Dead Tomorrow

yesterday to the Argus reporter. Reaching for his Rolodex, he spun it to find the man’s card and dialled his mobile number.
    It sounded as if Kevin Spinella, who answered instantly, was also eating his lunch.
    ‘I don’t have much for you,’ Grace told him. ‘I’m not holding a press conference. Instead I’m just going to send out a press release, so I’ll give you the exclusive I promised. OK?’
    ‘Very good of you, Detective Superintendent. I appreciate it.’
    ‘Well, I think most of it you already know. The dredger, Arco Dee , pulled up the body of an unidentified male, believed to be in his mid-teens, yesterday afternoon, ten miles south of Shoreham Harbour, in its designated dredge area. A Home Office post-mortem was carried out this morning and the cause of death is as yet undetermined.’
    ‘Would that be on account of all the vital organs being missing, Detective Superintendent?’
    How the hell do you know that? This was a real, ongoing problem, Grace realized. Where did Spinella get his information from? Some day soon he was going to find the leak. Was it someone here, within HQ CID, or at the Coroner’s Office, or in one of the uniform divisions or even at the mortuary? He thought carefully before answering, listening to the somewhat unpleasant sound of the reporter chewing.
    ‘I can confirm that the body has been subject to recent surgery.’
    ‘An organ donor, right?’
    ‘I’d rather you didn’t print that for the moment.’
    There was a long silence. ‘But I’m correct?’
    ‘You would becorrect to print that the body has been subject to recent surgery.’
    Anothersilence. Then a reluctant, ‘OK.’ More chewing, followed by, ‘What can you tell me about the body?’
    ‘We estimate it has only been in the water for a few days at most.’
    ‘Nationality?’
    ‘Unknown. Our priority is to track down his identity. It would be helpful to me if you printed something along the lines that Sussex Police would like to hear from anyone with a missing teenage boy who has been subject to recent surgery.’
    ‘Foul play is suspected presumably?’
    ‘It is possible that the victim died lawfully and was buried at sea–and then drifted.’
    ‘But you are not ruling out foul play?’
    Again Grace hesitated before replying. Every conversation he had with this reporter was like a game of chess. If he was able to get Spinella to word the story the way he wanted, it could be very helpful in generating public response. But if it was printed sensationally, all it would do was frighten the citizens of Brighton and Hove.
    ‘Look,’ he said. ‘If I tell you, you’ll promise not mention anything about organs at this stage?’
    More chewing down the earpiece. Followed by the sound of a paper or cellophane wrapping being torn off. Then, ‘OK, deal.’
    ‘Sussex Police are treating this as a suspicious death.’
    ‘Top man! Thank you.’
    ‘Here’s something else for you, but not to be printed. I’m having the area scanned and police divers are going down tomorrow.’
    ‘You’ll let me know what they find?’
    Grace assured him he would and ended the call. Then he finished his lunch and, almost instantly, his stomach feeling uncomfortably bloated, began to regret the doughnut.
    Checking hiselectronic diary, he saw a reminder that he needed to send a request to Cellmark Forensic Services, the private laboratory at Abingdon which now handled Sussex CID’s DNA testing, for the six-monthly check on the DNA profiles of his cold cases.
    While the perpetrators had so far eluded justice, there was always the chance that a relative would have their DNA taken by the police after committing an offence–even for something as comparatively minor as a drunk-driving charge. Parents, children and siblings could provide enough of a match, so although this was a considerable expense out of the force’s annual forensic budget, it did occasionally produce results to justify the outlay. He emailed his MSA, instructing her to put in a request.
    As he had reflected many times, being a detective was a bit like fishing. Endless casting, endless patience. He glanced at the seven-pound six-ounce brown trout, stuffed and mounted in a glass case fixed to a wall in his office, and alongside it, a huge stuffed carp which Cleo had recently given him, with the terrible pun, Carpe diem , embossed on the brass plaque at its base. He referred to the trout, occasionally, when briefing young, fresh-faced detectives,