Dead Simple (32 page)

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 Schröinger’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. Schröinger’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.

‘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 SAS. 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.

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.

‘I 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 — I wear it for my tennis elbow. I — I 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.’

‘Poor sod. He was murdered?’

‘It seems likely,’ Grace said guardedly. Then, watching Mark again closely, he said, ‘Am I correct that you and Michael Harrison have a bank account in the Cayman Islands?’

Without flinching, Mark replied, ‘Yes, we have a company there, HW Properties International.’

‘Two-thirds — one-third split?’

‘Correct.’

Grace remembered there was at least one million pounds in that account. More than a tidy sum. ‘What kind of insurance do you and Michael have? Do you have life insurance policies on each other, as business partners?’

‘We have the usual key-man insurance — do you want to see the policy?’

‘Not at this moment, but at some point I’d like to, yes. Perhaps you could fax a copy over to the Incident Room for me tomorrow?’

‘No problem.’

Grace stood up. ‘Well, I won’t trouble you any more tonight. Busy are you? Often work on a Sunday night?’

‘I like to catch up on my paperwork at the weekend. Only chance I get when the phones aren’t ringing.’

Grace smiled. ‘I know the feeling.’

Mark watched the detective’s head disappear down the stairwell, then closed the door, making sure the latch was down, then returned to his office, switched his computer back on, and began the arduous task he had started a couple of hours earlier, of reading every day’s back-up of Michael’s Palm, going back weeks, and deleting any references to the stag night.

Ashley had been spending this afternoon doing the same on the laptops of Peter, Luke, Josh and Robbo, on the pretext to their families that she was looking for clues about Michael’s whereabouts.

Downstairs, Grace closed the front door behind him and walked across the pavement to his car. But it was some moments before he climbed back into it. Instead, he leaned against the passenger door, staring up at the third-floor window, thinking. Thinking.

He did not like Mark Warren. The man was a liar — and he was nervous as hell about something. Ashley Harper was a liar, also. She had deliberately given him a bracelet that did not belong to Michael.

And what exactly was Mark Warren’s bracelet doing in her house?

‘Jesus, oh Jesus.’ Michael was crying in pain, holding up his left hand as far as the duct tape wound right around his body, pinioning both arms to his side, would allow. Blood gouted from the stump of his forefinger, cut off at the first joint. He stared up into the blinding lights. ‘What is this; what the hell are you doing?’

‘It’s OK, Mike, relax!’

His arm was held by a thin, hairy hand with an iron grip, the wrist sporting a heavy diver’s watch. And he could see his assailant’s head now, shadowy against the dazzling lights, two eyes behind slits in a black hood.

Then he saw white cream oozing from the neck of a tube, and the next moment it felt as if ice had been put on his finger. He cried out again, the pain almost unbearable.

‘I know what I’m doing, Mike. You don’t have to worry; it won’t go septic. I’d like you to call me Vic. Understand? Vic?’

‘Vhrrrr,’ Michael gasped.

‘That’s good, you and me on first-name terms. We’re business partners, see? We should be on first-name terms.’

His assailant pulled out a long white bandage and wound it tightly around the bloody tip of the finger, then on down, tighter and tighter until it was acting as a tourniquet. Then he wound sticking plaster around it to hold it. ‘See, Mike, the way I look at it, I saved your life — so that’s got to be worth something, hasn’t it? And from what I read in the papers and saw on television, it seems like you’re loaded. I’m not, you see, that’s the difference. Want some water?’

Michael nodded. He was trying to think straight but the numbing, throbbing pain in his finger made that hard.

‘If you want to drink, I have to take the tape off your mouth. I do that on condition you don’t shout. Is that a deal, Mike?’

He nodded his head.

‘My word has always been my bond. Is it yours?’

Again Michael nodded.

An arm reached down. The next instant Michael felt as if half the skin on his face had been ripped away. His mouth gasped open, his chin and cheek stinging like hell. Then the man reached down again holding a plastic mineral water bottle with the top removed and tilted some of the contents into Michael’s mouth. It tasted cold and good as he gulped it down greedily, some spilling over and dribbling down his chin and neck. Then some went down the wrong way and he began to choke.

The bottle was withdrawn. He carried on coughing. When the fit finally stopped, he felt more alert. He could smell dank air and engine oil as if he was in some kind of underground car park. Looking up at the eye slits he asked, ‘Where am I?’

‘You have a short memory, Mike. I told you never to ask where you are, or who I am.’