‘Hey!’ he said again.
Four drunken, grinning shadowy faces leered down at him. A magazine was pushed into his hands. In the beam of the flashlight he caught a blurry glimpse of a naked redhead with gargantuan breasts. A bottle of whisky, a small flashlight, switched on, and a walkie-talkie were placed on his stomach.
‘What’s—?’
A piece of foul-tasting rubber tubing was pushing into his mouth. As Michael spat it out, he heard a scraping sound, then suddenly something blotted the faces out. And blotted all the sound out. His nostrils filled with smells of wood, new cloth and glue. For an instant he felt warm and snug. Then a flash of panic.
‘Hey, guys – what—’
Robbo picked up a screwdriver, as Pete shone the flashlight down on the teak coffin.
‘You’re not screwing it down?’ Luke said.
‘Absolutely!’ Pete said.
‘Do you think we should?’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Robbo said. ‘He’s got the breathing tube!’
‘I really don’t think we should screw it down!’
‘’Course we do – otherwise he’ll be able to get out!’
‘Hey—’ Michael said.
But no one could hear him now. And he could hear nothing except a faint scratching sound above him.
Robbo worked on each of the four screws in turn. It was a top-of-the-range hand-tooled teak coffin with embossed brass handles, borrowed from his uncle’s funeral parlour, where, after a couple of career U-turns, he was now employed as an apprentice embalmer. Good, solid brass screws. They went in easily.
Michael looked upwards, his nose almost touching the lid. In the beam of the flashlight, ivory-white satin encased him. He kicked out with his legs, but they had nowhere to travel. He tried to push his arms out. But they had nowhere to go, either.
Sobering for a few moments, he suddenly realized what he was lying in.
‘Hey, hey, listen, you know – hey – I’m claustrophobic – this is not funny! Hey!’ His voice came back at him, strangely muffled.
Pete opened the door, leaned into the cab, and switched on the headlights. A couple of metres in front of them was the grave they had dug yesterday, the earth piled to one side, tapes already in place. A large sheet of corrugated iron and two of the spades they had used lay close by.
The four friends walked to the edge and peered down. All of them were suddenly aware that nothing in life is ever quite as it seems when you are planning it. This hole right now looked deeper, darker, more like – well – a grave, actually.
The beam of the flashlight shimmered at the bottom.
‘There’s water,’ Josh said.
‘Just a bit of rainwater,’ Robbo said.
Josh frowned. ‘There’s too much, that’s not rainwater. We must have hit the water table.’
‘Shit,’ Pete said. A BMW salesman, he always looked the part, on duty or off. Spiky haircut, sharp suit, always confident. But not quite so confident now.
‘It’s nothing,’ Robbo said. ‘Just a couple of inches.’
‘Did we really dig it this deep?’ said Luke, a freshly qualified solicitor, recently married, not quite ready to shrug off his youth, but starting to accept life’s responsibilities.
‘It’s a grave, isn’t it?’ said Robbo. ‘We decided on a grave.’
Josh squinted up at the worsening rain. ‘What if the water rises?
‘Shit, man,’ Robbo said. ‘We dug it yesterday, it’s taken twenty-four hours for just a couple of inches. Nothing to worry about.’
Josh nodded, thoughtfully. ‘But what if we can’t get him back out?’
‘Course we can get him out,’ Robbo said. ‘We just unscrew the lid.’
‘Let’s just get on with it,’ Luke said. ‘OK?’
‘He bloody deserves it,’ Pete reassured his mates. ‘Remember what he did on your stag night, Luke?’
Luke would never forget. Waking from an alcoholic stupor to find himself on a bunk on the overnight sleeper to Edinburgh. Arriving forty minutes late at the altar the next afternoon as a result.
Pete would never forget, either. The weekend before his wedding, he’d found himself in frilly lace underwear, a dildo strapped to his waist, manacled to the Clifton Gorge suspension bridge, before being rescued by the fire brigade. Both pranks had been Michael’s idea.
‘Typical of Mark,’ Pete said. ‘Jammy bastard. He’s the one who organized this and now he isn’t bloody here . . .’
‘He’s coming. He’ll be at the next pub, he knows the itinerary.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘He rang, he’s on his way.’
‘Fogbound in Leeds. Great!’ Robbo said.
‘He’ll be at the Royal Oak by the time we get there.’
‘Jammy bastard,’ Luke said. ‘He’s missing out on all the hard work.’
