Dead Simple (38 page)

During the first month or so, Mark had been able to see how interested Michael was in Ashley. He knew his friend well enough to read the signs — he was flirting with her through his jokes, questions, flattery, stories about himself, exactly the way he flirted with all the women he fancied, and Mark had watched Michael’s continuing flirtation with her with huge amusement — and satisfaction. It was the first time ever he had pulled a girl that Michael had fancied — and it felt terrific, liberating, as if finally, after fifteen years of their friendship, he no longer felt under Michael’s thumb.

The plan had been Ashley’s idea. Mark had had no qualms about any of it, except the notion of Ashley and Michael on honeymoon. That he had found so hard to bear. That, he knew in his heart, had been the reason he’d driven out into the forest last Thursday night and removed the air tube.

But now to let this madman torture and mutilate his friend? To death? He wasn’t sure he had the stomach to do that.

He unlocked his front door, and as he stepped inside, the landline phone rang. He slammed the door shut, ran across the room, glanced at the display, but there was no caller number showing.

‘Hello?’ he answered.

The same Australian voice he had heard before said, ‘Hi, mate, Vic here. I’m a little curious about the copper who popped round to see you earlier. Thought I told you about not speaking to the cops.’

‘I didn’t,’ Mark said. ‘This is a Detective Superintendent investigating Michael’s disappearance — I had no idea he was coming.’

‘I don’t know if I believe you or not, mate. Want to have another chat with Mike about it, or are we cool?’

Trying to follow what he meant, Mark said, ‘I think we’re cool.’

‘So you are going to do what I tell you?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Just go to your office right now, open the safe, take out the documents signed by you and Mike giving power of attorney to a lawyer in the Cayman Islands called Julius Grobbe and fax it to him. At the same time you phone Julius Grobbe and tell him to transfer one million, two hundred and fifty-three thousand, seven hundred and twelve pounds from your bank account there to the numbered account in Panama I have already faxed to him. I’ll phone you back here in exactly one hour and you can tell me how you got on. If you don’t pick up the receiver, your friend loses another bit of his body, and this bit will
really
hurt him. Copy?’

‘Copy.’

One million, two hundred and fifty-three thousand, seven hundred and twelve pounds was the exact total Mark and Michael had in their joint account.

Roy Grace and Glenn Branson — who had arrived back at Sussex House just as Grace was leaving — sat down in Ashley’s cool, minimalistic sitting room and studied the very badly texted message on her dinky Sony Ericsson phone.

aliVe. *£ cAlll ponlice

Ashley sat opposite them, wringing her hands, her face pale, eyes watery. She looked as if she had been out somewhere, Grace thought, staring at her ragged cream blouse, her hair, linen skirt, and smelling the powerful aroma of perfume she exuded.
Where? With whom
?

He ought to be feeling sorry for her, he knew. Her fiancé had vanished, their wedding had been called off and tonight, instead of being somewhere on honeymoon, she was sitting crying in her house in Brighton. But he didn’t feel sorry, couldn’t feel sorry. All he could feel was deep suspicion.

‘Have you tried calling him back?’

‘Yes, and I’ve texted him. The line just rings and goes to voicemail.’

‘That’s better than before,’ Grace said. ‘It didn’t ring before, just went straight to voicemail.’

Branson was fiddling with the phone — as he was much better with gadgets than Grace. ‘It was sent by Michael Harrison, phone number plus 44797 134621,’ he announced, then pressed a button with his thumb whilst sucking in his lower lip in concentration. ‘At 22.28, today.’ Both Grace and Branson checked their watches. Just over an hour ago.

Twenty minutes before she rang, Grace thought.
Why did she wait twenty minutes?

Glenn Branson dialled the number and held the phone to his ear. Grace and Ashley watched him, expectantly. After some moments, Branson said, ‘Hello, Michael Harrison, this is Detective Sergeant Branson of Brighton CID responding to your text to Ashley Harper. Please call or text me on 0789 965018. The number again is 0789 965018.’ Then he ended the call.

‘Ashley, does Michael normally text you?’

