Dead Tomorrow

leaning against a whitewashed house in Sharm el Sheikh, looking tanned, in a T-shirt and shorts and a cool pair of sunglasses, and giving the photographer–Lynn–a jokey supermodel pout.
    Then, returning to her call sheet, she dialled a number and a gruff male voice answered in a Geordie accent.
    ‘Yeah?’
    ‘Goodafternoon,’ she said, politely. ‘Is that Mr Ernest Moorhouse?’
    ‘Um, who’s speaking?’ He sounded evasive suddenly.
    ‘My name is Lynn Beckett. Is that Mr Moorhouse?’
    ‘Well, yeah, it might be,’ he said.
    ‘I’m phoning from Denarii Collection Agency, following up a letter we sent you recently, regarding eight hundred and seventy-two pounds that you owe on your HomeFixIt store card. Could I just check your identity?’
    There was a moment’s silence. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘sorry, I misunderstood you. I’m not Mr Moorhouse. You must have a wrong number.’
    The line went dead.
    Lynn redialled and the same voice answered. ‘Mr Moorhouse? It’s Lynn Beckett from Denarii. I think we got disconnected.’
    ‘I just told you, I’m not Mr Moorhouse. Now eff off and stop bothering me or I’ll come round to New England Quarter and ram this phone up your blooming arse.’
    ‘So you did get my letter?’ she went on, unperturbed.
    His voice rose several octaves and decibels. ‘What part of I’m not Mr Fucking Moorhouse don’t you understand, you stupid cow?’
    ‘How did you know I am in New England Quarter, unless you got my letter, Mr Moorhouse?’ she asked, still keeping calm and polite.
    Then she lifted the headset away from her ears as a torrent of abuse came back. Suddenly the mobile phone in her handbag began ringing. She pulled it out and glanced at the display. It showed Private Number . She pressed the kill button.
    When the abuse had ended, she said, ‘I should warn you, Mr Moorhouse, that all our calls are recorded for training and monitoring purposes.’
    ‘Yeah? Well, I’m goingto warn you something, Miss Barnett. Don’t you ever call me again at this time of day and start talking to me about money. Do you understand?’
    ‘What time of day would be better for you?’
    ‘NO FUCKING TIME OF DAY. OR NIGHT. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’
    ‘I’d like to see if we could make a plan for you to start paying this off on a weekly basis. Something you can afford.’
    Again she had to hold the headset away from her ears.
    ‘I can’t fucking afford nothing. I lost my fucking job, didn’t I? I got fucking Gordon Brown in my fucking pocket. I got fucking bailiffs knocking at my door for bigger fucking debts than this. Now go away and don’t ever fucking call me again. DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND ME?’
    Lynn took a deep breath. ‘How about if you started off by paying us just ten pounds a week? We’d like to make it easy for you. A repayment plan that you would be comfortable with.’
    ‘ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF?’
    The phone went dead again. Almost instantly, her mobile beeped, with a message.
    She made a note on Ernest Moorhouse’s file. She’d arrange for him to be sent another letter, then follow it up with another call next week. If that did not work, and it rather sounded as if it wouldn’t, then she would have to hand it over to litigation.
    Surreptitiously, because private calls were frowned upon, she brought her phone to her ear and checked her message.
    Itwas from the transplant coordinator at the Royal South London Hospital, asking her to call back urgently.

44
    There had been another suspicious death in the city over the weekend, a forty-year-old known drug dealer called Niall Foster, who had fallen seven floors from his seafront flat. It had the hallmarks of a suicide, but neither the Coroner nor the police were comfortable about coming to an early conclusion. The small inquiry team that had been set up to investigate had been allocated the third work station in MIR One, so to avoid interrupting them when they were there, and to more comfortably accomodate his growing team, Grace was now holding some of his twice-daily briefings in the conference room, across the corridor.
    His team, which had expanded even further, were seated at the large rectangular table, with twenty-four occupied red chairs pulled up around it. At one end of the room, directly behind the Detective Superintendent, was a curved two-tone blue display board bearing the words www.sussex.police.uk and an artistic display of five police badges on a blue background, with the Crimestoppers name and