Peter James - Dead Simple

Sexual. Jealousy. Racism. Anger/fright. Robbery. Power control. Maintain active lifestyle. Gain. Payment. Homophobia. Hate. Revenge. Psychotic.

He moved on to the next board, which was headed, 'FAST TRACK'. Below was printed:

1. Identify suspects 2. Intelligence opportunities 3. Scene forensics 4. Crime scene enquiries 5. Witness search 6. Victim enquiries 7. Possible motives 8. Media 9. Postmortems

10. Significant witness interview 11. Other critical actions

Media, he thought. This was a good story for the media. He would phone his contacts, start getting the story out. Maybe that would get the ball rolling. He walked on and entered the small, pristine SOCO Suite. He would phone the Argus reporter Kevin Spinella for starters, he decided.

Joe Tindall was ready for him in the first of the two rooms, known as the wet room. There was a cluster of brown paper sacks on the floor, each labelled, in black print 'Evidence Bag', a roll of brown paper on a worktop, a sink and a tall air box.

'Thanks,' Joe Tindall said, as he handed him the bag, his tone a lot less friendly than when they had met earlier, but at least he was calmer.

The SOCO officer opened the black bin liner and pulled out the individual bags of soil, then the bags of clothes. Most of the clothes were heavily bloodstained. The stench of putrefaction began to rise from the clothes bags. 'These soil samples taken from the victims' fingernails and shoes,' he said. 'You want to see if we can establish a match with the soil sample you brought in earlier?'

'From the suspect vehicle, yes. How quickly could you do this?'

'The person to do this is Hilary Flowers - appropriate name, don't you think?'

Grace smiled. 'I've used her before. She's good.'

'She's a genius on pollens. She's got me several results from pollen scrapings from victims' nostrils. But she's expensive.'

Grace shook his head in frustration. When he had first joined the police it was about solving crimes. These days, with everything farmed out to private companies, it was more about budgets. 'How quick is she?'

'She normally works on about two weeks' turnaround.'

'I don't have two weeks - we're talking about someone who might be buried alive. Every hour counts, Joe.'

Tindall looked at his watch. 'Twenty past six on a Saturday night. You're going to be lucky.' He picked up the phone and dialled. Grace watched his face, anxiously. After some moments, Tindall shook his head and whispered back, 'Voicemail.'

He left a message, asking her to call him back, urgently, then replaced the receiver. 'That's all I can do, Roy. If there's a match, she'll find it. Pollen, insect larvae, fossils, soil composition, you name it.'

'Nobody else you can think of?'

Joe Tindall looked at his watch again. 'It's Saturday night, Roy. If I leave now and drive like the clappers, I might just make the second half of the U2 concert - and get a shag afterwards. I think you're going to find that everyone else on this planet who might be able to identify soil samples also has plans for tonight.'

'My guy who's buried alive had plans for today, Joe. He was meant to be getting married.'

'Bummer.'

'You could say that.'

'I don't mean to be frivolous. But I have worked one hundred and ten hours this week, so far.'

'Join the club.'

'I can't do anything, Roy. Nothing. You know me well enough - if there was anything at all that I could suggest, I would tell you. If there was anyone, anywhere in England right now who could give us the

analysis on this soil tonight, I'd get in the car and drive to them. But I don't know anyone else. Hilary is the woman. I'll give you her number and you can keep trying. That's all I can say' Grace wrote the number down.

51

As he climbed back into his Alfa, his mobile beeped with a text mesMge.

Who's talking about a relationship? I'm just talking about sex. XXX

Grace shook his head, despairing of ever understanding women. On Tuesday night Claudine had been vile to him, berating him about the police for the best part of three hours. Now in response to his text this morning she wanted to sleep with him?

And the worst part of it was that he actually felt horny. For the first time in years. Claudine was no beauty, but she wasn't a paper- bag job either. With another empty Saturday night stretching out ahead of him, the prospect of driving to Guildford and making out with this cop-hating vegan was almost appealing.

But not appealing enough. And at this moment, his head was full of more prosaic thoughts, listing everything he needed to do in the search for Michael Harrison.

Shortly after seven o'clock, with the rain easing, accompanied by Linda Buckley, a uniformed WPC in her mid-thirties with short blonde hair and a kind but alert face, he walked from his car up the path of the neat front garden of Gillian Harrison's bungalow and rang the doorbell. It triggered a loud yapping sound from within. Moments later the door opened and a small white dog, with a pink bow on its head, rushed out and began worrying his shoes.

'Bobo! Come here! Bobo!'

He flashed his warrant card at the woman he recognized from the aborted wedding this afternoon. 'Mrs Harrison? Detective Superintendent Grace from Brighton CID, and this is the Family Liaison

Officer we have assigned to you and Miss Harper, WPC Buckley. If there is anything you need, she will help you.'

Shoeless, her silvery blonde hair elegantly coiffed, wearing a smart blue dress with white trim and reeking of cigarette smoke, she gave a fleeting smile to the WPC, then a fearful look at Grace that instantly made him feel sorry for her. 'Yes, I remember you - you were at the reception this afternoon.'

'Is it possible to have a word with you?'

Her eyes were tear-stained and streaked with mascara. 'Have you found him? Have you found my son?'

He shook his head. 'I'm afraid not, no, I'm sorry.'

After a moment's hesitation she said, 'Would you like to come in?'

'Thank you.'

He followed her into the small sitting room, then sat down in the armchair she indicated, beside an unlit fake coal fire. 'Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine? Coffee?'

'A glass of water would be fine,' he said.

'Nothing at all for me,' said the WPC. 'Would you like me to help you?'

'No, thank you, that's kind of you.'

The dog looked up at him and gave a begging whine.

'Bobo, quiet!' she commanded. The dog followed her, slavishly, out of the room.

Grace stared around. There was a framed print of The Haywain on the wall and another print, of the Jack and Jill windmills at Clayton, a large framed photograph of Michael Harrison, in a tuxedo, with his arm around Ashley Harper, in a long evening dress, clearly taken at some function, another photograph of a much younger Michael Harrison, in short trousers, astride a bicycle and a black and white wedding photograph of Gill Harrison and her late husband, he presumed, from the information Glenn Branson had given him. He could see the resemblance between Michael Harrison and his father - a tall, good-looking man with long brown hair touching his shirt collar. From his huge lapels and wide trousers he guessed it was taken in the mid-seventies.

Gill Harrison returned, followed by the dog, with a tumbler of water in one hand and a wine glass in the other. She gave Grace the tumbler then sat down on the sofa opposite him.

'I'm very sorry about today, Mrs Harrison, it must have been very distressing for you,' he said, taking the glass, and sipping the cold water gratefully.

A young woman walked into the room. She had a suntanned, slightly beaky face, long, ragged blonde hair, and was dressed in a singlet and jeans. She sported rings on her lips and ears and a stud in her tongue.

'This is Carry, my daughter. Carry - this is Chief Inspector Grace of the CID, and WPC Buckley,' Gill Harrison said. 'Early flew back from Australia for the wedding.'