Dead Simple (25 page)

Ten minutes later Grace was walking along the corridor of the Major Incident Suite of the CID headquarters, lugging the black plastic bag from the mortuary. He stopped by a white sheet pinned to a red board which was headed ‘DIAGRAM — COMMON POSSIBLE MOTIVES’. It was helpful, sometimes, to refresh his mind from these charts, although most of it was ingrained in his brain. He read the chart:

Sexual. Jealousy. Racism. Anger/fright. Robbery.
Power control. Maintain active lifestyle. Gain.
Payment. Homophobia. Hate. Revenge. Psychotic.

He moved on to the next board, which was headed, ‘FAST TRACK’. Below was printed:

  1. Identify suspects
  2. Intelligence opportunities
  3. Scene forensics
  4. Crime scene enquiries
  5. Witness search
  6. Victim enquiries
  7. Possible motives
  8. Media
  9. Post-mortems
10. Significant witness interview
11. Other critical actions

Media
, he thought. This was a good story for the media. He would phone his contacts, start getting the story out. Maybe that would get the ball rolling. He walked on and entered the small, pristine SOCO Suite. He would phone the
Argus
reporter Kevin Spinella for starters, he decided.

Joe Tindall was ready for him in the first of the two rooms, known as the
wet room.
There was a cluster of brown paper sacks on the floor, each labelled, in black print ‘Evidence Bag’, a roll of brown paper on a worktop, a sink and a tall air box.

‘Thanks,’ Joe Tindall said, as he handed him the bag, his tone a lot less friendly than when they had met earlier, but at least he was calmer.

The SOCO officer opened the black bin liner and pulled out the individual bags of soil, then the bags of clothes. Most of the clothes were heavily bloodstained. The stench of putrefaction began to rise from the clothes bags. ‘These soil samples taken from the victims’ fingernails and shoes,’ he said. ‘You want to see if we can establish a match with the soil sample you brought in earlier?’

‘From the suspect vehicle, yes. How quickly could you do this?’

‘The person to do this is Hilary Flowers — appropriate name, don’t you think?’

Grace smiled. ‘I’ve used her before. She’s good.’

‘She’s a genius on pollens. She’s got me several results from pollen scrapings from victims’ nostrils. But she’s expensive.’

Grace shook his head in frustration. When he had first joined the police it was about solving crimes. These days, with everything farmed out to private companies, it was more about budgets. ‘How quick is she?’

‘She normally works on about two weeks’ turnaround.’

‘I don’t have two weeks — we’re talking about someone who might be buried alive. Every hour counts, Joe.’

Tindall looked at his watch. ‘Twenty past six on a Saturday night. You’re going to be lucky.’ He picked up the phone and dialled. Grace watched his face, anxiously. After some moments, Tindall shook his head and whispered back, ‘Voicemail.’

He left a message, asking her to call him back, urgently, then replaced the receiver. ‘That’s all I can do, Roy. If there’s a match, she’ll find it. Pollen, insect larvae, fossils, soil composition, you name it.’

‘Nobody else you can think of?’

Joe Tindall looked at his watch again. ‘It’s Saturday night, Roy. If I leave now and drive like the clappers, I might just make the second half of the U2 concert — and get a shag afterwards. I think you’re going to find that everyone else on this planet who might be able to identify soil samples also has plans for tonight.’

‘My guy who’s buried alive had plans for today, Joe. He was meant to be getting married.’

‘Bummer.’

‘You could say that.’

‘I don’t mean to be frivolous. But I have worked one hundred and ten hours this week, so far.’

‘Join the club.’

‘I can’t do anything, Roy. Nothing. You know me well enough — if there was anything at all that I could suggest, I would tell you. If there was anyone, anywhere in England right now who could give us the analysis on this soil tonight, I’d get in the car and drive to them. But I don’t know anyone else. Hilary is the woman. I’ll give you her number and you can keep trying. That’s all I can say.’

Grace wrote the number down.

As he climbed back into his Alfa, his mobile beeped with a text message.

Who’s talking about a relationship?
I’m just talking about sex.?XXX

Grace shook his head, despairing of ever understanding women. On Tuesday night Claudine had been vile to him, berating him about the police for the best part of three hours. Now in response to his text this morning she wanted to sleep with him?

