Peter James - Dead Tomorrow

He dialled Kullen’s mobile number.

It went to voicemail and he left a message.

Lynn wished more than ever, now that she was expecting an important visitor, that she had been able to afford to make the downstairs of the house look better. Or at least to have replaced the horrible patterned curtains in the living room with modern blinds and to have got rid of the manky carpet.

She had done her best to make the house look presentable this morning, putting fresh flowers around the hall and living room, and laying out Sussex Life , Absolute Brighton, and a couple of other classy magazines on the coffee table – a trick she had learned from a home-makeover show on television. She had made herself look smart too, putting on a navy two-piece she had bought in a secondhand shop, a crisp white blouse and black court shoes, as well as a few liberal squirts of the Escada eau de toilette Caitlin had given her for her birthday, in April, and which she rationed carefully.

As the minutes ticked by, she was starting to become increasingly afraid that the German woman was not going to show up. It was now quarter past ten and Marlene Hartmann had said, yesterday afternoon, that she anticipated being at the house by half past nine. Weren’t Germans supposed to always be punctual?

Maybe her flight was late.

Shit. Her nerves were shot to hell. She’d barely slept a wink all night, fretting about Caitlin, getting up every hour, almost on the hour, to check she was OK. And thinking angrily about that transplant coordinator, Shirley Linsell, at the Royal.

And wondering what she was getting herself and Caitlin into by seeing this broker.

But what alternative did she have?

She gave the living room a final check and suddenly noticed, to her horror, a cigarette butt stubbed out into the earth of her potted aspidistra. She retrieved it, feeling a flash of anger towards Luke. Although of course it might have been Caitlin. She knew, from the smell on her sometimes, that Caitlin smoked occasionally. That had started since she met Luke. Then she noticed a stain on the beige carpet, and was about to hurry and put some Vanish on it when she heard the slam of a car door.

With a beat of excitement, she darted across to the window. Through the net curtains she saw a brown Mercedes, with tinted windows, parked outside. Hastily, she moved away, walked through into the kitchen, deposited the offending butt in the bin and turned down the volume on the television. On the screen, a couple were showing two presenters around a small semi that was not dissimilar to her own – from the outside, at any rate.

Then she hurried upstairs and entered Caitlin’s room. She had woken her up early, and made her shower and get dressed, unsure whether the German woman might want to examine her medically. Caitlin was now asleep on top of her bed, with her iPod earpieces plugged in, her complexion even more yellow today. She was dressed in ragged jeans, a green hoodie over a white T-shirt, and thick, grey woollen socks.

Lynn touched her arm lightly. ‘She’s here, darling!’

Caitlin looked at her, a strange, unreadable expression in her eyes, a mixture of hope, despair and bewilderment. Yet somewhere in the darkness of her pupils lurked her old defiance. Lynn hoped she would never lose that.

‘Did she bring a liver with her?’

Lynn laughed and Caitlin managed a wry grin.

‘Do you want me to bring her up here, darling, or are you going to come down?’

Caitlin nodded pensively for some moments, then said, ‘How ill do you want me to look?’

The doorbell rang.

Lynn kissed her on the forehead. ‘Just be natural, OK?’

Caitlin lolled her head back and let her tongue fall out of her mouth. ‘Yrrrrrr,’ she said. ‘I’m dying for a new liver and a nice glass of Chianti to wash it down with!’

‘Shut up, Hannibal!’

Lynn left the room, hurried downstairs, and opened the front door.

The elegance of the woman standing in the porch took her by surprise. Lynn had not known what to expect, but had imagined someone rather dour and formal, perhaps a little creepy. Certainly not the tall, beautiful woman – early forties, she guessed – with wavy, shoulder-length blonde hair and a fur-trimmed black suede coat to die for.

‘Mrs Lynn Beckett?’ she quizzed in a deep, sensual, broken English accent.

‘Marlene Hartmann?’

The woman gave her a disarming smile, her cobalt blue eyes full of warmth.

‘I am so sorry to be late. There was a delay because of snow in München. But now I am here, alles ist in Ordnung, ja?’

Thrown for a second by the sudden switch of language, Lynn mumbled, ‘Um, yes, yes,’ then stepped back and ushered her into the hall.

Marlene Hartmann strode past her and Lynn noted, with dismay, the faintest hint of a frown of disapproval on her face. Directing her into the sitting room, she asked, ‘May I take your coat?’

The German woman shrugged it off her shoulders with the haughtiness of a diva, then handed it to Lynn, without looking at her, as if she were a cloakroom attendant.

‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’ Lynn was cringingly conscious of the woman’s roaming eyes, clocking every detail, every stain, every chip in the paintwork, the cheap furniture, the old telly. Her best friend, Sue Shackleton, had once had a German boyfriend and had briefed her that Germans were very particular about coffee. At the same time as buying the flowers last night, Lynn had bought a packet of freshly ground roasted Colombian beans.

‘Do you have mint tea, perhaps?’

‘Er – mint tea? Actually – yes, yes, I do,’ Lynn said, masking her disappointment at her wasted purchase.

A few minutes later she came into the living room, carrying a tray with a mint tea and a milky instant coffee for herself. The German woman was standing at the mantelpiece, holding a framed photograph of Caitlin, who was dressed as a Goth, with spiky black hair, a black tunic, a chin stud and a ring through her nose.

‘This is your daughter?’

‘Yes, Caitlin. It was taken about two years ago.’

She replaced the photograph, then sat down on the sofa, placing her black attaché case beside her.

‘A very beautiful young lady. A strong face. Good bone structure. She could model, maybe?’

‘Maybe.’ Lynn swallowed, thinking, If she lives. Then she put on her most positive smile. ‘Would you like to meet her now?’

‘No, not yet. Give to me first a little of her medical history.’

Lynn put the tray down on the coffee table, handed the woman her cup, then sat in an armchair beside her.

‘Well, OK – I’ll try. Up until nine she was fine, a normal, healthy child. Then she started having bowel problems, strong occasional stomach pains. Our GP diagnosed it initially as indeterminate colitis. That was followed by diarrhoea with blood in it, which persisted for a couple of months, and she felt tired all the time. He referred her to a liver specialist.’

Lynn sipped her coffee.

‘The specialist said that her spleen and liver were enlarged. She had a distended stomach and she was losing weight. Her tiredness was getting worse. She was always falling asleep, wherever she was. She was going to school, but needed four or five naps a day. Then she started getting stomach pains that went on all night. The poor kid was really distressed and kept asking, “Why me?”’

Suddenly, Lynn looked up and saw Caitlin entering the room.

‘Hi!’ she said.

‘Angel – this is Mrs Hartmann.’

Caitlin shook the woman’s hand warily. ‘Nice to meet you.’ Her voice was quavering.

Lynn saw the woman studying her daughter closely. ‘It is very nice to meet you, Caitlin.’

‘Darling, I was just telling Mrs Hartmann about your stomach pains that used to keep you awake all night. Then the doctor put you on antibiotics, didn’t he? Which worked well, for a time, didn’t they?’