Dead Tomorrow

number prominently displayed beneath each of them. On the wall at the opposite end was a plasma screen.
    Grace felt undereven more pressure than usual on this investigation now. At the dinner dance on Saturday night he had managed to have another chat with the new Chief Constable and had been surprised by how well briefed on the inquiry Tom Martinson was. He realized it wasn’t just going to be the ACC, Alison Vosper, watching his every step but Martinson himself. The three bodies were bringing the city of Brighton and Hove under increasing nationalmedia scrutiny, which meant, in particular, a focus on the competence of Sussex CID. The only thing keeping the discovery of the three bodies from attracting wider news coverage at the moment was that two small girls had been missing from their home in a village near Hull, for over a week, which meant most media attention was focused on them and their immediate family.
    ‘The time is 6.30 p.m., Monday 1 December,’ Grace announced. ‘This is the eighth briefing of Operation Neptune, the investigation into the deaths of three unknown persons.’ He sipped some coffee, then went on. ‘I held a very uncomfortable press conference this morning. Someone’s leaked about the missing organs.’
    He stared at his most trusted colleagues in turn: Lizzie Mantle, Glenn Branson, who was dressed in an electric-blue suit as if ready for a night out, Bella Moy, Emma-Jane Boutwood, Norman Potting and Nick Nicholl, certain it was none of them, nor another face in the room, DS Guy Batchelor. In fact, he was pretty sure it wasn’t anyone here. Nor did he think it was the mortuary team. Or the press office. Perhaps someone in the Force Control Room… One day, when he had the time, he would find out, he promised himself that.
    Bella held up a copy of the London Evening Standard and a late edition of the Argus . The Standard headline read: ORGAN THEFT RIDDLE OF BODIES IN CHANNEL. The Argus : CHANNEL BODIES MISSING VITAL ORGANS.
    ‘You can be sure there will be more tomorrow in the morning papers,’ he said. ‘There are a couple of TV news crews crawling all over Shoreham Harbour and our PRO’s been fielding calls from radio stations all afternoon.’ He noddedat Dennis Ponds, whom he had asked to attend this briefing.
    A former journalist, the public relations officer looked more like a City trader than a newspaper man. In his early forties, with slicked-back black hair, mutantly large eyebrows and a penchant for slick suits, he had the tough task of brokering the ever-fragile relations between the police and the public. It was often a no-win situation, and he had been given the sobriquet Pond Life by those officers who remained suspicious of anyone with anything to do with the press.
    ‘I’m hoping the coverage will help bring members of the public forward,’ Ponds said. ‘I’ve circulated touched-up photographs of all three to every paper and television news station and to the Internet news feeds.’
    ‘Is Absolute Brighton TV on your list?’ Nick Nicholl asked, referring to the city’s relatively new Internet channel.
    ‘Absolutely!’ Ponds replied, then beamed, as if pleased with his wit.
    Grace glanced down at his notes.
    ‘Before we have your individual reports, there’s been one interesting serial today,’ he said. ‘Might be nothing, but we should follow it up.’ He looked at Glenn Branson. ‘You’d be the man, as you’re our nautical expert.’
    There was a titter of laughter.
    ‘Projectile-vomiting expert, more likely,’ Norman Potting chuckled.
    Ignoring him, Grace went on, ‘A fishing boat, called the Scoob-Eee , based at Shoreham, has been reported missing since Friday night. Probably nothing, but we need to monitor anything out of the usual anywhere along the coast.’
    ‘Did you say Scoob-Eee , Roy?’ Branson asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘That–that’s theboat I went out on, on Friday, with the SSU.’
    ‘You didn’t tell us you bloody sank it, Glenn!’ quipped Guy Batchelor.
    Glenn ignored him, thinking hard and very shocked. Missing as in stolen or sunk ? Turning to Grace, he asked, ‘Do you have any more information?’
    ‘No–see what you can find.’
    Branson nodded, then sat in silence, only half concentrating on the rest of the briefing.
    ‘Sounds like racketeers to me,’ Norman Potting said all of a sudden.
    Grace looked at him quizzically.
    Potting nodded. ‘It was Noël Coward, wasn’t it? What he said about Brighton. Piers, queers