Dead Tomorrow

be making this call, you see–I’ve sneaked out in my break.’
    ‘OK,’ he said, picking up his pen and opening his notebook on a blank page. ‘Could you let me have your name and your contact number?’
    ‘I–I saw on a Crimestoppers’ advertisement that–that I could be anonymous.’
    ‘Yes, certainly, if you’d prefer. So, how do you believe you can help us?’
    ‘Well,’ she said, sounding even more nervous, ‘this may be nothing, of course. But I’ve read–you know–and seen on the news–the–er–the speculation that these poor young people might have been trafficked for their organs. Well, the thing is, you see…’ She fell silent.
    Grace waited for her tocontinue. Finally, he prompted her, a tad impatiently. ‘Yes?’
    ‘Well, you see, I work in the dispensing department of a pharmaceutical wholesaler. For quite a long time now we’ve been supplying two particular drugs, among others, to a cosmetic surgery clinic in West Sussex. Now the thing is, I don’t understand why this clinic would need these particular drugs.’
    Grace started becoming more interested. ‘What kind of drugs?’
    ‘Well, one is called Tacrolimus.’ She spelled it out and he wrote it down. ‘The other is Ciclosporin.’ He wrote that down, also.
    ‘These drugs are immunosuppressants,’ she continued.
    ‘Which means they do what, exactly?’ he asked.
    ‘Immunosuppressants are used to prevent rejection by the human body of transplanted organs.’
    ‘Are you saying they don’t have any application in cosmetic surgery?’
    ‘The only application is for skin grafts, to prevent rejection. But I very much doubt they would be using the quantity we’ve been supplying for the two years that I’ve been here now if it was just for skin grafts. I know quite a lot about that area, you see, I used to work in the burns unit at East Grinstead,’ she said, suddenly sounding proud and less nervous. ‘There’s another drug as well that we supply to this clinic that I think might be relevant.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Prednisolone.’ Again shespelled it out. ‘It’s a steroid–it can have a wider application, but it has a particular function in liver transplants.’
    ‘Liver transplants?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Suddenly, Roy Grace’s adrenalin was surging. ‘What’s the name of this clinic?’
    After some hesitation, the woman’s voice dropped and she sounded nervous again. Almost whispering, she said, ‘Wiston Grange.’

114
    The driver’s English waslimited, which suited Lynn fine, as she wasn’t in any mood for chatting. He’d informed her his name was Grigore, and every time she glanced at his rear-view mirror, she saw him grinning at her with his crooked, glinting teeth. Twice on the journey he made a brief phone call, speaking in a foreign language Lynn did not know.
    All her attention was on Caitlin, who, to her intense relief, seemed to rally a little again during the course of the journey–thanks perhaps to the glucose fluid or the antibiotics, or both. It was Lynn who was the hopeless bag of nerves at this moment, barely even noticing where they were heading, as they travelled along the A27 west of Brighton, passing Shoreham Airport, then along the Steyning bypass. The sky was an ominous grey, as if reflecting the darkness inside her, and flecks of sleet were falling. Every few minutes the driver briefly flicked the wipers on.
    ‘Will Dad come and see me?’ Caitlin asked suddenly, her voice sounding weak. She was scratching her stomach now.
    ‘Of course. One of us will be with you all the time until you are back home.’
    ‘ Home ,’ Caitlin said wistfully. ‘That’s where I’d like to be now. Home. ’
    Lynn nearly asked her which home , but decided not to go there. She already knew the answer.
    Then, looking frightenedand vulnerable, Caitlin asked, ‘You’ll be there during the operation, won’t you, Mum?’
    ‘I promise.’ She squeezed her daughter’s weak hand and kissed her on the cheek. ‘And I’ll be there when you wake up.’
    Caitlin gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, well, don’t wear anything embarrassing.’
    ‘Thanks a lot!’
    ‘You haven’t brought that horrible orange top?’
    ‘I haven’t brought that horrible orange top.’
    A little over half an hour after leaving Brighton Station car park, they turned in through a smart, pillared gateway, past the sign which read WISTON GRANGE SPA RESORT , then they drove on up a metalled driveway, through rolling parkland and over a