Dead Tomorrow

and racketeers . Sums it up, doesn’t it?’
    Bella gave him a huffy stare. ‘So which one are you?’
    ‘Norman,’ Grace said, ‘there are people who would find that offensive. All right?’
    For a moment the DS looked as if he was going to argue back, but then he appeared to think better of it. ‘Yes, chief. Understood. Just trying to make the point that with three bodies missing their organs, we could be looking at racketeering–in human organs.’
    ‘Anything you want to expand on that?’
    ‘I’ve given a brief to Phil Taylor and Ray Packham down in the High-Tech Crime Unit to see what they can find on the Internet. I’ve had a trawl myself, and yes, it’s widespread.’
    ‘Any UK connections?’
    ‘Not so far. I’m widening the search as far as I can, with Interpol–in particular Europol. But I don’t think we’re going to get any quick answers from them.’
    Graceconcurred with that. Having had many previous experiences with Interpol, he knew that the organization could be infuriatingly slow–and at times arrogant.
    ‘But I have come up with something that may be of interest,’ Potting said. He heaved himself up from his chair and walked over to the whiteboard, on which was fixed the blow-up photograph of the tattoo on the teenage girl’s arm. Pointing at it, he said the name aloud: ‘Rares.’
    Bella rattled the Maltesers in her box and took out one.
    ‘I did some checking, mostly on the Internet,’ Potting went on. ‘It’s a Romanian name. A man’s first name.’
    ‘Definitely Romanian–and nowhere else?’ Grace asked him.
    ‘Unique to Romania,’ Potting responded. ‘Of course, that doesn’t necessary mean this Rares, whoever he might be, is Romanian. But it’s an indicator.’
    Grace made a note. ‘Good, that’s very helpful, Norman.’
    Potting belched and Bella shot him daggers. ‘Oops, pardon me.’ He patted his belly. ‘Something else, Roy, that I think might be relevant,’ he ploughed on. ‘The United Nations publishes a list of rogue countries involved in human trafficking for organ transplants. I checked it out.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Romania features on it–prominently.’

45
    Thehospital offered to send an ambulance, but Lynn didn’t want that, and she was sure Caitlin wouldn’t either. She decided to take her chances with the Peugeot.
    Mal’s phone went straight to voicemail, which indicated he was at sea, so she sent him an email, knowing he could pick those up:
    Matching liver donor found. She is having the transplant tomorrow at 6 a.m. Call me when you can. Lynn
    For once in the car Caitlin did not send any texts. She just gripped her mother’s hand all the time that Lynn did not need it for changing gear, a weak, clammy, frightened grip, her jaundiced face flashing in the street lights and in the stark glare of oncoming headlights, like a yellow ghost.
    A record on Southern Counties radio ended and the news came on. The third item was speculation that there was a human organ theft ring operating in Sussex. A policeman came on the radio, someone called Detective Superintendent Roy Grace, speaking with a strong, blunt voice: ‘It is far too early in our investigation to speculate, and one of our main lines of enquiry at this stage is to find out if these bodies were dumped by a passing ship in the Channel. I want to reassure the public that we consider this an isolated incident, and—’
    Lynn punched the CD button, hastily silencing the radio.
    Caitlinsqueezed her mother’s hand again. ‘You know where I’d really like to be right now, Mum?’
    ‘Where, darling?’
    ‘Home.’
    ‘You want me to turn the car round?’ Lynn said, shocked.
    Caitlin shook her head. ‘No, not our house. I’d like to be home .’
    Lynn blinked away the tears that were forming. Caitlin was talking about Winter Cottage, where she and Mal had lived when they had got married, and where Caitlin had grown up, until the divorce.
    ‘It was nice there, wasn’t it, angel?’
    ‘It was bliss. I was happy then.’
    Winter Cottage. Even its name was evocative. Lynn could remember that summer day when she and Mal had first gone to see it. She was six months pregnant with Caitlin at the time. There had been a long drive down a cart track, past a working farm, to the small, ramshackle cottage, ivy-clad, with its cluster of falling-down outbuildings and broken-paned greenhouse, but a beautifully tended lawn and a collapsed little Wendy house that Mal had lovingly rebuilt