Dead Tomorrow

80

Grace logged the date and time in his notebook – 6.30 p.m., Thursday 4 December – then he glanced down the lengthy agenda his MSA had typed for the fourteenth briefing of Operation Neptune.

Several of his inquiry team, including Guy Batchelor, Norman Potting and Glenn Branson, were in a vociferous discussion about a disputed referee’s decision in last night’s big football game. Grace, who preferred rugby, had not seen it.

‘OK,’ he said, raising his voice and his hand, ‘let’s kick off.’

‘Very witty,’ Glenn Branson said.

‘Do you want a yellow card?’

‘I don’t think you’ll give me one when you hear my result. Two results, in fact. Want me to kick off first?’

Grinning, Roy Grace said, ‘Fill your boots.’

‘Yeah, right, well -’ Branson picked up a sheaf of notes – ‘first thing is that the Specialist Search Unit boys went out this afternoon to scan the area where the Scoob-Eee was last heard from. Despite the crap weather, they’ve found an anomaly on the seabed which is approximately the same dimensions as the Scoob-Eee. It’s the shape of a boat, lying in about a hundred feet of water, approximately twelve miles due south of Black Rock. It could of course be an old wreck, but they’re going to dive on it tomorrow, weather permitting, to take a look.’

‘Are you going with them, Glenn?’ DI Mantle asked.

‘Well…’ He sounded hesitant. ‘Given the choice, I’d rather not.’

‘I think you should,’ she said. ‘In case they find something.’

‘I’ll be a lot of use to them, flat on my back, puking.’

‘Always lie on your side or on your stomach if you’re throwing up,’ Potting said. ‘That way you won’t choke.’

‘Very helpful advice, Norman. Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind,’ Glenn replied.

‘I’m just concerned about resourcing,’ Grace said, cutting in. ‘Beyond the Scoob-Eee being used as the recovery boat for two of the bodies, do we have anything to link its disappearance to our investigation, to justify Glenn’s time in going out again?’

Glumly, like a man aiding his own executioner, Glenn said, ‘Yes. I have a result back from the labs on the DNA from the two cigarette butts I recovered at Shoreham Harbour. Remember, I reported that I saw someone who appeared to be watching the Scoob-Eee with interest last Friday morning?’

Grace nodded.

‘Well, the national database people at Birmingham say it’s a perfect match to someone they have recently put on the database at the request of Europol. He goes under two different names. Here he calls himself Joe Baker, but his real name is Vlad Cosmescu – he’s Romanian.’

Grace thought for a moment. Joe Baker. The man who owned the black Mercedes he had clocked on his early-morning run. A coincidence, or more?

‘That’s interesting,’ Bella Moy said. ‘His name just popped up last night – pimping two girls, recent arrivals from Romania.’

‘Clearly the Man of the Moment,’ Grace said, sliding some papers out of a brown envelope. ‘The wizards in our fingerprint department managed to pull a clear set of dabs off an outboard that had been submerged in the sea using some equipment they’re trialling – and they got a match from Europol this afternoon. Guess who?’

‘Our New Best Friend, Vlad the impaler?’ ventured DS Batchelor.

‘Right on the money!’ Grace said.

‘Are we going to bring him in?’ Norman Potting asked. ‘They’re all villains, these Romanians, aren’t they?’

‘That’s very racist,’ Bella said acidly.

‘No, it’s just a home truth.’

‘What grounds do you want to arrest him on, Norman?’ Grace said. ‘Smoking a cigarette? Dropping an outboard motor in the sea? Or for being a Romanian?’

Potting lowered his eyes and made an indecipherable grumbling sound.

‘Did the Scoob-Eee have an outboard, Glenn?’ E-J asked.

‘I didn’t see one, no.’

‘Do we know where this man, Baker/Cosmescu, lives?’

Bella replied, ‘He’s been a part of the brothel scene for some years, Roy. We should be able to track him down fairly easily.’

‘Do you want someone to interview him?’ DI Mantle asked.

‘No, I think we’ll just log him as a Person of Interest. I don’t think we should talk to him at this stage. If he’s up to anything it will just alert him. We might think about putting surveillance on him.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘OK, so how are we are we doing on the actions?’

‘We’ve had two DCs out going round all suppliers of PVC sheeting in the area. Nothing so far,’ said David Browne.

‘Nick and I covered twelve brothels last night,’ Bella Moy said, reaching for a Malteser.

‘You must be shagged out, Nick!’ Norman Potting said.

Nicholl blushed and gave a half-hearted smile. Grace suppressed a grin. Potting had been quieter than normal in recent days, which he imagined was due to the man’s marriage problems. It was a relief. Potting was a good detective, but on a couple of recent cases when they had worked together Grace had come perilously close to having to fire the DS for his offensive remarks.

Turning to Bella, he asked, ‘And? Anything?’

Glancing at Nick Nicholl for confirmation, she replied, ‘Nothing, beyond Cosmescu. We didn’t find any girls who seemed in distress.’

