Dead Tomorrow

The girl smiled back. A pretty little thing, Marlene thought. In another country, in different circumstances, life could have been good for her. She yawned again, longing for a cup of coffee. It had been a long, long night. By road to Belgrade, then a late flight to Paris, then a taxi at four in the morning to Le Touquet. But they were here. And she was happy with the plans.
    Yes, after the visit from the policeofficer yesterday, it would have been more sensible to abort. But then she would have lost a good customer. She did not think the Detective Superintendent could move this fast. Everything would be done before he even knew it and by tonight she would be back in Germany.
    Another plane was coming in to land and the pilot, standing outside, heard the roars of several different aero engines, including the clatter of a helicopter, and saw a convoy of three aircraft taxiing out towards the runways. Plenty to keep the tower occupied. This was always a good time of day, still a little bit of darkness and numerous distractions, including the vehicles of airport workers arriving.
    The white van was parked a few hundred yards along, beside the perimeter fence. He stared at it, then pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
    Behind the wheel of the van, Vlad Cosmescu was watching. This was the signal.
    He started the engine and put the van into gear.

102
    Lynn Beckett sat, bleary-eyed from asleepless night, her heart thudding, hunched over her kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea. She had lain in bed for hours, tossing and turning, shaking her pillows to try to get them comfortable, and getting up, obsessively, every twenty minutes or so to check on Caitlin, help her to the loo, ensure she drank glucose water and took the antibiotic tablets. The combination Ross Hunter had prescribed, probably aided by the jab, seemed to be working. Caitlin’s pain had subsided and the itching was a little less bad.
    For a long time after the doctor’s visit, she had remained downstairs with Luke. They had downed a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and smoked their way through an entire packet of Silk Cut, sharing the last cigarette between them.
    Now her head was pounding, her lungs were raw and she felt terrible. Luke had finally fallen into a deep slumber in the chair beside Caitlin’s bed.
    The television was on. She stared at the 9 a.m. news, but she had no interest in it. Nor in the programme on helicopter rescues that followed. She had no interest in anything, at this moment, except for the phone call she was waiting for from Marlene Hartmann.
    Please call. Oh, please God, call.
    She did not know what she would do if the German woman did not make contact. If she had simply conned them out of the money. She had no Plan B.
    Then, suddenly, the landline phone rang.
    She answered it before it hadcompleted the first ring. ‘Yeshello?’
    To her relief, it was Marlene Hartmann. ‘How are you today, Lynn?’
    ‘Yesfine,’ she gasped.
    ‘Everything is good. We are here. You will be ready for collection?’
    ‘YesIwill.’
    ‘The payment is in order? You have the balance ready?’
    ‘Yes.’ She swallowed.
    Her bank manager had already queried the first transfer she had made, and she had given him a lame reason that she was buying an investment property in Germany, from a one-off-payment final divorce settlement from her ex-husband, following an inheritance he had received.
    ‘You will see us later. The car will arrive for you as scheduled.’
    She hung up before Lynn could thank her.
    The car was scheduled for midday. Less than three hours.
    She was so wound up with stress, fear and excitement, she could hardly think straight.

103
    Shortly after the 8.30 a.m. briefing Roy Grace was sitting at the work station in MIR One, on the phone to one of the two detectives who were on surveillance outside Sir Roger Sirius’s house. They had been there since shortly before midnight and reported that no one had left the house and the helicopter was still on its pad in the grounds. He was in an irritable mood, and while he talked, one of the phones in the room warbled on, unanswered. He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and shouted for someone to answer it. Someone did, rapidly.
    Every Secretary of State had either been abroad or out at dinner somewhere last night. It had been after midnight before one–the Home Secretary himself–had signed the phone-tapping consent, and it was after two in the morning before it was up and running on