She shrugged. ‘Not a huge amount, but yes — you know — little love messages, that sort of thing.’ She smiled suddenly, and in the warmth it brought to her face, and the beauty it seemed to animate, Grace could see her melting almost any heart she chose.

Branson grinned. ‘Has he always been a crap texter?’

‘Not usually, no.’

Grace stared again at the words.
aliVe. *? cAlll ponlice

It looked like an infant had texted them, not a grown man. Unless of course he had done them in a hurry, or while driving.

‘What information can you get from this?’ Ashley asked.

Grace was about to tell her, then decided not to. He surreptitiously touched Branson’s leg with his own as a signal not to contradict him. ‘Not a lot really, I’m afraid. It’s good news in one respect, in that we know he’s alive, but it is bad news, because he is clearly in trouble. Unless it is part of a hoax.’

Her eyes were all over the place, Grace noticed; he had been watching every inch of her body language since she had appeared at the door; everything was considered, all done after a pause, nothing spontaneous.

‘You can’t still believe Michael is doing some kind of a hoax?’ she said incredulously. Grace noticed something very forced and theatrical about the way this came out. He told her about the discovery of the coffin — all the details.

‘So he’s escaped — is that what you think?’

‘Maybe,’ Grace said. ‘Or maybe he was never there.’

‘Oh, right, so he like scratched the inside of the lid himself?’

‘I think that’s one possible scenario, yes. It is not necessarily the right one.’

‘Oh, come on, get real! This text message is desperate and you are sitting here giving me a bullshit theory about a hoax?’

‘Ashley, we are very real,’ Grace said calmly. ‘We have an entire team in the Major Incident Suite; we have over one hundred officers out searching for Michael Harrison; we are getting national media coverage — we are doing all we possibly can.’

She looked contrite suddenly, a little girl lost and scared. She stared meekly at the two police officers, eyes wide, and dabbed them with a handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed, ‘I didn’t mean to have a go at you; you have been so brilliant, both of you. I’m just so — so—’ She began to shake, her face scrunched up against a flood of tears.

Grace stood up awkwardly, and Branson followed.

‘It’s OK,’ Grace said. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

He made the call. But it took five attempts for the damned fax to go through. The first time, trying to do it too quickly, he hadn’t loaded the letter in straight and it had jammed. He’d spent ten precious minutes trying to unjam it without tearing the letter.

He’d driven, which was stupid considering the amount he’d drunk, but it was too far to walk to the office and back in the time, and he hadn’t wanted to risk not being able to get a taxi.

Now, bursting in through the door of his apartment with less than three minutes to the deadline, he made straight for the drinks cabinet, poured himself three fingers of Balvenie and gulped it straight down. He felt the burn in his gullet, then winced as it burnt his stomach even harder, closing his eyes for a moment.

His mobile beeped. A text message signal.

He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at the display.

Well done, mate! Just made it.

The phone was jigging in his hand from nerves. Where the hell was this man, Vic? He punched the
options
button, trying to see the source of the text. It was a number he did not recognize. Clumsily, he typed back,
Are we OK now
? Then pressed the
send
button. Instantly there was a soft beep, indicating the text had been sent.

The whisky wasn’t working, at least not on his nerves. He walked unsteadily over towards the drinks cabinet. But before he reached it, the phone beeped again. Another incoming text.

Walk out onto your balcony, mate.
Look down at the street below!

Mark made straight for the patio doors, unlocked them and stepped out onto the teak decking, then crossed the narrow balcony, past two sun-loungers, placed his hands on the rail and looked down. Music pounded from a gay nightclub a few yards down the street, and he could see the bald domes of the two bouncers. A couple walked along arm in arm. Three drunk girls were staggering along, bumping into each other, giggling. A steady stream of cars drove past.

He looked at the far side of the street, wondering if that was where Vic meant, but all he could see was a couple snogging. Holding his phone in the palm of his hand, he tapped out,
I cannot see you
. And sent it. Again he scanned the street.

Moments later, there was another beep. The reply on his screen read:
I’m right behind you
!

But before he had a chance to turn, one strong hand grabbed the rear of his belt, and another his shirt collar. A fraction of a second later, both his feet were in the air. He dropped his phone, desperately trying to grab the balcony rail, but he was too high up, and his fingers clawed at nothing but air.

