Dead Tomorrow (48 page)

Gonzo scrawled some calculations down on a notepad.

‘Right,’ Glenn said, ‘you all know the Scoob-Eee. It’s not a fast boat – its maximum speed is ten knots – roughly twelve miles an hour. When this last signal was picked up, she had only been out for less than ninety minutes – and she was sailing at an angled course, putting her approximately ten miles out to sea – well within range.’

There was a few moments’ silence while they all reflected on this. It was Tania Whitlock who broke it.

‘Perhaps his phone battery died, Glenn?’ she suggested.

‘It’s possible – but he was an experienced skipper and the phone was one of his lifelines. Don’t you think it’s unlikely he’d have put to sea either without a charger or with an uncharged battery?’

‘He could have dropped it overboard,’ said Gonzo.

‘Yep, he could,’ Glenn agreed. ‘But again unlikely for an experienced skipper.’

Gonzo shrugged. ‘Yeah, Towers knew what he was doing, but it’s easily done. You think something else happened?’

Branson stared at him levelly. ‘What about the possibility that it sank?’

‘Ah, now I get it!’ Arf said. ‘You want us to go out there and take a look for it, scan the bottom?’

‘You guys are catching on quick!’ Branson said.

‘She’s a solid boat, built to take heavy seas,’ WAFI said. ‘She’s unlikely to have sunk.’

‘What about an accident?’ Branson said. ‘A collision? A fire? Sabotage? Or something more sinister.’

‘Like what, Glenn?’ Tania asked.

‘The voyage doesn’t make sense,’ Branson said. ‘I’ve interviewed his wife. Friday night was their wedding anniversary. They had a restaurant reservation. He had no clients booked for any night fishing trip. Yet instead of going home, he got on the boat and headed out to sea.’

‘Yep, well, I can sympathize with him,’ Arf said. ‘The choice of dinner with your missus or being out at sea on your own – no contest.’

They all grinned. Tania, who was newly married, less humorously than her colleagues.

Gonzo pointed out of the window. ‘There’s a Force Nine hooley blowing out there. Do you know what the sea’s like at the moment?’

‘A bit choppy, I should imagine.’ Glenn looked back at Gonzo quizzically.

‘If you want us to go out there, mate, we’ll go,’ WAFI said. ‘But you’re coming with us.’

Lynn sat impatiently at her desk at the Harrier Hornets work station with her phone headset on. She glanced at the calendar, tacked to the red partition wall, to the right of her computer screen.

Three weeks to go till Christmas, she thought. She had never felt so unprepared – or uninterested – in her life. There was only one Christmas present she wanted.

Her friend Sue Shackleton had told her she could come up with £10,000 quickly. That now left a shortfall of £15,000.

Right at this moment, Luke was at his bank, setting up everything for the wire transfer of 150,000 euros to Marlene Hartmann at Transplantation-Zentrale. But he would not actually make the transfer until they’d checked out all the references.

So far it was so good on that score. She had spoken to the woman in Manchester, whose name was Marilyn Franks. Her daughter’s liver transplant had been done at a clinic in Sussex, near Brighton, and it had been a complete success. Marilyn Franks could not praise Marlene Hartmann highly enough.

It was the same with the man in Cape Town. He’d had initial complications, but the aftercare, he assured Lynn, was far more thorough than he had imagined was possible. The Swedish woman in Stockholm, whose husband had had a new heart and lungs, was equally emphatic in her praise. With both the last two cases, the operations were carried out in local clinics.

It was still too early to phone America, but in her own mind, from what she had now heard, Lynn was already convinced. Still, she owed it to Luke, especially, to complete the checks. And there was not going to be any second chance.

Hopefully, some time this afternoon, or tomorrow at the latest, after she had spoken to the other two references, the transfer of the first half of the money would be done. The remaining 50 per cent would have to be handed over, cash on delivery, on the day of the transplant. Which gave her days, at most, to find the last £15,000.

She had tested the German woman out on what would happen if she had a shortfall and Marlene had been firm. It was all or nothing. She could not be more clear.

Fifteen thousand. It was still a lot of money to find – and even more so to find inside a week, maybe less. Further, the exchange rate of the pound against the euro was predicted to worsen. Which meant the shorfall might get even bigger.

From the moment Luke made the transfer, the clock would start ticking. At any time in the following days, Lynn could get a phone call from the German woman, giving her and Caitlin as little as two hours’ notice before they were picked up and transferred to the clinic. As Marlene had explained so clearly, you could not predict when an accident was going to happen that would provide a suitable matching organ.

She glanced around. Christmas cards were starting to appear on desks in the office, and tiny bits of tinsel here and there, and sprigs of mistletoe. But the company had a number of Muslims working for it and there was an edict that Christmas was not to be openly celebrated by employees for fear of offending the non-Christians. So yet again there would be no proper decorations going up – nor an official office Xmas lunch.

