Dead Tomorrow

95

Roy Grace made it back from Munich just in time for the 6.30 p.m. briefing.

He entered the room hurriedly, reading the agenda as he walked, and trying not to spill his mug of coffee.

‘Successful trip, Roy?’ Norman Potting said. ‘Sorted the Krauts out? Got them to understand who won the war?’

‘Thank you, Norman,’ he said, taking his seat. ‘I think they know that these days.’

Potting raised a finger in the air. ‘They’re devious buggers. Like the Nips. Look at our car industry! Every other car is German!’

‘NORMAN, thank you!’ Grace raised his voice, feeling tired and tetchy after his long day, which was far from over, and trying to finish reading the agenda before everyone had settled down.

Potting shrugged.

Grace read on in silence as more people shuffled in, then he started.

‘Right, this is our sixteenth briefing of Operation Neptune. We have another body, which may or may not be linked to this operation.’ He looked at Glenn. ‘Would our reluctant fisherman like to talk us through it?’

Branson smiled grimly. ‘Seems like we found poor old Jim Towers. Because he’s bound up head to foot, it’s impossible to see if he has had surgery, so we’ll have to wait for the PM. There’s no one available tonight, it’s being done in the morning.’

‘Has he been formally identified?’ Lizzie Mantle said.

‘From a gold bracelet and his watch,’ Branson replied. ‘We decided not to let his wife have a look at him. He’s not a pretty sight. Remember that face, underwater, in Jaws? The one that popped through the hole in the hull, with its eyeball hanging out, and scared the shit out of Richard Dreyfuss? He looks like that.’

‘Too much information, Glenn!’ Bella Moy said in disgust, changing her mind about popping a Malteser into her mouth.

‘What do we know, so far?’ Grace asked.

‘The boat was scuttled – it wasn’t in a collision.’

‘Any possibility it could have been suicide?’

‘Difficult to scuttle your own boat when you’re trussed up like a mummy in gaffer tape, chief. Unless he had a secret life as an escapologist.’

There was a titter of laugher.

Grace smiled too, then said, ‘For the immediate time being, the investigations will be done by this team. DI Mantle will head a dedicated group investigating this, and will decide whether a separate murder inquiry needs to be set up – to some extent dependent on what the post-mortem tells us.’

He looked at her.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I’d want you to be part of this team, Glenn, as you’ve already met Towers’s wife – widow.’

‘Sure.’

‘We need to handle the press carefully on this one,’ Grace said. ‘Again, let’s wait and see what we learn from the post-mortem.’

‘I agree,’ DI Mantle said.

Branson said, ‘I’m increasingly unhappy about Vlad Cosmescu. The DNA tests on the cigarette butts prove he was at Shoreham Harbour. Then the outboard-’

‘It’s evidence that he was there, Glenn,’ Roy Grace corrected him. ‘But not absolute proof. Someone else could have dropped them. You – everyone -’ he paused to look around his team – ‘we all need to be aware that if you say that something confirms or proves something, there is a big danger that in court you could be picked to pieces by a smart brief, who’ll accuse you of misdirecting the jury. The word to use is evidence, OK? Never say proved or proof. It’s the fast-track way to lose a case.’

Almost everyone nodded.

‘So what else do you have on him, Glenn?’

‘We know he’s a Person of Interest to Europol and Interpol, in several inquiries they have running into human trafficking and money laundering.’

‘But no charges, and no convictions against him, on record?’

‘No, Roy.’

‘The Channel’s not turning out to be a very good hiding place, is it?’ Bella Moy commented. ‘If you want to hide a body or an engine, you’d do better to plonk it in the middle of Churchill Square. At least someone might nick it for you!’

‘I’d like to pull him in for questioning, get a search warrant, go through his residence, get his phone details,’ Branson went on.

‘Because of a couple of dog-ends at Shoreham Harbour and an abandoned outboard motor?’ Grace quizzed.

‘Because he was watching the Scoob-Eee through binoculars. Why was he doing that? It’s an old fishing boat, what was so special about it – before the dead teenagers were hauled up on to it? I have a hunch about this man, Roy.’

