Dead Simple

by Peter James

  Then, for about the third time in the past ten minutes, he saw Mark Warren's eyes flick across to a point on the far side of the room, as if someone was standing there. Grace deliberately dropped the cover of his Blackberry on the floor and, in leaning down to get it, glanced back in the direction Mark kept looking at. But he couldn't see anything of significance. Just the smart hi-fi set, some interesting modern art and a few cupboards.

  'I read about that young man - in the mortuary. Saw the piece in the paper today. Very sad,' Mark said.

  'Might even have been on your land,' Grace said, testing.

  'I don't know exactly where it happened.'

  Fixing on his eyes again, and remembering the words on the sheet of notepaper in Davey's bedroom, Grace said, 'If you take the A26 outside Crowborough just past a white cottage, then over a double cattle grid. Is that where you are?'

  Mark didn't need to respond. Grace could see all he needed to know from the rapid swivelling of his eyes, the furrowing of his forehead, the hunching of his entire frame and the change in tone of his face colour.

  'It could be - possibly - yes.'

  Now it was all starting to come clear to Grace. 'If a bunch of you were going to bury your mate alive in a coffin, it would make sense to do it on land you own, wouldn't it? Somewhere familiar to you?'

  'I -1 suppose

  'You're still insisting you had no idea of any plan to bury Michael Harrison in a coffin?'

  His eyes were all over the place for a few seconds. 'Absolutely. Nothing at all.'

  'Good, thank you.' Grace studied his Blackberry for a moment. 'I also have a number I wonder if you could help me with, Mark?'

  'I'll try.'

  Grace read out the number that had been written on the same diagram.

  '0771 52136,' Mark repeated. His eyes shot instantly to the left. Memory mode. 'That sounds like Ashley's mobile with a couple of digits missing. Why do you ask?'

  Grace drained his water and stood up. 'It was found in Davey Wheeler's home - the murdered boy. Along with the directions I just gave you.'

  'What?'

  Walking over to the window, Grace slid open the patio door and stepped out on to the teak decking that covered the balcony.

  Steadying himself on the metal guard rail, he looked down four floors fit the bustling street below. It wasn't far, but it was enough for him; i had always suffered from vertigo, never had any head for heights.

  'How did this boy get Ashley's phone number and the directions to our land?' Mark asked.

  'I'd also like to know that very much.'

  Once again Mark's eyes shot across the room. Grace wondered, was it the cupboard? Something in there? What? Grace had such bad feelings about this man, and about Ashley Harper, that he wanted to get search warrants and take their homes - and office - apart. But to do that was not easy. Magistrates required convincing to sign warrants, and to convince them you needed evidence. The bracelet she had given him wouldn't be enough. Right now, on both Mark Warren and Ashley Harper all he really had were gut feelings. No evidence.

  'Mark, is this land of yours easy to find? The directions - the white cottage, the cattle grid?'

  'You have to know the turn-off- it's not marked, other than by a couple of stakes - we didn't want to draw attention to it.'

  'Sounds to me that that's the place to look for your partner, pretty damned quick, wouldn't you say?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'I'll liaise with the Crowborough police, who are already doing a full search of the area, but it sounds like it would be vital for you to be there - at least point them to the right area. If I arrange to get you picked up in the next half-hour?' 'Fine. Thank you. Ah - how long do you think I'll be needed?'

  Grace frowned. 'Well - all I need is for you to show us the entrance - the turn-off - and to take us to where your land begins. Maybe an hour altogether. Unless you want to join in the search yourself?'

  'Sure -1 mean - I'll do what I can.'

  71

  Mark closed the door on Grace, ran into the bathroom, knelt down and threw up into the toilet bowl. Then he threw up some more.

  He stood up, pressed the flush lever, then rinsed his mouth with cold water; his clothes were wringing wet with perspiration, his hair plastered to his head. With the tap running, he nearly didn't hear the landline phone ringing.

  Grabbing the receiver off the hook, he just caught it on the last ring before it would have diverted to voicemail. 'Hello?'

  A male voice with an Australian accent said, 'Is that Mark Warren?'

