Peter James - Dead Simple

Not good news, Grace thought. 'OK. Mobile phones. We should have the mobile phone numbers of Mark Warren and Ashley Harper on file by now - I want you to get on to the companies and get copies of their logs from - ' he thought for a moment, ' - last Saturday.'

'I might not get much joy until tomorrow, sir. I've had problems getting anything out of phone companies at weekends before.'

'Do your best.'

'Yes, sir.'

Ten minutes later, for the second time this weekend, Grace drove up to the long, low building that housed the Brighton and Have City Mortuary. The bright May sunlight made no impact on its grim exterior, as if the grey pebbledash walls were there to ward off any therms of warmth that might dare try to enter. Only cold corpses and even colder souls were permitted inside.

Cleo Morey excepted.

He hoped she was on duty again today. Very much hoped, as he walked over to the entrance and rang the bell. Moments later, to his delight, Cleo opened the door. Dressed as usual in her uniform of green gown, green apron and white boots - the only kit he had ever seen her in - she greeted him with a bright smile, seeming genuinely pleased to see him.

And for a moment he stood, tongue-tied, like a kid on his first date with a girl he knows in his heart is out of his league. 'Hi!' he said, and then added, 'We can't go on meeting like this.'

'I prefer you walking in, than to have you come in feet first,' she said.

He shook his head, grinning. 'Thanks a lot.'

She ushered him in to her tiny office with its pink walls. 'Can I offer you some tea? Coffee? A cold drink?'

'Can you do a full Cornish cream tea?'

'Sure - scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream?'

'And toasted tea cakes?'

'Of course.' She tossed her blonde hair back, her eyes never leaving his, very definitely flirting with him. 'So, this is your idea of a relaxing Sunday afternoon?'

'Absolutely. Doesn't everyone take a Sunday afternoon drive out into the country?'

'They do,' she said, switching on the kettle. 'But most people go to enjoy the flowers and the wildlife - not to look at corpses.'

'Really?' he feigned. 'I knew there was something wrong with my life.'

'Mine too.'

There was a silence between them. An opportunity, he knew. The kettle made a faint hissing sound. He saw a trickle of steam from the plastic spout. 'You told me you weren't married - have you ever been?' he asked. 'Do you have a family?'

She turned to look at him, resting her eyes on his, a warm, friendly, relaxed gaze. 'You mean do I have an ex-husband, twopointtwo children, a dog and a hamster?'

'That sort of thing.' Grace smiled at her, his collywobbles gone, feeling comfortable with her. Extremely comfortable.

'I have a goldfish,' she said. 'Does that count as family?'

'You do? Me too.'

"What's she called.'

'It's he. Marlon.'

She burst out laughing. 'That's an absurd name for a goldfish.'

'Luckily, he doesn't know that,' Grace responded.

She shook her head, grinning broadly as the kettle came to the boil. 'Actually, I think it's great.'

'So what's yours called?'

She teased him with her eyes for some moments, before saying, coyly, 'Fish.'

'Fish?' Grace echoed. 'That's its name?'

'Her name.'

'OK. Guess that's easy to remember. Fish.'

'Not as smart as Marlon,' she said.

'It's OK, I like it. It has a certain something about it.' Then he seized his chance, although the words came out clumsily.

'Don't suppose you'd like to meet up for that drink some time this week?'

The warmth of her reply took him by surprise. 'I would love to!'

'Great. OK. When's good - ah -1 mean - how's tomorrow?'

'Monday's are good for me,' she said.

'Great. Terrific! Um . . .' He was racking his brains, thinking of somewhere to go. Brighton was full of cool bars, but right now he couldn't think of one. Should they go to a quiet bar? A buzzy place? A restaurant? Monday nights were quiet. Maybe just a pub first time, he thought. 'Whereabouts do you live?' he asked.

'Just up off the Level.'

'You know the Greys?'

'Of course!'

'How about there - about eight?'

'I'll see you there.'

The kettle shrieked and they both grinned. As she began pouring water into the pot, the doorbell rang. She went out of the room and came back in accompanied by the beanpole-tall frame of DC Nicholl, dressed in weekend casuals. 'Good afternoon, Roy,' he said, greeting his boss.

'Want some tea. Great service here today'

'Earl Grey?' Cleo asked. 'Green leaf? Camomile? Darjeeling?'

Looking confused, the young DC, who was always very serious, very earnest, asked, 'Do you have any ordinary tea?'

'One builder's tea coming up,' Cleo said.

'So what do we think?' Grace asked, getting to the point.

'Gillian Harrison - Michael Harrison's mother - is on her way here to identify the body,' Nick informed him.

'I've made him look presentable,' Cleo said.

'It was one of her skills, to take a body - however badly marked or mangled - and make it look as intact and peaceful as possible for when a loved-one or relative came to identify someone. Sometimes it was never going to be possible. But as they walked through to the back of the mortuary, to the small, carpeted viewing room, with its perennial silver vase containing a small spray of plastic flowers, which doubled as a multidenominational chapel for the many people who wanted that solace, Grace could see she had done a good job on this body.

The young man had been placed on his back, his head resting on 1 plastic pillow which cleverly concealed the fact that the rear of his 'Cranium was stove in. Cleo had washed the mud and grime off his face and hands, tidied his spiky hair and arranged his clothes. If it wasn't for his alabaster complexion, he could have been just another young man enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon kip after a few jars in a boozer, Grace thought.

'Emma-Jane is on the case on the mobile phone numbers,' Nick Nicholl told him.

'We need to see which way the wind blows before deciding on any more action,' Grace said, looking at the body. 'Let's find out first if this is our man.' Then he heard the distant ring of the front entrance bell.

'I think we're about to find out now,' Cleo said, walking off.

Moments later she returned, followed by an ashen Gill Harrison, and Ashley Harper, stiff-faced, holding her hand. Michael Harrison's mother looked a wreck, as if she had just come in from gardening. Her hair was dishevelled; she wore a grubby windbreaker over a white sleeveless vest, brown polyester trousers and scuffed mules. Ashley, by contrast, in a navy suit and starchy white blouse, looked as if she was dressed in her Sunday best.

Both women acknowledged Grace with a silent nod, then he stepped aside to let them past. He watched them carefully as Cleo led them up to the viewing window, and for a moment his eyes were drawn to Cleo. She said few words to the two women, yet conveyed exactly the right balance of sympathy and professionalism. The more he saw of her, the more he liked her.

Gill Harrison said something and turned away, sobbing.

Ashley shook her head and turned away too, putting a comforting arm around her fiance's mother.

'You are absolutely sure, Mrs Harrison?' Cleo asked.

'It's not my son,' she sobbed. 'It's not him, not Michael. It's not him.'

'It's not Michael/ Ashley confirmed to Cleo. Then she stopped! front of Grace and said, 'That's not Michael.'

Grace could see both women were telling the truth. Gill rison's bewildered expression was understandable. But he surprised Ashley Harper did not look more relieved.

61

Itoo hours later, Grace, Glenn Branson, who had just arrived back from Solihull, Nick Nicholl, Bella Moy and Emma-Jane Boutwood sat at the work station which Operation Salsa had been allocated.