Dead Simple

touched something.
    OhmyGod!
    He was touching the top of his Ericsson mobile!
    Got his hand on it, pulled, and it came out of the back pocket of his trousers.
    His heart kicked into overdrive. It had been there in the coffin, underwater. Even though it was supposed to be waterproof he doubted it would work. All the same, he ran his fingers over its surfaces as if he was caressing the best friend he had ever had in his life. Found the power button at the top, pushed it. Listened.
    There was the faintest beep. Then a dim glow of light, enough that he could see steep walls either side of him. He was in a space about six feet wide and maybe five feet high, covered with a door of some kind. And suddenly he was alert, his brain sharp and focused. He tried to move his hand, to slip it free of the bonds and bring the phone up to his face, but nothing he did succeeded. The bonds were too tight, too well wound around his arms.
    Yet.
    He had to think this through.
    Text.
    He could try to send a text.
    Think! You switch the phone on and what happens? First is a request for the pin code. Like most people, he used a simple code: 4–4–4–4, his lucky number.
    He ran his finger across the key pad – 4 was far left, second row. He tapped it and heard a beep; then another beep each time he tapped the next three. Incredible! The thing had been submerged in the coffin but it was working. Enough to send a text?
    The next part was going to be much harder. He had to work out the letters on the keys. On key number 1 he remembered there were no letters. Key number 2 had ABC. He did some maths in his head – the whole alphabet was in groups of three letters except for two numbers, where there were four. Which numbers? Shit, he had used text so much, it must be imprinted in his brain, if he could just access it.
    It had to be the least popular letters in the alphabet, Q and – X or Z?
    Taking it slowly, counting very carefully, he tried to recall the sequence on his phone. The menu button was top left. One tap took you to messages. The second tap took you to write message. The third tap took you to the blank screen. Then he tapped out what he hoped were the right letters. Alive. Call police.
    The next tap, he hoped he remembered correctly, took you to send.
    The one after that to phone number.
    He tapped in Ashley’s number.
    The one after that should be send.
    He pressed, and to his incredible relief heard a confirmation beep. The message had gone!
    Then he felt a stab of panic. Even if the message had gone successfully, what use would it be to her, or the police? How the hell would they be able to find him from a text? Within moments he was engulfed in despair darker than the blackness that surrounded him.
    But he refused to give up. There had to be a way. Think! Think!
    His fingers moved along the keys, counting, 1–2–3–4– 5–6–7–8–9.
    He pressed 9–9–9. Then he pressed the send button. Moments later he heard a faint ringing sound. Then a female voice, very faint also.
    ‘Emergency, which service?’
    He tried desperately to speak, but all he could make was his feeble grunting sound. He heard the voice say, ‘Hello? Caller? Hello? Is everything all right? Hello, Hello, caller, can you identify yourself? Hello? Caller, are you in trouble? Can you hear me, caller?’
    There was a silence.
    Then her voice again. ‘Hello, caller, are you there?’
    He hung up, dialled again. Heard another female voice speak almost identical words. He hung up again. They would have to understand if he kept doing this. Surely they would understand?

73
    In the saloon bar of the pub, Grace ordered Cleo Morey her second Polstar vodka and cranberry, and himself a Diet Coke. One large Glenfiddich had been enough – he was going to have to return to the Incident Room later this evening and needed all his wits.
    They sat on cushioned seats at a corner table. With less than a dozen other people in the pub the place was not very busy. A one-armed bandit at the far end of the room winked and blinked away forlornly like an old tart in a windswept alley.
    Cleo looked stunning. Her hair, freshly washed and shining, hung down over her shoulders. She wore a classy-looking light suede jacket over a beige tank top, white jeans of fashionable three-quarter length, revealing her slender ankles, and plain white mules.
    Grace had dashed from Mark Warren’s apartment to the Incident Room to get copies of Davey’s diagram faxed out to the team, and from