  Something about the voice made Mark instantly wary. 'This is an ex-directory number. Who am I speaking to?'

  'My name's Vic - I'm with your friend, Michael - he gave me your number. Actually he'd like to have a quick word with you; shall I put him on?'

  'Yes.' Mark gripped the receiver hard against his ear, trembling. Then he heard Michael's voice, very definitely Michael, but making a sound unlike Mark had ever heard before. It was a bellow of pain that seemed to start deep within Michael's soul then burst, like a train from a tunnel, into a crescendo of utter, unbearable agony.

  Mark had to pull the phone away from his ear. The roar died away then he heard Michael whimpering then screaming again. 'No, please, no, no. NO NO NO NO!'

  Then he heard Vic's voice again. 'Bet you're wondering what I'm doing to your mate, don't you, eh Mark? Don't worry, you'll find out when it arrives in tomorrow's post.'

  'What do you want?' Mark asked, straining his ears, but he could hear no sound from Michael now.

  'I need you to transfer some money in your Cayman Islands bank to an account number I'm going to give you shortly'

  'It isn't possible - even if I was willing to do it. Two signatures are

  Bded for any transaction, Michael's and mine.'

  'In your safe in your company office you have documents signed ' both of you, giving power of attorney to a lawyer in the Cayman Islands; you put it there last year when you both went off sailing for week, and you were hoping to close on a property deal in the [Grenadines that then didn't happen. You've forgotten to destroy those documents. Just as well, I'd say.'

  How the hell did the man know this, Mark wondered.

  'I want to speak to Michael -1 don't want to hear him in pain, I'd Just like to talk to him, please.'

  'You've talked to him enough today. I'm going to leave you to think about this, Mark, and we'll catch up later, have a cosy chat. Oh, and Mark, not a word of this to the police - that could really make me angry.'

  The line went dead.

  Immediately Mark hit the last number recall button. But it was no surprise that the automated voice came up with, 'I'm sorry, we do not have the caller's number.'

  He tried Ashley's number again. To his relief she answered.

  'Thank God,' he said. 'Where have you been?'

  'What do you mean, where have I been?'

  'I've been trying to get hold of you.'

  'I went to have a massage, actually. One of us has to keep a cool head, OK? Then I popped in to see Michael's mum and now I'm on my way home.'

  'Can you swing by here - like now, this second?'

  'Your voice is slurred - have you been drinking?'

  'Something's happened, I have to speak to you.'

  'Let's talk in the morning.'

  'It can't wait.'

  The imperative in his voice got through. Reluctantly she said, 'OK -1 just don't know if it's a good idea coming to you - we could meet somewhere neutral - how about a bar or a restaurant?'

  'Great, somewhere the whole world can hear us?'

  'We'll just have to talk quietly, OK? It's better than me being seen coming over to your apartment.'

  'Jesus, you are paranoid!'

  The? You're a fine one to talk about paranoia. Name a restaurant.' Mark thought for a moment. A police car would collect him in half an hour. It was about half an hour's drive out to the site. Maybe just ten minutes there, then half an hour back. It was eight o'clock on Mond
ay night; places would be quiet. He suggested meeting at ten at an Italian restaurant near the Theatre Royal, which had a large upstairs dining area that would almost certainly be empty tonight.

  It wasn't. To his surprise, the restaurant was heaving - he had forgotten that after the Brighton Festival the city was still in full swing, its bars and restaurants crowded every night. Most of the tables upstairs were taken as well, and he was squeezed into a cramped table behind a rowdy party table of twelve. Ashley wasn't there yet. The place was typically Italian: white walls, small tables with candles jammed in the top of Chianti bottles and loud, energetic waiters.

  The ride out to Crowborough and back had been uneventful: two young detectives in an unmarked car, who had spent most of the way out there arguing about football players, and most of the way back discussing cricket. They showed no interest in him at all other than to tell him they should both have gone off duty an hour ago and were in a hurry to get back. Mark viewed that as good news.

  He directed them to the start of the track, with the double cattle grid, then sat and waited as they radioed for the local search team to join them. After a short while several minibuses, headed by a police Range Rover, arrived in convoy.

