Dead Tomorrow

three individual to Interpol, but you and I know how long those desk jockeys take to get a result.’
    Grace smiled. Interpol was a good organization, but the bureau was indeed full of desk-bound police officers who relied on cooperation with police forces in countries abroad and were seldom able to short-cut rigid time frames.
    ‘We could be looking at three weeks minimum, at least,’ Norman Potting said. ‘I’ve done some more trawling on the web. There are thousands of street people in Bucharest who live on the margins. If–and it’s only speculation–these three victims are street kids, then it’s unlikely they’ll ever have been to a dentist–and unless they’ve been arrested, there won’t be any fingerprint or DNA records.’
    Grace nodded in agreement.
    ‘There’s a chap I was on a Junior Detective Training course with at Hendon when we were young DCs. Ian Tilling. We became mates and kept in touch. He joined the Met, then after some years he got transferred to Kent Police. Rose to inspector. Long story short, about seventeen years ago his lad was killed in a motorcycle accident. His life fell apart, his marriage bust up, and he took early retirement from the force. Then he decided to do something totally different–you know the syndrome–try to make sense of what had happened and to do something useful. So he went to Romania and began working with street kids. Last time I spoke to him was about five years ago, just after my third marriage went kaput.’ Potting gave a wistful smile. ‘You know how it is, when you are down in your cups, you start going through your address book, phoning up old mates.’
    That wasn’tsomething Roy Grace had ever done, but all the same he nodded.
    ‘He’d just got a gong–an MBE–for his work with these street kids, which he was proud as all hell about. With your permission I’d like to contact him–it’s a long shot, but he might–just might–be able to help us.’
    Grace thought for a little while. In the last few years the police had become increasingly bureaucratic, with guidelines on just about everything. Their procedures with Interpol had been strictly in accordance with these. Stepping outside was risky–and nothing was more certain to bring him into conflict with the new Chief Constable than deviating from procedure. On the other hand, Norman Potting was right that they could spend weeks waiting for Interpol to come back to them, and probably with a negative result. How many more bodies might turn up in the interim?
    And he was reassured by the fact that this man, Ian Tilling, was a former police officer, which meant he was unlikely to be a flake.
    ‘I won’t put this in my policy book, Norman, but I’d be very comfortable for you to pursue this line in an off-the-record way. Thanks for the initiative.’
    Potting looked pleased. ‘Right away, guv. The old bugger’ll be surprised to hear from me.’ He started to stand up, then got halfway and sat back down again. ‘Roy, would you mind if I asked you something–you know–man to man–personal?’
    Grace glanced at another slew of emails that had appeared on his screen. ‘No, ask away.’
    ‘It’s about my wife.’
    ‘Li? Isn’t that her name?’
    Potting nodded.
    ‘FromThailand?’
    ‘Yeah, Thailand.’
    ‘You found her on the Internet, right?’
    ‘Well, sort of. I found the agency on the Internet.’ Potting scratched the back of his head, then checked with his stubby, grimy fingers that his comb-over was in place. ‘Did you ever think of–you know–doing that?’
    ‘No.’ Grace glanced anxiously at his computer screen, conscious of his morning running out on him. ‘What was it you wanted?’
    Potting looked gloomy suddenly. ‘Bit of advice, actually.’ He dug his hands into his jacket pockets and rummaged around, as if searching for something. ‘If you could imagine yourself in my position for a moment, Roy. Everything has been just grand with Li for the past few months, but suddenly she’s making demands on me.’ He fell silent.
    ‘What kind of demands?’ Grace asked, dreading graphic details of Norman Potting’s sex life.
    ‘Money for her family. I have to send money every week, to help them out. Money I’ve got saved up for my retirement.’
    ‘Why do you have to do this?’
    Potting looked for a moment as if he had never asked this question. ‘Why?’ he echoed. ‘Li tells me that if I truly love her, then I would want to help her parents.’
    Grace