Dead Simple

'Is it possible you went to the wrong place?'

'You mean - like there's two different coffins? No. I was the one who suggested that spot in the first place. We were going to leave him with a porno magazine and a bottle of whisky- both of those are in there - well the cap of the bottle is.'

'And the coffin lid was screwed down - with earth on top?' Clasping her coffee with both hands, she blew steam away from the top and sipped it. Mark watched as her dressing gown opened and part of her large white breasts was visible through the gap. And they made him want her, now, despite everything, despite all his panic; he just wanted to seize her in his arms and make love to her.

'Yes - it was exactly how it was on Thursday when I--'

'Took the breathing tube?'

He gulped some whisky. She was giving him a sympathetic smile now. Maybe he could at least get to stay an hour or two. Make love. He needed some release from this nightmare.

Then her expression darkened. 'How sure are you that he was in there when you took the tube?'

'Of course he was bloody in there. I heard him shout. Christ!'

'You didn't imagine it?'

'Imagine him shouting?'

'You were in a pretty bad state.'

'You would have been too. He was my business partner. My best friend. I'm not a bloody murderer -1--'

She gave him a richly cynical look.

'I'm only doing this - because - because I love you, Ashley' He drank some more whisky.

'He could be out there right now,' she said. 'Prowling in the dark, watching, couldn't he?'

Mark shook his head. 'I don't know. If he wasn't in the coffin, why

didn't he come to the wedding? But he was - or someone was - there are marks inside the lid; someone had been trying to scrape their way out.'

Ashley took the news impassively.

'Maybe he knows about us - that's all I can think. That he fucking knows about us.'

'He doesn't,' Ashley said. 'He has no idea. He talked to me a lot about you, how much you wanted to settle down with the right woman and have kids, and that you never seemed to be able to find a steady girlfriend.'

'Oh great, he always gave my ego a real boost.'

'Not in a nasty way, Mark. He cares about you.'

'You're being very defensive about him.'

'He is my fiance.'

'Very funny.' Mark set his glass down on the square coffee table, then buried his face in his hands.

'You need to pull yourself together. Let's look at this logically, OK?'

Still with his face in his hands, he nodded.

'Michael was there on Thursday night. You took the tube, plugged the air hole, right?'

Mark made no comment.

'We know he is a big practical joker. So, somehow he gets out of the coffin, and he decides to make it look as if he is still in there.'

Mark stared at her, abjectly. 'Great joke. So he's out and he knows I took the breathing tube - and there could only be one reason why I did that.'

'You're wrong. How would he know it was you? Could have been anyone out walking in the woods.'

'Come on, Ashley, get real. Someone walking in the woods stumbles across a grave, with a breathing tube sticking out of the coffin, removes the tube and heaps a ton more earth on top of the coffin?'

'I'm just trying to throw thoughts out.'

Mark stared at her, the thought suddenly going through his mind that perhaps Ashley and Michael had hatched something between them. To trap him.

Then he thought about all those days and evenings he had spent

with Ashley over the past months, the things she had said to him, the way they had made love, planned - and the scornful way she always spoke about Michael, and he dismissed that thought completely.

'Here's another idea,' she said. 'The others - Pete, Luke, Josh and Robbo - all knew you were going to be arriving late. Perhaps they were setting up a practical joke on you - with Michael - and it backfired?'

'OK,' he said. 'Even supposing Michael wasn't in that coffin when I went there, and I imagined him calling out, then where the hell is he? Where has he been since Tuesday night? Why hasn't he been in touch; why didn't he turn up to the wedding? Can you answer me that?'

'No. Unless the others were pulling a stunt on you and him - and he's tied up or locked up in some other place.'

'Or done a runner?'

'He hasn't done a runner,' Ashley said. 'I can tell you that.'

'How can you be sure?'

Her eyes rested on Mark's. 'Because he loves me. He really, genuinely loves me. That's why I know he hasn't done a runner. Did you put everything back as it was?'

Mark hesitated, then lied, not wanting to admit he'd fled in panic. 'Yes.'

'So either we have to wait,' she said. 'Or you go find him - and deal with him.'

'Deal with him?'

Her look said it all.

'I'm not a killer, Ashley. I might be a lot of things--'

'You might not have a choice, Mark. Think about it.'

'He won't be able to nail anything on me. Nothing that he can stick.' He fell silent, thinking. 'Can I wait here?'

She stood up and walked over to him, placed her hands on his shoulders and gently massaged his back. Then she kissed his neck. 'I would love you to stay,' she whispered. 'But it would be madness. How do you think it would look if Michael turned up? Or the police?'

Mark turned his head and tried to kiss her on the lips. She allowed him one quick peck then pulled away. 'Go,' she said. 'Vamoosh! Find Michael, before he finds you.'

'I can't do that, Ashley.' 'You can. You already did it on Thursday night. It might not have worked, but you proved you can do it. So go do it.'

He padded dejectedly across the floor to get his boots, and Ashley brought over his sodden, muddy anorak. 'We need to be careful what we say over the phone - the police are getting nosy. We should start assuming the phones are tapped,' she said. 'OK?'

'Good thinking.'

'Talk to you in the morning.'

Mark opened the door warily, as if expecting to find Michael there with a gun or a knife in his hand. But there was just the glow of the streetlamps, the dull shine of silent cars and the still of the urban night punctuated only by the distant screech of two fighting cats.

57

Every couple of months, Roy Grace took his eight-year-old goddaughter, Jaye Somers, out for a Sunday treat. Her parents, Michael and Victoria, both police officers, had been some of his and Sandy's closest friends, and they had been hugely supportive in the difficult years following her disappearance. With their four children, aged two to eleven, they had become almost a second family to him.

Today he'd had to disappoint Jaye by explaining when he collected her that he could only spare a couple of hours, as he had to go back to work to try to help someone who was in trouble.

He never told Jaye in advance what the treat would be, so she always enjoyed the guessing game for the first few minutes of their car journey.

'I think we are going to see animals today!' Jaye said.

'Do you?'

'Yes.'

She was a pretty child, with long silvery blonde hair, a cherubic, happy face and an infectious laugh. Today she was smartly dressed, as usual, in a green frock with white lace trim and a tiny pair of pink trainers on her feet. Sometimes her expressions, and the things she said, could seem incredibly grown-up. There were moments when Grace felt he was out with a miniature adult, not a child.

'So what makes you think that?'

'Umm, let me see.' Jaye leaned forward and twiddled the dials on Grace's car radio, selected the CD and punched a number. The first track of a Blue album began to play. 'Do you like Blue?'

'Uh huh.'

'I like the Scissor Sisters.'

'Do you?'

'They're cool. Do you know them?'

Grace remembered that Glenn Branson was into them. 'Of course.'

'We're definitely going to see animals.'

'What sort of animals do you think we're going to see?'

She turned the music up, swaying her arms to the beat. 'Giraffes.'

'You want to see giraffes?'

'Giraffes don't dream much,' she informed him.