Dead Tomorrow

Lynn Beckett’s home and mobile phone lines.
    Grace had grabbed three hours’ sleep at Cleo’s house and been back here since six. He was running on Red Bull, a handful of guarana tablets Cleo had given him, and coffee. He was very concerned that the only real lead they had at this moment was the transplant surgeon, Sir Roger Sirius–and no certainty that he was involved, or would give them anything.
    He was alsoconcerned about the news from Glenn Branson of Vlad Cosmescu’s disappearance. Was that connected with his visit to the German organ broker yesterday? Had he been rumbled by Marlene Hartmann? Had he panicked her team into aborting their plans and making a fast retreat? The all-ports alert, not only to watch for the German woman accompanied by a young girl arriving, but to watch for a man answering Vlad Cosmescu’s description leaving, had so far yielded nothing.
    Ports of entry and departure would forever be a policing problem on an island like Great Britain, with miles of open coastline and numerous private airports and landing strips. Sometimes you would get lucky, but the resources to monitor everyone arriving on and departing from these shores were beyond any budget the police force had. It didn’t help that the Home Office, in its enthusiasm to comply with government budget cuts, had scrapped passport controls for people leaving the UK. In a nutshell, unless someone positively identified them, the UK law enforcement agencies hadn’t a clue who was here and who wasn’t.
    The post-mortem on Jim Towers would now be under way and Grace was anxious to get down to the mortuary to see whether there were any early findings from the pathologist to link his death to Operation Neptune–and of course to see Cleo, who had been asleep when he had arrived at her house and when he had left.
    As he stood up and pulled his jacket on, telling the other members of his team where he was going, yet another phone was warbling on, unanswered. Was everyone deaf in here today? Or just too plain exhausted after the long night to pick up the receiver?
    He got as far as thedoor before it stopped. As he turned the handle, Lizzie Mantle called out to him, holding up the receiver.
    ‘Roy! For you.’
    He went backover to the work station. It was David Hicks, one of the phone surveillance operatives.
    ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we’ve just picked up a call on Mrs Beckett’s landline.’

104
    ‘I’m like… I’ve got to be at this workshop thing at ten,’ Luke mumbled, staggering into the kitchen as if he was sleepwalking. ‘Do you think it would be OK if I went?’
    ‘Of course,’ she said to his left eye, the only visible one. ‘Go. I’ll call you if anything develops.’
    ‘Cool.’
    He went.
    Lynn hurried upstairs, a million things that she had to do between now and midday swirling in her head, and with Luke gone–God bless him–she could think more clearly.
    She had to go through the checklist from Marlene Hartmann of Transplantation-Zentrale.
    Had to get Caitlin up, washed, packed.
    Had to get herself packed.
    It took her a while to rouse Caitlin, who was in a deep sleep from the medication Dr Hunter had given her. She ran a bath for her and then started packing overnight bags for each of them.
    Suddenly, the doorbell rang.
    She looked at her watch, panic gripping her. Surely not now? The German woman had said midday , surely? It was only just gone ten o’clock. Was it the postman?
    She hurried downstairs and pulled open the front door.
    A man and a womanstood there. The man was about forty, with close-cropped fair hair, a small, slightly flattened nose and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in an overcoat, navy suit, white shirt and a plain blue tie, and was holding up a small, black leather wallet with something printed inside it, and his photograph. The woman was a good decade younger, blonde hair pulled up in a bun, wearing a dark trouser suit with a cream blouse, and held up a similar black wallet.
    ‘Mrs Lynn Beckett?’ he asked.
    She nodded.
    ‘Detective Superintendent Grace and DC Boutwood of Sussex CID. Would it be possible to have a word with you?’
    Lynn stared at them in shock. She felt as if she had been dropped into the plunge pool of a sauna. The floor beneath her feet felt unstable. The police officers were in her face, right up close to her, so close she could almost feel the warmth of the Detective Superintendent’s breath. She stepped back, in a red mist of