Dead Tomorrow

find out, but it’s going to take more than ten minutes.’
    Shaking her head in bewilderment, Lynn said, ‘Fifteen minutes ago, in a taxi?’
    Branson nodded.
    Lynn thought for a moment. ‘Look–look, she’s probably gone back to our house. Please let me go there. I’ll come back–I’ll come straight back, I promise.’
    ‘Mrs Beckett,’ Roy Grace said, ‘you are under arrest, and you are going to be taken from here to the Custody Centre at Brighton.’
    ‘My daughter is dying! She can’t survive. She will die if she doesn’t get to hospital today. I–have to be with her–I—’
    ‘If you like we’ll have someone go there and see how she is.’
    ‘It’s not that simple. She has got to go to hospital. Today.’ ‘Is there anyone else who can take her?’ Grace asked.
    ‘My husband–my ex-husband.’
    ‘How can we contact him?’
    ‘He’s on a ship–at sea–a dredger. I–can’t remember–what his hours are–when they’re ashore.’
    Grace nodded. ‘Can you give us his phone number? We’ll try him.’
    ‘Can’t I speak to him myself?’
    ‘I’m sorry, no.’
    ‘Can’t I justmake–I thought I could make–one phone call?’
    ‘After you are booked in.’
    Shelooked at both men in despair. Grace looked back at her with compassion but remained firm. She gave them Mal’s mobile number. Glenn Branson wrote it on his pad, then immediately dialled it.

121
    There were only two things to read in the room. One, pinned to a green door with a small window in it, said, NO MOBILE PHONES TO BE USED IN THE CUSTODY AREA . The other read, ALL DETAINED PERSONS WILL BE THOROUGHLY SEARCHED AS DIRECTED BY THE CUSTODY OFFICER. IF YOU HAVE ANY PROHIBITED ITEMS ON YOUR PERSON OR IN YOUR PROPERTY TELL THE CUSTODY OFFICER OR YOUR ARRESTING OFFICER NOW.
    Lynn had read them both about a dozen times each. She had been in this grim room, with its bare white walls and bare brown floor, seated on the rock-hard bench that felt like it was made of stone for over an hour now, sustained by two small packets of sugar she had been given.
    She had never felt so terrible in her life. None of the pain of her divorce came close to what she was experiencing inside her mind and her heart now.
    Every few minutes the young police officer who had accompanied her here from Wiston Grange glanced at her and gave her a helpless smile. They had nothing to say to each other. She’d made her point over and over to him, and he understood it, but he could do nothing.
    Suddenly his phone beeped. He answered it. After a few moments, during which he gave monosyllabic responses, he held the phone away from his ear and turned to Lynn. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Branson–he was with you earlier, at Wiston?’
    Shenodded.
    ‘He’s with your ex-husband now, at your house. There’s no sign of your daughter.’
    ‘Where is she?’ Lynn said weakly. ‘Where?’
    The officer looked at her helplessly.
    ‘Could I speak to Mal–my ex?’
    ‘I’m sorry, madam, I cannot permit that.’ Then he suddenly pulled his phone closer to his ear and raised a finger.
    Turning to Lynn, he said, ‘They’ve got Streamline Taxis on the phone.’
    He listened for some moments and then said, into the phone, ‘I will relay that, sir, if you hold a moment.’
    He turned to Lynn again. ‘They’ve been in contact with the driver who picked up a young lady from Wiston Grange about two hours ago–answering to the description of your daughter. He said he was concerned about her state of health and wanted to take her to hospital, but she refused. He dropped her off at a farm in Woodmancote, near Henfield.’
    Lynn frowned. ‘What was the address?’
    ‘Apparently it was just a track–that’s where she insisted on getting out.’
    And then the penny dropped.
    ‘OhJesus!’ she said. ‘I know where she is. I know exactly where she is. Please tell Mal–he’ll understand.’ Fighting tears again, she sniffed, her voice jerky with sobs. ‘Tell him she’s gone home .’

122
    Shortly after four o’clock, in the failing daylight, the sky was leaden with sleet and Mal needed to put the MG’s headlamps on. The deeply rutted track, which was mostly mud peppered with flint stones, had a heavy coating of leaves from its overhanging trees, and he drove slowly, not wanting to ground his exhaust, or kick up dirt at the police car following behind him.
    He was trying to think how many years it had been since he’d last come up here. They’d sold when