Last year that had made her blood boil, but this year Lynn didn’t care. At this moment she cared only about one thing. The time. It was five minutes to one. At one there was a lunch-break exodus, as regular as clockwork, from several of her Harrier Hornet colleagues. Crucially, Katie and Jim, who sat either side of her and could hear everything she said, if they chose to listen, and her team manager, Liv Thomas.

On the screen on the wall, the COLLECTED BONUS POT had risen to £1,450 this morning. The big pre-Christmas grab was on, to pull money in before clients blew it all on presents and booze.

Making a big effort to focus on work, but without hope of scooping this week’s pot, she dialled the next number on her call list. It was answered a few moments later by a slurred, female voice.

‘Mrs Hall?’ Lynn asked.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s Lynn, from Denarii. We just noticed that you didn’t make your payment on Monday this week.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s Christmas, innit? I got stuff to buy. What do you want me to tell my kids? They’re getting no presents this year cos I got to pay Denarii?’

‘Well, we did have an agreement, Mrs Hall.’

‘Yeah, well, you sodding come here and explain that to my kids.’

Lynn closed her eyes for an instant. She heard a gulp as if the woman was swigging something. She didn’t have the energy to deal with this right now.

‘Can you tell me when we might be able to expect you to resume your payment plan?’

‘You tell me. Tell me about the social housing, yeah? You know, what about the Welfare? Why don’t you speak to them?’

The woman’s slurring was getting worse and what she was saying made no sense.

‘I think I’ll call you back tomorrow, Mrs Hall.’

Lynn hung up.

Jim, to her right, a short, wiry Geordie of thirty, pulled off his headset and exhaled sharply.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘What’s with people today?’

Lynn gave him a sympathetic smile. He stood up.

‘I’m off. Think I need a liquid lunch today. Fancy a drink? I’m buying.’

‘Sorry. No thanks, Jim. I have to work through.’

‘Suit yourself.’

To Lynn’s relief, she saw Katie, a tubby red-haired woman in her forties, remove her headset and pick up her handbag.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Off to do battle with the shops!’

‘Good luck,’ Lynn said.

A few minutes later she saw her team manager wrestling her coat on. Lynn pretended to busy herself checking her emails, as she waited for all three of them to leave the room, then pulled up the client file and jotted down a number.

As soon as they were gone, she pulled off her headset, took her mobile phone from her bag, altered the setting to Number Withheld, then dialled the mobile phone of her most loathsome client of all.

He answered warily, after the third ring, in his deep, treacly voice.

‘Hello?’

‘Reg Okuma?’

‘Who is this, please?’

Keeping her voice down to barely above a whisper, she said, ‘Lynn Beckett, from Denarii.’

Suddenly his whole tone changed. ‘My beautiful Lynn! Are you phoning me to tell me that we can now make beautiful love together?’

‘Well, I’m actually calling to see if I can help you with your credit rating. We’re making some special Christmas offers to our clients. You owe thirty-seven thousand, eight hundred and seventy pounds, plus accruing interest, to the Bradford Credit Bank, yes?’

‘If that’s what you tell me.’

‘If you could raise fifteen thousand pounds right away, in cash, I think we’d be prepared to write off the rest of the debt for you, and give you a clean bill of health to kick off the New Year.’

‘You would?’ He sounded incredulous.

‘Only because it’s Christmas. We’re thinking about our year-end figures. It would be good for us to have closure with some key clients.’

‘This is a most interesting proposition for me.’

Lynn knew he had the money. He had a history of defaulting on debts that went back more than a decade. He operated cash businesses – ice-cream vans and street-food stalls – then would obtain credit cards, max them out and plead he had no money. Lynn calculated he probably had hundreds of thousands of pounds stashed away in cash. Fifteen thousand would be small beer to him. And a bargain.

‘You told me yesterday you need to buy a car, for your new business venture, and that you can’t get any credit.’

‘Yes.’

‘So this could be a good solution for you.’

He was silent for a long while.

‘Mr Okuma, are you still there?’

‘Yes, my beautiful one, I like listening to your breathing. It helps to clarify my thinking, and it so arouses me. So, if it were – ah – possible for me to find this sum for you-’

‘In cash.’

‘It must be cash?’

‘I’m doing you a big favour. I’m putting my neck on the block on this one, to help you.’

‘I would like to reward you for this, beautiful Lynn. Perhaps I can reward you in bed?’

‘First I need to see the money.’

‘I think this kind of money – it will be possible. Oh yes. How much time can you give me?’

‘Twenty-four hours?’

‘I will call you back shortly.’

‘Call me on this number,’ she said, and gave him her mobile.

When she hung up, she began shaking.

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?’