by Peter James
And besides, he knew she and Michael had already slept together, it was part of their plan. At least she had told him Michael was lousy in bed.
Unless that was a lie.
He shook the ice cubes around in the glass and drank some more. He'd rung Pete's, Luke's and Josh's widows, and Robbo's father, each time on the pretext of finding out about the funeral plans - but in reality to pick their brains, to see if any of them had let anything slip before they'd gone out on Tuesday night. Anything that could incriminate him, or that could give him a clue to what they had been planning.
Michael had been there Thursday night, for sure. He had not imagined it. No way. So, he was there Thursday night, but not last night. The coffin lid was screwed down tight. And Michael was not Houdini.
So if Michael had been there Thursday and was not there now, someone must have let him out. And then screwed back the lid. But why?
Michael's humour?
And if he had got out why didn't he show up for the wedding?
Shaking his head he arrived back at his starting point. Michael was not in the coffin and he had imagined the voice. Ashley was convinced of that. There were moments when he convinced himself. But not strongly enough.
He needed to talk this through with Ashley some more. What if Michael had somehow got out and discovered their plans?
Then surely he would have confronted one or the other of them by now.
He stood up, wondering if he should go over to Ashley's. She was worrying him, behaving so damned coldly towards him, as if this whole thing was his bloody fault. But he knew what she would say to him.
He stood up and paced around the room again. If Michael was alive, if he had got out of the coffin, what could he find out from the emails on his Palm?
Mark suddenly realized in the panic of the past few days he had overlooked one very simple way of checking. Michael always backed up the contents of his Palm onto the office server.
He went into his study, flipped open the lid of his laptop and logged on. Then cursed. The damned server was down.
And there was only one way to get it back up and running.
63
Max Candille was almost impossibly good-looking, Roy Grace always thought on each occasion he met him. In his mid-twenties, with bleached blond hair, blue eyes and striking features, he was a modern Adonis. He could surely have been a top model, or a movie star. Instead, in his modest semi-detached house in the suburban town of Purley, he had chosen to make his gift, as he called it, his career. Even so, he was quietly becoming a rising media star.
The bland exterior of the house, with its mock-Tudor beams, neat lawn and a clean Smart parked in the driveway, gave few clues about the nature of its occupant.
The whole interior of the house - the downstairs at least, which was all Grace had ever seen - was white. The walls, the carpets, the furniture, the slender modern sculptures, the paintings, even the two cats which prowled around like bonsai versions of Siegfried and Roy's cheetahs, were white. And seated in front of him, in an ornate rococo chair, with a white frame and white satin upholstery, sat the medium, dressed in a white roll-neck, white Calvin Klein jeans and white leather boots.
He held his china demitasse of herbal tea delicately between his finger and thumb and spoke in a voice that was borderline camp.
'You look tired, Roy. Working too hard?'
'I apologize again for coming so late,' Grace said, sipping the espresso Candille had made for him.
'The spirit world doesn't have the same time frames as the human one, Roy. I don't consider myself a slave to any clock. Look!' He put down his tea, held up both his hands, and pulled each sleeve back to reveal he wore no watch. 'See?'
'You're lucky.'
'Oscar Wilde is my hero when it comes to time. He was always unpunctual. One time when he arrived exceptionally late for a
dinner party the hostess angrily pointed at the clock on the wall and aid, "Mr Wilde, are you aware what the time is?" And he replied, "My dear lady, pray tell me, how can that nasty little machine possibly know what the great golden sun is up to?'"
Grace grinned. 'Good one.'
'So, are you going to tell me what brings you here today, or should I guess? Might we be concerned with something to do with a wedding? Am I warm?'
'No prizes for that one, Max.'
Candille grinned. Grace rated the man. He didn't always get things right, but his hit rate was high. In Grace's long experience, he didn't believe that any medium was capable of always getting everything right, which is why he liked to work with several, sometimes cross-checking one against another.
