by Peter James
'I'm not sure,' he answered.
'What happens if you don't ever find Michael?'
It was an innocent question, but it hit home with his emotions. 'I think we will find him.' He didn't want to say anything about the corpse.
'But what happens if you don't?' she persisted. 'How long will you keep looking?'
He smiled sadly at her innocence. She'd been born a year after Sandy had disappeared and had no idea of the poignancy of her questions. 'For as long as it takes.'
'That could be a long time, if he's hidden really well. Couldn't it?'
'It's possible.'
'So that means we might not get to see a giraffe for years and years?'
After he had finished his conversation with her, he immediately dialled Emma-Jane Boutwood in the Incident Room. 'What did you find out about the earring?'
'Michael Harrison used to wear one all the time - a small gold
ring, until his fiancee stopped him. But it's possible he was wearing it for his night out.'
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.
Grace smiled to reassure their new recruit, Emma-Jane, a slim, attractive girl with an alert face and long fair hair scooped up in a bun, then started to read out loud to them the report he had dictated since leaving the mortuary, and which Emma-Jane had just typed up. This was the way he liked to run all his investigations - keeping everything under constant review.
'The time is six-fifteen p.m., Sunday May 29th,' he read out. 'This is the first review of Operation Salsa, the investigation into the disappearance of twenty-nine-year-old male Michael Harrison, conducted on day five of his disappearance. I will now summarize the incident.'
For some minutes, Grace reviewed the events leading up to Michael's disappearance. Then he discussed possible suspects. 'At this time we have no evidence a crime has been committed. However, I am uncomfortable about Michael Harrison's business partner, Mark Warren, and his fiancee, Ashley Harper. I am also uncomfortable about Ashley's uncle from Canada, Bradley Cunningham, because I have a hunch he is not who he says he is - just a hunch at this stage.'
He paused to drink some water, then continued. 'Resourcing. East Downs Division has been very positive in offering manpower. We instigated a search of the vicinity of the accident last Tuesday night and have been upgrading the level of this further over the past few days. I'm now bringing in the Sussex Police Underwater Search Unit, and will have the USU team drag all local rivers, lakes and reservoirs. We will also request a further helicopter sweep - the visibility from the improved weather conditions may be helpful.'
He went on through the headings. 'Meeting cycles': Grace announced there would be a daily 8.30 a.m. and 6.30 p.m. briefing. He reported that the Holmes computer team had been up and running since Friday. He read out the list under the heading 'Investigative Strategies', which included 'Communications/Media', reporting that Michael Harrison's disappearance was scheduled to feature in this week's Crimewatch television programme if he hadn't turned up by then.
Next was 'Forensics'. Grace reported that soil samples from Mark Warren's car were being analysed along with soil samples recovered from the clothing and hands of the four dead boys. There should be an initial report some time tomorrow from Hilary Flowers, the forensic geologist they had consulted.
Then he reached the heading 'Any Concerns Raised by SIO', and there read out his detailed issues about the attitudes and anomalies in Mark Warren's and Ashley Harper's behaviour - and the disclosure of the Cayman Islands bank account of Double-M Properties.
When he reached the end of the report, he summed up: 'The alternative scenarios as I see them are as follows:
'One. Michael Harrison has been incarcerated somewhere and cannot escape.
'Two. Michael Harrison is dead - either as a result of his incarceration or has been unlawfully killed.
'Three. Michael Harrison has deliberately disappeared.'
Then he asked his team if they had any questions. Glenn Branson raised his hand and asked whether the body of the as yet unidentified man found in the woods had any bearing on the events.
'Unless there's a serial killer in Ashdown Forest targeting twentynine-year-old males, I don't think so.'
Grace's reply raised a titter despite the seriousness of the situation. 'Who's going to own this murder victim?' Branson asked.
'East Downs Division,' Grace said. 'We have enough on our plate.'
'Roy, any thoughts of putting tails on Ashley Harper and Mark Warren?' Branson asked.
