Dead Tomorrow

by Peter James

  Roy Grace said, ‘We have reason to believe that you may be attempting to buy a new liver for your daughter.’

  He paused and they stared at each other for a moment. He could see the fear in her eyes.

  ‘Are you aware that, in this country, that would be a criminal offence, Mrs Beckett?’

  Lynn shot a glance upstairs, afraid that Caitlin might overhear, then ushered the two officers through into the kitchen and shut the door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ Grace said.

  Lynn pulled up a chair facing the two detectives across the table. She considered offering them tea, but decided against, wanting to get shot of them as quickly as possible.

  With his coat still on, Roy Grace sat opposite her, with arms folded.

  ‘Mrs Beckett, during the past week there have been a large number of telephone calls exchanged between your home and mobile phone numbers and a company in Munich called Transplantation-Zentrale. Could you tell us why you made those calls?’

  ‘Transplantation-Zentrale?’ she echoed.

  ‘They are a firm of international organ brokers. They obtain human organs for people who need transplants, such as your daughter,’ he said.

  Lynn shrugged defensively. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of these people. I know my daughter’s boyfriend has been very upset about my daughter’s treatment from her hospital in London.’

  ‘Upset about what exactly?’ Grace asked.

  ‘The way they run their fucking transplant waiting list.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re upset too,’ he said.

  ‘I think you’d be upset if it was your daughter, Detective Superintendent Grace.’

  ‘So it hasn’t crossed your mind to try to look beyond the UK for a suitable liver?’

  ‘No, why should it?’

  Grace was quiet for a moment. Then, as gently as he could, he asked, ‘Would you deny that you had a phone conversation with a lady called Frau Marlene Hartmann, who is the chief executive of Transplantation-Zentrale, at five past nine this morning? Less than one hour ago?’

  Suddenly, despite all her efforts to think clearly, she felt herself losing it. She was shaking uncontrollably. Shit, oh shit, oh shit. Wide-eyed, she stared at him.

  ‘Have you bugged my bloody phone?’

  Above her, she heard the sound of water gurgling out of the bath.

  The Detective Superintendent slipped his hand into his coat pocket and retrieved a brown envelope. Carefully, from inside it, he pulled out a photograph and laid it on the table for Lynn to see.

  It was a photograph of a girl in her early to mid-teens. Despite looking grubby, she had a pretty face, with Romany features and complexion, lank brown hair, and was wearing a blue, sleeveless puffa over a ragged, multicoloured jogging top.

  ‘Mrs Beckett,’ he went on, ‘I expect you have been told that your daughter’s liver is coming from someone who has been killed in a car accident.’

  He paused, watching her eyes closely. She said nothing.

  ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘that’s actually not the case. It is coming from this Romanian girl. Her name is Simona Irimia. So far as we know she is still alive and healthy. She has been trafficked to England and will be killed so that your daughter can have her liver.’

  Suddenly, Lynn’s world felt as if it was crashing down all around her.

  105

  Simona sat on a lumpy mattress in the back of the swaying, lurching van, with Gogu on her lap. One moment they were accelerating, the next braking hard, on a twisting, switchback road. For most of the journey she kept her hands pressed flat on the ribbed, metal floor, trying to grip and stop herself from being thrown around.

  A blue metal toolbox lay near her, along with a wheel brace, a coiled blue rope and some wide rolls of tape. The stuff clattered and clanked and slid about each time they went over a bump. It had been hours since she had last eaten or drunk anything – before they had got on board that little plane. She was desperately thirsty and the stench of exhaust fumes was making her feel sick.

  She wished Romeo were here, because she always felt safe with him, and she would have had someone to talk to. The German woman had ignored her for most of the long journey, either working on her laptop or speaking on her phone. Now, seated in the front, she was engaged in a serious-sounding conversation with the driver of the van, a tall, craggy-faced, expressionless Romanian with jet-black hair slicked back, wearing a blouson jacket over jeans, and with a chunky gold bracelet hanging from his wrist.

  Every now and then the woman raised her voice, and the driver either fell silent or argued back – at least, it sounded like he was arguing, in whatever language it was they were speaking.

  There were no windows here in the back and Simona could see only by craning her neck and looking forward between the seats, out of the windscreen. They were driving through well-kept countryside. She could see mostly trees, hedges and just the occasional farm building or house.

  Suddenly, they were braking sharply. Moments later they turned in between two tall brick pillars. A grid clattered beneath them, then they were heading up a long, winding driveway. Simona saw several signs on posts, but she was unable to read what they said:

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  NO PARKING

  NO PICNICKING

  STRICTLY NO CAMPING

  In the distance she saw lush green hills beneath a grey sky. They wound past a large lake, then a vast area beyond it, to their left, of beautifully tended grass. Some of it was mown shorter than other parts and she saw several craters that were filled with what looked like sand. She wondered what they were, but didn’t dare interrupt to ask.

  They entered a long, straight avenue of overhanging trees, with the verges covered in fallen leaves, then the van braked sharply again suddenly, slowing to a crawl. They went over a sharp bump, then speeded up again. After three more sharp bumps, Simona could see, ahead of them, a huge grey house, with gleaming cars parked randomly around the driveway in front, and in orderly rows along the side. She felt a beat of excitement. This place looked so beautiful! Was this where she would be working?