‘Good to know that our brothels are such happy places,’ Grace commented sarcastically.

‘We’ll carry on today,’ she said.

Glancing at his notes again, Grace turned to Potting. ‘Anything from your man in Romania?’

‘I had an email from Ian Tilling an hour ago. He’s following up a lead tonight. I may have some information by the morning.’

Grace made a note.

‘Good. Thank you. How about people who were on a transplant list but dropped off?’

‘I’ve been working on that all day, Roy,’ Potting said. ‘I suspect we’re on a hiding to nothing there. First thing we’ve got against us is the Hippocratic Oath – good old patient confidentiality. Second thing is the way the system works. These transplant lists aren’t cut and dried. I spoke to a helpful liver consultant at the Royal South London, one of the main liver transplant hospitals. He told me they have a weekly meeting, every Wednesday at midday, when they review the list. Because there is such a shortage of donors they change priorities from week to week, according to urgency. We’re talking about hospitals all over the UK. We’d have to go to court on every individual to get their records. What we need is a medical insider on our team.’

‘What kind of insider?’ Grace asked.

‘A tame transplant surgeon whom medics would trust,’ said Potting. ‘Someone who might have an overview.’

‘I have something that may be of interest,’ Emma-Jane Boutwood said. ‘I’ve been trying to find disaffected transplant consultants or surgeons on the web. Someone who’s openly critical of the system and has gone public.’

‘Openly critical in what way?’ DI Mantle quizzed.

‘Well – for instance, a surgeon who doesn’t think it is unethical to buy human organs,’ the young DC said. ‘And I’ve found someone – his name is Sir Roger Sirius – and he pops up on several different links.’

She looked at Grace, who nodded encouragement for her to continue.

‘A number of things about Sirius are interesting. He trained under one of the pioneers of liver transplant surgery in the UK. Then he was the senior consultant at the Royal South London Hospital for some years. He actively campaigned for a change in the organ donor laws – advocating an opt-out system – meaning that people’s organs would automatically be harvested on death unless they had requested otherwise. It’s the system they have in Spain, for instance. Now, where it gets even more interesting, is that he took early retirement from the Royal after a row about this. Then he went abroad.’

She stopped and looked at her notes.

‘He appears on some websites involving Colombia – which is a country heavily involved in human organ trafficking. It seems he worked out there for a while. Then he pops up in Romania.’

‘Romania?’ Grace said.

E-J nodded, then went on, ‘He’s into a big lifestyle. Flies his own helicopter, flash cars, and a huge mansion in Sussex, near Petworth.’

‘Interesting,’ DI Mantle said. ‘About Sussex.’

‘Four years ago he went through a very acrimonious and expensive divorce – and he’s now married to a former Miss Romania. That’s all I have so far.’

There was a long silence, then Grace said, ‘Good work, E-J. I think we should go and have a chat with him.’

He thought for a moment. From his limited experience of senior medics, they tended to be upmarket, pompous people. Guy Batchelor, who’d had a public school education, might be the kind of person a man like Sir Roger Sirius would feel comfortable with. It also fitted with what Batchelor had been working on.

He turned to the DS. ‘Guy, this is the terrain you were actioning. I think you should go with E-J.’

‘Yes, chief.’

‘Tell him we are investigating three bodies we believe are connected with an organ trafficking ring and ask him if he could give us his wisdom about where to look for such people. Flatter him, massage his ego – and watch him like a hawk. See how he reacts.’

Then he turned back to his notes. ‘The phone number I was given from Germany. Who’s working on that?’

One of the researchers, Jacqui Phillips, raised a hand. ‘Me, Roy. I obtained an address in Patcham and the name of the subscriber. But there was something else, which I gave to DI Mantle.’

Picking up from this, Lizzie Mantle said, ‘It was good observation, Jacqui. The house owner is a Mrs Lynn Beckett. Jacqui spotted that’s the same surname as one of the crew members of the Arco Dee dredger which found the first body. It was myself and Nick who took the original statements from the crew members, so we went back this afternoon, when it was in harbour, discharging its cargo. We got it confirmed that this Lynn Beckett is the former wife of the chief engineer, Malcolm Beckett. One of his fellow crew members told me that he’s quite depressed at the moment, because his daughter is ill. He wasn’t sure exactly what the problem is, but it was something to do with her liver.’

‘Liver?’ Grace echoed.

She nodded.

‘Did you find out anything else?’

The DI shook her head. ‘No. Malcolm Beckett was very guarded – in my view, too guarded.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think he had something to hide.’

‘Such as?’

‘He kept saying that his daughter lived with his ex-wife and he rarely saw her, so he didn’t really know what was wrong with her. That didn’t ring true to me – as a parent. Nor did he pass the Detective Superintendent Grace eye test.’

Grace smiled.

‘Perhaps we should put in for a phone tap, Roy?’ David Browne said.

‘I don’t think we have enough to get one at this stage, but I think we’ve enough to warrant a monitoring of calls to that number.’

