Mark screamed and the Maglite fell from his teeth, splashed into the water and struck the bottom of the coffin with a dull thud.
There was no one inside.
55
The lid fell down with a bang like a gunshot. Mark scrambled to his feet, tripped and went sprawling in the muddy soil. He hauled himself to his knees, swivelled in a complete circle, his eyes scanning the darkness, whimpering, panting, his brain seized up in his panic, wondering which way to run. To the car? Into the woods?
Oh sweet Jesus. Christ. Christ.
Still on all fours he backed away from the grave and spun around in a complete circle again. Was Michael out there, watching him, about to strike?
About to blind him with a flashlight beam?
He stood and ran to the car, wrenched open the door, climbed in and the bloody interior lights all came on, fucking floodlighting him! He slammed the door shut, hit the central locking button, twisted the ignition key, rammed the gear lever into drive, snapped on the lights and floored the accelerator, swinging the car round in a wide arc, the beam of the lights traversing the trees, shadows leaping, fading; he continued round in a circle, then another circle, then a third.
Oh Jesus.
What the hell had happened?
He hadn't got the fucking Palm. Had to go back and check. Had to.
How the hell could...?
How could he have got out? Screwed the lid back down? Put the earth on top?
Unless?
He'd never been there?
But if he hadn't been there, why didn't he turn up to the wedding?
Thoughts hurtled round his brain. All jumbled. He wanted to call Ashley, and, oh sure, he knew the first thing she would ask him.
Did you get the Palm?
He drove up to the edge of the grave, sat in the car, waiting,
watching. Then he opened the door, jumped down, flat on his stomach, and without bothering to roll up his sleeves plunged his hands into the cold water. Hit the soft, satin bottom. Felt the padded sides, then the bottom again. Found the torch and retrieved it. No longer working. His hands hit something small, round, metallic; his fingers clasped around it and pulled it out too, holding it up to the beam of the headlights. It looked like the cap of a whisky bottle.
He turned and stared fearfully at the woods all around. Then he plunged his arms back into the coffin, working his way from one end to the other. The sodden page of a magazine wrapped itself around his hand. Nothing else. Nothing at all. The damned thing was empty.
He stood up, replaced the corrugated iron sheet, halfheartedly throwing some grasses over it, then got back into the safety of his car. He slammed the door and hit the central locking button again, then turned and headed back down the track, accelerating hard, crashing through the ruts and puddles until he rumbled over the two cattle grids and reached the main road.
Then he switched the diff lock off and pushed the gear lever back to normal high-gear drive and turned back towards Brighton, staring into his rear-view mirror, fearful of every pair of headlights that appeared behind him, wanting desperately to call Ashley but too confused to know what to say to her.
Where the hell was Michael?
Where?
Where?
He drove back past all the wreaths, glancing at the orange glow of the dash, then at the road, then into his mirror. Had he imagined it? Hallucinated it? Come on, guys, what's your secret? What do you know that I don't? You put an empty coffin in the ground? OK, so what did you do with Michael?
As he drove on he began to calm down a fraction, starting to think more clearly, convincing himself it was unimportant now. Michael was not there. There was no dead body. No one had anything on him.
Clenching the steering wheel with his knees, he pulled his rubber gloves off and dropped them in the passenger footwell. Of course,
this was Michael all over. It had all his hallmarks. Michael the joker. Had Michael set this whole damned thing up?
Missing his wedding day?
Wild thoughts began going through his mind now. Had Michael twigged about himself and Ashley? Was this part of his revenge? He and Michael had known each other for a long time. Since they were thirteen. Michael was a smart guy, but he had his own way of dealing with problems. Possible that he had twigged - although he and Ashley had been incredibly careful.
He thought back as he drove. To the day Ashley had first come to the office in response to an ad they had put in the Argus for a PA. She had walked in, so smart, so beautiful, streets ahead of all the others they had interviewed before and after her. She was in a whole different league.
Having just split up with a long-term girlfriend, and being free, he'd fancied her in a way he'd never fancied anyone before. They'd connected from that first moment, although Michael had seemed blind to it. By the end of her second week working for them, unknown to Michael, they started sleeping together.
Two months into their secret relationship, she told Mark that Michael had the hots for her and had invited her out to dinner. What should she do?,
Mark had felt angry, but had not revealed that to Ashley. All his life, ever since he had met Michael, he had lived in his shadow. It was Michael who always pulled the best-looking girls at parties, and it was Michael who somehow charmed his bank manager into giving him a loan to buy the first run-down property that he had made a big return on, while Mark had struggled on a meagre salary in a small accountancy practice.
When they had decided to go into business together, it was Michael who had the cash to fund it - and took two thirds of the shares for doing that. Now they had a business worth several million pounds. And Michael had the lion's share.
When Ashley had walked in that day, it was the first time that a woman had looked at him first.
And then the shit had dared to ask her out.
What happened next had been Ashley's idea. All she had to do
was marry Michael and then engineer a divorce. Just set him up with a hooker and have a hidden cameraman. She'd settle for half his shares - and with Mark's thirty-three per cent, that would give them a majority holding. Control of the company. Goodbye, Michael.
Dead simple, really.
Murder had never been on the agenda.
56
Ashley, in a white towelling dressing gown, her hair down and loose over her shoulders, opened the front door of her house and stared at the mud-spattered figure of Mark with a mixture of disbelief and anger.
'Are you insane, coming here?' she said as a greeting. 'And at this hour. It's twenty past twelve, Mark!'
'I have to come in. I couldn't risk phoning you. We have to talk.'
Startled by the desperate tone of his voice, she relented, first stepping out and looking carefully down the quiet street in both directions. 'You weren't followed here?'
'No.'
She looked down at his feet. 'Mark, what the hell are you doing? Look at your boots!'
He stared down at his filthy gum boots, pulled them off, then carried them inside. Still holding them, he stood in the open-plan living area, watching the winking lights from the silent wall-mounted stereo.
Closing the front door, she stared at him fearfully. 'You look terrible.'
'I need a drink.'
'I think you had enough earlier today'
'I'm too bloody sober now.'
Helping him off with his anorak she asked, 'What would you like? A whisky?'
'Balvenie if you have some. Otherwise anything.'
'You need a bath.' She headed towards the kitchen. 'So, tell me, was it awful? Did you get the Palm?'
'We have a problem.'
Ashley spun round as if she'd been shot. 'What kind of a problem?' Mark stared at her helplessly. 'He wasn't there.'
'Not there?'
'No - he -1 don't know - he--'
'You mean he wasn't there? The coffin wasn't there?'
Mark told her what had happened. Ashley's first reaction was to go to each of the windows and draw the blinds tightly, then she poured him a whisky and made herself a black coffee. Then they sat down on opposite sofas.