  She wanted to ask the German woman, but she was talking on her phone again now, and sounding very cross about something.

  The van drove under an archway, then halted at the rear of the house. The driver switched off the engine and climbed out, while the woman continued her phone argument, her voice getting louder and more agitated.

  Moments later, the driver opened one of the rear doors of the van. He gripped Simona’s hand as she scrambled out and, to her surprise, he continued holding her hand, gripping it hard, despite her effort to free it, as if worried she might run away.

  She tugged hard, feeling a flash of resentment at him, but his grip was like iron and his face showed nothing.

  The German woman climbed out, ended her call and clicked her phone shut. Simona caught her eye. Normally the woman smiled at her, but there was no smile now, or even a hint of acknowledgement. She just stared through her coldly, as if Simona did not exist.

  She must be very angry about her phone call, Simona thought.

  A nurse came out of the house, through a door almost beside the van. She was a big, muscular-looking woman, with a broad frame, stubby neck and arms the size of hams. Her greying hair was cropped short, like a man’s, and gelled into spikes. For some moments, she scrutinized the teenager as if she were an object on display in a shop. Then her rosebud lips, far too tiny for the size of her fleshy face, formed into a faint smile.

  ‘Simona,’ she said stiffly, in Romanian, ‘you come with me.’

  She held out her hand and gripped Simona’s. The driver finally let go of her other hand. The nurse pulled Simona so hard she stumbled, and as she did so, the comforter she was clutching fell to the ground, and remained there, as she was dragged inside the house.

  ‘Gogu!’ Simona cried out, turning her head back desper
ately. ‘Gogu!’ she called again, trying to break free. ‘Gogu!’

  But Marlene Hartmann quickly followed her in, slamming the door shut behind them.

  Outside, Vlad Cosmescu saw the strip of mangy fur lying on the ground. He knelt and picked it up. Then, distastefully holding the grimy object by his fingertips, he deposited it in a nearby wheelie bin.

  Next, he reversed the van into one of the garages in a row across the yard and pulled down the door, hiding it from view. Just as a precaution.

  106

  Struggling desperately hard to maintain her composure at the kitchen table, Lynn stared at the photograph of the pretty, scruffy-looking girl that lay in front of her.

  Scare tactics, she thought. Please God, let it be scare tactics.

  Marlene Hartmann was a decent woman. It was impossible to believe, for an instant, that what the Detective Superintendent had just told her was true. Impossible. Impossible. Impossible.

  Her hands were shaking so much she moved them off the table on to her lap. Gripped them tightly together, out of sight. Impossible!

  She had to get through this. Had to get these people out of her house, so she could call the German woman. She felt a lump in her throat choking her voice. Took a deep breath to calm herself, the way she had been taught at work when dealing with a difficult or abusive client.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking up at each of them in turn. ‘I don’t know why you’re here or what you want. My daughter is on the transplant priority list at the Royal South London Hospital. We are very happy with all that they are doing and we are confident that she will be getting her liver very shortly. There is no reason at all why I should be looking elsewhere.’ She swallowed. ‘Besides I – I don’t – I wouldn’t know – know – where to begin – to look.’

  ‘Mrs Beckett,’ Roy Grace said levelly, staring hard at her, ‘human trafficking is one of the most unpleasant crimes in this country. You need to be aware just how seriously the police and the judiciary view this activity. One gentleman in London recently had a sentence for human trafficking increased by the Court of Appeal to twenty-three years.’

  He paused to let this sink in. She felt as if she was going to throw up at any moment.

  ‘Human trafficking involves a multitude of criminal offences,’ he went on. ‘I’m going to list them for you: unlawful immigration, kidnap and false imprisonment, just for starters. Do you understand? Any person in this country who attempts to buy a human organ here or abroad is open to being charged with conspiracy to traffic, and with being an accessory. These carry the same custodial sentences as actual trafficking itself. Am I making myself clear?’

  She was perspiring. Her scalp felt as if it was shrinking around her skull.

  ‘Very clear.’

  ‘I have sufficient information to arrest you now, Mrs Beckett, on suspicion of conspiracy to traffic a human organ.’

  Her head was swimming. She could barely even focus on the two of them. She had to hold it together somehow. Caitlin’s life depended on her, on getting through this. She stared down again at the photograph, desperately trying to buy time, to think clearly.

  ‘Where would that leave you, if I arrest you?’ the police officer asked. ‘Where would that leave your daughter?’

  ‘Please believe me,’ she said desperately.

  ‘Perhaps we should talk to your daughter?’

  ‘No!’ she blurted. ‘No! She’s too – too ill – too ill to see anyone.’

  She stared desperately at the young woman detective and saw a fleeting glimpse of compassion in her eyes.

  There was a long silence, suddenly broken by the crackle of the Detective Superintendent’s radio phone.

  He stepped away from the table, pulled it to his ear and spoke into it.

  ‘Roy Grace.’

  The male voice at the other end said, ‘Target One’s on the move.’

  ‘Give me thirty seconds.’