  Mark got out of the car, explained how far up they had to drive, but did not volunteer to join them. He did not want to be there when they found the grave - and they would find it for sure.

  He needed a drink badly, but was not sure what he wanted. He was thirsty, so he ordered a Peroni beer to tide him over, then stared at the menu as a distraction from his thoughts. Moments later, Ashley arrived.

  'Still drinking?' she admonished, by way of a greeting, and without kissing him, squeezed in opposite him, throwing a disapproving glance at the rowdy group beside them, who were guffawing at a joke , then put her very bling pink Prada handbag on the table.

  She looked more beautiful than ever, Mark thought, dressed in a [ ftwhionably ragged cream blouse, which gave her breasts considerftble, and very erotic, exposure, and a small choker; she had her hair Up. She looked fresh and relaxed, and smelled of a gorgeous perfume he recognized but could not name.

  Smiling at her, he said, 'You look stunning.'

  Her eyes were darting around the room impatiently, as if seeking a waiter. 'Thanks - you look like shit.'

  'You'll understand why in a moment.'

  Semi-ignoring him, she raised a hand, and when a waiter finally scuttled over, she imperiously ordered a San Pellegrino.

  'Want some wine?' Mark said. 'I'm going to have some.'

  'I think you should have water, too - you're drinking far too much just recently. You need to stop, get a grip. OK?'

  'OK. Maybe.'

  She shrugged. 'Fine, you do what you want.'

  Mark slipped his hand across the table towards hers, but she withdrew her hands, sitting bolt upright, arms firmly crossed.

  'Before I forget, tomorrow is Pete's funeral. Two o'clock, the Good Shepherd, Dyke Road. Luke's is on Wednesday; I haven't got the time yet - and I don't know about Josh and Robbo yet. So what's this big latest thing you have to tell me?'

  The waiter came with her water, and they ordered. Then when the waiter had moved away Mark began by telling her about the finger.

  She shook her head, sounding shocked. 'This cannot be true, Mark.'

  Mark had put the finger in the Jiffy bag into the fridge in his apartment, but he'd brought the note with him and gave it to her.

  Ashley read it carefully, several times, mouthing the words as if in total disbelief. Then suddenly there was anger in her eyes and she looked at him accusingly. 'This isn't your doing, Mark?'

  It was Mark's turn to be shocked. He mouthed the word before he said it. 'What? You think I have Michael hidden somewhere and I cut his finger off. I might not like him too much but--'

  'You're happy to let him die of asphyxiation in a coffin - but you wouldn't ever do something nasty to him, like cut a finger off? Come on, Mark, what kind of bullshit is this?'

  He glanced around, alarmed at the way she had raised her voice. But no one was taking any notice.

  Mark could not believe the way she seemed to be turning on him. 'Ashley, come on, this is me. Jesus Christ, what's got into you? We're a team, you and I - isn't that the deal? We love each other; we're a team, right?'

  She softened, glanced around, then reached forward, took his hand and brought it to her lips, planting a gentle kiss on it. 'My darling,' she said, her voice lowered. 'I love you so much - but I'm just in shock.'

  The too.'

  'I suppose we all handle shock, stress - you know - in different ways.'

  He nodded, pulled her hand towards his mouth and kissed it tenderly. 'We have to do something for Michael.'

  She shook her head. 'It's perfect, don't you see? We just do nothing! This man - Vic - he's going to think you care because you're Michael's partner.' She grinned. 'It's an incredible situation!'

  'It's not; I haven't told you everything.' He drained his beer and looked around, wondering if the wine was on its way. Then he told her about the phone call from Vic and the sound of Michael screaming. Ashley listened in silence. 'Christ, poor Michael - he--' She bit her lip and a tear rolled down her cheek. 'I mean - oh shit, oh shit.' She closed her eyes for some moments, then opened them again, staring directly into Mark's. 'How - how the hell - how did this man find Michael?'

  Mark decided not to mention the visit from Grace at this moment; Ashley was already distressed enough. 'All I can think is he must have stumbled across the grave - it wasn't exactly well concealed. Hell, the boys only planned to be away a max of an hour or two. I camouflaged it a bit - but it wouldn't have been hard - a rambler could easily have seen it.'

