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?’

‘Our New Best Friend, Vlad the impaler?’ ventured DS Batchelor.

‘Right on the money!’ Grace said.

‘Are we going to bring him in?’ Norman Potting asked. ‘They’re all villains, these Romanians, aren’t they?’

‘That’s very racist,’ Bella said acidly.

‘No, it’s just a home truth.’

‘What grounds do you want to arrest him on, Norman?’ Grace said. ‘Smoking a cigarette? Dropping an outboard motor in the sea? Or for being a Romanian?’

Potting lowered his eyes and made an indecipherable grumbling sound.

‘Did the Scoob-Eee have an outboard, Glenn?’ E-J asked.

‘I didn’t see one, no.’

‘Do we know where this man, Baker/Cosmescu, lives?’

Bella replied, ‘He’s been a part of the brothel scene for some years, Roy. We should be able to track him down fairly easily.’

‘Do you want someone to interview him?’ DI Mantle asked.

‘No, I think we’ll just log him as a Person of Interest. I don’t think we should talk to him at this stage. If he’s up to anything it will just alert him. We might think about putting surveillance on him.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘OK, so how are we are we doing on the actions?’

‘We’ve had two DCs out going round all suppliers of PVC sheeting in the area. Nothing so far,’ said David Browne.

‘Nick and I covered twelve brothels last night,’ Bella Moy said, reaching for a Malteser.

‘You must be shagged out, Nick!’ Norman Potting said.

Nicholl blushed and gave a half-hearted smile. Grace suppressed a grin. Potting had been quieter than normal in recent days, which he imagined was due to the man’s marriage problems. It was a relief. Potting was a good detective, but on a couple of recent cases when they had worked together Grace had come perilously close to having to fire the DS for his offensive remarks.

Turning to Bella, he asked, ‘And? Anything?’

Glancing at Nick Nicholl for confirmation, she replied, ‘Nothing, beyond Cosmescu. We didn’t find any girls who seemed in distress.’

‘Good to know that our brothels are such happy places,’ Grace commented sarcastically.

‘We’ll carry on today,’ she said.