Dead Simple

and a half-drunk bottle of Sainsbury’s own-label Scottish mineral water.
    Glenn Branson came up to Grace, who was busy lifting the mattress off the spare bed. ‘Man, this is so weird – it’s as if she knew we were coming, know what I mean?’
    ‘So why didn’t we know she was leaving?’ Grace asked.
    ‘There you go again. Another question.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Grace, tiredness making him snappy now. ‘Maybe that’s because you’re always giving me questions instead of fucking answers.’
    Branson raised a hand in the air. ‘No offence, man.’
    ‘None taken.’
    ‘So where the fuck is she?’
    ‘Not here.’
    ‘I figured that one.’
    ‘Roy! Take a look at this – I don’t know if it’s of any use?’ DC Nicholl came into the room holding a small piece of paper, which he showed to Grace.
    It was a receipt from a company called Century Radio on Tottenham Court Road. On the receipt was printed: ‘AR5000 Cyber Scan, £2,437.25’.
    ‘Where was this?’ Grace asked.
    ‘In the dustbin in the back yard,’ Nick replied, with pride.
    ‘Two thousand, four hundred and thirty-seven pounds for a scanner?’ Grace asked. ‘What kind of scanner costs that much? Some kind of computer scanner?’ After a few moments thought, he added, ‘Why would anyone throw away the receipt? Even if you couldn’t charge the scanner to your business, sure as hell you would keep the receipt in case it went wrong. Wouldn’t you?’
    ‘I sure as hell would,’ Branson agreed.
    Grace looked at the date on the receipt. Last Wednesday. Time of purchase showed as 14.25. On Tuesday night, her fiancé disappears. On Wednesday afternoon she goes out and buys a two-and-a-half-thousand-quid scanner. This didn’t make sense – yet. His watch showed that two hours had elapsed so far, it was now just past 8 a.m. ‘I don’t know what time Century Radio opens – but we need to find out about that scanner,’ he said.
    ‘You have some thoughts about it?’ Branson asked.
    ‘Plenty,’ Grace replied. ‘Too many. Far too many.’ Then he added. ‘I have to be at Lewes Crown Court by quarter to ten.’
    ‘For your good friend Suresh Hossain?’
    ‘I’d hate to think he was missing me. How about some breakfast? A big fry-up – the works?’
    ‘Cholesterol, man, bad for your heart.’
    ‘You know what? Right now everything’s bad for my heart.’

82
    As Grace entered the large, bustling waiting area for the three courtrooms housed in the handsome Georgian Lewes Crown Court building with plenty of time to spare, he switched his phone to silent. At least Claudine seemed to have got the message and had stopped texting him.
    He yawned, his body feeling leaden, the massive fry-up he’d just eaten sapping his energy rather than fuelling it. He just wanted to lie down somewhere and have a kip. It was strange, he thought. A week ago this trial had dominated his life, his every waking thought. Now it was secondary; finding Michael Harrison was all that mattered.
    But this trial did matter a lot, too. It mattered to the widow and children of Raymond Cohen, the man beaten to a pulp with a spiked stick, either by Hossain or by his thugs. It mattered to every ordinary decent person in the City of Brighton and Hove, because they had a right to be protected from monsters like him, and it mattered a very great deal to Grace’s credibility. He had to shed his tiredness and concentrate.
    Finding a quiet corner in the room, he sat down and returned a call to Eleanor, who was dealing with his post and email for him. Then he closed his eyes, grateful for the rest it gave them, and cradled his head in his hands, trying to catnap, trying to block from his ears the swinging of doors opening and closing, the cheery banter of greetings, the clicks of briefcase locks, the murmured voices between lawyers and clients.
    After a couple of minutes he took two deep breaths, and the oxygen hit gave him an instant small boost. He stood up and looked around. In a moment he might find out whether he would be needed or not today. Hopefully not, and he could get back to Sussex House, he thought, looking around for the person he needed to speak to, Liz Reilly from the Crown Prosecution Service.
    There were a good hundred people in the room, including several gowned barristers and assistants, and he spotted Liz at the other end of the room, a smartly dressed, conservative-looking woman in her early thirties, holding a clipboard and deep in conversation with a