Dead Simple

by Peter James

  'Like what?'

  'Anything at all. Some object. An item of clothing? Jewellery? Something he would have been in contact with?'

  'I can find something. Just give me a couple of minutes.'

  'No problem.'

  34

  'Are you out of your tree?' Branson said as they drove away from Ashley's house.

  Holding the copper bracelet Ashley had given him in his hand, Grace replied, 'You suggested it.' There was a deep bass boom, boom, boom from the radio. Grace turned the volume down.

  'Yeah, but I didn't mean for you to ask her.'

  'You wanted us to nick something from his pad?'

  'Borrow. Man, you live dangerously. 'What if she talks to the press?'

  'You asked me to help you.'

  Branson gave him a sideways look. 'So what do you make of her?'

  'She knows more than she's telling us.'

  'So she's trying to protect his arse?'

  Grace turned the bracelet over in his hands. Three thin bands of copper welded together, each ending in two small roundels. 'What do you think?'

  'There you go again - your usual, answering a question with a question.'

  Grace said nothing for a while, thinking. In his mind he was recalling the scene inside Ashley Harper's house. Her anxiety, her answers to the questions. Nineteen years in the Police Force had taught him many lessons. Probably the most important one was that the truth is not necessarily what was immediately apparent. Ashley Harper knew more than she was saying, of that he was certain. The reading of her eyes told him that. Probably, he assessed, in her grief-stricken state she was concerned about whatever tax scam Michael Harrison might be involved with in the Cayman Islands getting out in the open. And yet he felt this was not the whole story.

  Twenty minutes later they parked on a yellow line on the Kemp Town promenade, elevated above the beach and the English Channel, and climbed out of the car.

  Rain was still pelting down, and, apart from the grey smudge of a tanker or freighter on the horizon, the sea was empty. A steady stream of cars and lorries sluiced past them. Over to the right, Grace could see the Palace Pier with its white domes, tacky lights and the helter-skelter rising like a pillar at the end.

  Marine Parade, the wide boulevard that ran along a mile of handsome Regency facades with sea views, teemed with traffic sluicing past in both directions. The Van Allen was one of its few modern apartment buildings, a twenty-first-century take on Art Deco. A beady voice answered the bell of apartment 407 on the high-security entry panel within moments. 'Hello?'

  'Mark Warren?' Glenn Branson said.

  'Yes, who is this?'

  'The police - may we have a word with you about Michael Harrison?'

  'Sure. Come up - the fourth floor.' There was a sharp buzz and Grace pushed the front door open.

  'Weird coincidence,' he said to Branson as they entered the lift. 'I was here last night on one of my poker nights.'

  'Who do you know here?'

  'Chris Croke.'

  'Chris Croke - that git in Traffic?'

  'He's all right.'

  'How can he afford a pad in a place like this?

  'By marrying money - or rather, by divorcing money. He had a rich missus - her dad was a lottery winner he told me once - and a good divorce lawyer.'

  'Smart bastard.'

  They stepped out on the fourth floor, walked down a plushly blue carpet and stopped outside 407. Branson pressed the bell.

  After a few seconds the door was opened by a man in his late twenties, dressed in an open-neck white business shirt, pinstripe suit trousers and black loafers with a gold chain. 'Gentlemen,' he said, affably, 'please come in.'

  Grace looked at him with faint recognition. He had seen this man before, somewhere, recently. Where? Where the hell had he seen him?

  Branson dutifully showed him his warrant card, but Mark Warren barely glanced at it. They followed him through a small hallway into a huge open-plan living area, with two red sofas forming an Lshape and a long, narrow black lacquer table acting as a border for a kitchen and dining area.

  The place was similar in its minimalistic style, Grace noted, to Ashley Harper's, but considerably more money had been lavished here. An African mask sat on top of a tall black plinth in one corner. Classy, if impenetrable, abstract paintings lined the walls, and there was a picture window looking directly out at the sea with a fine view of the Palace Pier. A news programme, muted, played on a flat screen Bang and Olufsen television.

  'Can I get you a drink?' Mark Warren asked, wringing his hands.

