Dead Simple

more than that, he went back into the house and straight to the sitting room. He lifted the coffee table aside, then pushed back the sofa along the tracks in the green floral carpet that had been made previously.
    Then he noticed that one corner of the carpet was slightly curled up. He knelt and gave it a tug, and it lifted easily. Far too easily. And instead of dust and fluff beneath there was a thick underlay that was not like any conventional carpet underlay. He knew exactly what it was. Soundproofing material.
    His excitement mounting, he glanced over his shoulder, then peeled the heavy grey material back, and saw beneath it a large sheet of plywood. He worked his fingers under the edges, with some difficulty, as it fitted flush into a groove in the floor, then prised it up, and pulled it aside.
    Instantly he gagged from the stench that hit his nostrils.
    A horrendous reek of body odour, urine and excrement.
    Holding his breath and scared of what he was going to find, he peered into the six-foot-deep garage inspection pit and saw a shadowy figure at the bottom, bound hand and foot and across the mouth with duct tape.
    At first he thought the figure was dead. Then the eyes blinked. Frightened eyes.
    Oh sweet Jesus, he was alive! Grace felt an almost uncontainable feeling of joy erupt through him. ‘Michael Harrison?’
    A muffled ‘Mnhhhh’ greeted him.
    ‘Detective Superintendent Grace of Sussex CID,’ Grace said, lowering himself into the pit, oblivious to the smell now, just desperately anxious to see what condition the young man was in.
    Kneeling beside him, Grace gently peeled the duct tape away from his lips. ‘Are you Michael Harrison?’
    ‘Yes,’ he croaked. ‘Water. Please.’
    Grace squeezed his arm gently. ‘I’ll get you some right away. And I’ll get you out of here. You’re going to be fine.’
    Grace scrambled up out of the pit, hurried into the kitchen and ran the tap, radioing for an ambulance at the same time. Then he climbed back down into the pit clutching a pint tumbler of water.
    He tilted it into Michael Harrison’s mouth, who drank it down in one long, greedy draught, with only a few drops spilling down his chin. Then, as he removed the glass, Michael looked at him and asked, ‘How’s Ashley?’
    Grace stared back at him, thinking hard, then gave him a gentle, reassuring smile. ‘She’s safe,’ he said.
    ‘Thank God.’
    Grace squeezed his arm again. ‘Want more water?’
    Michael nodded.
    ‘I’ll get you some, then I’ll cut this tape off you.’
    ‘Thank God she’s safe,’ Michael said, his voice weak and trembling. ‘She’s all I’ve thought of, all I – I…’
    Grace climbed back out of the pit. At some point he was going to have to tell Michael everything, but this didn’t feel like the time or the place.
    And he didn’t know how to begin.

Dead Simple
    Peter James was educated at Charterhouse then at film school. He lived in North America for a number of years, working as a screenwriter and film producer before returning to England. His novels, many of which have been Sunday Times Top 10 bestsellers, have been translated into thirty languages and three have been filmed. All his novels reflect his deep interest in the world of the police, with whom he does in-depth research, as well as science, medicine and the paranormal. He has produced numerous films, including The Merchant Of Venice , starring Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons and Joseph Fiennes. He divides his time between his homes in Notting Hill in London and near Brighton in Sussex.
     
    www.peterjames.com

Acknowledgements
    Writing is always regarded as a solitary occupation, but for me it is a team effort, and I owe a great debt to several people who have very generously given me their time and input, in so many areas. In particular I want to single out Detective Superintendent Dave Gaylor of Sussex Police, who gave me many suggestions for this novel, tirelessly read and reread the manuscript at many stages, and opened every door that I needed in different divisions of Sussex Police – I could never have written this without him. And I would like to thank the many officers of the Sussex Police Force who were so welcoming and helpful to me, in particular Detective Sergeant Keith Hallett of the Sussex Police Holmes Unit, Detective Inspector William Warner and Senior Scenes of Crime Investigator Stuart Leonard.
    I would like to thank also Dr Nigel Kirkham MRCPath and his team at the Brighton and Hove