Dead Tomorrow

meant, almost certainly, he was wrong about the direction. All he could hope was that an alert patrol officer spotted it.
    Another phone was ringing on, unanswered. Answer it, for fuck’s sake, someone! he thought.
    To his relief, someone did.
    His nerves were becoming increasingly frayed. Alison Vosper wanted an update and Kevin Spinella from the Argus had left four messages, wanting to know when the next press conference would be held.
    He pulled up a police map ofSussex on his screen and stared at it, wondering desperately what he might be missing.
    Then, suddenly, the police observer in the helicopter radioed him, updating him. The Aston Martin was pulling into a petrol station.
    Grace thanked him. Seconds later, one of the unmarked units radioed him, informing him they had pulled up at adjoining pumps and requesting instructions.
    ‘Stay with him,’ Grace responded. ‘Do nothing. Just fill up too, or pretend you’re filling up.’
    ‘Stay with him, yes, yes.’ There was a crackle, then, ‘Sir, Target One emerging from vehicle. Except, sir, it’s not a him, it’s a her .’
    ‘What?’
    ‘It’s a woman, sir. Long dark hair. Five-ten, late twenties.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ Grace retorted.
    ‘Umm–it’s a woman, sir, yes, yes.’
    Grace suddenly felt as if a plug had been pulled inside him. ‘A woman with long brown hair? But–she had grey hair half an hour ago!’
    ‘Not any more, sir.’
    ‘You’re kidding me!’ he said.
    ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
    ‘Stay with her,’ Grace said. ‘I want to know where she’s going.’
    Next, he instructed the helicopter to head down to the Washington roundabout and watch for the Mercedes. Then he sipped some stone-cold coffee and closed his eyes for a few moments, tapping his fist against his chin, deep in thought.
    Was the woman in the Aston juston an innocent journey somewhere, or was she a decoy? Had DS Tanner, an experienced surveillance officer, made an error? That was a big difference in hair colour to get wrong. The car probably had darkened windows, but the law forbade heavy tints in the front windows.
    Moments later his radio beeped and he got his answer.
    It was the surveillance officer at the petrol station.
    ‘Sir, I just got a glance inside the car while she went to pay. There’s a short grey wig lying on the passenger seat.’
    Grace thanked him and told him to continue following her. Then he ended the call.
    Shit , he thought. Shit, shit, shit.
    Immediately, he radioed Paul Tanner.
    The rural surveillance expert was apologetic. He informed Grace that he and his colleague had remained in situ for thirty minutes after the departure of the Aston Martin, as instructed. But they were now heading into central Brighton, urgently required for a drugs surveillance operation.
    Grace thanked him, then turned to Guy Batchelor and asked him to call Sirius’s home number, to see if the man was there.
    Two minutes later, the Detective Sergeant informed him that Sirius had left home a short while ago.
    Grace listened despondently. He just couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be so completely and utterly duped–and so simply. It wasn’t what his team expected of him. Nor was it what he expected from himself.
    He should have arrested Lynn Beckett earlier today, when he’d had the chance. At least that might have contained the situation. Except, of course, it would have caused panic and he’d almost certainly have blown any chance of catching the people red-handed. God, hindsight was so easy!
    Think , he willedhimself. Think, man, think, think, think.
    An unanswered phone was warbling again. He was finding it hard to concentrate with this damn, incessant ringing. A light was blinking on the panel on the phone in front of him. In frustration he pressed the button and answered it himself.
    ‘Incident Room,’ he said.
    On the other end of the line was a nervous-sounding woman. In her thirties or forties, he guessed. She said, ‘May I please speak to someone involved with the three bodies that were–were–found in the Channel? Is it Operation Neptune? Is that right?’
    She sounded as if she was probably a time waster, but you could never be sure. His policy was always to be polite and listen carefully. ‘You’re speaking to Detective Superintendent Grace,’ he said. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on Operation Neptune.’
    ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Right. Good. Look, I’m sorry to trouble you–but I’m worried. I shouldn’t