Dead Tomorrow

by Peter James

  ‘The time is 6.30 p.m., Monday 1 December,’ Grace announced. ‘This is the eighth briefing of Operation Neptune, the investigation into the deaths of three unknown persons.’ He sipped some coffee, then went on. ‘I held a very uncomfortable press conference this morning. Someone’s leaked about the missing organs.’

  He stared at his most trusted colleagues in turn: Lizzie Mantle, Glenn Branson, who was dressed in an electric-blue suit as if ready for a night out, Bella Moy, Emma-Jane Boutwood, Norman Potting and Nick Nicholl, certain it was none of them, nor another face in the room, DS Guy Batchelor. In fact, he was pretty sure it wasn’t anyone here. Nor did he think it was the mortuary team. Or the press office. Perhaps someone in the Force Control Room . . . One day, when he had the time, he would find out, he promised himself that.

  Bella held up a copy of the London Evening Standard and a late edition of the Argus. The Standard headline read: ORGAN THEFT RIDDLE OF BODIES IN CHANNEL. The Argus: CHANNEL BODIES MISSING VITAL ORGANS.

  ‘You can be sure there will be more tomorrow in the morning papers,’ he said. ‘There are a couple of TV news crews crawling all over Shoreham Harbour and our PRO’s been fielding calls from radio stations all afternoon.’ He nodded at Dennis Ponds, whom he had asked to attend this briefing.

  A former journalist, the public relations officer looked more like a City trader than a newspaper man. In his early forties, with slicked-back black hair, mutantly large eyebrows and a penchant for slick suits, he had the tough task of brokering the ever-fragile relations between the police and the public. It was often a no-win situation, and he had been given the sobriquet Pond Life by those officers who remained suspicious of anyone with anything to do with the press.

  ‘I’m hoping the coverage will help bring members of the public forward,’ Ponds said. ‘I’ve circulated touched-up photographs of all three to every paper and television news station and to the Internet news feeds.’

  ‘Is Absolute Brighton TV on your list?’ Nick Nicholl asked, referring to the city’s relatively new Internet channel.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Ponds replied, then beamed, as if pleased with his wit.

  Grace glanced down at his notes.

  ‘Before we have your individual reports, there’s been one interesting serial today,’ he said. ‘Might be nothing, but we should follow it up.’ He looked at Glenn Branson. ‘You’d be the man, as you’re our nautical expert.’

  There was a titter of laughter.

  ‘Projectile-vomiting expert, more likely,’ Norman Potting chuckled.

  Ignoring him, Grace went on, ‘A fishing boat, called the Scoob-Eee, based at Shoreham, has been reported missing since Friday night. Probably nothing, but we need to monitor anything out of the usual anywhere along the coast.’

  ‘Did you say Scoob-Eee, Roy?’ Branson asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That – that’s the boat I went out on, on Friday, with the SSU.’

  ‘You didn’t tell us you bloody sank it, Glenn!’ quipped Guy Batchelor.

  Glenn ignored him, thinking hard and very shocked. Missing as in stolen or sunk? Turning to Grace, he asked, ‘Do you have any more information?’

  ‘No – see what you can find.’

  Branson nodded, then sat in silence, only half concentrating on the rest of the briefing.

  ‘Sounds like racketeers to me,’ Norman Potting said all of a sudden.

  Grace looked at him quizzically.

  Potting nodded. ‘It was Noël Coward, wasn’t it? What he said about Brighton. Piers, queers 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.’

  Grace concurred 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

  The hospital 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.

  Caitlin squeezed 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 for Caitlin.

  She could remember that first day so well. The musty smells, the cobwebs, the rotting timbers, the ancient range in the kitchen. The view to die for out across the softly rolling South Downs. Mal putting his strong arm around her shoulders and squeezing her, discussing all the things he could do himself to fix it up, with her help. A big project, but their project. Their home. Their piece of paradise.

  And she could imagine, standing there then, what it would be like in winter, the sharp cold smells, the burning firewood, rotting leaves, wet grass. The place felt so safe, so secure.

