Shortly after the 8.30 a.m. briefing Roy Grace was sitting at the work station in MIR One, on the phone to one of the two detectives who were on surveillance outside Sir Roger Sirius’s house. They had been there since shortly before midnight and reported that no one had left the house and the helicopter was still on its pad in the grounds. He was in an irritable mood, and while he talked, one of the phones in the room warbled on, unanswered. He clapped his hand over the mouthpiece and shouted for someone to answer it. Someone did, rapidly.

Every Secretary of State had either been abroad or out at dinner somewhere last night. It had been after midnight before one – the Home Secretary himself – had signed the phone-tapping consent, and it was after two in the morning before it was up and running on Lynn Beckett’s home and mobile phone lines.

Grace had grabbed three hours’ sleep at Cleo’s house and been back here since six. He was running on Red Bull, a handful of guarana tablets Cleo had given him, and coffee. He was very concerned that the only real lead they had at this moment was the transplant surgeon, Sir Roger Sirius – and no certainty that he was involved, or would give them anything.

He was also concerned about the news from Glenn Branson of Vlad Cosmescu’s disappearance. Was that connected with his visit to the German organ broker yesterday? Had he been rumbled by Marlene Hartmann? Had he panicked her team into aborting their plans and making a fast retreat? The all-ports alert, not only to watch for the German woman accompanied by a young girl arriving, but to watch for a man answering Vlad Cosmescu’s description leaving, had so far yielded nothing.

Ports of entry and departure would forever be a policing problem on an island like Great Britain, with miles of open coastline and numerous private airports and landing strips. Sometimes you would get lucky, but the resources to monitor everyone arriving on and departing from these shores were beyond any budget the police force had. It didn’t help that the Home Office, in its enthusiasm to comply with government budget cuts, had scrapped passport controls for people leaving the UK. In a nutshell, unless someone positively identified them, the UK law enforcement agencies hadn’t a clue who was here and who wasn’t.

The post-mortem on Jim Towers would now be under way and Grace was anxious to get down to the mortuary to see whether there were any early findings from the pathologist to link his death to Operation Neptune – and of course to see Cleo, who had been asleep when he had arrived at her house and when he had left.

As he stood up and pulled his jacket on, telling the other members of his team where he was going, yet another phone was warbling on, unanswered. Was everyone deaf in here today? Or just too plain exhausted after the long night to pick up the receiver?

He got as far as the door before it stopped. As he turned the handle, Lizzie Mantle called out to him, holding up the receiver.

‘Roy! For you.’

He went back over to the work station. It was David Hicks, one of the phone surveillance operatives.

‘Sir,’ he said, ‘we’ve just picked up a call on Mrs Beckett’s landline.’

‘I’m like… I’ve got to be at this workshop thing at ten,’ Luke mumbled, staggering into the kitchen as if he was sleepwalking. ‘Do you think it would be OK if I went?’

‘Of course,’ she said to his left eye, the only visible one. ‘Go. I’ll call you if anything develops.’

‘Cool.’

He went.

Lynn hurried upstairs, a million things that she had to do between now and midday swirling in her head, and with Luke gone – God bless him – she could think more clearly.

She had to go through the checklist from Marlene Hartmann of Transplantation-Zentrale.

Had to get Caitlin up, washed, packed.

Had to get herself packed.

It took her a while to rouse Caitlin, who was in a deep sleep from the medication Dr Hunter had given her. She ran a bath for her and then started packing overnight bags for each of them.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

She looked at her watch, panic gripping her. Surely not now? The German woman had said midday, surely? It was only just gone ten o’clock. Was it the postman?

She hurried downstairs and pulled open the front door.

A man and a woman stood there. The man was about forty, with close-cropped fair hair, a small, slightly flattened nose and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed in an overcoat, navy suit, white shirt and a plain blue tie, and was holding up a small, black leather wallet with something printed inside it, and his photograph. The woman was a good decade younger, blonde hair pulled up in a bun, wearing a dark trouser suit with a cream blouse, and held up a similar black wallet.

‘Mrs Lynn Beckett?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Detective Superintendent Grace and DC Boutwood of Sussex CID. Would it be possible to have a word with you?’

Lynn stared at them in shock. She felt as if she had been dropped into the plunge pool of a sauna. The floor beneath her feet felt unstable. The police officers were in her face, right up close to her, so close she could almost feel the warmth of the Detective Superintendent’s breath. She stepped back, in a red mist of panic. ‘It’s – er – it’s not really a very convenient time,’ she gasped.

Her words sounded disembodied, as if someone else was saying them.

‘I’m sorry, but we do need to speak to you right away,’ the Detective Superintendent said, stepping forward, his face coming closer, intimidatingly closer, again.

She stared wildly, for a moment, at each of them in turn. What the hell was this about? The money she had taken from Reg Okuma, she thought, with sudden terror – had he reported it?

She heard her disembodied voice say mechanically, ‘Yes, right, come in, please come in. It’s cold, isn’t it? Cold but dry. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Not raining. December’s often quite a dry month.’

The young woman DC looked at her sympathetically and smiled.

Lynn stepped back to let them in, then shut the front door behind them. The hallway seemed smaller than ever and she felt crowded by the two police officers.

‘Mrs Beckett,’ the Detective Superintendent said, ‘you have a daughter called Caitlin, is that correct?’

Lynn’s eyes shot upstairs. ‘Yes.’ She struggled to get the word past the lump in her throat. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘Forgive me if I’m being a little forward, Mrs Beckett, but as I understand it, your daughter is unwell with liver failure and in need of a transplant. Is that correct?’

For some moments, she said nothing, trying desperately to think clearly. Why were they here? Why?

‘Would you mind telling me what you are doing here? What is this about? What do you want?’ she asked, shaking.

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?’