Dead Tomorrow

she looked over her shoulder for any sign of the police officers. But they were not following her.
    Out of breath and disoriented by the geography of the place, she stumbled on. She was feeling clammy and jittery, a sign, she recognized through her distress, that she was low on sugar.
    Darling. Caitlin, darling. Angel, where are you?
    As she ran, she dialled Caitlin’s mobile for the third time, but it again went straight to voicemail.
    The ten minutes were up. She stopped and, panting, dialled Shirley Linsell and pleaded for a few more minutes, giving a half-truth that she had taken her to a spa and she had wandered off. Reluctantly, the Royal’s transplant coordinator agreed to another ten minutes. But that would be it.
    Lynn thanked her profusely, then stood still, her heart thumping, thinking desperately, worried out of her wits.
    Please appear, Caitlin, please, please, please.
    This place wastoo big. She was never going to find her without help. Trying to get a grip on her bearings, she ran back, following the signs to the front lobby, and arrived quicker than she had expected. One police officer was standing by the front door, as if guarding it, and the others had disappeared.
    She went through the door which was marked PRIVATE. NO ADMITTANCE , back into the office suite area, opened the door to Marlene Hartmann’s room and went in.
    And froze in her tracks.
    The German woman, her arms in front of her, handcuffed together, was looking sullen but dignified. Behind her stood two uniformed police officers. Beside her stood a tall, bald black man in a raincoat and, standing at her desk, riffling through papers, was the detective superintendent who had visited her earlier this morning. He turned his head to look at her and his eyes widened in recognition.
    ‘Brought your daughter here for a treat before her operation, have you, Mrs Beckett?’
    ‘Please, you have to help me find her,’ she blurted.
    ‘Do you have a good reason for being here at Wiston Grange?’ he responded sternly.
    ‘A good reason? Yes,’ Lynn said, venomously, suddenly angered at his attitude. ‘Because I want to look good at my daughter’s funeral. Is that enough of a reason?’
    In the silence that followed, she covered her face with her hands and began sobbing. ‘Please help me. I can’t find her. Please tell me where she is.’ She looked at the German woman through her blurry eyes. ‘Where is she?’
    The broker shrugged.
    ‘Please,’ Lynnsobbed. ‘I have to find her. She’s run off somewhere. We have to find her. They have a liver for her at the Royal. We have to find her. Ten minutes. Just have ten minutes. TEN MINUTES!’
    Roy Grace stepped towards her, holding up a sheet of paper, his face hard.
    ‘Mrs Beckett, I am arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to traffic a human being for organ transplantation purposes, and on suspicion of attempting to purchase a human organ. You do not need to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’
    Lynn could see what the sheet of paper was now. It was the fax she had sent, just a short while ago to her bank, instructing them to transfer the balance of the funds to Transplantation-Zentrale.
    Her legs felt weak suddenly. She balled her hands, pressing them against her mouth, sobbing hysterically. ‘Please find my daughter. I’ll admit to anything, I don’t care, just please find her.’
    She looked imploringly at the black man, who had a sympathetic face, then at the cold carapace of the German woman, then at the Detective Superintendent.
    ‘She’s dying! Please, you have to understand! We have a ten-minute window to find her, or the hospital will give her liver to someone else. Don’t you understand? If she doesn’t get that liver today, she will die.’
    ‘Where have you looked?’ Marlene said stiffly.
    ‘Everywhere–all over.’
    ‘Outside, also?’
    She shook her head. ‘No–I—’
    ‘I’ll call the helicopter,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘Can you give me a description of your daughter? What is she wearing?’
    Lynntold him, then he brought his radio to his ear. After a brief exchange, he lowered it.
    ‘They spotted a teenage girl who matches that description getting into a taxi about fifteen minutes ago.’
    Lynn let out a shocked wail. ‘A taxi? Where? Where was–where was it going?’
    ‘It was a Brighton taxi–a Streamline,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘We should be able to