Peter James - Dead Tomorrow

‘Stay with him,’ Grace responded. ‘Do nothing. Just fill up too, or pretend you’re filling up.’

‘Stay with him, yes, yes.’ There was a crackle, then, ‘Sir, Target One emerging from vehicle. Except, sir, it’s not a him, it’s a her .’

‘What?’

‘It’s a woman, sir. Long dark hair. Five-ten, late twenties.’

‘Are you sure?’ Grace retorted.

‘Umm – it’s a woman, sir, yes, yes.’

Grace suddenly felt as if a plug had been pulled inside him. ‘A woman with long brown hair? But – she had grey hair half an hour ago!’

‘Not any more, sir.’

‘You’re kidding me!’ he said.

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘Stay with her,’ Grace said. ‘I want to know where she’s going.’

Next, he instructed the helicopter to head down to the Washington roundabout and watch for the Mercedes. Then he sipped some stone-cold coffee and closed his eyes for a few moments, tapping his fist against his chin, deep in thought.

Was the woman in the Aston just on an innocent journey somewhere, or was she a decoy? Had DS Tanner, an experienced surveillance officer, made an error? That was a big difference in hair colour to get wrong. The car probably had darkened windows, but the law forbade heavy tints in the front windows.

Moments later his radio beeped and he got his answer.

It was the surveillance officer at the petrol station.

‘Sir, I just got a glance inside the car while she went to pay. There’s a short grey wig lying on the passenger seat.’

Grace thanked him and told him to continue following her. Then he ended the call.

Shit , he thought. Shit, shit, shit.

Immediately, he radioed Paul Tanner.

The rural surveillance expert was apologetic. He informed Grace that he and his colleague had remained in situ for thirty minutes after the departure of the Aston Martin, as instructed. But they were now heading into central Brighton, urgently required for a drugs surveillance operation.

Grace thanked him, then turned to Guy Batchelor and asked him to call Sirius’s home number, to see if the man was there.

Two minutes later, the Detective Sergeant informed him that Sirius had left home a short while ago.

Grace listened despondently. He just couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be so completely and utterly duped – and so simply. It wasn’t what his team expected of him. Nor was it what he expected from himself.

He should have arrested Lynn Beckett earlier today, when he’d had the chance. At least that might have contained the situation. Except, of course, it would have caused panic and he’d almost certainly have blown any chance of catching the people red-handed. God, hindsight was so easy!

Think , he willed himself. Think, man, think, think, think.

An unanswered phone was warbling again. He was finding it hard to concentrate with this damn, incessant ringing. A light was blinking on the panel on the phone in front of him. In frustration he pressed the button and answered it himself.

‘Incident Room,’ he said.

On the other end of the line was a nervous-sounding woman. In her thirties or forties, he guessed. She said, ‘May I please speak to someone involved with the three bodies that were – were – found in the Channel? Is it Operation Neptune? Is that right?’

She sounded as if she was probably a time waster, but you could never be sure. His policy was always to be polite and listen carefully. ‘You’re speaking to Detective Superintendent Grace,’ he said. ‘I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on Operation Neptune.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Right. Good. Look, I’m sorry to trouble you – but I’m worried. I shouldn’t be making this call, you see – I’ve sneaked out in my break.’

‘OK,’ he said, picking up his pen and opening his notebook on a blank page. ‘Could you let me have your name and your contact number?’

‘I – I saw on a Crimestoppers’ advertisement that – that I could be anonymous.’

‘Yes, certainly, if you’d prefer. So, how do you believe you can help us?’

‘Well,’ she said, sounding even more nervous, ‘this may be nothing, of course. But I’ve read – you know – and seen on the news – the – er – the speculation that these poor young people might have been trafficked for their organs. Well, the thing is, you see…’ She fell silent.

Grace waited for her to continue. Finally, he prompted her, a tad impatiently. ‘Yes?’

‘Well, you see, I work in the dispensing department of a pharmaceutical wholesaler. For quite a long time now we’ve been supplying two particular drugs, among others, to a cosmetic surgery clinic in West Sussex. Now the thing is, I don’t understand why this clinic would need these particular drugs.’

Grace started becoming more interested. ‘What kind of drugs?’

‘Well, one is called Tacrolimus.’ She spelled it out and he wrote it down. ‘The other is Ciclosporin.’ He wrote that down, also.

‘These drugs are immunosuppressants,’ she continued.

‘Which means they do what, exactly?’ he asked.

‘Immunosuppressants are used to prevent rejection by the human body of transplanted organs.’

‘Are you saying they don’t have any application in cosmetic surgery?’

‘The only application is for skin grafts, to prevent rejection. But I very much doubt they would be using the quantity we’ve been supplying for the two years that I’ve been here now if it was just for skin grafts. I know quite a lot about that area, you see, I used to work in the burns unit at East Grinstead,’ she said, suddenly sounding proud and less nervous. ‘There’s another drug as well that we supply to this clinic that I think might be relevant.’

‘Which is?’

‘Prednisolone.’ Again she spelled it out. ‘It’s a steroid – it can have a wider application, but it has a particular function in liver transplants.’

‘Liver transplants?’

‘Yes.’

Suddenly, Roy Grace’s adrenalin was surging. ‘What’s the name of this clinic?’

After some hesitation, the woman’s voice dropped and she sounded nervous again. Almost whispering, she said, ‘Wiston Grange.’

The driver’s English was limited, which suited Lynn fine, as she wasn’t in any mood for chatting. He’d informed her his name was Grigore, and every time she glanced at his rear-view mirror, she saw him grinning at her with his crooked, glinting teeth. Twice on the journey he made a brief phone call, speaking in a foreign language Lynn did not know.

All her attention was on Caitlin, who, to her intense relief, seemed to rally a little again during the course of the journey – thanks perhaps to the glucose fluid or the antibiotics, or both. It was Lynn who was the hopeless bag of nerves at this moment, barely even noticing where they were heading, as they travelled along the A27 west of Brighton, passing Shoreham Airport, then along the Steyning bypass. The sky was an ominous grey, as if reflecting the darkness inside her, and flecks of sleet were falling. Every few minutes the driver briefly flicked the wipers on.

‘Will Dad come and see me?’ Caitlin asked suddenly, her voice sounding weak. She was scratching her stomach now.

‘Of course. One of us will be with you all the time until you are back home.’

‘ Home ,’ Caitlin said wistfully. ‘That’s where I’d like to be now. Home. ’

Lynn nearly asked her which home , but decided not to go there. She already knew the answer.

Then, looking frightened and vulnerable, Caitlin asked, ‘You’ll be there during the operation, won’t you, Mum?’

‘I promise.’ She squeezed her daughter’s weak hand and kissed her on the cheek. ‘And I’ll be there when you wake up.’