Dead Simple

  rising like a barnacle on a wreck. Good. This sheet looked like it had lain here undisturbed for years.

  Placing his tools and the Maglite down in the wet grass, he grabbed an end of the sheet, and pulled it back. The grave appeared like a dark crevasse. Gripping the flashlight, he stood up, but remained rooted to the spot, trying to pluck up the courage to step forward.

  As if Michael might be crouching in there, ready to grab him.

  Slowly, small step by small step, he inched towards the edge, then In a panicky thrust he pointed the beam down into the long, rectangular hollow.

  And breathed out.

  Everything was as he had left it. The earth still heaped, undisturbed. For some moments he stared, guiltily. 'I'm sorry, partner,' he whispered. 'I--'

  There wasn't anything to say. He went back to the car and turned the lights off. No sense in advertising his presence, just in case there was anyone out in the woods at this hour, which he doubted - but you never knew.

  It took almost an hour of hard digging before the spade struck the wood of the coffin lid. There was much more earth than he had thought - OK, he had added quite a bit the other night, but even so ... He continued to scrape away until he could see the whole lid clearly and the brass screws in each corner. The tiny hole where the breathing tube had been, which he had plugged with earth, had been widened; it seemed a little larger - or was it his imagination?

  Reaching up, he put the spade on the ground, grabbed the screwdriver and set to work on each of the screws in turn. Then came the bit he hadn't quite worked out: the coffin fitted tightly into the hole, and there was no gap beside it - the only place to stand was on the lid, and that made it impossible to remove it.

  He climbed out, then clenching the Maglite in his teeth, still holding the screwdriver, prostrated himself and wriggled forwards over the edge of the grave, and reached down. He could touch the lid of the coffin easily.

  Then he began trembling. What the hell was he going to find?

  Removing the flashlight from his mouth he called, softly, 'Michael?' Then louder. 'Michael? Hello? Michael?'

  Then he rapped several times on the lid with the handle of the screwdriver - although he knew that if Michael was alive - and conscious - he would have heard his footsteps and the scraping of the shovel on the lid. Except he might be too weak to have responded.

  If he was still alive.

  A big if. It was four days now - and he clearly had no air. He stuck the barrel of the Maglite back in his mouth and clenched hard. He had to do this. Had to do this fucking thing. Had to be here to get the goddamn Palm back from Michael. Because one day someone was going to find this grave and open it up and find the corpse, and find the goddamn Palm with all the emails on it, and that cop, Detective Superintendent Graves or whatever his name was, would find the email he had sent Michael on Monday, telling him they all had a real treat in store for him, and giving him cryptic clues - too cryptic for Michael to have figured out in advance what they were going to do to him, but a total giveaway to the cop.

  Mark eased the blade of the screwdriver under the lid, then levered it up a few inches, until he could get his fingers in. Taking the strain with his left hand, he put the screwdriver down on the ground above him, then lifted the heavy lid as high as he could, barely registering the deep, jagged groove that had been carved on the inside.

  Inky water shimmered back at him, the soggy remnants of a magazine floating on the surface, large bare breasts just visible in the bright beam.

  Mark screamed and the Maglite fell from his teeth, splashed into the water and struck the bottom of the coffin with a dull thud.

  There was no one inside.

  55

  The lid fell down with a bang like a gunshot. Mark scrambled to his feet, tripped and went sprawling in the muddy soil. He hauled himself to his knees, swivelled in a complete circle, his eyes scanning the darkness, whimpering, panting, his brain seized up in his panic, wondering which way to run. To the car? Into the woods?

  Oh sweet Jesus. Christ. Christ.

  Still on all fours he backed away from the grave and spun around in a complete circle again. Was Michael out there, watching him, about to strike?

  About to blind him with a flashlight beam?

  He stood and ran to the car, wrenched open the door, climbed in and the bloody interior lights all came on, fucking floodlighting him! He slammed the door shut, hit the central locking button, twisted the ignition key, rammed the gear lever into drive, snapped on the lights and floored the accelerator, swinging the car round in a wide arc, the beam of the lights traversing the trees, shadows leaping, fading; he continued round in a circle, then another circle, then a third.

