Dead Simple

Mark, not a word of this to the police – that could really make me angry.’
    The line went dead.
    Immediately Mark hit the last number recall button. But it was no surprise that the automated voice came up with, ‘I’m sorry, we do not have the caller’s number.’
    He tried Ashley’s number again. To his relief she answered.
    ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘Where have you been?’
    ‘What do you mean, where have I been?’
    ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
    ‘I went to have a massage, actually. One of us has to keep a cool head, OK? Then I popped in to see Michael’s mum and now I’m on my way home.’
    ‘Can you swing by here – like now, this second?’
    ‘Your voice is slurred – have you been drinking?’
    ‘Something’s happened, I have to speak to you.’
    ‘Let’s talk in the morning.’
    ‘It can’t wait.’
    The imperative in his voice got through. Reluctantly she said, ‘OK – I just don’t know if it’s a good idea coming to you – we could meet somewhere neutral – how about a bar or a restaurant?’
    ‘Great, somewhere the whole world can hear us?’
    ‘We’ll just have to talk quietly, OK? It’s better than me being seen coming over to your apartment.’
    ‘Jesus, you are paranoid!’
    ‘Me? You’re a fine one to talk about paranoia. Name a restaurant.’
    Mark thought for a moment. A police car would collect him in half an hour. It was about half an hour’s drive out to the site. Maybe just ten minutes there, then half an hour back. It was eight o’clock on Monday night; places would be quiet. He suggested meeting at ten at an Italian restaurant near the Theatre Royal, which had a large upstairs dining area that would almost certainly be empty tonight.
    *
    It wasn’t. To his surprise, the restaurant was heaving – he had forgotten that after the Brighton Festival the city was still in full swing, its bars and restaurants crowded every night. Most of the tables upstairs were taken as well, and he was squeezed into a cramped table behind a rowdy party table of twelve. Ashley wasn’t there yet. The place was typically Italian: white walls, small tables with candles jammed in the top of Chianti bottles and loud, energetic waiters.
    The ride out to Crowborough and back had been uneventful: two young detectives in an unmarked car, who had spent most of the way out there arguing about football players, and most of the way back discussing cricket. They showed no interest in him at all other than to tell him they should both have gone off duty an hour ago and were in a hurry to get back. Mark viewed that as good news.
    He directed them to the start of the track, with the double cattle grid, then sat and waited as they radioed for the local search team to join them. After a short while several minibuses, headed by a police Range Rover, arrived in convoy.
    Mark got out of the car, explained how far up they had to drive, but did not volunteer to join them. He did not want to be there when they found the grave – and they would find it for sure.
    He needed a drink badly, but was not sure what he wanted. He was thirsty, so he ordered a Peroni beer to tide him over, then stared at the menu as a distraction from his thoughts. Moments later, Ashley arrived.
    ‘Still drinking?’ she admonished, by way of a greeting, and without kissing him, squeezed in opposite him, throwing a disapproving glance at the rowdy group beside them, who were guffawing at a joke, then put her very bling pink Prada handbag on the table.
    She looked more beautiful than ever, Mark thought, dressed in a fashionably ragged cream blouse, which gave her breasts considerable, and very erotic, exposure, and a small choker; she had her hair up. She looked fresh and relaxed, and smelled of a gorgeous perfume he recognized but could not name.
    Smiling at her, he said, ‘You look stunning.’
    Her eyes were darting around the room impatiently, as if seeking a waiter. ‘Thanks – you look like shit.’
    ‘You’ll understand why in a moment.’
    Semi-ignoring him, she raised a hand, and when a waiter finally scuttled over, she imperiously ordered a San Pellegrino.
    ‘Want some wine?’ Mark said. ‘I’m going to have some.’
    ‘I think you should have water, too – you’re drinking far too much just recently. You need to stop, get a grip. OK?’
    ‘OK. Maybe.’
    She shrugged. ‘Fine, you do what you want.’
    Mark slipped his hand across the table towards hers, but she withdrew her hands,