He saw a general nod of approval.

‘I know we’ve been over this ground before, and we concluded the bodies were taken by either private boat or private plane or helicopter. But whatever the perps used, they would have hired a professional skipper or pilot. That person would have had charts, and been aware of the different depths of the Channel, and in all probability would have known these waters like the back of their hand. The dredge area may not be marked on all charts, but even so it is relatively shallow. If you are going to dump bodies, and you’ve got the whole of the Channel, wouldn’t you go for depth? I would.’

‘What’s the deepest point, Roy?’ Potting asked.

‘There are plenty of places where it is over two hundred feet. So why dump them in sixty-five?’

‘Speed?’ Glenn Branson suggested. ‘People panic with bodies sometimes, don’t they?’

‘Not the kind of people we’re looking at here, Glenn,’ the Detective Superintendent said.

‘Maybe they genuinely didn’t see it on their chart,’ Bella Moy said.

Grace shook his head. ‘Bella, I’m not ruling that out, but I’m postulating they might have been put there deliberately.’

‘But I don’t get why, Roy,’ DI Mantle said.

‘In the hope that they would be found.’

‘For what reason?’ Nick Nicholl asked.

‘Someone who doesn’t approve of what they are doing?’ Grace replied. ‘He dumped the bodies there, knowing there was a chance they’d get found.’

‘If he didn’t like what they were doing why didn’t he just call the police?’ Glenn Branson asked.

‘Could be any number of reasons. Top of my list would be a pilot or skipper who liked the money but had a conscience. If he shopped them, his nice little earner would stop. This way his conscience was salved. He dropped them in an easy depth to dive. If the dredger didn’t bring them up at some point, he could tip the police off – but not for a good long while.’

The team were quiet for a moment.

‘I accept I may be off beam here, but I want to start a new line of enquiry – starting with Shoreham Harbour, we need to check out all the boats. We can get help from the harbourmaster, the lock operators and the coastguard. The boats we should look at closest are fast cruisers and fishing boats – and all the rental boats. Glenn, you’re on the case on that missing fishing boat, the Scoob-Eee. Anything to report?’

The DS raised a padded brown envelope in the air. ‘Just arrived, five minutes ago from O2, the phone company, Roy. It’s a plot of all the mobile phone masts the skipper’s phone made contact with on Friday night. It’s unlikely he crossed the Channel, so with luck we may be able to track his movements along the south coast. Me and Ray Packham are going to work on them straight after this meeting.’

‘Good thinking. But we can’t be sure the Scoob-Eee had any involvement, so we should look at the other boats.’

Grace delegated two detective constables at the meeting to do this. Then he looked at Potting.

‘OK, Norman, I said we might be looking at the wrong people.’

Potting frowned.

‘I asked you to contact all transplant coordinators to see if any of these three were familiar to them, but you’ve still had no positive hit?’

‘That’s right, chief. We’ve spread pretty far on this now.’

‘I have something that might be better. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it. What we need is to check all the people who have been on a transplant waiting list, waiting either for a heart/lung transplant, a liver or a kidney, who did not receive a transplant but dropped off the waiting list.’

‘Presumably there are a number of reasons why people would drop off a waiting list, Roy?’ Potting said.

Grace shook his head. ‘From what I understand, no one on a waiting list for a new kidney or liver gets better by themselves, bar a miracle. If they drop off the list it is for one of two reasons. Either they had the transplant done elsewhere – or they died.’

His mobile phone began ringing. He pulled it out and glanced at the display. Instantly, he recognized the German dialling code, + 49, in front of the number that appeared. It was Marcel Kullen calling from Munich.

Raising an apologetic hand, he stepped out of the briefing room, into the corridor.

‘Roy,’ the German detective said, ‘you wanted me to call us when the organ broker, Marlene Hartmann, arrived back in Munich, yes?’

‘Thank you, yes!’

Grace was amused by how the German constantly confused ‘you’ and ‘us’.

‘She flew back late last night. Already, this morning, she has made three phone calls to a number in your city, in Brighton.’

‘Brilliant! Any chance you could let me have that number?’

‘You don’t reveal its source?’

‘You have my word.’

Kullen read it out to him.

At quarter to nine in the morning, Lynn sat in the kitchen, with her laptop open, studying the five emails that had come in overnight. Luke, who had spent some of the night with Caitlin, then had crashed on the sitting-room sofa, sat beside her. All of the emails were testimonials from clients of Transplantation-Zentrale.

One was from a mother in Phoenix, Arizona, whose thirteen-year-old son had received a liver through the organ broker two years ago and she provided a phone number for Lynn to call her on. She was, she said, utterly delighted with the service, and was certain her son would not have been alive today without Marlene Hartmann’s help.

Another was from a man in Cape Town who had received a new heart through the company just eight months ago. He too claimed he was delighted and provided a phone number.

The third was again from America, a particularly touching one, from the sister of a twenty-year-old girl in Madison, Wisconsin, who had received a kidney and said Lynn could call any time. The fourth was from a Swedish woman, in Stockholm, whose thirty-year-old husband had been provided with a new heart and lungs. The fifth was from a woman in Manchester, whose eighteen-year-old daughter had received a liver transplant this time last year. There were home and mobile numbers provided for her.

Lynn, still in her dressing gown, sipped her mug of tea. She had barely slept a wink all night, she had been so wired. Caitlin had come into her room at one stage, crying because she was in agony from where she had scratched the skin on her legs and arms raw. Then when she had settled her, Lynn had just lain awake, trying to think everything through.

The enormity of taking Luke’s money was weighing heavily. So was taking her mother’s nest egg. Taking the contribution from Mal worried her less; after all, Caitlin was his daughter too. But what if the transplant did not work? In the contract she had been through with Frau Hartmann, which the woman had left here, failure of the transplanted liver was covered. In the event of failure or rejection within six months a further liver would be provided at no charge.

But there was still no damn guarantee the transplant would work.

And, assuming it did, there was the further problem of finding several thousand pounds a year to pay for the anti-rejection drugs, for life.

But, more to the point, there wasn’t an alternative. Except for the unthinkable.

What if Marlene Hartmann was a con woman? She would have handed over every penny she could cobble together in the world and still be nowhere. OK, the company checked out from the credit enquiries she had made, surreptitiously, from work yesterday, and now she had the references, which she would contact for sure. But all the same she was worried sick about taking the next step – to sign and fax the contract and transfer 50 per cent of the fee, 150,000 euros, to Munich.

Breakfast was on the television, with the sound turned down to silent. The host and the hostess were seated on a sofa, chatting and laughing with a guest, some beautiful young woman in her twenties she vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. She had dark hair and was similar in build to Caitlin. And suddenly she had an image of Caitlin sitting there on that sofa, chatting and laughing with those hosts. Telling them about how she nearly died, but beat the system, yeaaaahhhhh!