Dead Tomorrow by Peter James

one-on-one for the whole afternoon, smiled at Susan. ‘You should go home and get some rest.’
    Susan shook her head. ‘I want to keep talking to him. People respond sometimes. I remember seeing it happen.’
    ‘Does he have favourite music?’ the nurse asked.
    ‘Snow Patrol,’ she said, and thought for a moment. ‘And the Eagles. He likes those bands.’
    ‘You could try getting some of their CDs and playing them to him. Have you got an iPod?’
    ‘At home.’
    ‘Why don’t you get it? You could get his wash stuff at the same time. Some soap, a facecloth, toothbrush, his shaving stuff, deodorant.’
    ‘I don’t want to leave him,’ Susan said. ‘In case…’ She shrugged.
    ‘He’s stable,’ Saleha said. ‘I can call you if I think you should get back here quickly.’
    ‘He’ll be stable all the time you keep the machines on, won’t he? But what happens when you switch them off?’
    There was an awkward silence, during which both women knew the answer. The nurse broke it. She said cheerily, ‘What we have to hope is that there will be some improvement overnight.’
    ‘Yes,’ Susan said, her voice choking as she tried to hold back the tears.
    She stared at Nat’s face, at his motionless eyelids, willing him to move, willing those eyes to open and his lips to smile.
    But there was no change.

14
    David Browne, the Crime Scene Manager, and James Gartrell, a police forensic photographer, had arrived a short while ago in separate vehicles. Browne, a lean, muscular man in his early forties, with close-cropped ginger hair and a cheery, freckled face, dressed in a heavy padded anorak, jeans and trainers, and Gartrell, burly and intense, with short dark hair, were busy on the main deck of the
Arco Dee
, photographing and videoing the scene.
    Browne had agreed with Roy Grace that there was no useful purpose to be served in treating the ship as a crime scene, and none of the three men, or Lizzie Mantle, had bothered changing into protective clothing. Grace had merely secured the immediate area around the drag head with crime-scene tape.
    The Detective Superintendent stood by the cordon now, gratefully cradling a mug of hot coffee, informally interviewing the captain and the chief engineer, whose comments were being noted down by DI Mantle, who was standing next to him. He glanced at his watch. It was ten past six.
    The captain, Danny Marshall, wearing a high-visibility jacket over his thick pullover, was looking worried, and repeatedly checking his watch too. The chief engineer, Malcolm Beckett, dressed in a grimy white boiler suit and hard hat, was a tad less edgy, but Grace could sense both men were tense. Clearly they were upset about the body, but equally clearly they were worried about the commercial implications of the disruption to their schedule.
    Another crew member came over to them, holding a sheet of graph paper on which was printed a set of coordinates, giving the precise position on the seabed where the body had been dredged up from.
    Lizzie Mantle copied the information into her notebook, then slipped the square of paper into a plastic evidence bag and pocketed it. The body had been heavily weighted down, but even so, as Grace knew from previous experience, there were strong currents in the English Channel and bodies could get moved considerable distances. He would need to get the underwater team to calculate the probable dump site.
    He was suddenly aware of the burble of a motorcycle, then his radio crackled and he heard the voice of the young female Police Community Support Officer he had posted at the bottom of the gangway to ensure that no unauthorized person came on board.
    ‘The paramedic’s just arrived, sir,’ she said.
    ‘I’ll come down.’
    Roy walked across the deck and heard the motorcycle engine more loudly. A single headlight swept the quay. Moments later, under the glare of the ship’s spotlights, he saw a BMW motorbike, in paramedic livery, halt and the driver dismount and