Dead Tomorrow

by Peter James

  Life was hell. Early every morning they were forced to sing national songs, and like all the others, boys and girls, if he did not stand up straight, he was beaten. When he was ten he started wetting his bed and was beaten regularly for that. Gradually, he learned to steal from some of the older boys, who seemed to be able to get extra food. One day he was caught with two chocolate bars he had taken.

  To escape retribution, he ran away. And stayed away, joining a community who hung out at Bucharest’s main railway station, Gara de Nord, begging and doing drugs. They slept wherever they could, sometimes in doorways, sometimes in tiny one-room shacks built along the overland steam pipes, and sometimes in cavities beneath the roads.

  It was meeting pretty, lost Ilinca, in a hole beneath the road when he was fourteen, that had brought Rares alive for the first time. She had given him a reason to go on living.

  Dragging their bedding further up the tunnel beneath the hot pipeline, away from their friends, they made love and they dreamed.

  They dreamed of a better life.

  Of a land where they could have a home of their own.

  And then one day, on the street, fresh from stealing several bottles of Aurolac, he met the angel he had always believed – but had never dared to hope – would visit him.

  Her name was Marlene.

  And now he was in the back seat of her Mercedes car, and in a short while he would meet his beloved Ilinca.

  He was in a state of bliss.

  The car was stopping in a residential street. It was so clean. It was like one of the rich sectors of Bucharest where he sometimes went begging.

  Marlene turned round and said to him, ‘Vlad and Grigore will look after you now.’

  ‘Will they take me to see Ilinca?’

  ‘Exactly,’ she replied. Then she climbed out of the car and walked to its rear.

  Peering through the rear windscreen, Rares saw the boot lid pop open. A few moments later, she slammed it shut and walked up the path to the front door of a house, holding an attaché case. He watched her, waiting for her to turn and wave at him. But she just kept looking straight ahead.

  The Mercedes pulled away, sharply, jerking him against the seat back.

  64

  Roy Grace sat in his office, reading through his notes from the briefing meeting. Despite the damp, grey day outside, he was in a sunny mood. In fact, he was feeling happier and more positive about life than he could ever remember. He was on a total high. His 7 a.m. meeting with an even more sour than usual ACC Vosper had not made even the slightest dent in his mood.

  This afternoon he was meeting with a solicitor to work out the details of having Sandy declared legally dead. Finally he felt as if the past really was behind him, that he could close the door and move on. He was going to marry Cleo. They were going to have a baby.

  Everything else suddenly seemed unimportant this morning – and that was a luxurious feeling he knew he could not allow himself to revel in. He had a ton of work ahead of him. His job was to serve the public, to catch criminals, to make the city of Brighton and Hove a safer place. He viewed any serious crime in this city as a failing by the entire police force and therefore a failing in some part by himself. He couldn’t help it, that was the way he was.

  Three dead teenagers lay in fridges in the mortuary because the police had failed in some way to protect them. Now at least that wrong could be partially redressed by capturing whoever did this, and hopefully depriving them of their liberty – and ability ever to do this again – forever.

  In front of him were the names of doctors in the UK who had been struck off the medical register. As he read down the very long list, looking for anyone who might be capable of organ transplantation work, he was amazed at the variety of offences.

  He had always loathed the idea of bent doctors, almost as much as he loathed the idea of bent coppers – of whom he had encountered mercifully few. He hated anyone in public service, in a position of trust, who exploited it through either corruption or incompetence.

  The first name on the list was a detox doctor struck off for negligence leading to the death of a heroin addict. Not a likely candidate, Grace thought.

  Next were a husband and wife GP team who ran a private nursing home. He read more. They had been struck off for the disgusting condition of the place and leaving elderly patients in a state of distress. Not likely either.

  A junior doctor who failed his training was struck off after lying to get a job as a consultant. Grace read on, with interest. This was just the kind of person – while not actually a transplant surgeon – who might get taken on to assist in illegal operations at a private clinic. He wrote the man’s name down in his policy book: Noah Olujimi.

