Peter James - Dead Tomorrow

That wasn’t something 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.

‘From Thailand?’

‘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 looked at him, astonished at his naivety. ‘You believe that?’

‘She won’t have sex with me until she’s seen me make the bank transfer – I do it online, you know,’ he said, as if proud about his technical prowess. ‘I mean, I understand the relative poverty of her country and how they perceive me as rich, and all that. But…’ He shrugged.

‘Do you want to know what I think, Norman?’

‘I would value your opinion, Roy.’

Grace studied the man’s face. Potting looked lost, forlorn. He didn’t see it, he really did not.

‘You’re a police officer, for God’s sake, Norman. You’re a sodding detective – and a really good one! You don’t see it? She’s having a laugh on you. You’re being led by your dick, not by your brain. She’ll bleed you of every penny you have and then she’ll sod off. I’ve read about these girls.’

‘Not Li – she’s different.’

‘Oh yes, how? In what way?’

Potting shrugged, then looked at the Detective Superintendent helplessly. ‘I love her. I can’t help it, Roy. I love her.’

Roy’s mobile phone rang. Almost with relief at the interruption, he answered.

It was a bright police colleague he liked a lot, Rob Leet, an inspector in the East Brighton sector.

‘Roy,’ he said, ‘this may be nothing but I thought it might be of interest, with your current inquiry with the three bodies from the Channel. One of my team has just gone down to the beach to the east of the Marina. A guy walking his dog through the rock pools at low tide has found what looks like a brand-new outboard motor lying there.’

Thinking fast, Grace said, ‘Yes, it could be. Make sure no one touches it. Can you get it forensically bagged and brought in?’

‘That’s under way.’

Grace thanked him and hung up. He raised an apologetic finger at Norman Potting, then dialled an internal number to the Imaging Department on the floor below him. It was answered after two rings.

‘Mike Bloomfield.’

‘Mike, Roy Grace. Are you guys able to get prints off an outboard motor that’s been immersed in the sea?’

‘Funny you should ask that this morning, Roy. We’ve just taken delivery of a new piece of kit we’re trialling. Costs a hundred and twelve thousand quid. It’s meant to be able to get fingerprints off plastic that’s been immersed in any kind of water for considerable periods.’

‘Good stuff. I think I may have your first challenge for you.’

Norman Potting stood up, mouthed that he would pop back later, then walked slowly out of the door, stooping a little, Grace noticed, his shoulders rounded. His heart suddenly went out to him.

Vlad Cosmescu stood in the arrivals hall of Gatwick Airport, along with the usual assortment of relatives, drivers and tour operators, holding a small placard. The Bucharest flight had landed just over an hour ago and the girls had not come through yet.

Good.

From the tags he had managed to read on the bags of the steady stream of passengers emerging through Customs, everyone from that flight had now gone. He saw Al Italia tags, which he reckoned must be from a flight that had come in from Turin a good thirty minutes later. And Easyjet tags, too, probably from the Nice flight. Then SAS tags, mingled with some KLM ones.

His watch told him it was 11.35 a.m. He popped a tab of Nicorette gum in his mouth and chewed. The two girls he was meeting had been given strict instructions what to do once they had disembarked and entered the passport area, and it seemed they were obeying them.

They were to hang back for an hour, let other flights land and their passengers go through, before they entered the passport queues. Although Romania was now a member of the EU, Cosmescu was well aware that it was internationally regarded as a hot zone for human trafficking. Romanian passports automatically raised a flag for the Border and Immigration Agency.

Which was why all those he came here to meet, sometimes weekly and sometimes more frequently than that, were instructed to tear their Romanian passports up and flush them down the aeroplane toilets, wait for one hour after landing and then arrive at passport control with the false Italian passports they had been given. In that way, if the agency was keeping a lookout for arrivals from the Romanian flight, they would have stopped looking by the time the girls came through.

Two girls were coming now. Good-looking young things in their late teens, cheaply dressed and towing cheap luggage. Could be them. He held up his placard with the innocuous words JACKSON PARTY on it.

One of the girls – really very sexy-looking, slender with long dark hair – raised a hand and waved at him.

‘You had a good flight?’ he asked in Romanian, as a greeting.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Great!’

‘Welcome to England.’

‘Yeah,’ she said again. ‘Great.’