  Grace jabbed a finger at DC Boutwood, and pointed at the door. He turned back to Lynn.

  ‘Think very carefully about what I just said.’

  Seconds later both detectives had gone, deliberately leaving the photograph behind. The front door slammed behind them.

  Lynn sank back down at the table and buried her face in her hands.

  Moments later she felt a pair of hands on her shoulders.

  ‘I heard that,’ Caitlin said. ‘I heard everything. There’s no way I’m going to have that liver.’

  107

  The wrought-iron gates swung open and a black Aston Martin Vanquish rumbled slowly forward between the stone pillars, nosing cautiously out of the blind entrance. Then, with a blast of thunder from its tail pipes, it turned right and accelerated hard. Immediately, the gates began to close again.

  The driver would have noticed nothing different in the wooded country lane this morning from any other day. The two rural surveillance experts were well concealed. One was inside the hedgerow, the other, in camouflage clothing, was halfway up a conifer, and their vehicle was parked down a Forestry Commission track a quarter of a mile away.

  DS Paul Tanner, inside the hedge, had a clear line of sight and, despite the tinted glass and the car’s black interior, clocked the driver’s silver hair.

  Roy Grace, standing on the pavement outside Lynn Beckett’s house, radioed him back.

  ‘What information do you have?’

  ‘Index Romeo Sierra Zero Eight Alpha Mike Lima, sir. Heading east.’

  From Guy Batchelor and Emma-Jane Boutwood’s debriefing after their interview with the liver surgeon, Grace knew this was Sir Roger Sirius’s car. He also knew that these two Divisional Intelligence Unit surveillance officers were badly needed for another surveillance job on a major drugs operation that was currently taking place in Brighton today. A shortage of police manpower was a constant problem in the city.

  ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘Stay in situ for another thirty minutes in case he returns. If he doesn’t, then stand down.’

  ‘Stand down after thirty minutes, sir, yes, yes.’

  Grace ended the contact and called the Incident Room, instructing them to put an immediate ANPR out on the car and to see if the police helicopter was available.

  A network of Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras covered many major arteries across the UK. Any number plate fed into the system would, in theory, enable a car to be tracked every few miles – so long as it stuck to main roads. Once the car pinged a camera or was spotted by an alert police officer, the helicopter would be sent to the area, and with luck follow the car, unseen, from the air.

  Then he turned to DS Boutwood and nodded back towards Lynn Beckett’s house.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘You’re right, she’s up to something. Are you going to arrest her?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not her I want. She’s a bit-part player. Let’s see what she does now – where she leads us.’

  ‘You don’t think she might abort?’

  ‘My guess is she’s going to make a few phone calls.’

  He unlocked the doors to their Hyundai. Before climbing in, he raised a discreet finger of acknowledgement to the driver and passenger of the green Volkswagen Passat that was parked a short distance down the road.

  108

  ‘Hello! Don’t you read the fucking newspapers? Have you been living under a stone for the last two weeks, Mother?’

  Mother?

  When the hell had she last called her Mother? Lynn wondered desperately, panic-stricken as a result of the police officers’ visit. The nightmare she was living was getting darker every second.

  ‘Like, we’re in the middle of the biggest organ-trafficking scandal of the century and somehow you kind of don’t know about it?’

  Lynn stood up, pushing the kitchen chair back behind her, and faced her daughter, astonished and delighted by how much stronger she seemed this morning. But also a little alarmed; Caitlin was almost hyper.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I, li
ke, kind of don’t know about it. OK?’

  Caitlin shook her head. ‘That’s so totally not OK. OK?’ Then she scratched each of her arms in turn furiously.

  ‘The police are lying, angel,’ she said. ‘There is no trafficking scandal, it’s just a wild theory.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Three dead bodies turn up in the Channel, missing their vital organs, and all the newspapers and TV news programmes and radio programmes are lying.’

  ‘Those bodies have nothing to do with your transplant.’

  ‘Sure,’ Caitlin said. ‘So why did the cops come round?’

  Lynn was floundering, she knew. She could hear the desperation in her own voice, and another voice inside her head screaming at her, as she glanced back down, almost reluctantly, at the photograph on the table: WHAT IF DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT ROY GRACE WAS TELLING THE TRUTH?

  The photograph of the girl’s face burned into her brain. Burned into the backs of her eyelids, so that even when she blinked she could still see her.

  It wasn’t possible. No one would do that. No one would kill a child for – for money – for another child – for – for . . . ?

  For Caitlin?

  Would they?

  How she wished Malcolm was here at this moment. She needed someone to share this with, to talk this through with. Terror was coming at her from every direction.

  Twenty-three years in prison.

  You need to be aware quite how seriously the police and the judiciary view this activity.

  She had not thought about it. Beating the system, yes, using an organ from an accident victim, that was all. There was nothing wrong with that, surely to God?

  Killing a child.

  Killing that girl.

  The money was gone. Half of it. Would she ever get it back? Shit, she didn’t want it back. She wanted a damn liver.

  The policeman had to be lying.

  There was one quick way to find out. She picked up her mobile phone, opened the address book, then scrolled to Marlene Hartmann’s name.