Suddenly, Lynn’s optimism dipped as she saw the confusion in her daughter’s face.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it!’

She quickly filled up the water bowl, topped the food up in the dispenser, lifted Max gently from Caitlin’s arms, gave him a nuzzle and a kiss and set him down.

‘Guard the house, Max, OK! Remember what you’re descended from!’

Normally Caitlin would grin whenever she said that. But there was no reaction. Lynn touched her arm gently.

‘OK, angel, drink up and take your pills, and let’s rock and roll.’

‘I’m not thirsty.’

‘It’ll make you feel better. You can’t eat anything this morning, before the op, remember?’

Reluctantly, Caitlin drank. Holding the glass, she half stood up, then crashed back down heavily in the chair, slopping some of the liquid over the rim.

Lynn stared at her for a moment, panic rising again. She held the glass, helping Caitlin get the rest of the fluid and the pills down, then she ran outside and asked the taxi driver to help her.

Two minutes later, with their luggage in the boot, Lynn sat holding Caitlin’s hand in the back of the cab as it pulled away.

A hundred yards behind them, the green Volkswagen Passat radioed that Target Two was on the move and read out the index of the taxi.

From his desk in MIR One, Grace ordered them to follow and keep them in sight.

‘Where are we going?’ Lynn asked the driver.

‘It’s a surprise!’

She caught his grin in his mirror.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not allowed to tell you.’

‘What?’

‘It’s all a bit cloak and dagger. James Bond stuff.’

‘Die Another Day,’ murmured Caitlin, through half-closed eyes. She was now scratching her thighs, harder and harder and harder.

They turned left into Carden Avenue, then left again on to the London Road, heading south towards the centre of Brighton.

Lynn looked at the driver’s ID card mounted on the dash. Read his name. Mark Tuckwell.

‘All right, Mr Bond,’ Lynn said. ‘Are we in for a long journey?’

‘Not this part of it. I-’ He was interrupted by his phone ringing. He answered curtly, ‘I’m driving. Call you back in a bit.’

‘Want to give me any clues?’ Lynn asked.

‘Chill, woman!’ Caitlin murmured.

Lynn sat in silence as they headed down towards Preston Circus, then turned right at the lights and went up New England Hill, under the viaduct. Then they turned sharp left. Moments later they crested the hill and began descending, down towards Brighton Station. The driver stopped at a junction, then carried on down the hill and suddenly pulled over sharply and halted by a row of bollards recently installed to prevent cars dropping off here.

A short man, about fifty years old, in a cheap beige suit, with greasy hair and a beaky nose, hurried over and opened Lynn’s door.

‘You come with me,’ he said in broken English. ‘Quickly, quickly, please! I am Grigore!’ He gave a servile, buck-toothed smile.

Staring at him in bewilderment, Lynn said, ‘Where – where are we going?’

He almost yanked her out of the car in his agitation, with an apologetic smile, into the bitterly cold noon air.

The taxi driver removed their bags from the boot.

None of them noticed the green Passat driving slowly past.

In the Incident Room, Grace’s radio beeped.

‘Roy Grace,’ he answered.

‘They’re getting out at Brighton Station,’ the surveillance officer informed him. ‘In the wrong place.’

Roy was thrown into total confusion. Brighton Station?

‘What the fuck?’ he said, thinking aloud.

There were four trains an hour to London from there. Romeo Sierra Zero Eight Alpha Mike Lima was still heading towards the M25. All his theories about a clinic in Sussex were suddenly down the khazi. Were they going to a clinic in London?

‘Follow them on foot,’ he said, in sudden total panic. ‘Don’t lose them. Whatever you do, don’t sodding lose them.’

With Grigore holding one bag and Lynn holding the other, dragging a stumbling Caitlin between them, they hurried across the concourse of Brighton Station. Every few seconds the man threw a nervous glance over his shoulder.

‘Quick!’ he implored. ‘Quick!’

‘I can’t go any bloody quicker!’ Lynn panted, totally bewildered.

They hurried beneath the clock suspended from the glass roof, past the news stall and the café, then along, past the far platform.

‘Where are we going?’ Lynn asked.

‘Quick!’ he replied.

‘I need to sit down,’ Caitlin said.

‘In minute you sit. OK?’

They stumbled out into the drop-off area beside the car park exit, past several waiting cars and taxis, and reached a dusty brown Mercedes. He popped open the boot, hefted their bags in, then opened a rear door and manoeuvred Caitlin inside. Lynn clambered in on the far side. Grigore jumped into the driver’s seat, started the car and drove like a demon away from the station.

The surveillance officer, DC Peter Woolf, stood and watched in horror, sensing his promotion prospects disappearing down that ramp, and frantically radioed his colleague in the Passat to get round to the car park exit.

But the Passat was stuck on the far side of the station in a queue of frustrated drivers, waiting for the imbecile in an articulated lorry that was blocking the entire street to complete his reversing manoeuvre.

Marlene Hartmann anxiously paced her office on the ground floor of the west wing of Wiston Grange, one of the six clinics that Transplantation-Zentrale quietly owned around the world. Most of the pampered clientele who came here for its spa, as well as surgical and non-surgical rejuvenation facilities, were wholly unaware of the activities that went on behind the sealed doors, marked PRIVATE NO ACCESS, to this particular wing.

There was a fine view towards the Downs from her window, but whenever she came here she was normally too preoccupied to notice it. As she was today.

She looked at her watch for the tenth time. Where was Sirius? Why were the mother and daughter taking so long?

She needed Lynn Beckett here to fax instructions to her bank to authorize the transfer of the second half of the funds. Normally she would wait for confirmation that the cleared funds were in her account, in Switzerland, before proceeding, but today she was going to have to take a risk, because she wanted to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible.

Sunset was at 3.55 p.m. Shoreham Airport closed then for landings and take-offs. She needed to be there for half past three at the latest. Cosmescu would be coming with her, with the remains of the Romanian girl. The team she left behind would be fine, looking after Caitlin. Even if the police did find out it was this place, by the time they turned up the operation would be completed and they would struggle to recover evidence. They might not be happy, but they could hardly cut Caitlin open to check if she had any new organs.

She left her office and walked through into the changing room, where she gowned up in surgical scrubs, boots and rubber gloves. She then opened the door to the operating theatre and entered, nodding acknowledgement to Razvan Ionescu, the Romanian transplant specialist, the two Romanian anaesthetists and the three Romanian nurses.

Simona lay naked and unconscious on the table, beneath the brilliant glare of the twin octopus overhead lights. A breathing tube had been inserted down her throat, connected to the ventilator and the anaesthetic machine. An intravenous cannula in her wrist, connected to a pump fed from a drip bag hanging from a pole beside the table, kept her under with a continuous infusion of Propofol. Two more pumped in fluids to keep her organs well perfused, for maximum quality.