And the worst part of it was that he actually felt horny. For the first time in years. Claudine was no beauty, but she wasn’t a paper-bag job either. With another empty Saturday night stretching out ahead of him, the prospect of driving to Guildford and making out with this cop-hating vegan was almost appealing.

But not appealing enough. And at this moment, his head was full of more prosaic thoughts, listing everything he needed to do in the search for Michael Harrison.

Shortly after seven o’clock, with the rain easing, accompanied by Linda Buckley, a uniformed WPC in her mid-thirties with short blonde hair and a kind but alert face, he walked from his car up the path of the neat front garden of Gillian Harrison’s bungalow and rang the doorbell. It triggered a loud yapping sound from within. Moments later the door opened and a small white dog, with a pink bow on its head, rushed out and began worrying his shoes.

‘Bobo! Come here! Bobo!’

He flashed his warrant card at the woman he recognized from the aborted wedding this afternoon. ‘Mrs Harrison? Detective Super-intendent Grace from Brighton CID, and this is the Family Liaison Officer we have assigned to you and Miss Harper, WPC Buckley. If there is anything you need, she will help you.’

Shoeless, her silvery blonde hair elegantly coiffed, wearing a smart blue dress with white trim and reeking of cigarette smoke, she gave a fleeting smile to the WPC, then a fearful look at Grace that instantly made him feel sorry for her. ‘Yes, I remember you — you were at the reception this afternoon.’

‘Is it possible to have a word with you?’

Her eyes were tear-stained and streaked with mascara. ‘Have you found him? Have you found my son?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, no, I’m sorry.’

After a moment’s hesitation she said, ‘Would you like to come in?’

‘Thank you.’

He followed her into the small sitting room, then sat down in the armchair she indicated, beside an unlit fake coal fire. ‘Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine? Coffee?’

‘A glass of water would be fine,’ he said.

‘Nothing at all for me,’ said the WPC. ‘Would you like me to help you?’

‘No, thank you, that’s kind of you.’

The dog looked up at him and gave a begging whine.

‘Bobo, quiet!’ she commanded. The dog followed her, slavishly, out of the room.

Grace stared around. There was a framed print of
The Haywain
on the wall and another print, of the Jack and Jill windmills at Clayton, a large framed photograph of Michael Harrison, in a tuxedo, with his arm around Ashley Harper, in a long evening dress, clearly taken at some function, another photograph of a much younger Michael Harrison, in short trousers, astride a bicycle and a black and white wedding photograph of Gill Harrison and her late husband, he presumed, from the information Glenn Branson had given him. He could see the resemblance between Michael Harrison and his father — a tall, good-looking man with long brown hair touching his shirt collar. From his huge lapels and wide trousers he guessed it was taken in the mid-seventies.

Gill Harrison returned, followed by the dog, with a tumbler of water in one hand and a wine glass in the other. She gave Grace the tumbler then sat down on the sofa opposite him.

‘I’m very sorry about today, Mrs Harrison, it must have been very distressing for you,’ he said, taking the glass, and sipping the cold water gratefully.

A young woman walked into the room. She had a suntanned, slightly beaky face, long, ragged blonde hair, and was dressed in a singlet and jeans. She sported rings on her lips and ears and a stud in her tongue.

‘This is Carly, my daughter. Carly — this is Chief Inspector Grace of the CID, and WPC Buckley,’ Gill Harrison said. ‘Carly flew back from Australia for the wedding.’

‘I saw you at the reception, but we didn’t get a chance to speak,’ he said, standing up to shake her reluctant hand, then sitting down again.

‘Nice to meet you, Carly,’ the WPC said.

Carly sat on the sofa right next to her mother and put a protective arm around her shoulder.

‘Where were you in Australia?’ Grace asked, trying to be polite.

‘Darwin.’

‘I haven’t been there. I’ve been to Sydney.’

‘I have a daughter who lives there,’ said Linda Buckley breezily, trying to break the ice.

Carly shrugged, indifferently.

‘I wanted to cancel the wedding and reception completely,’ Gill Harrison said. ‘It was Ashley who insisted. She felt—’

‘She’s a stupid bitch,’ Carly said.

‘Carly!’ her mother exclaimed.

‘Excuse me,’ Carly said. ‘Everyone thinks she’s’ — and she made a cutesy, Barbie doll flutter with her hands — ‘so sweet. But I think she’s a calculating little bitch.’