‘Is the boat salvageable?’ Grace asked.

‘Yes, but it would be a big operation, and extremely expensive. I went through it with Tania Whitlock. I think you’d have a hard time selling the cost to ACC Vosper.’

‘If your hunches are right, you’re going to need evidence he was on that boat – someone who saw him, or something forensic, or something belonging to him.’

Branson looked pensive. ‘Perhaps they could dive on it again and do a thorough search.’

Grace thought for some moments. ‘Do you have any ideas on what his involvement might be, Glenn?’

‘No, chief, but I’m certain he has a connection. And I think we should move on him quickly.’

‘OK,’ Grace agreed. ‘Get a search warrant, but you’ll need to beef up the application a bit. Then see if he’ll talk voluntarily – you might get more out of him that way than if you arrest him and he gets silenced by a brief. Take someone interview-trained. Bella.’ He looked at DI Mantle. ‘OK with you, Lizzie?’

The Detective Inspector nodded.

Grace glanced at his watch, doing a quick calculation. By the time Branson had filled in the search warrant paperwork, then found a magistrate to sign the warrant, it would be at least ten, if they were lucky. Thinking back again to his own sighting of Cosmescu’s Mercedes sports car, he said, ‘The man’s a night owl – you might have a long wait for him.’

‘Then we’ll just have to make ourselves comfy in his pad in the meantime!’ Branson said.

‘God help his CD collection,’ Grace replied.

Branson had the decency to look embarrassed.

‘When you do catch up with him,’ Grace said, ‘I think you’ll find him hard work. He’s been around in the vice world of this city for a decade without being nicked once. You don’t do that unless you know how to play the game.’

Then he glanced back at the agenda.

‘Yesterday we established a Mrs Lynn Beckett, whose phone number I was given by our German police contacts, has a daughter suffering from liver failure.’ He tapped the photocopied wodge. ‘These are phone call logs from the German company I went to see today, Transplantation-Zentrale. I’m not meant to have them, officially, so we’ll have to handle them a bit delicately, but that won’t hinder us.’

He sipped his coffee, then went on.

‘I’ve found nine outgoing calls to Lynn Beckett’s landline number, and four incoming calls received from it, in the past three days, and a further two outgoing calls to her mobile phone.’

‘Do you have any recordings of the calls, Roy?’ Guy Batchelor asked.

‘Unfortunately not. They have similar privacy laws to us. But they’re working on authorization, which should come through any time now.’

‘Probably different in Adolf’s day,’ mumbled Potting.

Grace shot him daggers, then said, ‘I met with a woman called Marlene Hartmann, head of the German organ broking firm, Transplantation-Zentrale, in Munich this morning. They’re doing business in England right under our noses! We need to find very urgently where they are operating here. This flurry of activity with Mrs Beckett indicates something’s brewing and-’

Potting’s mobile phone suddenly rang, playing the Indiana Jones theme tune. Blushing, he glanced at the display, then stood up, muttered, ‘This might be relevant – Romania!’ and stepped out of the room.

‘And we probably have very little time to find where they are doing this,’ Grace continued. ‘I’ve been making some calls around the medical world, trying to understand exactly what would be needed for an organ transplant facility, whether temporary or permanent.’

‘A large team, Roy,’ Guy Batchelor said. ‘When we were interviewing Sir Roger Sirius, he said -’ he paused to flip a couple of pages back through his notebook – ‘you’d need a minimum of three surgeons, two anaesthetists, a bare minimum of three scrub nurses, and a 24/7 intensive care team including several trained in transplant aftercare.’

‘Yes, in total fifteen to twenty people,’ Grace said. ‘And they need a minimum of one fully equipped operating theatre and a full intensive care unit.’

‘So we have to be looking at a hospital,’ Nick Nicholl said. ‘Either a National Health or a private one.’

‘We can rule out the National Health. It would be virtually impossible to get an illegal organ like a liver through the system,’ said DI Mantle.

‘How sure are we of that?’ Glenn Branson asked.

‘Very sure,’ Lizzie Mantle said. ‘The system is pretty watertight. To slip an organ through the system, an awful lot of people would have to know about it. If it was just one person, that might be different.’