No medium he had worked with so far had been able to tell him what had happened to Sandy - and he had been to many. In the months following her disappearance he visited every medium he could find who had any kind of a reputation. He had tried a few times with Max Candille, who had been honest enough at their very first meeting to tell him that he simply did not know, that he was unable to make a connection with her. Some people left a trail behind, all kinds of vibrations in the air, or in their belongings, Max had explained. Others, nothing. It was as if, Max told him, Sandy had never existed. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't say whether she had covered her own tracks, or if someone had done it for her. He didn't know whether she was alive or not.
But he seemed very much more definite about Michael Harrison. Taking the bracelet Ashley had given Grace, he thrust it back at the police officer within seconds, as if it was burning his hand. 'Not his,' he said, emphatically. 'Absolutely not his.'
Frowning, Grace asked, 'Are you sure?'
'Yes, I'm sure, absolutely.'
'It was given to me by his fiancee.'
'Then you need to ask her and yourself why. This absolutely does not belong to Michael Harrison.'
Grace wrapped the bracelet back in a tissue and carefully pocketed it. Max Candille was emotional - and not always accurate.
However, combining his comments on the bracelet with Harry Frame's, something did not feel right about it.
'So what can you tell me about Michael Harrison?' Grace asked.
The medium sprang up from his chair, went out of the room, pausing to blow kisses at the cats, then returned moments later holding a copy of the News of the World. 'My favourite paper,' he informed Grace. 'I like to know who's screwing who. Far more interesting than politics.'
Grace enjoyed reading it himself, sometimes, but wasn't about to admit that now. 'I'm sure,' he said.
The medium folded back a couple of pages then held the paper up so Grace could see the headline, with Michael Harrison's photograph beneath. 'MANHUNT FOR AWOL FIANCE'.
Then the medium looked at it himself for some moments. 'Well, see, you are even quoted in here. '"We are now regarding Michael Harrison's disappearance as a Major Incident,' said Detective Superintendent Roy Grace of Sussex Police, 'And are stepping up police manpower to comb the area he is believed to be in...""
Then he looked up at Grace again. 'Michael Harrison's alive,' he said. 'Definitely alive.'
'Really? Where? I need to find him - that's what I need your help for.'
'I see him somewhere small, dark.'
'Could it be a coffin?'
'I don't know, Roy. It's too blurred. I don't think he has much energy.' He closed his eyes for some moments and slowly swivelled his head from left to right. 'No, very little there. The battery's almost flat, poor thing.'
'What do you mean?'
The medium closed his eyes again. 'He's weak.'
'How weak?' Grace asked, concerned.
'He's fading, his pulse is low, much too low.'
Grace watched him, wondering. How did Max know this? Was he connected across the ether? Just making a guess on a hunch? 'This
small dark place - is it in the woods? In a town? Under ground or above ground? On water?'
'I can't see, Roy. I can't tell.'
'How long has he got?' Grace asked.
'Not long. I don't know if he's going t
o make it.'
64
'You see, here's the thing, Mike. Not everyone gets to have a lucky day on the same day. So we have a sort of irregular situation here - this is your lucky day and it's my lucky day. How lucky is that?'
Michael, weak, shivering from fever and near-delirious, stared up, but all he could see was darkness. He did not recognize the man's voice; it sounded a hybrid of Australian and south London, spoken quickly, with fast, nervy inflections. Davey with another of his accents? No, he did not think so. His brain swirled. Confused. He did not know where he was. In the coffin?
Dead?
His head pounded, his throat was parched. He tried to open his mouth, but his lips would not part. Ice squirmed through his veins.
I'm dead.
'You were in a horrible wet coffin, getting all soggy and rheumatoid, now you're in a nice, dry, cosy cot. You were going to die. Now maybe you aren't going to die - but I want to stress that's a pretty big maybel'
The voice receded into the darkness. Michael was sinking, going down a lift shaft, down, down, the walls rushing past. He tried to call out, but his lips would not move. There was something pressing tightly around his mouth. All he could do was make a panicky grunt.
