Dead Simple

‘Hello, Michael Harrison, this is Detective Sergeant Branson of Brighton CID responding to your text to Ashley Harper. Please call or text me on 0789 965018. The number again is 0789 965018.’
    It was the sweetest sound Michael had ever heard in his life.
    Again he fumbled with the keys, trying to text a reply in the dank darkness: A‘88m breing h$ld —
    Then dazzling, blinding white light.
    Vic.
    ‘Got a mobile you didn’t tell me about, have you, Mikey? Naughty boy, aren’t you? Think I’d better take that off you before you get yourself into trouble.’
    ‘Urrrr,’ Michael said through the duct tape.
    The next moment he felt the phone being ripped from his hand. Followed by Vic’s reproachful voice.
    ‘That’s not playing the game fair, Mike. I’m very disappointed in you. You should have told me about the phone. You really should have done.’
    ‘Urrrr,’ Michael mumbled again, shimmying in terror. He could see eyes glinting through the hood above him, inches from his face, bright green eyes like a feral cat.
    ‘You want me to hurt you again? Is that what you’d like, Mikey? Let’s see who you were calling, shall we?’
    Moments later Michael heard the police officer’s faint voice through the phone’s speaker again.
    ‘Well, fancy that,’ the Australian said. ‘How sweet. Calling your fiancée. Sweet, but naughty. I think it’s time for a punishment. Would you like me to cut off another finger – or clip the callipers back on your bollocks?’
    ‘Noorrrrrrr.’
    ‘Sorry, mate, you’ll need to articulate better. Talk me through what you’d like best. It’s all the same to me – and by the way, your mate Mark is a rude bastard. Thought you’d like to know he never said goodbye.’
    Michael blinked against the light. He didn’t know what the man was talking about. Mark? Dimly he wondered where it was that Mark had gone.
    ‘Here’s something for you to think about, Mikey. That one million, two hundred thousand pounds you have salted away in the Cayman Islands. That’s one hell of a nest egg, wouldn’t you say?’
    How much did this man know about him and his life, Michael wondered. Was that what he was after? He could have it, every damned penny, if he would just let him go. He tried to tell him. ‘Urrrrrrr. Ymmmgghvvvvvit.’
    ‘That’s sweet of you, Mikey, whatever it is you’re trying to tell me. I really appreciate all the efforts you are making. But here’s the thing, you see. Your problem is, I already have it. And that means I don’t need you any more.’

80
    Shortly before midnight, Grace drove back into the car park of Sussex House, giving a weary nod to the security guard. They had said little on the drive back from the Van Alen building; Grace and Branson were both wrapped in their thoughts.
    As Grace pulled the car up, Branson yawned noisily. ‘Think we can go home, go to bed, get some sleep?’
    ‘No stamina, youth?’ Grace chided.
    ‘And you’re wide awake, full of beans? Firing on all cylinders, yeah? I’ve heard when you get past a certain age you start needing less sleep; which apparently is just as well, since you spend half the night getting up to piss.’
    Grace smiled.
    ‘I don’t look forward to old age much,’ Branson said. ‘Do you?’
    ‘To be honest, I don’t think about it. I see a guy like Mark Warren, lying all broken, leaking his brains out on the pavement, and I remember he and I were talking just a few hours before; things like that make me believe in just living one day at a time.’
    Branson yawned again.
    ‘I’m going back to work,’ Grace said. ‘You can fuck off home if you want.’
    ‘You know, you can be such a bitch at times,’ Branson said, reluctantly following him to the main entrance, through the doors and up the staircase past the displays of truncheons.
    Emma-Jane Boutwood, wearing a white cardigan tied around her neck and a pink blouse, was the only person still in the Incident Room. Grace walked over to her, then gestured at the empty work stations. ‘Where’s everyone, E-J?’
    She leaned forward as if to read some small print on her computer screen and said distractedly, ‘I think they’ve all gone home.’
    Grace stared at her tired face, and gave her a light pat on her shoulder, his hand touching the soft wool of the cardigan. ‘I think you should go home too; it’s been a long day.’
    ‘Can you just give me one minute, Roy? I have something I think is going to interest you – both of