  Then he had a sudden thought, and wondered why it had not occurred to him sooner. What procedures were in place at UK hospitals, and UK Transplant, the national transplant centre, where transplants were coordinated, to prevent an illegally acquired organ entering the system? Plenty of rigorous ones, he was sure, but he made a note for this to be followed up.

  He continued reading down the list.

  A GP struck off for downloading child porn. No.

  The next held his interest. A GP who was struck off for committing euthanasia on a cancer victim patient. Euthanasia was something Grace had sympathy with. He remembered, as a child, visiting his beloved, dying grandfather, a tall bear of a man who had lain in bed, screaming in pain, begging for someone to help him, to do something, and then sobbing, while everyone in the room looked on helplessly, except his mother who sat by his bed, holding his hand, praying. He had never forgotten that visit, the last time he had seen him. Nor the uselessness of his mother’s prayers.

  Euthanasia, he thought again. There were doctors who broke the rules because they didn’t agree with the system. For sure there would be transplant surgeons who did not agree with it either. But the list of surgeons the researcher, Sarah Shenston, had come up with was far longer than he had expected.

  His computer pinged, as it did every few minutes, with yet another incoming email or batch of emails. He glanced up at the screen. Some new Health and Safety crap that he and every other serving police officer was being copied in on. In recent months he had started to hate Health and Safety even more than the whole political correctness ethos. The latest rubbish to come through was a warning that any police officer climbing up more than six feet would be deemed to be working from a height, and only allowed to go higher if properly qualified in working at heights.

  How sodding great is that? he thought. If an officer was in pursuit of a criminal, was he going to have to shout out, Oi! Don’t climb higher than six feet or I’ll have to let you go?

  There was a rap on his door and Glenn Branson came in.

  Grace nodded at his shiny tie. ‘You need to replace the batteries. It’s not glowing so brightly.’

  ‘Very witty, old-timer.’ Then he looked at the Detective Superintendent. ‘You got new batteries in? You’re glowing!’

  ‘Want a coffee?’ Grace gestured for him to sit.

  ‘Nah, I’m OK. Just had one.’ Branson eased himself on a chair, gave his friend a curious look, then leaned forward, plonking his massive arms on Grace’s small desk. ‘How do you find anything, working in such a mess?’

  ‘Well, normally I’d take my files home and sort them at night, but I loaned my house to a nine-hundred-pound gorilla who swings around it, dangling from the light cords, and trashes it.’

  The DS suddenly looked a tad sheepish. ‘Yeah, well, I’m actually planning to do a big tidy-up – you know, like a spring clean – this weekend. You won’t recognize the place.’

  ‘I don’t at the moment.’

  ‘You know, half your CDs were in the wrong sleeves – I’m sorting it all out for you. Problem is, it’s such a rubbish collection.’

  ‘How can a man who worships Jay-Z say that with a straight face?’

  ‘Jay-Z’s the man! He’s, like, God! You are so much on another planet with your
taste.’ Then he grinned. ‘One good thing about your car wreck, that awful music you had in there will have gone with it!’

  Grace opened a drawer in his desk, removed a small, grimy-looking Jiffy bag and tipped six CDs on to his desk. ‘Sorry to disappoint you!’

  ‘I thought your Alfa plunged eight hundred feet?’

  ‘It did, but the tide was out – I managed to get these back when they recovered the wreckage.’

  Branson shook his head disappointedly. ‘So anyway, when are you getting new wheels?’

  ‘Still waiting on the insurance. Nick Nicholl’s wife’s got a little motorbike she never uses now – a Yamaha – I think it’s an SR 125. I thought I might buy it from them and use that for a while. Do my bit for the environment. Except Cleo’s not too happy about the idea.’

  Branson grinned.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Electra Glide in Blue – you ever see that film? About a motorcycle cop?’ Then his phone rang.

  He answered immediately, standing up and moving away from the desk. ‘Glenn Branson.’ Nodding an apology to Grace, he continued, ‘Brian – hi – I’m actually just across the corridor from you, in Roy Grace’s office. Yeah, both cigarette butts, cos I want to know if it’s the same person, which would indicate he was there for a while, or two different persons. OK, brilliant. Thanks!’