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  Every time Caitlin brought it up, it made her sad. And it made her even sadder that still, over seven years after they had moved out, when Caitlin was just eight, she referred to Winter Cottage – and in particular its little Wendy house – as her home. And not the house they lived in now. That hurt.

  But she could understand. Those eight years at Winter Cottage were Caitlin’s healthy years. The time in her life that she had been carefree. Her illness had begun a year later, and at the time Lynn had wondered whether the stress of seeing her parents’ marriage break up had been a contributing factor. She always would.

  They were passing the IKEA chimneys again. Lynn was starting to feel they were becoming a symbol in her life. Or some kind of new marker posts. Old, normal life south of those chimney stacks. New, strange, unknown, reborn life north of them.

  On the CD, Justin Timberlake began singing ‘What Goes Around Comes Around’.

  ‘Hey, Mum,’ Caitlin said, suddenly sounding as if she was perking up. ‘Do you think that’s the case, you know, what he’s singing, right?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘What goes around, comes around. Do you believe in that?’

  ‘You mean do I believe in karma?’

  Caitlin thought for some moments. ‘I’m saying, like, I’m taking advantage of someone who’s died. Is that right?’

  Someone who had died in a motorcycle accident, Lynn had been told by the hospital, but she had not given that detail to Caitlin, and did not want to, fearing it would distress her. ‘Maybe you need to take a different perspective. Perhaps that person has loved ones who will get comfort from knowing that some good will come out of their loss.’

  ‘It’s just so weird, isn’t it? That we don’t, like, even know who it is. Do you think I could ever – meet – the family?’

  ‘Would you want to?’

  Caitlin was silent for a while, then she said, ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

  They drove on in silence again for a couple of minutes.

  ‘You know what Luke said?’

  Lynn had to take a deep breath to restrain herself from retorting, No, and I don’t want to know what that sodding moron said. Through gritted teeth, sounding a lot more cheery and interested than she felt, she replied, ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well, he said that some people who have transplants inherit stuff from the donors. Characteristics – or changes in their tastes. So, if the donor had a craving for Mars Bars, you might get that. Or liked a particular kind of music. Or was good at football. Sort of from their genes.’

  ‘Where did Luke get that gem from?’

  ‘The Internet. There’s loads of sites. We looked at some of them. You can inherit their dislikes too!’

  ‘Really?’ Suddenly Lynn perked up. Maybe this liver would come from someone who disliked dickheads with stupid hair.

  ‘There are verified case histories,’ Caitlin said, brightening up even more. ‘There are, really! OK, right, you know I’m frightened of heights?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Well, there’s this woman I read about in America who was terrified of heights, and she had a transplant and got the lungs of a mountain climber, and now she’s a fanatical climber!’

  ‘You don’t think that was simply because she felt better, having lungs that worked properly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It sounds amazing,’ Lynn said, not wanting to appear sceptical, and keen to keep her daughter’s enthusiasm up.

  ‘And there’s this one, right, Mum? There was a man in Los Angeles who received a woman’s heart, and before he hated shopping – and now he wants to go shopping all the time!’

  Lynn grinned. ‘So, what characteristic would you most like to inherit?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about this! I’m rubbish at drawing. Maybe I’ll get the liver from someone who was a brilliant artist!’

  Lynn laughed. ‘Yep, there’s all kinds of possible bonuses! See, you’re going to be fine!’

  Caitlin nodded. ‘With a cadaverous liver inside me. Yeah. I’ll be fine, just a bit liverish.’

  Lynn laughed again, and was pleased to see her daughter break into a smile. She squeezed her hand tightly and they drove on companionably for some minutes, listening to the music, and the knocking rattle of the exhaust pipe beneath them.

  Then, as her laughter faded, she felt a tightening band, like cold steel, inside her. There were risks with this operation which had been spelled out to both of them. Things could and did go wrong. There was a realistic possibility that Caitlin could die on the operating table.

  But without the transplant, there was no realistic possibility that Caitlin would live longer than a few months.

