Dead Simple

now?’
    After a moment’s silence Grace said, ‘I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.’
    Glancing uncomfortably at the occupants of the car, Glenn Branson said, ‘I don’t like anything much at the moment.’

90
    An hour and a half later, Grace helped buckle the diminutive, wiry figure of Harry Frame into the front seat of the pool Ford Mondeo he and Branson had used this afternoon.
    The pony-tailed, goatee-bearded medium, reeking of patchouli oil and wearing his trademark kaftan and dungarees, had a street map of Newhaven laid out in his lap, and held a metal ring on a length of string in his right hand.
    Grace had decided to leave Glenn Branson out of this. He didn’t want any negative vibes, and he knew that Harry Frame’s energy was sensitive at best.
    ‘So did you bring me something, as I requested?’ Harry Frame asked Grace as he climbed behind the wheel of the car.
    Grace dug a box out of his pocket and handed it to the medium. Frame opened it and removed a pair of gold cufflinks.
    ‘These are definitely Michael Harrison’s,’ Grace said. ‘I took them from his flat on my way here.’
    ‘Perfect.’
    It was only a short distance along the coast from Harry Frame’s Peacehaven home to Newhaven. As they drove past the seemingly endless sprawl of shops and takeaway restaurants, Harry Frame was holding the cufflinks in his closed palm. ‘Newhaven, you said?’
    ‘There was a car we were interested in that was involved in an accident in Newhaven earlier today. And Newhaven is where Michael Harrison’s mobile signal came from. I thought we’d drive to that spot and you could see if you pick anything up. Is that a good idea?’
    In his effusive, high-pitched voice, the medium said, ‘I’m already picking up something. We’re near, you know. Definitely.’
    Grace, following the directions he had been given, began to slow down. Some tyre marks, a spill of oil on the road and a few sparkling shards of safety glass showed him where the Mercedes had been in the accident, and he turned right into a modern housing development of small, detached houses with immature gardens, then immediately pulled over and stopped.
    ‘OK,’ he said. ‘This is where the accident happened this morning.’
    Harry Frame, holding the cufflinks in his left hand, began to swing the pendulum over the map, taking increasingly deep breaths. He closed his eyes tightly and after a few moments said, ‘Drive on, Roy, just drive straight on. Slowly.’
    Grace did as he was instructed.
    ‘We’re getting closer!’ Frame said. ‘Definitely. I see a turn-off to the left coming up shortly – might not even be a road, just a track.’
    After about a hundred metres, there was indeed a track going up to the left. It had been metalled, very many years ago, but had fallen into a state of total disrepair. It went uphill, through wind-blown, scrubby wasteland, and it did not seem from here, at least, that it was going to lead to anything.
    ‘Make a left turn, Roy!’
    Grace looked at him, wondering if he was cheating by peeping through his eyelids. But if Harry was looking anywhere, it was down into his lap. Grace turned onto the track and drove up it for a quarter of a mile, then a squat, ugly detached house came into view just on the crest of the hill. It had fine views over Newhaven and the harbour beyond, but little else to recommend it.
    ‘I see a house, all on its own. Michael Harrison is in this house,’ Frame said, excitement raising his voice even higher.
    Grace pulled up outside. The pendulum was swinging fast in a tight circle, and Harry Frame, eyes still tight shut, was juddering as if he had been plugged into an electrical socket.
    ‘Here?’
    Without opening his eyes, Harry Frame confirmed, ‘Here.’
    Grace left him in the car, then stopped at the front gate, staring at the neglected front lawn and the flower beds, which were a tangle of bindweed. There was something odd about the house, which he couldn’t immediately figure out. It looked as if it had been built in the 1930s, or maybe early 1950s, and the design was strange, lopsided.
    He walked up a path of concrete slabs with weeds sprouting between the cracks, and pressed the cracked plastic front-door bell. There was a shrill ring, but no one came to the door. He tried again. Still no answer.
    Then he did a circuit around the house, peering into each window as he went. It had a forlorn, neglected air about it, both inside and out. All the