Dead Tomorrow

murmured.
    Lynn sat in silence as they headed down towards Preston Circus, then turned right at the lights and went up New England Hill, under the viaduct. Then they turned sharp left. Moments later they crested the hill and began descending, down towards Brighton Station. The driver stopped at a junction, then carried on down the hill and suddenly pulled over sharply and halted by a row of bollards recently installed to prevent cars dropping off here.
    A short man, aboutfifty years old, in a cheap beige suit, with greasy hair and a beaky nose, hurried over and opened Lynn’s door.
    ‘You come with me,’ he said in broken English. ‘Quickly, quickly, please! I am Grigore!’ He gave a servile, bucktoothed smile.
    Staring at him in bewilderment, Lynn said, ‘Where–where are we going?’
    He almost yanked her out of the car in his agitation, with an apologetic smile, into the bitterly cold noon air.
    The taxi driver removed their bags from the boot.
    None of them noticed the green Passat driving slowly past.
    In the Incident Room, Grace’s radio beeped.
    ‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.
    ‘They’re getting out at Brighton Station,’ the surveillance officer informed him. ‘In the wrong place.’
    Roy was thrown into total confusion. Brighton Station ?
    ‘What the fuck?’ he said, thinking aloud.
    There were four trains an hour to London from there. Romeo Sierra Zero Eight Alpha Mike Lima was still heading towards the M25. All his theories about a clinic in Sussex were suddenly down the khazi. Were they going to a clinic in London?
    ‘Follow them on foot,’ he said, in sudden total panic. ‘Don’t lose them. Whatever you do, don’t sodding lose them.’
    With Grigore holdingone bag and Lynn holding the other, dragging a stumbling Caitlin between them, they hurried across the concourse of Brighton Station. Every few seconds the man threw a nervous glance over his shoulder.
    ‘Quick!’ he implored. ‘Quick!’
    ‘I can’t go any bloody quicker!’ Lynn panted, totally bewildered.
    They hurried beneath the clock suspended from the glass roof, past the news stall and the cafe´, then along, past the far platform.
    ‘Where are we going?’ Lynn asked.
    ‘Quick!’ he replied.
    ‘I need to sit down,’ Caitlin said.
    ‘In minute you sit. OK?’
    They stumbled out into the drop-off area beside the car park exit, past several waiting cars and taxis, and reached a dusty brown Mercedes. He popped open the boot, hefted their bags in, then opened a rear door and manoeuvred Caitlin inside. Lynn clambered in on the far side. Grigore jumped into the driver’s seat, started the car and drove like a demon away from the station.
    The surveillance officer, DC Peter Woolf, stood and watched in horror, sensing his promotion prospects disappearing down that ramp, and frantically radioed his colleague in the Passat to get round to the car park exit.
    But the Passat was stuck on the far side of the station in a queue of frustrated drivers, waiting for the imbecile in an articulated lorry that was blocking the entire street to complete his reversing manoeuvre.

112
    Marlene Hartmannanxiously paced her office on the ground floor of the west wing of Wiston Grange, one of the six clinics that Transplantation-Zentrale quietly owned around the world. Most of the pampered clientele who came here for its spa, as well as surgical and non-surgical rejuvenation facilities, were wholly unaware of the activities that went on behind the sealed doors, marked PRIVATE NO ACCESS , to this particular wing.
    There was a fine view towards the Downs from her window, but whenever she came here she was normally too preoccupied to notice it. As she was today.
    She looked at her watch for the tenth time. Where was Sirius? Why were the mother and daughter taking so long?
    She needed Lynn Beckett here to fax instructions to her bank to authorize the transfer of the second half of the funds. Normally she would wait for confirmation that the cleared funds were in her account, in Switzerland, before proceeding, but today she was going to have to take a risk, because she wanted to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.
    Sunset was at 3.55 p.m. Shoreham Airport closed then for landings and take-offs. She needed to be there for half past three at the latest. Cosmescu would be coming with her, with the remains of the Romanian girl. The team she left behind would be fine, looking after Caitlin. Even if the police did find out it was this