  Oh Jesus.

  What the hell had happened?

  He hadn't got the fucking Palm. Had to go back and check. Had to.

  How the hell could...?

  How could he have got out? Screwed the lid back down? Put the earth on top?

  Unless?

  He'd never been there?

  But if he hadn't been there, why didn't he turn up to the wedding?

  Thoughts hurtled round his brain. All jumbled. He wanted to call Ashley, and, oh sure, he knew the first thing she would ask him.

  Did you get the Palm?

  He drove up to the edge of the grave, sat in the car, waiting,

  watching. Then he opened the door, jumped down, flat on his stomach, and without bothering to roll up his sleeves plunged his hands into the cold water. Hit the soft, satin bottom. Felt the padded sides, then the bottom again. Found the torch and retrieved it. No longer working. His hands hit something small, round, metallic; his fingers clasped around it and pulled it out too, holding it up to the beam of the headlights. It looked like the cap of a whisky bottle.

  He turned and stared fearfully at the woods all around. Then he plunged his arms back into the coffin, working his way from one end to the other. The sodden page of a magazine wrapped itself around his hand. Nothing else. Nothing at all. The damned thing was empty.

  He stood up, replaced the corrugated iron sheet, halfheartedly throwing some grasses over it, then got back into the safety of his car. He slammed the door and hit the central locking button again, then turned and headed back down the track, accelerating hard, crashing through the ruts and puddles until he rumbled over the two cattle grids and reached the main road.

  Then he switched the diff lock off and pushed the gear lever back to normal high-gear drive and turned back towards Brighton, staring into his rear-view mirror, fearful of every pair of headlights that appeared behind him, wanting desperately to call Ashley but too confused to know what to say to her.

  Where the hell was Michael?

  Where?

  Where?

  He drove back past all the wreaths, glancing at the orange glow of the dash, then at the road, then into his mirror. Had he imagined it? Hallucinated it? Come on, guys, what's your secret? What do you know that I don't? You put an empty coffin in the ground? OK, so what did you do with Michael?

  As he drove on he began to calm down a fraction, starting to think more clearly, convincing himself it was unimportant now. Michael was not there. There was no dead body. No one had anything on him.

  Clenching the steering wheel with his knees, he pulled his rubber gloves off and dropped them in the passenger footwell. Of course,

  this was Michael all over. It had all his hallmarks. Michael the joker. Had Michael set this whole damned thing up?

  Missing his wedding day?

  Wild thoughts began going through his mind now. Had Michael twigged about himself and Ashley? Was this part of his revenge? He and Michael had known each other for a long time. Since they were thirteen. Michael was a smart guy, but he had his own way of dealing with problems. Possible that he had twigged - although he and Ashley had been incredibly careful.

  He thought back as he drove. To the day Ashley had first come to the office in response to an ad they had put in the Argus for a PA. She had walked
in, so smart, so beautiful, streets ahead of all the others they had interviewed before and after her. She was in a whole different league.

  Having just split up with a long-term girlfriend, and being free, he'd fancied her in a way he'd never fancied anyone before. They'd connected from that first moment, although Michael had seemed blind to it. By the end of her second week working for them, unknown to Michael, they started sleeping together.

  Two months into their secret relationship, she told Mark that Michael had the hots for her and had invited her out to dinner. What should she do?,

  Mark had felt angry, but had not revealed that to Ashley. All his life, ever since he had met Michael, he had lived in his shadow. It was Michael who always pulled the best-looking girls at parties, and it was Michael who somehow charmed his bank manager into giving him a loan to buy the first run-down property that he had made a big return on, while Mark had struggled on a meagre salary in a small accountancy practice.

  When they had decided to go into business together, it was Michael who had the cash to fund it - and took two thirds of the shares for doing that. Now they had a business worth several million pounds. And Michael had the lion's share.