It was an option he had been considering, but to put an effective twenty-four-hour surveillance watch on anyone could take as many as thirty people - three teams working in eight-hour shifts - on a simple job. More if it was complicated. The drain on manpower was astronomical, and Grace knew from experience that his chiefs would only sanction surveillance when absolutely necessary - such as on a potential major drugs bust or when there was a life at stake. If they made no headway soon, he might have to make the request. 'Yes he said. 'But park that for now. But what I do want is a scan on all the CCTV footage in Brighton and Have last Thursday, from dawn until one a.m. Friday morning. Mark Warren was out in his car, a BMW off-roader - the details are on the file. I'd like to know where he went.' Then he added, 'Oh yes, and Michael Harrison has a yacht he keeps at the Sussex Motor Yacht Club. Someone should make sure it's still there. We'll look like dickheads organizing a manhunt if we find he's buggered off to sea on his boat.' He looked at DC Bourwood. 'You can narrow the CCTV footage down from the mobile phone cell logs - you just need to pick the cameras in the area they throw up. Have you made any progress?' 'Not yet, sir. I'll be on it first thing in the morning - no one can help me today.' Grace looked at his watch. 'I have to be in court tomorrow at ten -I may or may not be needed there all day. So we meet here at eight thirty first.' He turned to Branson. 'Our liaison at the East Downs is Detective Inspector Jon Lamb. He's already got his team started - be good if you speak to him.' 'I'll call him in a few minutes.' Grace fell silent, scanning the pages of the review, checking he had not missed anything. He needed to know more about the character of Michael Harrison and about his business relationship with Mark Warren, and also about Ashley Harper. Then he looked up at his team. 'It's now almost seven-thirty, on a Sunday evening. I think you should go home, get some rest -1 think we're going to have a full week ahead of us. Thanks for giving up your Sunday' Branson, wearing fashionably baggy slacks and a sharp, zip-up cotton top, walked out to the car park with him. 'What's your sense, old wise one?' he asked. Grace dug his hands in his pocket and said, 'I've been too close to this for the past couple of days - what's yours?'
Branson slapped his hands against his sides in frustration. 'Man! Why are you always doing this to me? Can't you just answer my questions?' 'I dunno. Tell me?'
'Shit, you really piss me off sometimes!'
'Oh, so you had a nice weekend away with your family, leaving me to do your job, and that pisses you off?'
Indignant, Branson exclaimed 'A nice weekend with my family. You call driving three hours up the Ml and three hours back, with a bolshy wife and two screaming kids, a nice weekend? Next time you drive them to Solihull, and I'll stay here and do whatever crap job you want me to do. Deal?'
'Bargain.'
Grace reached his car. Branson hovered. 'So, what is your sense?'
'It's not all as it seems, Horatio, that's my sense.'
'Meaning?'
'I can't put it any more clearly - yet. I have a bad feeling about Mark Warren and about Ashley Harper.'
'What kind of bad feeling?'
'A very bad feeling.'
Grace gave his friend a warm pat on the back, then climbed into his car and drove to the security gate. As he pulled out on the main road, with its panoramic view across Brighton and Have, right down to the sea, with the sun still high above the horizon in the cloudless cobalt sky, he punched the CD button for Bob Berg's Riddles, and as he drove he began to chill. And for a few delicious moments his thoughts turned away from his investigations, to Cleo Morey.
; And he smiled.
Then his thoughts turned back to work: to the long drive to south London and back he had ahead. If he was lucky, he might be home by midnight.
62
Mark, in sweatshirt, jeans and socks, paced around his apartment, a glass of whisky in his hand, unable to settle or to think clearly. The television was on, the sound mute, the actor Michael Kitchen striding, steely-faced, through a war-torn southern England landscape that looked vaguely familiar - somewhere near Hastings, he thought he recognized.
He had locked his door from the inside, bolted the safety chain. The balcony was safe, impenetrable, four floors up, and besides Michael had a fear of heights.
It was almost fully dark outside now. Ten o'clock. In just over three weeks it would be the longest day of the year. Through the glass doors to the balcony he watched a single light bobbing out at sea. A small boat, or yacht.
It had been weeks since he and Michael had taken out Double MM, their racing sloop. He had planned to go to the Marina today and do some work on her. You could never leave a boat for long; there was always something leaking, corroding, tearing or peeling.
In truth, the boat was a damned chore for him. He wasn't even sure he needed the hassle, and rough seas petrified him. Sailing was a big part of Michael's life, always had been ever since Mark had known him. If he wanted to be Michael's business partner, then sharing the boat with him went with the territory.
And sure, they had fun, lots of fun; plenty of good, windblown days out sailing under a brilliant sky, plenty of weekends down the coast to Devon and Cornwall, and sometimes across to the French coast or the Channel Islands. But if he never stepped on a yacht again, it wouldn't bother him.
Where the fuck are you, Michael?
He drank some more whisky, sat on the sofa, leaned back, crossed his legs, feeling so damned confused. Michael and Ashley should have been jetting away on their romantic honeymoon today.
He had not figured how he was going to cope with that, Ashley making love to Michael, loads of times probably. He would have expected that on a damned honeymoon, unless she feigned something - she had promised him she was going to feign something, but how could she keep that up for a fortnight?
