Peter James - Dead Simple

'Worried what the boss might say?' Branson taunted.

'You get to my age, you start thinking about your pension.'

'I'll bear that in mind, in about thirty years' time.'

33

Ashley Harper's address was a tiny Victorian terraced house close to a railway line in an area that had once been a working-class area of Have, but now was an increasingly trendy - and expensive - enclave for singles and first-time buyers. The quality of the cars parked in the street and the smart front doors were the giveaway.

Grace and Branson climbed out of the car, walked past a Golf GTI and a convertible Renault, and rang the doorbell of number 119, which had a silver Audi TT parked outside.

After a few moments the door was opened by a very beautiful woman in her mid-twenties. She gave Branson a sad smile of recognition. 'Hello, Ashley,' Branson said. 'This is my colleague, Detective Superintendent Grace. Can we have a chat?'

'Of course, come in. Do you have any news?' She looked at Grace.

Grace was struck by the contrast of the interior of the house with the outside. They had entered an oasis of cool minimalism. White carpet, white furniture, grey metal Venetian blinds, a large framed Jack Vettriano print of four dudes in sharp suits on the wall, which Grace recognized, pin-pricks of coloured lights jigging on a wall mounted sound system. The hands of a faceless clock on a wall read 6.20 p.m.

She offered them drinks. Branson was given a mineral water in a smart glass tumbler and Grace, seated beside him on a long sofa, a black coffee in an elegant white mug.

'There were three confirmed sightings of your fiance on Tuesday night at pubs in the Ashdown Forest area,' Glenn Branson told her. 'Each of them also confirmed he was with four companions - the ones you know. But we have no information on what they were up to, other than getting drunk.'

'Michael isn't a drinker,' she said bleakly, holding a large glass of red wine in both hands.

'Tell me about Michael,' Grace asked, watching her intently.

'What sort of things?'

'Anything. How did you meet him?'

She smiled, and for an instant visibly relaxed. 'I came for a job interview to his firm. Michael and his partner.'

'Mark Warren?' quizzed Grace.

A fleeting hesitation, so small it was barely noticeable. But Grace had seen it. 'Yes.'

'Where did you work before? he asked.

'I was working for a real estate firm in Toronto, Canada. I only came back to England just before I got this job.'

'Back?'

'I'm from England originally - my roots are here.' She smiled.

'What firm in Toronto?'

'You know Toronto?' she asked, a little surprised.

'I did a week there with the RCMP about ten years ago - at their murder lab.'

'Right. It was a small firm - part of the Bay group.'

Grace nodded. 'So Michael Harrison and Mark Warren hired you?'

'Uh huh, that was last November.'

'And?'

'It was a great job - good pay -1 wanted to learn about the property business, and they seemed like really nice guys. I - um -1' - she blushed - 'I thought Michael was very attractive, but I was sure he was married or had a girlfriend.'

'Excuse me for being personal,' Grace said, 'but when did you and Michael become an item?'

After a brief pause she said, 'Very quickly - within a couple of months. But we had to keep it secret, because Michael was concerned about Mark finding out. He thought it would be difficult for Mark if he was - you know - having a thing with me.'

Grace nodded. 'So when did Mark find out?'

She reddened. 'He came back to the office one day when we weren't expecting him.'

Grace smiled. He felt for her, she had a vulnerability about her that he knew would make almost all men feel protective towards her.

He felt the same way himself, already, and he'd only known her for a few minutes. 'And then?'

'It was a little bit awkward for a while. I told Michael I thought I Should quit, but he was very persuasive.'

'And Mark?'

Grace noticed the minutest flinch. A barely visible tightening of her facial muscles. 'He was OK about it.'

'So it didn't affect your business relationship?'

'No.'

Watching her eyes closely, Grace asked, 'Did you know they have a business offshore, in the Cayman Islands?'

Her eyes shot to Branson then back to Grace. 'No - I - I don't know about it.'

'Did Michael ever talk to you about tax shelters for himself and Mr Warren?'

Anger flashed in her face, so harshly and so suddenly that Grace was startled. 'What is this? Are you policemen or are you from the Inland Revenue?'

'If you want to help us find your fiance, you have to help us get to know him. Tell us everything, even the stuff you think is totally irrelevant.'

'I just want you to find him. Alive. Please God.'

'Your fiance didn't talk about his stag night with you?' Grace questioned, thinking back to his own stag night, when he'd given Sandy a detailed itinerary and she'd rescued him, in the early hours of the following morning, when he'd been abandoned in a back street of Brighton, stark naked apart from a pair of socks, on top of a pillar box.

She shook her head. 'They were just going out for a few drinks, that's all he told me.'

'What are you going to do if he hasn't turned up by the time of your wedding tomorrow?' Branson asked.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She went out of the room and returned holding an embroidered handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes. Then she started sobbing. 'I don't know. I really don't know. Please find him. I love him so much, I can't bear this,'

After waiting for her to calm down, and watching her eyes again

intently, Grace asked, 'You were secretary to both of them. Didn't Mark Warren tell you what they had planned?'

'Just a boys' night out. I was having a girls' night out, you know, a hen party. That was all.'

'You know that Michael has a reputation as a practical joker?' Grace asked.

'Michael has a great sense of humour - that's one of the things I love about him.'

'You don't know anything about a coffin?'

She sat bolt upright, almost spilling her wine. 'A coffin? What do you mean?'

Gently, Branson explained. 'One of the boys, Robert Houlihan you knew him?'

'I met him a few times, yes. A bit of a loser.'

'Oh really?'

'That's what M - Michael said. He sort of hung on to their crowd but wasn't really part of it.'

'But part of it enough to be included in the stag night?' Branson persisted.

'Michael hates to hurt anyone. I think he felt Robbo had to be included. I suppose because he'd made the other guys ushers, but not Robbo.'

Grace drank some coffee. 'You didn't have any falling-out with Michael? Nothing to make you think he might have got cold feet about the wedding?'

'Christ,' she said. 'No. Absolutely not. I - he--'

'Where are you going on your honeymoon?' Grace asked.

'The Maldives. Michael's booked a fantastic place - he loves water - boats, scuba diving. It looks like paradise.'

'We have a helicopter out looking for him. We have drafted in one hundred special constables, and if he hasn't turned up by tonight we are going to start a full search of the area where he was last seen. But I don't want to tie up hundreds of valuable police man-hours only to find he's sunning himself in the Cayman Islands, courtesy of the British taxpayer. Do you understand?'

Ashley nodded. 'Loud and clear,' she said bitterly. 'This is about money, not about finding Michael at all.'

'No,' Grace said, softening his tone. 'This is not about money. I'm prepared to authorize whatever it costs to find Michael.'

'Then please start now.' Hunching her thin shoulders, she stared pitifully down at her glass of wine. 'I recognize you, from the Argus piece on you. And the Daily Mail yesterday. They were trying to ridicule you for going to a medium, right?'