  When Ashley had walked in that day, it was the first time that a woman had looked at him first.

  And then the shit had dared to ask her out.

  What happened next had been Ashley's idea. All she had to do

  was marry Michael and then engineer a divorce. Just set him up with a hooker and have a hidden cameraman. She'd settle for half his shares - and with Mark's thirty-three per cent, that would give them a majority holding. Control of the company. Goodbye, Michael.

  Dead simple, really.

  Murder had never been on the agenda.

  56

  Ashley, in a white towelling dressing gown, her hair down and loose over her shoulders, opened the front door of her house and stared at the mud-spattered figure of Mark with a mixture of disbelief and anger.

  'Are you insane, coming here?' she said as a greeting. 'And at this hour. It's twenty past twelve, Mark!'

  'I have to come in. I couldn't risk phoning you. We have to talk.'

  Startled by the desperate tone of his voice, she relented, first stepping out and looking carefully down the quiet street in both directions. 'You weren't followed here?'

  'No.'

  She looked down at his feet. 'Mark, what the hell are you doing? Look at your boots!'

  He stared down at his filthy gum boots, pulled them off, then carried them inside. Still holding them, he stood in the open-plan living area, watching the winking lights from the silent wall-mounted stereo.

  Closing the front door, she stared at him fearfully. 'You look terrible.'

  'I need a drink.'

  'I think you had enough earlier today'

  'I'm too bloody sober now.'

  Helping him off with his anorak she asked, 'What would you like? A whisky?'

  'Balvenie if you have some. Otherwise anything.'

  'You need a bath.' She headed towards the kitchen. 'So, tell me, was it awful? Did you get the Palm?'

  'We have a problem.'

  Ashley spun round as if she'd been shot. 'What kind of a problem?' Mark stared at her helplessly. 'He wasn't there.'

  'Not there?'

  'No - he -1 don't know - he--'

  'You mean he wasn't there? The coffin wasn't there?'

  Mark told her what had happened. Ashley's first reaction was to go to each of the windows and draw the blinds tightly, then she poured him a whisky and made herself a black coffee. Then they sat down on opposite sofas.

  'Is it possible you went to the wrong place?'

  'You mean - like there's two different coffins? No. I was the one who suggested that spot in the first place. We were going to leave him with a porno magazine and a bottle of whisky- both of those are in there - well the cap of the bottle is.'

  'And the coffin lid was screwed down - with earth on top?' Clasping her coffee with both hands, she blew steam away from the top and sipped it. Mark watched as her dressing gown opened and part of her large white breasts was visible through the gap. And they made him want her, now, despite everything, despite all his panic; he just wanted to seize her in his arms and make love to her.

  'Yes - it was exactly how it was on Thursday when I--'

  'Took the breathing tube?'

  He gulped some whisky. She was giving him a sympathetic smile now. Maybe he could at least get to stay an hour or two. Make love. He needed some release from this nightmare.

  Then her expression darkened. 'How sure are you that he was in there when you took the tube?'

  'Of course he was bloody in there. I heard him shout. Christ!'

  'You didn't imagine it?'

  'Imagine him shouting?'

  'You were in a pretty bad state.'

  'You would have been too. He was my business partner. My best friend. I'm not a bloody murderer -1--'

  She gave him a richly cynical look.

  'I'm only doing this - because - because I love you, Ashley' He drank some more whisky.

  'He could be out there right now,' she said. 'Prowling in the dark, watching, couldn't he?'

  Mark shook his head. 'I don't know. If he wasn't in the coffin, why

  didn't he come to the wedding? But he was - or someone was - there are marks inside the lid; someone had been trying to scrape their way out.'

  Ashley took the news impassively.

  'Maybe he knows about us - that's all I can think. That he fucking knows about us.'

  'He doesn't,' Ashley said. 'He has no idea. He talked to me a lot about you, how much you wanted to settle down with the right woman and have kids, and that you never seemed to be able to find a steady girlfriend.'

  'Oh great, he always gave my ego a real boost.'