  He sat back down again, then gave Grace another curious look. ‘You can’t hide it, mate.’

  ‘Hide what?’

  ‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream. What’s up?’

  Roy shrugged, then couldn’t stop himself from grinning.

  ‘You and Cleo?’

  He shrugged again, grinning even more.

  ‘You’re not – not – not . . . ’ he asked, his eyes widening. ‘Is there something I should know? As your friend, right?’

  Grace suppressed a smile. Then he nodded. ‘We got engaged last night. I think.’

  Branson almost vaulted his desk. He threw his arms around his friend and gave him a massive bear hug.

  ‘That’s just wicked! The best news! You got yourself a great lady! I’m really happy for you!’ He released Grace, shaking his head, beaming. ‘Like, wow!’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So, have you set a date?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve got to go and do the meet daddy bit and formally ask him. Her family’s all a bit posh.’

  ‘So you’ll be able to retire and help run the family estates?’

  Grace grinned. ‘They’re not that posh!’

  ‘Wicked!’ Branson said.

  ‘And you? What’s happening?’

  Glenn’s face fell like a dropped barometer. ‘Don’t ask. She’s shagging someone. Just don’t go there. I need to talk to you, man, I need your help, but later. We’ll have a drink to celebrate – and perhaps a chat?’

  Grace nodded. ‘What are you going to do about Christmas?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t frigging know.’ He suddenly turned away sharply, and Roy could hear his voice break. ‘I – I can’t – I can’t not spend it with Sammy and Remi.’

  Roy realized that Glenn had turned away so that he could not be seen crying.

  ‘Catch you later,’ Branson said, choked, and headed for the door.

  ‘Want to stay and chat?’

  ‘No, later. Thanks.’

  He pulled the door shut behind him.

  Grace sat still for a few moments. He knew that what Glenn was going through must be hell, made all the worse by this time of year, with the dark, gloomy nights and Christmas looming. But it sounded, from all he had heard, that the marriage problems were terminal. Once Glenn accepted that, however bad the pain, then at least he could start the process of moving forward again with his life, instead of living in a hopeless limbo.

  He was tempted, for a second, to go after his friend, who clearly needed to talk. But at this moment, he had to get on with his job. Ignoring another ping from his computer, he turned his attention back to his notes from the briefing meeting.

  He stared at the list he had started making, beneath the heading Lines of Enquiry.

  Then his internal phone rang. He picked up the receiver. ‘Roy Grace.’

  It was Ray Packham, from the High-Tech Crime Unit. ‘Roy,’ he said. ‘You asked me to do a trawl on the Net for organ brokers?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got something that may be interesting for you. There’s an outfit in Munich, in Germany, called Transplantation-Zentrale GmbH. They’re advertising themselves as the world’s largest brokers of human organs. My boss here, Sergeant Phil Taylor, did a spell in the Interpol office a few years ago. He knows the guy on the German desk, so we were able to get a quick check done. I think you’re going to like this!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The LKA – the Landeskriminalamt – sort of the Bavarian equivalent of the FBI – have had them under surveillance for some time, on suspicion of human trafficking. Now, this is the bit you will like most. One of the countries they have a link with is Romania!’

  ‘Brilliant, Ray!’ Grace said. ‘I have a very good contact at the LKA in Munich.’

  ‘Yes, well, I thought, you know, for what it’s worth.’

  Grace thanked him, then hung up. Immediately, he spun his Rolodex and retrieved a card from it. It was printed Kriminalhauptkommissar Marcel Kullen.

  Kullen was an old friend, from when he had spent six months on an exchange, about four years ago, at Sussex House. Marcel had helped him a while back, when there had been a possible sighting of Sandy in Munich, and Grace had gone over there for a day, on what had turned out to be a wild-goose chase.

  He dialled Kullen’s mobile number.

  It went to voicemail and he left a message.

  65

  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 offendin
g 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.