  Grace observed him carefully, watching his body language, listening to the way he spoke. The man exuded anxiety. Unease. Hardly surprising, considering what he must be going through. One of the biggest problems for survivors of any disaster, Grace knew from past experience, was coping with guilt.

  'We're fine, thanks,' Branson said. 'We don't want to keep you long - just a few questions.'

  'Do you have any news of Michael?'

  Grace told him about their trawl of pubs, and about the missing coffin. But there was something about the way he responded that ran up a flag in Grace's mind. Just a small flag, barely more than a minuscule fluttering pennant.

  'I can't believe they'd do anything like taking a coffin,' Mark Warren said.

  'You should know,' Grace retorted. 'Isn't it the role of the best man to organize the stag night?'

  'So I read in the stuff I downloaded from the net,' he replied.

  Grace frowned. 'So you weren't involved in the plans? At all?'

  Mark looked flustered. His voice was awkward as he started speaking, but rapidly calmed. 'I - no, that's not what I'm saying. Like I mean - you know - we - Luke - wanted to organize a stripper

  gram, but that's kind of so yesterday - we wanted something more original.'

  'To pay back Michael Harrison for all his practical jokes?'

  Flustered again for a moment, Mark Warren said, 'Yes, we did discuss that.'

  'But you didn't talk about a coffin?' Roy Grace asked, locked on to his eyeballs.

  'Absolutely not.' There was indignation in his voice.

  'A teak coffin,' Grace said.

  'I -1 don't know anything about any coffin.'

  'You're saying to me that you were his best man, but you didn't know anything about the plans for his stag night?'

  A long hesitation. Mark Warren shot long glances at each of the police officers in turn. 'Yes,' he answered finally.

  'I don't buy that, Mark,' Grace said. 'I'm sorry, but I don't buy it.' Instantly he detected the flash of anger.

  'You're accusing me of lying to you? I'm sorry, gentlemen, this meeting is over. I need to talk to my lawyer.'

  'That's more important to you than finding your business partner?' Grace quizzed. 'He's meant to be getting married tomorrow. You are aware of that?'

  'I'm his best man.'

  Watching Mark Warren's face closely, Grace suddenly remembered where he had seen him before. At least, where he thoughthe had seen him before. 'What car do you drive, Mark?' he asked.

  'A BMW.'

  'Which model? A 3-Series? 5-Series? 7Series?'

  An X5,' Mark said.

  'That's a four-wheel drive?'

  'Yes, it is.'

  Grace nodded and said nothing; his brain was churning.

  Standing in the corridor, waiting for the lift, Branson watched Mark Warren's front door, making sure it was shut, then he said, 'What was that about - the business with the car?'

  As they stepped inside the lift, Grace pressed the bottom button, marked 'B'. Still deep in thought, he didn't reply.

  Branson watched him. 'Something's not right with that dude. You read that?'

  Still Grace said nothing.

  'You should have pressed "G" for the ground floor - that's the way we came in.'

  Grace stepped out into the underground garage and Branson followed. The place was dry, dimly lit, with a faint smell of engine oil. They walked past a Ferrari
, a Jaguar saloon, a Mazda sports car and a small Ford saloon, then a couple of empty bays until Grace stopped in front of a gleaming silver BMWX5 off-roader. He stared hard at the car. Droplets of rainwater still lay on the paintwork.

  'Cool machines, these,' Branson said. 'But they don't have much room in the rear. Much more in a Range Rover or a Cayenne.'

  Grace peered at the wheels, then knelt down and looked under a door sill. 'When I was here last night,' he said, 'and came down here for my car about quarter to one in the morning, this BMW drove in, covered in mud. I noticed it because it seemed a little unusual - you don't often see a dirty four-wheel drive in the centre of Brighton, they're mostly used by mothers doing the shopping run.'

  'You sure it was this car.'

  Grace tapped the side of his own head. 'The number plate.'

  'Your photographic memory - still working at your advanced age...'

  'Still working.'

  'So what's your take?'

  'What's yours?'

  'A missing coffin. A forest. A mud-caked car. A best man who is the only survivor, who wants to speak to his lawyer. A bank account in the Cayman Islands. Something smells.'

  'It doesn't smell, it stinks.'

  'So what happens next?'