  Lynn had never been a churchgoer, but since earliest childhood, for much of her life, she had said her prayers every night. Five years ago, in the week immediately after her sister had died, she had stopped praying. Just recently, since Caitlin became seriously ill, she had started again, but only half-heartedly. She wished, sometimes, that she could trust God, and surrender all her concerns to Him. How much simpler that would make everything.

  She squeezed her daughter’s hand again. Her living, beautiful hand that she and Mal had created, maybe in God’s image, maybe not. But certainly in her image. God could strut his stuff, but it was she who was going to be there for Caitlin in the coming hours, and if the Lord wanted to play Mr Nice Guy then she would welcome that with open arms. But if he wanted to screw around with her mind and her emotions and her daughter’s life, he could go take a hike.

  Even so, at the next traffic lights she briefly closed her eyes and said a silent prayer.

  46

  Roy Grace was gripped with panic. He was running across grass, running at the edge of the cliff, with its sheer drop of a thousand feet, with a howling wind blowing in his face, almost pushing him to a standstill, so that he was just running on the spot.

  Meanwhile a man was running towards the edge of the cliff, holding the baby in his arms. His baby.

  Grace threw himself forward, grabbing the man’s waist in a rugby tackle, bringing him down. The man broke free and rolled, determinedly, cradling the baby like a ball he was not going to lose, rolling over and over towards the cliff edge.

  Grace gripped his ankles, jerking him back. Then suddenly the earth beneath him gave way, with a crack like thunder, a huge chunk of the cliff breaking off like a crumbling piece of stale cake, and he was plunging, plunging with this man and his child, plunging down towards the jagged rocks and the boiling sea.

  ‘Roy! Darling! Roy! Darling!’

  Cleo.

  Cleo’s voice.

  ‘Roy, it’s OK, darling. It’s OK!’

  He opened his eyes. Saw the light on. Felt his heart hammering. He was drenched in sweat, as if he was lying in a stream.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Falling again?’ Cleo said tenderly, looking at him with concerned eyes.

  ‘Beachy Head.’

  It was a recurring dream he had been having for weeks. But it wasn’t just about an incident he’d been involved with there. It was also about a human monster he’d arrested a few months ago.

  A sick monster who had murdered two women in the city, and had tried to kill Cleo as well. The man was behind bars, with bail refused, but even so, Grace felt suddenly nervous.
Above the thudding of his heart and the roar of the blood coursing in his ears, he listened to the silence of the city at night.

  The clock radio panel showed 3.10 a.m.

  Nothing stirred in the house. Rain was falling outside.

  Pregnant with his child, Cleo seemed more vulnerable than ever to him now. It had been a while since he had checked on the man, although he had recently dealt with some of the pre-trial paperwork. He made a mental note to make a call to ensure that he was still safely in custody and had not been released by some woolly-minded judge doing his bit to ease the overcrowding in England’s prisons.

  Cleo stroked his brow. He felt her warm breath on his face. It smelled sweet, faintly minted, as if she had just brushed her teeth.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice low, barely above a whisper, as if that would be less intrusive.

  ‘You poor darling. You have so many nightmares, don’t you?’

  He lay there, the sheet below him sodden and cold with his perspiration. She was right. A couple of times a week, at least.

  ‘Why was it you stopped going to therapy?’ she asked him, then kissed each of his eyes, softly, in turn.

  ‘Because . . .’ He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t helping me to move on.’ He eased himself up in bed a little, staring around.

  He liked this room, which Cleo had decorated mostly in white – with a thick white rug on the bare oak floor, white linen curtains, white walls, and a few pieces of elegant black furniture, including a black lacquered dressing table – still damaged from the attack on her.

  ‘You’re the only thing that’s helped me to move on. You know that?’

  She smiled at him. ‘Time is the best healer,’ she said.

  ‘No, you are. I love you. I love you so much. I love you in a way I never thought it would be possible to love anyone again.’

  She stared at him, smiling, blinking slowly, for some moments.

  ‘I love you too. Even more than you love me.’