Then the voice again, really close, as if the man was in the lift with him. 'Do you know about Schrodinger's Cat, Mike?'
They were still going down. How many floors? Did it matter?
'Did you study physics when you were at school?'
Who was this? Where was he? 'Davey', he tried to say, but all that came out was a murmur.
'If you know anything about science, Mike, you'd know about it. Schrodinger's Cat was inside a box, and was both alive and dead at the same time. That's like you now, my friend.'
Michael felt consciousness slipping away. The lift was swaying on ropes now; darkness seemed to be racing past him, round and round. He closed his eyes. Then felt a blast of heat and saw red through his eyelids. He opened his eyes, then immediately squeezed them shut against a blinding glare of light.
'I don't think you should be going to sleep; you need to keep awake now, Mike. Can't let you die on me, I went to a lot of trouble. I'll give you more water and glucose in a while, got to introduce foods to you slowly. I got trained in all this stuff, you're in good hands. Jungle training. I know how to survive, and help others survive. You're lucky it was me who came along. Need to keep you awake. We'll chat to each other for a while, get to know each other a little better - bond a little, OK?'
Michael tried to speak again. Just a murmur came out. He was trying to remember, the sensation of being lifted from the coffin, of being on something soft in a van - but was that on the stag night? Was this maybe one of his mates? Weren't they dead? Mark? He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep now.
Cold water lashed his face, startling him. His eyes sprang open, blinking into watery darkness.
'I'm just keeping you awake, no offence meant, mate.' The voice sounded more Australian than south London now.
Michael shivered; the water had sharpened him a fraction. He tried to move his arms, to see if he was still in the coffin, but he couldn't move them. He tried to move his legs, but they wouldn't move either; it was as if they were bound together. He tried to raise his head, to touch the lid, but he barely had the strength to raise it a couple of inches.
'Guess you're wondering who I am and where you are?'
Michael closed his eyes tightly again as a blast of light dazzled him, hurting his retinas like sunburn. He emitted another grunt.
'It's OK, Mike, don't bother to try to talk back. It's duct tape - hard to say anything through that. I'll do the talking and you just do the listening - until you're better, that is. We have a deal?'
Michael felt bewildered; but at the same time deeply apprehensive. Nothing was making any sense - he wondered if he was dreaming or hallucinating.
PETER I
'First, Mike, I'm going to give you the house rules. You don't ask my name and you don't ask where we are. You got that?'
Michael grunted again.
'I'll remind you later, anyway. You ever see that Stephen King film, Misery!'
Michael heard the question through his drifting mind, but was unsure whether it was directed at him or someone else. Misery. He seemed to recall it. Kathy Bates. He tried to ask if Kathy Bates was in it, but his damned lips wouldn't move. 'Mnhhhh,' he said.
'That was some movie. Remember, James Caan got caught by his crazy fan, Kathy Bates, who smashed his legs with a sledgehammer so he couldn't run away? But that wasn't faithful to the novel, you know, Mike? Did you know that?'
'Mnhhhh.'
'In the novel she actually cut one leg off, then cauterized it with a blow torch. You got to be pretty weird to do that, wouldn't you think, Mike?'
Michael stared into the darkness, trying to make out his features, to put a face to the voice, to check if this voice was coming from above him, below him, inside him.
'You would, wouldn't you, Mike?'
'Mnhhhh.'
'I've been listening to you for five days, Mike. You and your buddy, Davey. Figured you were getting pretty frustrated with him I would have been too, in your shoes.' The man laughed. 'I mean, that's pretty tough shit. You get trapped and the only person in the whole world who knows you're alive is a fucking moron!' He was silent for some moments, then he continued. 'Of course, I was there with you, Mike, as well, but I just didn't want to interrupt. Breakers' code, don't butt in on someone else's conversation. Well, that's my code anyway. How you doing?'
Michael's head was throbbing, darkness swirling all around him even faster now.
