Dead Simple (35 page)

But it wasn’t Ashley; it was the face of a man he was starting to see too much of, for his liking, Detective Super-intendent Grace.

For some moments he wondered whether to ignore him, let him go away, come back some other time. But maybe he had news.

He picked up the receiver and told Grace to come in, then pressed the button for the electronic door catch.

It seemed only seconds later that Grace was knocking on his door, and he’d barely had time to scoop up the note and the Jiffy bag and stuff them in a cupboard.

‘Good evening, officer,’ Mark said as he opened the door, conscious suddenly that he was feeling a tad muzzy from the drink and that his voice was affected, too. He kept a full arm’s length as he shook Grace’s hand, so that the policeman wouldn’t notice the alcohol on his breath.

‘Mind if I come in for a few minutes, or are you busy?’

‘Never too busy for you, officer — I’m around to help you seven-two-four. What news do you have? Can I get you a drink?’

‘A glass of water, please,’ Grace said, feeling parched.

They sat down opposite each other on the deep leather sofas, and Grace watched him for a little while. The man looked in a bad state of nerves; he seemed a little uncoordinated and smelled strongly of alcohol. Watching his eyes carefully, Grace asked him, ‘What did you have for lunch today?’

Mark’s eyes shot to the left momentarily and then back to the centre. ‘I had a turkey and cranberry sandwich, from a deli just around the corner. Why?’

‘It’s important to eat,’ Grace said. ‘Particularly when you are stressed.’ He gave Mark a smile of encouragement then sipped some water from the tall, expensive-feeling glass he had been given. ‘Got a bit of a mystery, Mark, which I wonder if you could help me with?’

‘Of course — I’ll try.’

‘A couple of CCTV cameras picked up a BMW X5 registered in your name, late Thursday night, heading into Brighton from the direction of Lewes…’ Grace paused to pull his Blackberry out of his pocket. ‘Yes, at 12.29 a.m. and again at 12.40 a.m.’ Grace decided for the moment to say nothing about the results of the soil analysis that he’d been given at the briefing meeting, earlier. Like a lion closing in on a kill, he leaned forward. ‘You went for a late-night drive in Ashdown Forest, perhaps?’

Now he watched Mark’s eyes rigidly. Instead of going back to the left, to the same side as when Mark answered his question about the sandwich, to the memory side, they swung wildly, right, then left, then right again, very definitely settling right now.
Construct
mode. He was intending to lie his way out of this one.

‘I may have done,’ he replied.

‘You
may
have done? Isn’t driving in a forest at midnight a little bit of an unusual thing to do? Wouldn’t you remember a bit more clearly?’

‘It’s not unusual for me,’ Mark responded, seizing his drink, his entire body language changing suddenly. It was Grace’s turn to feel uneasy now, wondering what was going on. Mark leaned back, swirled the whisky around in his glass, the ice cubes chinking. ‘You see, that’s where we are doing our new big property development. We got outline planning permission a couple of months back for twenty new houses on a five-acre site in the heart of the forest, and now we’re working on the details — because we’re getting a lot of hostility from the environmental groups. I go back and forward to the forest all the time, day and night — I have to check out the environmental factors, and a big part of that is the impact on the wildlife at night time. I’m working up a whole report to support our application.’

Grace’s heart sank; he felt as if a rug had just been pulled away, quickly and very smartly, from beneath him. He’d just wasted the best part of a thousand pounds of his budget on the soil analysis, and he felt an idiot. Why hadn’t he known this? Why hadn’t Glenn or anyone on the team known it?

His brain was spinning and he tried to slow it down and get some traction on this thoughts. Mark Warren still looked a wreck and he just did not get the impression it was from worrying about his business partner. The aggression he had shown at the wedding indicated something else altogether, but he didn’t know what.

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 — I 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 at the bustling street below. It wasn’t far, but it was enough for him; he 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 — I mean — I’ll do what I can.’

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 needed for any transaction, Michael’s and mine.’

‘In your safe in your company office you have documents signed by 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 a 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 — I 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 — I 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!’

‘Me? 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 Monday 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.