Dead Simple

he died when his parachute failed to open during a jump. Four years ago, in Toronto, Canada, a woman called Alexandra Huron married a real estate developer called Joe Kerwin. Five months after their wedding he drowned in a sailing accident on Lake Ontario. Seven years ago, a woman called Ann Hampson married a property developer in London called Julian Warner. He was a high-profile society bachelor, with big holdings in London docklands around the time of the early 1990s property crash. Six months and two days after their wedding, he gassed himself in an underground car park in Wapping.’
    She took another sip of her froth.
    ‘Same initials,’ Branson said. ‘But what does that prove?’
    ‘A lot of con artists keep the same initials when they change their names,’ she said. ‘I read about this at police training college. In itself it proves nothing. But here’s where it gets better.’ She tapped her keyboard and a black and white newspaper photograph of a young woman with close-cropped dark hair appeared. The face belonged to Ashley Harper – or her double.
    ‘This is from the Evening Standard article on the death of Julian Warner,’ she said.
    There was a long silence while Grace and Branson studied the photograph. ‘Shit,’ Branson said. ‘Certainly looks like her.’
    Saying nothing, she tapped the keyboard again. Another photograph, also in black and white, appeared. This showed a woman with shoulder-length fair hair. Her face looked even more like Ashley Harper. ‘This is from the Toronto Star , four years ago, reporting on the death of Joe Kerwin.’
    Grace and Branson said nothing. Both were stunned.
    ‘This next one is from the Cheshire Evening Post , eighteen months ago, in an article about the death of Richard Wonnash. Abigail Harrington was the beautiful grieving widow.’ She tapped her screen and a new photograph appeared, in colour. The hair was red, styled in an elegantly short razor cut. The face yet again was, almost beyond doubt, Ashley Harper’s.
    ‘Bloody hell!’ Branson exclaimed.
    Grace stared at the face, pensively, for a long time. Then he said, ‘Emma-Jane, well done.’
    ‘Thank you – Roy.’
    Grace turned to Glenn Branson. ‘So,’ he said. ‘It’s twenty minutes to one. Which magistrate do you feel brave enough to wake up?’
    ‘For a search warrant?’
    ‘You worked that all out by yourself did you?’ Ignoring Branson’s grimace, Grace stood up. ‘Emma-Jane, go home; get some sleep.’
    Branson yawned. ‘How about me? Do I get some sleep?’
    Grace clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m afraid, my friend, your day’s only just begun.’

81
    A few minutes later, Grace was on the phone to a very sleepy-sounding magistrates’ clerk, who asked if this couldn’t wait until the morning.
    ‘We’re investigating a possible abduction, and it’s a potential life-or-death situation,’ Grace informed her. ‘I need an evidential warrant and I’m afraid it absolutely cannot wait.’
    ‘OK,’ she said reluctantly. ‘The duty magistrate is Mrs Quentin.’
    Grace smiled to himself. Hermione Quentin was one magistrate he particularly disliked, having had a run-in with her some months back in court over a suspect he had wanted to hold in custody; she had refused. She was the worst kind of magistrate in his view, married to a wealthy stockbroker, living in a vulgar ostentatious house, a middle-aged glamour queen with no experience of the real world and some kind of zealous personal agenda to change the way the police in general viewed criminals. It would give him the sweetest pleasure to get her out of bed to sign the warrant in the small hours of the morning.
    Grace and Branson then spent a further ten minutes on the phone, organizing a team to assemble at Sussex House at 5 a.m. Then, taking pity on Branson, Grace sent him home to get a couple of hours’ kip.
    Next he rang DC Nicholl, and apologized for disturbing him, then instructed him to head for Ashley Harper’s house and keep watch on it for any movement.
    At 2 a.m., with the signed warrant in his hand, Grace arrived back at his home, set his alarm for 4.15, and crashed out.
    *
    When he hit the alarm button and jumped automatically out of bed in the dark room, he could hear the first twitterings of the dawn chorus, reminding him as he stepped into the shower that, although summer had not yet begun, they were less than a month shy of the longest day, 21 June.
    At 5 a.m. he was back at Sussex House,