‘And the fun!’ Pete reminded him.
‘This is fun?’ Luke said. ‘Standing in the middle of a sodding forest in the pissing rain? Fun? God, you’re sad! He’d fucking better turn up to help us get Michael back out.’
They hefted the coffin up in the air, staggered forward with it to the edge of the grave and dumped it down, hard, over the tapes. Then giggled at the muffled ‘Ouch!’ from within it.
There was a loud thump.
Michael banged his fist against the lid. ‘Hey! Enough!’
Pete, who had the walkie-talkie in his coat pocket, pulled it out and switched it on. ‘Testing!’ he said. ‘Testing!’
Inside the coffin, Pete’s voice boomed out. ‘Testing! Testing!’
‘Joke over!’
‘Relax, Michael!’ Pete said. ‘Enjoy!’
‘You bastards! Let me out! I need a piss!’
Pete switched the walkie-talkie off and jammed it into the pocket of his Barbour jacket. ‘So how does this work, exactly?’
‘We lift the tapes,’ Robbo said. ‘One each end.’
Pete dug the walkie-talkie out and switched it on. ‘We’re getting this taped, Michael!’ Then he switched it off again.
The four of them laughed. Then each picked up an end of tape and took up the slack.
‘One . . . two . . . three!’ Robbo counted.
‘Fuck, this is heavy!’ Luke said, taking the strain and lifting.
Slowly, jerkily, listing like a stricken ship, the coffin sank down into the deep hole.
When it reached the bottom they could barely see it in the darkness.
Pete held the flashlight. In the beam they could make out the breathing tube sticking limply out of the drinking-straw-sized hole that had been cut in the lid.
Robbo grabbed the walkie-talkie. ‘Hey, Michael, your dick’s sticking out. Are you enjoying the magazine?’
‘OK, joke over. Now let me out!’
‘We’re off to a pole-dancing club. Too bad you can’t join us!’ Robbo switched off the radio before Michael could reply. Then, pocketing it, he picked up a spade and began shovelling earth over the edge of the grave and roared with laughter as it rattled down on the roof of the coffin.
With a loud whoop Pete grabbed another shovel and joined in. For some moments both of them worked hard until only a few bald patches of coffin showed through the earth. Then these were covered. Both of them continued, the drink fuelling their work into a frenzy, until there was a good couple of feet of earth piled on top of the coffin. The breathing tube barely showed above it.
‘Hey!’ Luke said. ‘Hey, stop that! The more you shovel on the more we’re going to have to dig back out again in two hours’ time.’
‘It’s a grave!’ Robbo said. ‘That’s what you do with a grave, you cover the coffin!’
Luke grabbed the spade from him. ‘Enough!’ he said, firmly. ‘I want to spend the evening drinking, not bloody digging, OK?’
Robbo nodded, never wanting to upset anyone in the group. Pete, sweating heavily, threw his spade down. ‘Don’t think I’ll take this up as a career,’ he said.
They pulled the corrugated iron she
et over the top, then stood back in silence for some moments. Rain pinged on the metal.
‘OK,’ Pete said. ‘We’re outta here.’
Luke dug his hands into his coat pocket, dubiously. ‘Are we really sure about this?’
‘We agreed we were going to teach him a lesson,’ Robbo said.
‘What if he chokes on his vomit, or something?’
‘He’ll be fine, he’s not that drunk,’ Josh said. ‘Let’s go.’
Josh climbed into the rear of the van, and Luke shut the doors. Then Pete, Luke and Robbo squeezed into the front, and Robbo started the engine. They drove back down the track for half a mile, then made a right turn onto the main road.
Then he switched on the walkie-talkie. ‘How you doing, Michael?’
‘Guys, listen, I’m really not enjoying this joke.’
‘Really?’ Robbo said. ‘We are!’
Luke took the radio. ‘This is what’s known as pure vanilla revenge, Michael!’
All four of them in the van roared with laughter. Now it was Josh’s turn. ‘Hey, Michael, we’re going to this fantastic club, they have the most beautiful women, butt naked, sliding their bodies up and down poles. You’re going to be really pissed you’re missing out on this!’
Michael’s voice slurred back, just a tad plaintive. ‘Can we stop this now, please? I’m really not enjoying this.’
Through the windscreen Robbo could see roadworks ahead, with a green light. He accelerated.
Luke shouted over Josh’s shoulder, ‘Hey, Michael, just relax, we’ll be back in a couple of hours!’
