Peter James: Dead Simple

And suddenly it reminded him of something from his childhood: his dad, tinkering with things. He liked to do his own servicing on his car, changing the oil, doing the brake linings, staying out of the hands of the rip-off merchants, as his dad called garages. He remembered the inspection pit in their garage, where he had spent many happy hours of his childhood helping his dad service the succession of Fords he always bought, getting covered in oil and grease - not to mention the occasional spider. And he thought about the lines on the carpet in the sitting room that he had just seen, where the sofa had been moved. On just a hunch, no more than that, he went back into the house and straight to the sitting room. He lifted the coffee table aside, then pushed back the sofa along the tracks in the green floral carpet that had been made previously.

Then he noticed that one corner of the carpet was slightly curled up. He knelt and gave it a tug, and it lifted easily. Far too easily. And instead of dust and fluff beneath there was a thick underlay that was not like any conventional carpet underlay. He knew exactly what it was. Soundproofing material. His excitement mounting, he glanced over his shoulder, then peeled the heavy grey material back, and saw beneath it a large sheet of plywood.

He worked his fingers under the edges, with some difficulty, as it fitted flush into a groove in the floor, then prised it up, and pulled it aside. Instantly he gagged from the stench that hit his nostrils. A horrendous reek of body odour, urine and excrement. Holding his breath and scared of what he was going to find, he peered into the six-foot-deep garage inspection pit and saw a shadowy figure at the bottom, bound hand and foot and across the mouth with duct tape. At first he thought the figure was dead. Then the eyes blinked. Frightened eyes. Oh sweet Jesus, he was alive! Grace felt an almost uncontainable feeling of joy erupt through him.

'Michael Harrison?'

A muffled 'Mnhhhh' greeted him.

'Detective Superintendent Grace of Sussex CID,' Grace said, lowering himself into the pit, oblivious to the smell now, just desperately anxious to see what condition the young man was in. Kneeling beside him, Grace gently peeled the duct tape away from his lips. 'Are you Michael Harrison?'

'Yes,' he croaked. 'Water. Please.'

Grace squeezed his arm gently. 'I'll get you some right away. And I'll get you out of here. You're going to be fine.'

Grace scrambled up out of the pit, hurried into the kitchen and ran the tap, radioing for an ambulance at the same time. Then he climbed back down into the pit clutching a pint tumbler of water.

He tilted it into Michael Harrison's mouth, who drank it down in one long, greedy draught, with only a few drops spilling down his chin. Then, as he removed the glass, Michael looked at him and asked, 'How's Ashley?'

Grace stared back at him, thinking hard, then gave him a gentle, reassuring smile. 'She's safe,' he said.

'Thank God.'

Grace squeezed his arm again. 'Want more water?'

Michael nodded.

'I'll get you some, then I'll cut this tape off you.'

'Thank God she's safe,' Michael said, his voice weak and trembling. 'She's all I've thought of, all I -1...'

Grace climbed back out of the pit. At some point he was going to have to tell Michael everything, but this didn't feel like the time or the place.

And he didn't know how to begin.