  Grace pulled the copper bracelet out of his pocket and held it up. 'This happens next.'

  'Is that what you really think?'

  'You have a better idea?'

  'Take Mark Warren in for questioning.'

  Grace shook his head. 'The guy's smart. We need to be smarter.'

  'Going to a flaky pendulum dowser is smarter?'

  'Trust me.'

  You had to stay awake. That was how you survived. Hypothermia made you sleepy, and when you fell asleep you would sink into a coma and then you died.

  Michael was shivering, near-delirious. Cold, so, so cold; he heard voices, heard Ashley whispering into his ear; reached up to touch her and his knuckles struck hard teak.

  Water slopped into his mouth and he spat it out. His face was squashed tight against the lid of the coffin. The flashlight didn't work any more, he tried keeping the walkie-talkie above the water, but his arm was hurting so much it was not going to be possible for much longer.

  He wedged his mobile phone, which was useless, into the back pocket of his jeans. It made it uncomfortable, but it gave him another inch and a half height. For whatever good that would do. He was going to die; he did not know how much longer he had but it wasn't long.

  'Ashley,' he said weakly. 'Ashley, my darling.'

  Then more water filled his mouth.

  He rubbed away at the ever-widening and deepening groove in the lid with the casing of the flashlight. He thought of the wedding tomorrow. His mum showing him the dress she had bought, and the hat and the shoes and the new handbag, wanting his approval, wanting to know she looked good for his special day, wanting him to be proud of her, wanting Ashley to be proud of her. He remembered the phone call from his kid sister, from Australia, so excited by the ticket he had paid for. Early would be here now, staying with his mother, getting ready.

  His neck hurt so badly, he didn't know how much longer he could stand the pain; every few minutes he had to relax, sink back, holding his breath, let the water wash over his face, then push himself up. Soon that would not be possible any more.

  Crying with frustration and terror he lashed out at the lid, pummelled it. He pressed the talk button again. 'Davey! Davey! Hey, Davey?'

  He spat more water out.

  Every molecule in his body shivered.

  Static came back at him.

  His teeth clicked in his mouth. He swallowed a mouthful of the muddy water, then another mouthful. 'Please, oh please, somebody, please, please, oh please, help me.'

  He tried to calm himself down, to think about his speech. Had to thank the bridesmaids. Propose a toast to them. Must remember to thank his mother first. Finish with the toast to the bridesmaids. Tell funny stories. There was a great joke Pete had given him. About a couple going on honeymoon and--

  Honeymoon.

  It was all booked. They were flying tomorrow night, at nine o'clock, to the Maldives. First class - Ashley didn't know about that bit, that was his secret treat.

  Oh get me out of here, you idiots. I'm going to miss my wedding, my honeymoon. Come on! Now!

  The clock on the dash of the Ford read 7.13 p.m. as Branson drove Grace along past the elegant Regency townhouse faces of Kemp Town, then onto open road, high above the cliffs, past the vast neoGothic buildings of Roedean girls' school and then past the Art Deco building of St Dunstan's Home for the Blind. The rain lashed down and the wind buffeted the car, crazily. It hadn't stopped for days now. Branson turned the radio up, drowning out the intermittent crackle of the police two-way radio, swaying to the beat of a Scissor Sisters track.

  Grace tolerated it for some moments, then turned the volume down again.

  'What's the matter, man - this group is so cool,' Branson said.

  'Great,' Grace said.

  'You want to pull a bird, yeah? You need to get with the culture.'

  'You're my culture guru, right?'

  Branson shot him a sideways glance. 'I ought to be your style guru, too. Got a great hairdresser you should go to - Ian Habbin at The Point. Get him to sharpen up your hair - I mean, like, you are looking so yesterday.'

  'It's starting to feel like yesterday,' Grace responded. 'You asked me to have lunch with you. It's now past teatime and heading for supper. At this rate we'll be having breakfast together.'

  'Since when did you have a life?' Almost as the words came out, Branson regretted saying them. He could see the pain in Grace's face without even turning to look at him. 'Sorry, man,' he said.

  They drove through the smart, cliff-top village of Rottingdean, then along a sweeping rise, dip, followed by another rise, past the higgledy-piggledy suburban sprawl of post-war houses of Saltdean, then Peacehaven.