  'Not in a nasty way, Mark. He cares about you.'

  'You're being very defensive about him.'

  'He is my fiance.'

  'Very funny.' Mark set his glass down on the square coffee table, then buried his face in his hands.

  'You need to pull yourself together. Let's look at this logically, OK?'

  Still with his face in his hands, he nodded.

  'Michael was there on Thursday night. You took the tube, plugged the air hole, right?'

  Mark made no comment.

  'We know he is a big practical joker. So, somehow he gets out of the coffin, and he decides to make it look as if he is still in there.'

  Mark stared at her, abjectly. 'Great joke. So he's out and he knows I took the breathing tube - and there could only be one reason why I did that.'

  'You're wrong. How would he know it was you? Could have been anyone out walking in the woods.'

  'Come on, Ashley, get real. Someone walking in the woods stumbles across a grave, with a breathing tube sticking out of the coffin, removes the tube and heaps a ton more earth on top of the coffin?'

  'I'm just trying to throw thoughts out.'

  Mark stared at her, the thought suddenly going through his mind that perhaps Ashley and Michael had hatched something between them. To trap him.

  Then he thought about all those days and evenings he had spent

  with Ashley over the past months, the things she had said to him, the way they had made love, planned - and the scornful way she always spoke about Michael, and he dismissed that thought completely.

  'Here's another idea,' she said. 'The others - Pete, Luke, Josh and Robbo - all knew you were going to be arriving late. Perhaps they were setting up a practical joke on you - with Michael - and it backfired?'

  'OK,' he said. 'Even supposing Michael wasn't in that coffin when I went there, and I imagined him calling out, then where the hell is he? Where has he been since Tuesday night? Why hasn't he been in touch; why didn't he turn up to the wedding? Can you answer me that?'

  'No. Unless the others were pulling a stunt on you and him - and he's tied up or locked up in some other place.'

  'Or done a runner?' r />
  'He hasn't done a runner,' Ashley said. 'I can tell you that.'

  'How can you be sure?'

  Her eyes rested on Mark's. 'Because he loves me. He really, genuinely loves me. That's why I know he hasn't done a runner. Did you put everything back as it was?'

  Mark hesitated, then lied, not wanting to admit he'd fled in panic. 'Yes.'

  'So either we have to wait,' she said. 'Or you go find him - and deal with him.'

  'Deal with him?'

  Her look said it all.

  'I'm not a killer, Ashley. I might be a lot of things--'

  'You might not have a choice, Mark. Think about it.'

  'He won't be able to nail anything on me. Nothing that he can stick.' He fell silent, thinking. 'Can I wait here?'

  She stood up and walked over to him, placed her hands on his shoulders and gently massaged his back. Then she kissed his neck. 'I would love you to stay,' she whispered. 'But it would be madness. How do you think it would look if Michael turned up? Or the police?'

  Mark turned his head and tried to kiss her on the lips. She allowed him one quick peck then pulled away. 'Go,' she said. 'Vamoosh! Find Michael, before he finds you.'

  'I can't do that, Ashley.' 'You can. You already did it on Thursday night. It might not have worked, but you proved you can do it. So go do it.'

  He padded dejectedly across the floor to get his boots, and Ashley brought over his sodden, muddy anorak. 'We need to be careful what we say over the phone - the police are getting nosy. We should start assuming the phones are tapped,' she said. 'OK?'

  'Good thinking.'

  'Talk to you in the morning.'

  Mark opened the door warily, as if expecting to find Michael there with a gun or a knife in his hand. But there was just the glow of the streetlamps, the dull shine of silent cars and the still of the urban night punctuated only by the distant screech of two fighting cats.

  57

  Every couple of months, Roy Grace took his eight-year-old goddaughter, Jaye Somers, out for a Sunday treat. Her parents, Michael and Victoria, both police officers, had been some of his and Sandy's closest friends, and they had been hugely supportive in the difficult years following her disappearance. With their four children, aged two to eleven, they had become almost a second family to him.