Dead Tomorrow

panic.
    ‘It’s–er–it’s not really a very convenient time,’ she gasped.
    Her words sounded disembodied, as if someone else was saying them.
    ‘I’m sorry, but we do need to speak to you right away,’ the Detective Superintendent said, stepping forward, his face coming closer, intimidatingly closer, again.
    She stared wildly, for a moment, at each of them in turn. What the hell was this about? The money she had taken from Reg Okuma, she thought, with sudden terror–had he reported it?
    She heard her disembodied voice say mechanically, ‘Yes, right, come in, please come in. It’s cold, isn’t it? Cold but dry. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Not raining. December’s often quite a dry month.’
    The young woman DC looked at her sympathetically and smiled.
    Lynn stepped backto let them in, then shut the front door behind them. The hallway seemed smaller than ever and she felt crowded by the two police officers.
    ‘Mrs Beckett,’ the Detective Superintendent said, ‘you have a daughter called Caitlin, is that correct?’
    Lynn’s eyes shot upstairs. ‘Yes.’ She struggled to get the word past the lump in her throat. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
    ‘Forgive me if I’m being a little forward, Mrs Beckett, but as I understand it, your daughter is unwell with liver failure and in need of a transplant. Is that correct?’
    For some moments, she said nothing, trying desperately to think clearly. Why were they here? Why?
    ‘Would you mind telling me what you are doing here? What is this about? What do you want?’ she asked, shaking.
    Roy Grace said, ‘We have reason to believe that you may be attempting to buy a new liver for your daughter.’
    He paused and they stared at each other for a moment. He could see the fear in her eyes.
    ‘Are you aware that, in this country, that would be a criminal offence, Mrs Beckett?’
    Lynn shot a glance upstairs, afraid that Caitlin might overhear, then ushered the two officers through into the kitchen and shut the door.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.’
    ‘Shall we sit down?’ Grace said.
    Lynn pulled up a chair facing the two detectives across the table. She considered offering them tea, but decided against, wanting to get shot of them as quickly as possible.
    With his coat still on, Roy Grace sat opposite her, with arms folded.
    ‘Mrs Beckett, duringthe past week there have been a large number of telephone calls exchanged between your home and mobile phone numbers and a company in Munich called Transplantation-Zentrale. Could you tell us why you made those calls?’
    ‘Transplantation-Zentrale?’ she echoed.
    ‘They are a firm of international organ brokers. They obtain human organs for people who need transplants, such as your daughter,’ he said.
    Lynn shrugged defensively. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of these people. I know my daughter’s boyfriend has been very upset about my daughter’s treatment from her hospital in London.’
    ‘Upset about what exactly?’ Grace asked.
    ‘The way they run their fucking transplant waiting list.’
    ‘Sounds like you’re upset too,’ he said.
    ‘I think you’d be upset if it was your daughter, Detective Superintendent Grace.’
    ‘So it hasn’t crossed your mind to try to look beyond the UK for a suitable liver?’
    ‘No, why should it?’
    Grace was quiet for a moment. Then, as gently as he could, he asked, ‘Would you deny that you had a phone conversation with a lady called Frau Marlene Hartmann, who is the chief executive of Transplantation-Zentrale, at five past nine this morning? Less than one hour ago?’
    Suddenly, despite all her efforts to think clearly, she felt herself losing it. She was shaking uncontrollably. Shit, oh shit, oh shit . Wide-eyed, she stared at him.
    ‘Have you bugged my bloody phone?’
    Above her, she heard the sound of water gurgling out of the bath.
    The Detective Superintendentslipped his hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a brown envelope. Carefully, from inside it, he pulled out a photograph and laid it on the table for Lynn to see.
    It was a photograph of a girl in her early to mid-teens. Despite looking grubby, she had a pretty face, with Romany features and complexion, lank brown hair, and was wearing a blue, sleeveless puffa over a ragged, multicoloured jogging top.
    ‘Mrs Beckett,’ he went on, ‘I expect you have been told that your daughter’s liver is coming from someone who has been killed