'You're doing OK. Another twenty-four hours in that grave and you might as well have stayed there. But you'll be OK now. I'll get your strength up; you're lucky, I was trained in the Australian Marines. Signals. I know all about survival; you couldn't be in better
hands, Mike. I'd say that was worth a lot, wouldn't you? I'm talking about money, Mike. Big money! Moolah!'
'Mnhhhh.'
'But I'm afraid I'm going to need some bona fides, Mike. Understand what bona fides are? Proof it's you - are you on my bus?'
Michael squeezed his eyes shut against another burst of light. Then he opened them again and caught a glint of steel.
'This will hurt a little, but you don't have to worry, Mike. I'm not doing a Kathy Bates on you - I'm not crazy; I'm not about to cripple you. Just need some bona fides, that's all.'
Then Michael, through his delirium, felt an excruciating pain in his left index finger. He bellowed in agony, a tornado of air hurtling up his windpipe and screeching through the duct tape like a banshee.
65
Arriving back in Brighton shortly before midnight, Roy Grace was wide awake. The large espresso Candille had made him seemed to be having an effect like rocket fuel on his energy level. For no particular reason he decided to make a small detour and swing past the offices of Double-M Properties, in the street just below Brighton station.
As he approached he was surprised to see Warren's BMW parked right outside. He pulled up in front of it, climbed out and looked up. He could see on the third floor that the lights were on, and again, purely on a whim, he walked up to the front entrance and pressed the Double-M button on the panel.
After some moments he heard a crackly, very wary-sounding Mark Warren.'Hello?'
'Mr Warren - Detective Superintendent Grace.'
There was a long silence. Then Mark Warren said, 'Come on up.' There was a sharp rasping sound from the lock, and Grace pushed open the door, then climbed three steep, narrow flights of stairs.
Mark opened the glass-panelled door into the reception area, looking sheet-white and, in Grace's opinion, very uneasy. 'This is a bit of a surprise, officer,' he said clumsily.
T was just passing, saw the lights were on - wondered if we could have a quick chat. I thought you might like an update.'
'Um - yes, thank you.'
Mark shot a nervous glance at an open door behind
him, which led into an office where he was clearly working. He then steered Grace in a different direction, into a cold, windowless boardroom, switched on the lights and pulled out a chair for him at the highly polished conference table.
But before he sat down, Grace fished in his pocket and pulled out
the bracelet he'd been given by Ashley. 'I found this on the staircase - does it belong to anyone who works here?'
Mark stared at it. 'On the staircase?'
Grace nodded.
Actually, yes, this is mine - it has tiny magnets at each end -1 wear it for my tennis elbow. I -1 don't know how it got there.'
'Lucky I spotted it,' Grace said.
'Indeed - thank you.' Mark seemed very confused.
Grace noted a row of framed photographs on the walls: a warehouse at Shoreham Harbour, a tall Regency terraced house and a modern office block, which he recognized as being on the London Road, on the outskirts of Brighton. 'These all yours?' he asked.
'Yes.' Mark fiddled with the bracelet for some moments, then pulled it onto his right wrist.
'Impressive/ Grace said, nodding at the photographs. 'Seems like you have a good business.'
'Thank you. It's going well.'
Mindful of the blasting he'd had from Ashley after being rude to the Detective Superintendent yesterday at the wedding, Mark was now making a big effort to be polite. 'Can I get you a coffee or anything?' 'I'm fine, thanks all the same,' Grace said. 'Equal shares -you and Michael Harrison?'
'No - he has the majority.'
'Ah. He put up the money?'
'Yes - well, two thirds. I put up the rest.'
Watching his body language carefully, Grace asked, And there are no issues between you, over this imbalance?'
'No, officer - we get on well.'
'Good. Well . . .' Grace stifled a yawn. 'We're stepping up our search of the area in the morning. As you may have heard, we had a false alarm today'
'The body of the young man. Who was he?'
A local chap - a young man who I'm told was a bit backward. Quite a few of the local police knew him, apparently - his dad's got a tow-truck and crash repair business - does quite a lot of work for the Traffic Division.'