‘Carly!’

Carly gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but she is.’ Turning to Grace she said, ‘Would you have insisted on the reception going ahead?’

Grace, watching them both, thought carefully before responding. ‘I don’t know, Carly. I guess she was caught between a rock and a hard place.’

‘My brother is the sweetest guy in the world,’ she said. ‘Yeah.’

‘You don’t seem to like Ashley,’ he said, seizing the chance.

‘No, I don’t like her.’

‘Why not?’

‘I think she’s a lovely girl,’ Gill Harrison butted in.

‘Oh crap, Mum! You’re just desperate to have grandchildren. You’re just pleased that Michael isn’t gay.’

‘Carly — that’s not a nice thing to say.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s the truth. Ashley’s a manipulative ice queen.’

Grace, suddenly feeling excited, tried to remain impassive. ‘What gave you that impression, Carly.’

‘Don’t listen to her,’ Gill Harrison said. ‘She’s tired and emotional with jet-lag.’

‘Bullshit,’ Carly said. ‘She’s a gold-digger.’

‘How well do either of you know her?’ Grace asked.

‘Met her once — that was once too often,’ Carly said.

‘I think she’s a delightful girl,’ Gill answered. ‘She’s intelligent, domesticated — you can talk to her, have a proper conversation with her. She’s been very good to me.’

‘Have you met her family?’ Grace asked.

‘Poor thing hasn’t got any family apart from her very lovely Canadian uncle,’ Gill said. ‘Her parents were killed in a car crash on holiday in Scotland when she was three. She was brought up by foster parents who were complete bullies. In London at first, then they moved to Australia. Her foster father tried to rape her repeatedly during her teens. She left them when she was sixteen and went to Canada — Toronto — where her uncle and aunt took her in — her aunt died quite recently, I gather, and she’s very upset about that. I think Bradley and his wife were the only people who ever showed her kindness. She’s had to make her own way in the world. I really admire her.’

‘Phoeey!’ said Carly.

‘Why do you say that?’ Grace asked.

‘’Cause I didn’t think she was real when I met her. And after seeing her today, I think she’s even less real. I can’t explain it — but she doesn’t love my brother. I know that. She might have been desperate to get married to him, but that’s not the same as loving him. If she genuinely loved him, she’d never have gone through this charade today, she’d have been too upset.’

Grace looked at her with growing interest.

‘You see?’ Carly said. ‘That’s a woman talking. Maybe a jet-lagged woman, like my mum says. But a woman. A caring woman who loves her bro. Unlike his bitch-queen-from-hell fiancée.’

‘Carly!’

‘Oh fuck off, Mum.’

After Ashley left the flat, still furious at him, Mark switched on the television, hoping to catch the local news. He tried the radio too, but it was just gone seven and he had missed it.

Changed into jeans, trainers, a sweatshirt and a light anorak, with a baseball cap tugged low over his forehead, he was shaking from nerves and from an overdose of caffeine. He’d already downed two mugs of strong coffee in his attempt to sober up and was now finishing off a third. He drained the last dregs, then walked to the front door of his apartment. Just as he reached it the phone rang.

Hurrying back into the living area, he looked at the caller display.
Private number.
After a moment’s hesitation he picked up the receiver.

‘This is Kevin Spinella from the
Argus
. I’d like to speak to Mr Mark Warren.’

Mark cursed. If he’d been thinking more clearly he might have told the man that Mark Warren was out, but instead he found himself saying, ‘Yes, speaking.’

‘Mr Warren, good evening, sorry to trouble you on a Saturday evening. I’m calling about your business partner, Michael Harrison. I went along to the wedding that should have taken place this afternoon at All Saints’ church, Patcham. You were the best man — I didn’t feel it appropriate to intrude at the church — but I wonder if I could have a few words with you now?’

‘Um — yes — yes, of course.’

‘I understand Michael Harrison disappeared on his stag night, when there was that terrible accident. I’m curious to know why you, as best man, weren’t there?’

‘On the stag night?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I should have been, of course,’ Mark said, calmly, trying to sound friendly, to make it all sound perfectly natural. ‘I was out of town — up north on a business meeting — had it all scheduled to be back in good time, but my flight was delayed by fog,’ Mark said.