Dead Tomorrow

the ceiling as the car bounced.
    ‘ Scheisse !’ she said, but not from pain.
    It was the sight of the white police van that was squarely parked across the rear exit to Wiston Grange, ahead of them, that made her swear.
    ‘Turn!’ she commanded Grigore. ‘We try the front.’
    ‘Maybe we are better on foot?’ Cosmescu said, as Grigore braked sharply, sliding the car around on the grass.
    ‘Oh sure, with the helicopter up there? No chance!’ She peered out of the side window, craning her neck up.
    Then Grigore let out a yell and jabbed his finger over his shoulder. Marlene turned and, to her horror, saw a police Range Rover on their tail, lights flashing and gaining rapidly.
    ‘Want me to try?’ Grigore said. ‘I drive fast?’
    ‘No, stop. Don’t say anything. I’ll speak. I’ll try to bluff. Stop the car! Halten !’
    Grigore obliged. The three of them sat in numb silence, for an instant, Marlene thinking hard.
    Another police car was racing towards them. It pulled up nose to nose with the Mercedes, blocking them, its siren dying away. And as she looked at the occupants of the front seat, her heart sank even further.
    The driver wasa black officer she had never seen before, but his front seat passenger was someone she had very definitely met before. In her office in Germany.
    Yesterday.
    Now he was out of his car and walking towards her, his unbuttoned overcoat open and flapping in the breeze. Several uniformed officers in stab vests materialized from the Range Rover and stood close behind him.
    ‘Good afternoon, Mr Taylor ,’ she greeted him coolly, as he opened her door. ‘Or would you prefer I call you Detective Superintendent Grace ?’
    Ignoring her comment, and unsmiling, he said, ‘Marlene Eva Hartmann, I’m arresting you on suspicion of trafficking human beings for organ transplantation purposes.’ He cautioned her and said, ‘Step out of the car, please.’
    He gripped her wrist and held on as she climbed out, then nodded to one of the uniformed police officers, who stepped forward and handcuffed her. ‘Just hold her here for a moment,’ he instructed the PC, then he opened the front door and addressed Cosmescu.
    ‘Joseph Baker, otherwise known as Vlad Roman Cosmescu, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Jim Towers.’ Grace then cautioned him.
    As Cosmescu was being handcuffed, Grace walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door. The man was staring at him bug-eyed and shaking. ‘So who are you?’ he asked.
    ‘Me, Grigore. I the driver.’
    ‘You have a last name?’
    ‘A what?’
    ‘Grigore? Grigore what?’
    ‘Ah. Dinica. Grigore Dinica!’
    ‘You’re the driver, right?’
    ‘Yes, just taxi driver, like taxi driver.’
    ‘ Taxi driver?’ Grace pushed, brushinga fleck of sleet from his face. His radio crackled but he ignored it.
    ‘Yes, yes, taxi . I only driving taxi for these people.’
    ‘You want me to nick you for driving an unlicensed taxi, on top of what I’m about to charge you with?’
    Grigore stared at him blankly, perspiration popping on his brow.
    Telling Glenn Branson to arrest the man on suspicion of aiding and abetting human trafficking, Grace turned back to the woman.
    Before he could speak, she said, ‘Detective Superintendent Grace, may I recommend that next time you pretend to be a customer interested in some services, you should be better briefed.’
    ‘If you’re so well briefed yourself, how come you’re nicked?’ he retorted.
    ‘I have done nothing wrong,’ she said adamantly.
    ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Then you’re lucky. English prisons are horribly overcrowded at the moment. I wouldn’t recommend a stay in many of them, especially the women’s ones.’ He brushed more flecks of sleet from his face. ‘Now, Frau Hartmann, do you want us to do this the easy way or the hard way?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘We have a search warrant signed for these premises, which is on its way–it’ll be here in a few minutes. You can give us the guided tour, if you like, or leave us to find our own way around.’
    He smiled.
    She did notsmile back.

120
    Lynn ran through a seemingly never-ending succession of rooms with a bewildering array of signs and names. Some she checked out, some she ignored. She didn’t bother with the sauna, or the steam room, or the aromatherapy room. But she peered into the yoga classroom, the Ayurvedic Centre, several treatment rooms, then the Rainforest Experience Zone.
    Every few moments