‘What do you mean, a couple of hours?’
The light turned red. Not enough time to stop. Robbo accelerated even harder and shot through. ‘Gimme the thing,’ he said, grabbing the radio and steering one-handed around a long curve. He peered down in the ambient glow of the dash and hit the talk button.
‘Hey, Michael—’
‘ROBBO!’ Luke’s voice, screaming.
Headlights above them, coming straight at them.
Blinding them.
Then the blare of a horn, deep, heavy duty, ferocious.
‘ROBBBBBBBBOOOOOOO!’ screamed Luke.
Robbo stamped in panic on the brake pedal and dropped the walkie-talkie. The wheel yawed in his hands as he looked, desperately, for somewhere to go. Trees to his right, a JCB to his left, headlights burning through the windscreen, searing his eyes, coming at him out of the teeming rain, like a train.
LOOKING GOOD DEAD
One single act of kindness becomes an endless reign of terror . . .
Tom Bryce did what any decent person would do. But within hours of picking up the CD that had been left behind on the train seat next to him, and attempting to return it to its owner, he is the sole witness to a vicious murder. Then his young family are threatened with their lives if he goes to the police. But supported by his wife, Kellie, he bravely makes a statement to the murder enquiry team headed by Detective Superintendent Roy Grace; a man with demons of his own to contend with.
And from that moment the killing of the Bryce family becomes a mere formality – and a grisly attraction. Notice of Kellie and Tom’s deaths has already been posted on the internet. You can log on and see them on a website. They are looking good dead.
‘Full of gripping twists and turns’
Guardian
‘Will have you glued to your deckchair’
Observer
Praise for Peter James’ Roy Grace series
‘James just gets better and better and deserves the success he has achieved with this first-class series’
Independent on Sunday
‘Peter James is on a roll with his Roy Grace novels’
Daily Express
‘Classic James. The plotting is tight and polished and steadily paced with constant red herrings and misdirection to unsettle any reader who gets too comfortable in their assumptions’
Sunday Express
‘One of the most consistently readable crime writers, James seems to have shifted a gear with this latest meaty offering featuring his excellent Brighton detective Roy Grace’
Daily Mail
‘Another of James’ sophisticated, complicated and well-informed snap-shots of the Brighton police at work . . . His research is obviously careful. It’s well worth the effort, as the result is a superior thriller’
Literary Review
‘The latest crime thriller from Peter James is just as gripping and detailed as ever – you’ll be hooked!’
OK!
‘Peter James has established a series that is taking over from Ian Rankin in sales’
Front Row, Radio 4
DEAD LETTER DROP
Peter James was educated at Charterhouse, then at film school. He lived in North America for a number of years, working as a screenwriter and film producer before returning to England. His novels, including the Sunday Times number one bestselling Roy Grace series, have been translated into thirty-five languages, with worldwide sales of thirteen million copies. Three novels have been filmed. All his books reflect his deep interest in the world of the police, with whom he does in-depth research, as well as his fascination with science, medicine and the paranormal. He has also produced numerous films, including The Merchant of Venice, starring Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons and Joseph Fiennes. He divides his time between his homes in Notting Hill, London, and near Brighton in Sussex.
Visit his website at www.peterjames.com
Or follow him on Twitter @peterjamesuk
Or Facebook: facebook.com/peterjames.roygrace
By Peter James
DEAD LETTER DROP
ATOM BOMB ANGEL
BILLIONAIRE
POSSESSION
DREAMER
SWEET HEART
TWILIGHT
PROPHECY
ALCHEMIST
HOST
THE TRUTH
DENIAL
FAITH
PERFECT PEOPLE
SHORT SHOCKERS: COLLECTION ONE
SHORT SHOCKERS: COLLECTION TWO
Children’s Novel
GETTING WIRED!
Novella
THE PERFECT MURDER
The Roy Grace Series
DEAD SIMPLE
LOOKING GOOD DEAD
NOT DEAD ENOUGH
DEAD MAN’S FOOTSTEPS
DEAD TOMORROW
DEAD LIKE YOU
DEAD MAN’S GRIP
NOT DEAD YET
DEAD MAN’S TIME
First published 1981 by W. H. Allen
This electronic edition published 2014 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-5603-8
Copyright © Peter James, 1981
Foreword copyright © Peter James, 2014
The right of Peter James to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Peter James, Dead Letter Drop
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