Dead Simple (36 page)

She looked more beautiful than ever, Mark thought, dressed in a fashionably ragged cream blouse, which gave her breasts considerable, 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.’

‘Me 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 rambler.’

‘He’s a chancer, maybe. Finds Michael, figures out from all the press and media coverage that this is the rich guy everyone’s looking for — it’s the chance of a lifetime. He takes him off to another location and sends us a ransom note — and proof that he has Michael.’

Ashley said, her voice faltering, ‘How — how do — you — we — anyone — I mean — how do we know it’s Michael’s finger?’

‘About three weeks ago Michael and I were on the boat, doing some maintenance work on her, on a Saturday afternoon — remember?’

‘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 marry 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 company. 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.

Michael lay in the bitumen-black darkness, his heart thudding, his head pounding, his index finger throbbing, and excruciating spikes 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.

He tried to work out where he might be. The place smelled dank, musty, there was still a faint reek of engine oil. He was lying on a hard surface and something sharp was digging into the base of his spine, hurting like hell, getting worse by the minute.

He felt stronger, despite the pain, much stronger than he had earlier. The food was having an effect.
I am not fucking staying here and dying. I haven’t done everything in life to end up here. No way. No absolutely no absolutely no, no no fucking way.

He struggled against his bonds. Breathed in deeply, trying to shrink his body, then out, trying to expand. And felt something give. Some tiny hint of slack. In again, pulled his arms in tight, tight, tight, out, in, out. Oh sweet Jesus he could move his right arm. Only a tiny amount. But he could move it! He pushed against his bonds, constricted, pushed again, constricted. More slack for his right arm.

Then more still!

He rolled over onto his side, then his stomach. His nostrils filled with the reek of engine oil now; he was lying face down in the slimy stuff, but it didn’t matter, because at least the pain in the base of his spine had stopped.

He wriggled his hand round, further round, and then touched something.

OhmyGod!

He was touching the top of his Ericsson mobile!

Got his hand on it, pulled, and it came out of the back pocket of his trousers.

His heart kicked into overdrive. It had been there in the coffin, underwater. Even though it was supposed to be waterproof he doubted it would work. All the same, he ran his fingers over its surfaces as if he was caressing the best friend he had ever had in his life. Found the power button at the top, pushed it. Listened.

There was the faintest beep. Then a dim glow of light, enough that he could see steep walls either side of him. He was in a space about six feet wide and maybe five feet high, covered with a door of some kind. And suddenly he was alert, his brain sharp and focused. He tried to move his hand, to slip it free of the bonds and bring the phone up to his face, but nothing he did succeeded. The bonds were too tight, too well wound around his arms.

Yet.

He had to think this through.

Text.

He could try to send a text.

Think! You switch the phone on and what happens? First is a request for the pin code. Like most people, he used a simple code: 4—4—4—4, his lucky number.

He ran his finger across the key pad — 4 was far left, second row. He tapped it and heard a beep; then another beep each time he tapped the next three. Incredible! The thing had been submerged in the coffin but it was working. Enough to send a text?

The next part was going to be much harder. He had to work out the letters on the keys. On key number 1 he remembered there were no letters. Key number 2 had ABC. He did some maths in his head — the whole alphabet was in groups of three letters except for two numbers, where there were four. Which numbers? Shit, he had used text so much, it must be imprinted in his brain, if he could just access it.

It had to be the least popular letters in the alphabet, Q and — X or Z?

Taking it slowly, counting very carefully, he tried to recall the sequence on his phone. The
menu
button was top left. One tap took you to
messages.
The second tap took you to
write message.
The third tap took you to the blank screen. Then he tapped out what he hoped were the right letters.
Alive. Call police.

The next tap, he hoped he remembered correctly, took you to
send.

The one after that to
phone number.

He tapped in Ashley’s number.

The one after that should be
send.

He pressed, and to his incredible relief heard a confirmation beep. The message had gone!

Then he felt a stab of panic. Even if the message had gone successfully, what use would it be to her, or the police? How the hell would they be able to find him from a text? Within moments he was engulfed in despair darker than the blackness that surrounded him.

But he refused to give up. There had to be a way.
Think! Think!

His fingers moved along the keys, counting, 1—2—3—4— 5—6—7—8—9.

He pressed 9—9—9. Then he pressed the send button. Moments later he heard a faint ringing sound. Then a female voice, very faint also.

‘Emergency, which service?’

He tried desperately to speak, but all he could make was his feeble grunting sound. He heard the voice say, ‘Hello? Caller? Hello? Is everything all right? Hello, Hello, caller, can you identify yourself? Hello? Caller, are you in trouble? Can you hear me, caller?’

There was a silence.

Then her voice again. ‘Hello, caller, are you there?’

He hung up, dialled again. Heard another female voice speak almost identical words. He hung up again. They would have to understand if he kept doing this. Surely they would understand?

In the saloon bar of the pub, Grace ordered Cleo Morey her second Polstar vodka and cranberry, and himself a Diet Coke. One large Glenfiddich had been enough — he was going to have to return to the Incident Room later this evening and needed all his wits.

They sat on cushioned seats at a corner table. With less than a dozen other people in the pub the place was not very busy. A one-armed bandit at the far end of the room winked and blinked away forlornly like an old tart in a windswept alley.

Cleo looked stunning. Her hair, freshly washed and shining, hung down over her shoulders. She wore a classy-looking light suede jacket over a beige tank top, white jeans of fashionable three-quarter length, revealing her slender ankles, and plain white mules.