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.’

Normally, Lynn disliked the winter months, because that meant leaving the office in the dark. But tonight, with Reg Okuma parked just down the street, she was glad it was dark, even though the car was clearly illuminated by the street lighting. She could hear the music pounding out of its boom-box speakers when she was still fifty yards away from it, along with the burble from its drainpipe-size exhausts.

It was an old, 3-Series BMW, in what appeared to be a shade of dark brown the colour of dung, but at least it had blackened windows. The engine was running, presumably, she thought, to provide the power for the amplifier.

The door swung open for her and she hesitated for a moment, wondering if she was making a terrible mistake. But she was desperate for the cash he had promised to bring. Glancing around to check no one from work had seen her, she slipped into the front passenger seat and hastily pulled the door shut.

The interior of the car was even more horrible than its exterior. The bass of the speakers, pounding out some abysmal rap song, physically shook her brain. A pair of furry dice, hanging from the interior mirror, were shaking too. There was a string of blue iridescent lights across the top of the dash that she thought for a moment might be an attempt at Christmas decorations, but which she then realized was there because Reg Okuma thought it was cool.

And the dense reek of the man’s cologne was even more overpowering than the music.

The pleasant surprise was the car’s occupant.

Lynn always tried to form mental images of her clients, and the one she’d had of Reg Okuma, which was a cross between Robert Mugabe and Hannibal Lecter, was a long way off the mark now that, in the glow of the street lights and the blue iridescents, she could see him clearly for the first time.

In his late thirties, she estimated, he was actually good-looking, with an air of strength and confidence about him that reminded her of the actor Denzel Washington. Lean and wiry, with a buzz-cut dome, he was fashionably dressed in a black jacket over a black T-shirt. His fingers were adorned with too many rings, a loose, chunky, gold-link bracelet hung on one wrist and the other sported a watch the size of a sundial.

‘Lynn!’ he said, with a big smile, attempting clumsily to kiss her.

She pulled away, equally clumsily.

‘All day I have been hard, thinking about you. Are you juicy, thinking about me?’

‘Did you bring the money?’ she asked, glancing out of the window, terrified one of her colleagues might walk past and spot her.

‘It’s so vulgar to talk about money on a romantic date, don’t you think, my beautiful?’

‘Let’s drive off,’ she said.

‘Do you like my car? It is the 325 i.’ He emphasized the i. ‘It is the fuel-injection version. It is very fast. It’s not a Ferrari, right? Not yet. But that’s going to happen.’

‘I’m happy for you,’ she said. ‘Shall we go?’

‘I need to look at you first,’ he said, turning and staring at her. ‘Oh, you are even more beautiful in the flesh than in my dreams!’

Then, mercifully, he moved the gear lever and the car shot forward.

She looked behind her and saw a canvas bank bag, grabbed it and put it on her lap. Moments later she felt his strong, bony hand on her thigh.

‘We are going to have such beautiful sex tonight, my pretty one!’ he said.

They stopped behind a long queue of cars at the New England Hill lights. She peered into the bag and saw bundles of £50 notes, held by elastic bands. A lot of them.

‘It’s all there,’ he said. ‘Reg Okuma is a man of his word.’

‘Not from my past experience,’ she said, emboldened by the fact there were cars in front of them and behind them. She took out one bundle, which she counted quickly: £1,000.

His hand moved further up her thigh.

Ignoring it as they crept slowly forward, she counted the bundles. Fifteen.

Then suddenly he was pressing right up between her legs. She clenched her thighs and pushed his hand away, firmly. There was no way she was going to sleep with Okuma. Not for £15,000. Not for anything. She just wanted to take the money and get out of here. But even in her desperate state, she knew it was not that simple.

‘We are going to a bar,’ he said, ‘my sweet Lynn. Then I have booked a romantic table. We will have a candlelit dinner, and then we will make the most beautiful love.’

His fingers pressed harder inside her.

The lights changed to green and they crossed, turning left, up the hill. She gripped his hand, removed it and placed it on his own thigh.

‘You make me feel so sexy, Lynn.’

Twenty minutes later they were seated on the outside terrace of the Karma bar, on the boardwalk of Brighton Marina. Despite the fierce glow of the gas heater above them, she was freezing. Reg Okuma puffed on a huge cigar and she sat, huddled in her coat, sipping a whisky sour, which he had insisted she would like – and actually she did. She would have liked it a lot more, though, if they had been inside.