere in this office. If she cut half her colleagues open, she was sure cash would pour from their veins instead of blood.
    So much damn money. Millions. Tens of millions.
    So why the hell was it proving so hard to find that last fifteen thousand for the German broker? Mal, her mother, Sue Shackleton and Luke had all been brilliant. Her bank had been surprisingly sympathetic, but with her overdraft already exceeded, her manager told her he would need to go to head office for approval and he was not confident he would get it. Her only real option was to try for a