Before he even had time to shout, he was launched like a javelin over the rail and plunged down towards the pavement.

He landed flat on his back, with an impact that broke his spine in seven places and shattered his skull with the impact of a coconut hit by a sledgehammer.

One of the drunk girls screamed.

Grace and Branson heard the call on the police radio in Grace’s car minutes before they arrived back at Sussex House. An apparent suicide jumper at the Van Alen building on the Kemp Town seafront.

They looked at each other. Grace pulled his blue light from the glove compartment, clipped it to the roof, and hit the accelerator. They raced through a speed camera which flashed at them, but he didn’t care; he could sort that one out.

Seven minutes later he was forced to slow to a crawl as he drove onto Marine Parade. Ahead he could see a whole circus of flashing blue lights, a crowd of people and two ambulances.

After double parking, both of them leaped out of the car, pushed their way through the crowd and reached two uniformed constables who were busily putting up a tape barrier bearing the wording ‘police line, do not cross’.

Flashing their warrant cards, they ducked under the tape and saw two paramedics standing uselessly by the crumpled heap of a man on the ground, with a dark pool of blood stained with yellow seeping from his head and another, larger, darker stain from his torso.

Under the amber glare of the street lighting Grace could see the man’s face. It was Mark Warren, no question. Fighting the rising bile in his throat, he turned to one of the constables and showed him his warrant card.

‘What happened?’

‘I — don’t know, sir. I just spoke to a witness — she was walking along with her friends when he landed, almost at their feet. She’s in the far ambulance — bad shock.’

Grace glanced at Branson, who was looking unsteady, then down at the clearly lifeless body. Mark Warren’s eyes were wide open, as if in shock.

Christ
. Only a few hours ago he had been talking to the man. He had reeked of alcohol and seemed a nervous wreck. Suddenly Grace thought about Cleo. How she would be busy in about an hour’s time at the mortuary, making him look presentable for some relative to come and identify him. He didn’t envy her that one bit.

‘Does anyone know who this man is?’ said a voice.

‘Yeah, I know him,’ said another voice. ‘On my floor. He’s my neighbour!’

Grace heard a siren, coming closer. ‘I know him too,’ he said. Then corrected himself. ‘Knew him.’

Robert Allison, a tough Detective Inspector — and former Sussex Police snooker champion — who Grace knew well, emerged from the front door of the building and Grace, followed by Branson, walked over to him.

‘Roy! Glenn!’ Robert Allison greeted them. ‘What are you two stop-outs doing here?’

‘Thought we’d swing by to catch some sea air,’ Grace said.

‘Dangerous thing to do around here,’ the Detective Inspector said, nodding at the corpse. ‘He thought he’d step out on his balcony and catch some sea air, too.’ A police surgeon had arrived, and a police photographer. Allison spoke to them both briefly then returned to Grace and Branson.

‘Any information about what happened?’ asked Grace.

‘Not yet.’

‘I know him,’ Grace said. ‘I interviewed him earlier this evening. About eight o’clock. He’s the business partner of the young man who’s missing — the wedding prank — the four lads killed last week.’

Allison nodded. ‘Right.’

‘Can we get into his apartment?’

‘I’ve just been up there — the porter has a key. Want me to come with you?’

‘Yes, sure, why not?’

A few minutes later Grace, Branson and Detective Inspector Allison entered the apartment. The porter, a muscular-looking man in his fifties, wearing shorts and a singlet, waited outside.

Grace strode into the sitting area, with which he was already a little familiar, and walked over towards the balcony, which he had stepped out onto a few hours back. He went out again and looked down at the scene below. He could see the small crowd, the two ambulances, the police cars, the flashes of the police photographer’s camera, the tape cordoning off the crumpled figure of Mark Warren, the dark stains like shadows leaking from his body and head.

He thought back to the wedding, when Mark had come up to him so aggressively. Then tonight when he was a drunken wreck. Grace knew from his experience that survivors of accidents in which others had died often got chewed up with guilt that they had survived; it could destroy some people. But had Mark Warren jumped over the balcony for that reason?