‘Presumably this Lynn Beckett has a mobile too,’ Guy Batchelor said.

‘Yes, someone needs to get on to the mobile phone companies, see what they’ve got registered to that name and address.’ He looked at his notes again. ‘Tomorrow, I’m flying to Munich and back in the evening, so DI Mantle will be taking over command until I return. Any questions?’

There were none until after the briefing had ended, when Glenn Branson caught up with Roy Grace as he headed along the network of corridors back towards his office. They stopped in front of a diagram that looked like a spider’s web, pinned to a red felt noticeboard which was headed COMMON POSSIBLE MOTIVES.

‘Yo, old-timer,’ he said. ‘This trip to Munich – it wouldn’t be anything connected with Sandy, would it?’

Grace shook his head. ‘God, no. I have an appointment with the organ broker woman – I’m posing as a customer. And while I’m over there my LKA friend is going to slip me some files – on the QT.’

On the diagram behind Glenn’s head Grace read the words, DESIRE, POWER, CONTROL, HATE, REVENGE.

Glenn stared hard at him. ‘Are you sure that’s the only reason for your visit? It’s just – you know – you and I haven’t talked about Sandy in a while, and now you’re going to the place were there was a reported sighting of her.’

‘That sighting was a red herring, Glenn. You know what I really think?’

‘No, you’ve never told me what you really think. Got time for a drink?’

Grace looked at his watch. ‘Actually I’ve got to swing by the house to pick up some clothes, but I’ve got half an hour’s stuff to do in my office first. Where do you fancy?’

‘The usual?’

Grace shrugged. The Black Lion was not his favourite pub, in a city that was filled with great watering holes, but it was convenient and had its own car park. He looked at his watch again.

‘Meet you there at a quarter to eight. But one drink only.’

When Grace arrived, ten minutes later than he had said, Glenn was already seated at a quiet corner table, with a pint in front of him, and a tumbler of whisky on the rocks, with a jug of water on the side, for Grace.

‘Glenfiddich?’ Branson said.

‘Good man.’

‘I don’t know why you like that stuff.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t know why you like Guinness.’

‘No, what I mean is that Glenfiddich isn’t the purist single malt, right?’

‘Yep, but I like it best of any I’ve ever drunk. You have a problem with that?’

‘You ever see that film Whisky Galore?’

‘About the shipwreck off the Scottish coast – with a cargo of whisky?’

‘I’m impressed. You do actually impress me sometimes. You aren’t a complete cultural ignoramus. Even though you have rubbish taste in clothes and music.’

‘Yep, well, I wouldn’t want to be too perfect.’ Grace grinned. ‘Anyway, how are you? What’s happening with Mrs Branson?’

‘Let’s not even go there.’ Glenn shook his head. ‘It’s a fucking train crash, OK?’ He raised his glass and drank. Then, wiping the froth from his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, ‘I want to hear about you and Munich – and Sandy?’

Grace picked up the tumbler and swirled the ice cubes around. Johnny Cash’s ‘Ring of Fire’ was twanging out of the pub’s speakers.

‘Now, that’s real music.’

Branson rolled his eyes.

Grace took a sip, then put the glass down.

‘I think Sandy’s dead – and that she’s been dead for a long time. I’ve been a fool for holding out hope. All it’s done is to lose me years of my life.’ He shrugged. ‘All those mediums.’ He sipped some more whisky. ‘You know, a lot of them said the same thing, that they could not get through to her – meaning that she was not in spirit – like, the spirit world.’

‘What does that signify?’

‘If she’s not in the spirit world – i.e. dead – then she must be alive – in their rationale.’ He drank some more, and saw to his surprise that he had drained the glass. Lifting it up, he said, ‘That was a double?’

Glenn nodded.

‘I’ll get one more – just a single – keep me legal. Another half for you?’

‘A pint. I’m a big guy – I can take more than you!’

Grace returned with their fresh drinks and sat down, noting that Branson had drained his first pint in his absence.

‘So you don’t believe these mediums?’ Branson asked. ‘Even though you’ve always had a belief in the paranormal?’

‘I don’t know what to believe. It’ll be ten years next year that she’s been gone. That’s long enough. She’s either physically dead or at least dead to me. If she is alive and hasn’t made contact in nine years, she’s not going to.’ He fell silent for a moment. ‘I don’t want to lose Cleo, Glenn.’

‘She’s well fit. Great lady. I’m with you on that.’

‘If I don’t let go of Sandy, I will lose Cleo. I’m not going to let that happen.’

Glenn touched his friend’s face gently with his balled fist. ‘Good man, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you talk like this.’

Grace nodded. ‘It’s the first time I’ve felt like this. I’ve given instructions to my solicitor to start the process to have Sandy declared legally dead.’

Staring at him intently, Glenn said, ‘You know, mate, it’s not just the legal process, it’s the mental one that’s the most important, yeah?’

‘What do you mean by that?’

He tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s believing it – in here.’

‘I do,’ Roy Grace said, then smiled wryly. ‘Trust me, I’m a copper.’