  'Take the next left,' Grace said. Then he continued to direct Branson through a maze of hilly streets, crammed with bungalows and modest detached houses, until they pulled up outside a small, rather shabby-looking bungalow, with an even shabbier-looking camper van parked outside.

  They hurried through the rain into a tiny porch, with wind chimes pinging outside, and rang the doorbell. After a few moments it was answered by a diminutive, wiry man well into his seventies, with a goatee beard, long grey hair tied back in a pony tail, wearing a kaftan and dungarees, and sporting an ankh medallion on a gold chain. He greeted them effusively in a high-pitched voice, a bundle of energy, taking Grace's hand and staring at him with the joy of a long-lost friend. 'Detective Superintendent Grace! So good to see you again.'

  'And you, my friend. This is DS Branson. Glenn, this is Harry Frame.'

  Harry Frame gripped Glenn Branson's hand with a strength that belied both his years and his size and stared up at him with piercing green eyes. 'What a pleasure to meet you. Come in, come in.'

  They followed him into a narrow hallway lit by a low-watt bulb in a hanging lantern and decorated in a nautical theme, the centrepiece of which was a large brass porthole on the wall, and through into a sitting room, the shelves crammed with ships in bottles. There was a drab three-piece suite, its backs covered in antimacassars, a television, which was switched off, and a round oak table with four wooden chairs by the window, to which they were ushered. On the wall Branson clocked a naff print of Anne Hathaway's cottage and a framed motto which read, 'A mind once expanded can never return to its original dimensions.'

  'Tea, gentlemen?'

  'Thank you,' Grace said.

  Looking at Grace for his cue, Branson said, 'That would be very nice.'

  Harry Frame hurried busily out of the room. Branson stared at a lit, solitary white candle in a glass holder on the table, then at Grace, giving him a What is this shit? expression.

  Grace smiled back at him. Bear with it.

  After a few minutes a cheery, dumpy, grey-haired lady, wearing a heav
y-knit roll-neck, brown polyester trousers and brand new white

  trainers, carried out a tray containing three mugs of tea and a plate of Bourbon biscuits, which she set down on the table.

  'Hello, Roy,' she said familiarly to Grace, and then to Branson, with a twinkle in her eye she said, 'I'm Maxine. She Who Must Be Obeyed!'

  'Nice to meet you. Detective Sergeant Branson.'

  She was followed by her husband, who was carrying a map.

  Grace took his mug, and noticed the tea was a watery-green colour. He saw Branson eyeing his dubiously.

  'So, gentlemen,' Harry said, seating himself opposite them, 'you have a missing person?'

  'Michael Harrison,' Grace said.

  'The young man in the Argus? Terrible thing, that accident. All so young to be called over.'

  'Called over?' Branson quizzed.

  'Obviously the spirits wanted them.'

  Branson shot Grace a glance which the Detective Superintendent resolutely ignored.

  Moving the biscuits and the candle over to one side, Frame spread out an Ordnance Survey map of East Sussex on the table.

  Branson ate a biscuit. Grace fished in his pocket and gave the medium the copper bracelet. 'You asked me to bring something belonging to the missing person.'

  Frame took it, held it tight and closed his eyes. Both police officers stared at him. His eyes remained closed for a good minute, then, finally, he started to nod. 'Umm,' he said, his eyes still closed. 'Umm, yes, umm.' Then he opened his eyes with a start, looking at Grace and Branson as if surprised to find them still in the room. He moved closer to the map, then pulled a length of string, with a small lead weight attached, from his trouser pocket.

  'Let's see what we can find,' he said. 'Yes, indeed, let's see. Is your tea all right?'

  Grace sipped his. It was hot and faintly sour-tasting. 'Perfect,' he said.

  Branson sipped his too, dutifully. 'Good,' he said.

  Harry Frame beamed, genuinely pleased. 'Now, now...' Resting

  his elbows on the table, he buried his face in the palm of his hands as if in prayer, and began to mutter. Grace avoided Branson's eye.

  'Yarummm,' Frame said to himself. 'Yarummmm. Brnnnn. Yarummm.'