Dead Simple

'What do you think about two hundred rabbits?'

'What do you want me to think about two hundred rabbits?'

'Well dude, what I want you to think is that any dude wastes two hundred rabbits, he's gotta be an OK kind of a dude, know what I'm saying?'

'Totally,' Michael said. 'I totally agree with you.'

'OK, we're on the same page, that's cool.'

'Sure is. Cool'

'Don't get much cooler, right, dude?'

'You got it,' Michael said, trying to humour him. 'So maybe you could lift the lid off for me and we could have a discussion about this face to face?'

'I'm kinda tired now. Think I'm going to hunker down, get me some shut-eye, know what I'm saying?'

Panicking, Michael said, 'Hey, no, don't do that, let's keep talking. Tell me more about the rabbits, Davey.'

'Told ya, I'm the Man With No Name.'

'OK, Man With No Name, you don't happen to have a couple of Panadols, because I've one mother of a headache?'

'Panadols?'

'Yes.'

There was silence. Just the crackle of static.

'Hello?' Michael said. 'You still there?'

There was a chuckle. 'Panadol?'

'Come on, please get me out of here.'

After another long silence the voice said, 'Guess that depends where here is.'

'I'm in the goddamn coffin.'

'You're shittin' me.'

'No shit.'

Another chuckle. 'No shit, Sherlock, right?'

'Right! No shit, Sherlock.'

'I have to go now, it's late. Shuteye!'

'Hey, please wait - please--'

The walkie-talkie went silent.

In the fading beam of the flashlight Michael saw that the water had risen considerably just in the past hour. He tested the depth again with his hand. An hour ago it had reached the knuckle of his index finger.

Now it covered his hand completely.

25

Roy Grace, in a white short-sleeve shirt and sombre tie, his collar loose, stared at the text message on his phone, and frowned:

Can't stop thinking about you! Claudine xx

Claudine?

Sitting in his office shortly after 9 a.m., in front of his computer screen, which was pinging with new emails every few moments, feeling dog tired and with a blinding headache, he was cold. It was tipping down with rain outside and there was an icy draught in the room. For some moments he watched it running down his window, staring at the bleak view of the alley wall beyond, then he unscrewed the cap of a bottle of mineral water he'd bought at a petrol station on his way in, rummaged in a drawer of his desk and took out a packet of Panadol. He popped two capsules from the foil, swallowed them, then checked the time the message had been sent: 2.14 a.m.

Claudine.

Oh God. Now it registered.

His cop-hating, vegan blind date from U-Date of Tuesday night. She'd been horrible, the evening had been a disaster, and now she was texting him. Terrific.

He held his mobile phone in his hand, toying with whether to reply or just delete it, when his door opened and Branson walked in, dressed in a crisp brown suit, a violent tie and two-tone brown and cream correspondent's shoes, holding a capped Starbucks coffee in one hand and two paper bags in the other.

'Yo, man!' Branson greeted him, breezily, as usual, plonking himself in the chair opposite Grace and setting the coffee and paper bag down on his desk. 'Still own a shirt, I see.'

'Very funny,' Grace said.

'You win last night?'

'No, I did not sodding well win.' Grace was still smarting at his

loss. Four hundred and twenty quid. Money wasn't a problem for him, and he had no debts, but he hated losing, especially losing heavily.

'You look like shit.'

'Thanks.'

'No, I mean, really. You look like absolute shit.'

'Nice of you to come all this way to tell me.'

'You ever see The Cincinatti Kid?'

'I don't remember.'

'Steve McQueen. Got wiped out in a card game. Had a great ending - you'd remember, the kid in the alley challenging him to a bet, and he tosses his last coin at him.' Branson peeled the lid off, spilling coffee onto the desk, then removed an almond croissant, dropping a trail of icing sugar next to the coffee spill. He proffered it to Grace. 'Want a bite?'

Grace shook his head. 'You should eat something more healthy for breakfast/

'Oh really? So I get to look like you? What did you have? Organic wheat grass?'

Grace held up the Panadol packet. 'All the nourishment I need. What are you doing here in the sticks?'

'Got a meeting in ten minutes with the Chief. I've been drafted onto the Drugs Performance committee.'

'Lucky you.'

'It's all about profile, isn't that what you told me? Stay visible to your chiefs?'

'Good boy, you remembered. I'm impressed.'

'But actually that's not why I'm here to see you, old-timer.' Branson pulled a birthday card out of the second bag and laid it in front of Grace. 'Getting everyone to sign - for Mandy'

Mandy Walker was in the Child Protection Unit in Brighton. At one time Grace and Branson had both worked with her.

'She's leaving?' Grace said.

Branson nodded, then mimed a pregnant belly. 'Actually, thought you'd be in court today.'

'Adjourned to Monday.' Grace signed alongside a dozen other names on the card; the coffee and pastry suddenly smelled good. As

Branson took a bite of croissant he reached out a hand, took the other croissant from its bag and tore a mouthful off, savouring the instant hit of sweetness. He chewed slowly, peering at Branson's tie, which had such a sharp geometric pattern it almost made him dizzy, then handed back the card.

'Roy, that flat we went to on Wednesday, right?'

'Down The Drive?

'There's something I don't get. I need the wisdom of your years. You got a couple of minutes?'

'Do I have any choice?'

Ignoring him, Branson said, 'Here's the thing.' He took another bite of his croissant, icing sugar and crumbs falling onto his suit and tie. 'Five guys on a stag night, right? Now--'

There was a rap on the door, then it opened, and Eleanor Hodgson, Grace's management support assistant, brought in a sheaf of papers and files. A rather prim, efficient middle-aged woman, with neat black hair and a plain, slightly old-fashioned face, she always seemed nervous of just about everything. At the moment she looked nervous of Glenn Branson's tie.

'Good morning, Roy,' she said. 'Good morning, DS Branson.'

'How you doing?' Glenn replied.

She put the documents down on Roy's desk. 'I've got a couple of forensics reports back from Huntingdon. One's the one you've been waiting for.'

'Tommy Lyde?'

'Yes. I've also got the agenda and briefing notes for your budget meeting at eleven.'

'Thanks.' As she was leaving the room he quickly sifted through the pile and pulled the Huntington report to the top. Huntingdon, in Cambridge, was one of the forensic centres that Sussex Police used. Tommy Lytle was Grace's oldest 'cold case'. At the age of eleven, twenty-seven years ago, Tommy had set out from school on a February afternoon, to walk home. He'd never been seen again. The only lead at the time had been a Morris Minor van, seen by a witness who had had the presence of mind to write down the number. But no link to the owner, a weirdo loner with a history of sex offences on minors, had ever been established. And then, two months ago, by complete coincidence, the van had showed up on Grace's radar, when a classic car enthusiast who now owned it got stopped for drunken driving.

The advances in forensics from twenty-seven years back were beyond quantum. With modern DNA testing, police forensic scientists boasted, not without substance, that if a human being had ever been in a room, no matter how long ago, given time, they could find evidence. Just one skin cell that had escaped the vacuum cleaners, or a hair, or a clothing fibre. Maybe something one hundred times smaller than a pinhead. There would be a trace.

And now they had the van. And the original suspect was still alive. And forensics had been through that van with microscopes!