  'A rambler's one thing,' she said bleakly. 'This guy's not a ram r.'

  'He's a chancer, maybe. Finds Michael, figures out from all the I and media coverage that this is the rich guy everyone's looking f- it's the chance of a lifetime. He takes him off to another location

  1 sends us a ransom note - and proof that he has Michael.'

  Ashley said, her voice faltering, 'How - how do - you - we )ne -1 mean - how do we know it's Michael's finger?'

  'About three weeks ago Michael and I were on the boat, doing jme maintenance work on her, on a Saturday afternoon - rememIber?' 'Vaguely.'

  'The heads door slammed shut on Michael's index finger. He was hopping around, cursing, running it under a cold tap. He showed me a few days later a black band right across the nail.' He paused. 'The finger that arrived has a black band. OK?' A hearty plate of avocado, mozzarella and tomatoes arrived for Ashley. And a large bowl of minestrone was set down in front of Mark. When the waiter went away again, Ashley said, 'Do you want to call the police, Mark? Tell the bloodhound Detective Superintendent about this?'

  Mark churned that over in his mind, letting his soup cool while Ashley began eating. If they told the police and the man carried out his threat to kill Michael, that was one elegant solution to the situation. Except the bellow of pain from Michael had got to him. None of this had seemed quite real before. All the boys dead in the wreck. Going up to the grave and taking the air tube. Even when Michael had shouted out in the coffin, it hadn't affected him, not really. Not the way the sound of him in pain was affecting him now.

  'Michael must have his Palm. If he gets out alive he is going to know that I knew where he was being buried.'

  'Since the accident there's never been any question of him getting out alive,' she said. Then after a moment's hesitation added a testy, 'Has there?'

  Mark was silent. His mind, normally so orderly and focused, was a messed-up jumble at this moment. They'd never intended to harm Michael with the stag-night prank - that was just the payback for all his jokes. And the original plan he'd hatched With Ashley had never involved hurting Michael either, surely? Ashley was going to many him, and get half his shares in Double-M Properties. When the ink was dry on the certificates, Mark and she would have enough votes between them to take control of the compa
ny. They would vote Michael off the Board of Directors, and then he would be a minority shareholder - and wouldn't have much option but to let them buy him out at a low price.

  Why the hell had he kept quiet the night he had arrived home from Leeds and heard about the accident. Why? Why?

  But of course he knew the real reason why. Pure jealousy. It was because he had never been able to bear the thought of Ashley going off on honeymoon with Michael - and the solution had fallen into his lap.

  'Has there, Mark?' Ashley's persistent voice cut through his thoughts.

  'Has there what?'

  'Duh! Hello! Has there ever been any question of him getting out alive?'

  'No, of course not.'

  She stared at him, a firm, steady gaze.

  He stared back, replaying the terrible screams of pain over and over inside his head, thinking, Ashley, you didn't hear them.

  72

  ichael lay in the bitumen-black darkness, his heart thudding, his Bad pounding, his index finger throbbing, and excruciating spikes I Of pain from his balls shooting deep up into his belly. It was - he didn't know how long ago, maybe an hour, maybe more, maybe less - from when that hooded bastard had clipped callipers to them and fired electric shocks into them.

  But the pain was nothing compared to the dark, cold fear that Stalked his mind. He was remembering the movie, The Silence of the Lambs, which he had seen some years back, and again more recently on television with Ashley. A girl, a senator's daughter, had been kept In the bottom of a well by the serial killer who skinned his victims. He couldn't help it; he was shivering, trying to focus his thoughts, determined, somehow, to survive.

  To get back to Ashley. To take her down the aisle. That was all he wanted.

  God, how he pined for her!

  He couldn't move his arms or his legs. After spooning him tinned stew and bread, his captor had sealed his mouth again with duct tape and he had to breathe just through his nose, which was partially blocked. He sniffed, suddenly panicking that it was getting completely blocked. Sniffed again, harder, deep, rapid sniffs, setting his heart racing.