Branson nodded pensively.

‘I think we’re looking at a private hospital or clinic,’ Grace said. ‘There must be drugs specific to human organ transplants – we need to identify what those are, who makes them and supplies them, and then take a look at the private hospitals and clinics they’re sold to.’

‘That’s going to take time, Roy,’ DI Mantle said.

‘There can’t be that many drugs, or suppliers of them, and not that many end users,’ Grace said. He turned to the researcher, Jacqui Phillips. ‘Can you make a start on that right away? I’ll get you some more helpers, if you need it.’

Norman Potting came back into the room. ‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘That was a colleague of my contact in Bucharest, Ian Tilling.’

Grace signalled for him to continue.

‘He is attempting to tail a young Romanian woman – a teenager called Simona Irimia – who, he believes, is in the process of being trafficked, imminently, possibly tonight or tomorrow, to the UK. His colleague has emailed me a set of police photographs of the person he believes to be her – taken when she was arrested for a shoplifting offence two years ago – when she gave her age as twelve. I’m just printing them out now. Can you give me a couple of minutes?’

‘Go ahead.’

Potting went out of the room again.

‘If DS Batchelor and DC Boutwood are right in their suspicions of Sir Roger Sirius, we should consider surveillance on him. If we follow him he might lead us to the hospital or clinic,’ DI Mantle said.

Grace nodded. ‘Yes, excellent point. Do we know what manpower the DIU have available?’

‘They have a major op on,’ Mantle replied. ‘So it might be tricky.’

The Divisional Intelligence Unit was the covert surveillance arm of the CID. They focused mainly on drugs, but increasingly their work involved human trafficking as well.

Potting returned after a few minutes and distributed several copies of the Romanian police photographs of the front, right and left profiles of Simona around the inquiry team.

‘According to Ian Tilling, this girl was collected earlier today from her home by a German woman who was taking her to start a new life in England. Some life, I’d say. Someone else’s new life, from what it sounds.’

‘Pretty girl,’ commented Lizzie Mantle.

‘She’ll look less pretty when she’s a canoe,’ said Potting.

Canoe was crude police jargon for a body during a post-mortem after all the internal organs had been removed.

From an envelope, Grace pulled out several photographs of Marlene Hartmann, taken with a long lens, and passed them around.

‘These are also from my LKA friends in Munich. Do you think this might be the woman, Norman?’

Potting peered at them intently. ‘She’s a looker, Roy!’ he said. ‘Can see why you went to Munich!’

Ignoring the comment, Grace said tersely, ‘Christmas is coming up fast. In my experience, people tend to want to get business concluded well in advance of the Christmas break. If this girl is coming in tonight, or tomorrow, to be killed for her organs, then I think we can assume that will happen fairly quickly after she gets here. We need more information on this Lynn Beckett woman. We’ve enough, from what Norman’s given us, to get a phone tap sanctioned, in my view.’

The criterion for obtaining a phone tap order was evidence that a human life was in immediate danger. Grace was confident he could demonstrate that.

‘We need a signature from the ACPO and either the Home Secretary or a Secretary of State,’ DI Mantle said.

The duty Acting Chief Police Officer rotated between the Chief Constable, the Deputy Chief Constable and the two Assistant Chief Constables.

‘It’s Alison Vosper this week,’ Grace said. ‘Won’t be a problem. She’s up to speed on everything.’

‘How fast can you get a Secretary of State to move?’ Bella Moy asked.

‘The system’s speeded up a lot recently. London will take the instruction on a phone call now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We should have consent and a tap on her lines live before midnight.’

‘This woman and the young girl might already be here now, sir,’ Guy Batchelor said.

‘Yes, she might. But I think we should still keep a lookout at ports of entry. Gatwick’s the most likely, but we need to cover Heathrow too – make sure that’s on our radar – and the Channel Tunnel and the ferry ports. I’ll call Bill Warner at Gatwick, get him to watch all incoming flights from Bucharest and other points of departure they might use.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I’m afraid we’ve got a long night ahead of us. I don’t want another body turning up dead tomorrow.’