Dead Simple

paper back to the bungalow and showed it to Phil Wheeler.
    ‘Did Davey talk to you about this?’
    Phil Wheeler shook his head. ‘No.’
    ‘Do the directions mean anything to you?’
    ‘Double cattle grid, two miles, white cottage? No, don’t mean anything.’
    ‘The number? Do you recognize this?’
    He looked at the number, reading out each digit aloud. ‘No, not any number I know.’
    Grace decided he had got about as much out of the man as he was going to get tonight. He stood up, thanked him, and told him again how sorry he was about his son.
    ‘Just catch the bastard who did it, Detective Superintendent. Do that at least, for me and Davey, will you?’
    Grace promised to do his best.

70
    Mark Warren, dripping with perspiration, jigged the key in the front door lock of his apartment, panicking for a moment that the lock was jammed. Then he pushed the door open fearfully, stepped inside, closed it, locked it and engaged the safety chain.
    Ignoring the bundle of post awaiting him, he set down his briefcase, ripped off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt collar, then slung both his jacket and the tie on the sofa. He poured himself four fingers of Balvenie, chinked some ice cubes out of the fridge straight into the glass, then gulped down some of the whisky.
    He opened his leather laptop bag and removed the Jiffy bag that had arrived earlier, holding it at arm’s length, hardly daring to look at it. He put it on a black lacquered table on the far side of the room, took out the note which he had already looked at earlier, in the office, then walked over to the coffee table, took another deep gulp of his whisky and sat down.
    The note was short, printed off a computer on blank A4 paper. It said: ‘Have the police check the fingerprints out and you’ll find it is your friend and business partner. Every 24 hours I will cut an increasingly bigger bit off him. Until you do exactly what I tell you.’
    There was no signature.
    Mark drank some more whisky, draining the glass. He refilled it – another four fat fingers but the same ice cubes, and read the note again. Then again. He heard a siren somewhere outside and flinched. Then the door intercom buzzed, throwing him into a flat spin of panic. Marching across to the CCTV panel, he desperately hoped it was Ashley. Her phone had been off when he tried to call her from the office and it had still been off when he had called her again minutes ago coming up in the lift.
    But it wasn’t Ashley; it was the face of a man he was starting to see too much of, for his liking, Detective Superintendent Grace.
    For some moments he wondered whether to ignore him, let him go away, come back some other time. But maybe he had news.
    He picked up the receiver and told Grace to come in, then pressed the button for the electronic door catch.
    It seemed only seconds later that Grace was knocking on his door, and he’d barely had time to scoop up the note and the Jiffy bag and stuff them in a cupboard.
    ‘Good evening, officer,’ Mark said as he opened the door, conscious suddenly that he was feeling a tad muzzy from the drink and that his voice was affected, too. He kept a full arm’s length as he shook Grace’s hand, so that the policeman wouldn’t notice the alcohol on his breath.
    ‘Mind if I come in for a few minutes, or are you busy?’
    ‘Never too busy for you, officer – I’m around to help you seven-two-four. What news do you have? Can I get you a drink?’
    ‘A glass of water, please,’ Grace said, feeling parched.
    They sat down opposite each other on the deep leather sofas, and Grace watched him for a little while. The man looked in a bad state of nerves; he seemed a little uncoordinated and smelled strongly of alcohol. Watching his eyes carefully, Grace asked him, ‘What did you have for lunch today?’
    Mark’s eyes shot to the left momentarily and then back to the centre. ‘I had a turkey and cranberry sandwich, from a deli just around the corner. Why?’
    ‘It’s important to eat,’ Grace said. ‘Particularly when you are stressed.’ He gave Mark a smile of encouragement then sipped some water from the tall, expensive-feeling glass he had been given. ‘Got a bit of a mystery, Mark, which I wonder if you could help me with?’
    ‘Of course – I’ll try.’
    ‘A couple of CCTV cameras picked up a BMW X5 registered in your name, late Thursday night, heading into Brighton from the direction of Lewes…’ Grace paused to pull his Blackberry out of