Dead Simple

years ahead of him.
    A password command came up on the screen. Branson tapped furiously, and within a few seconds, the screen filled with data.
    ‘How did you do that?’ Grace asked. ‘How did you know the password?’
    Branson gave him a sideways look. ‘There was no password. Most people see a password request and try to put one in. Why would he need one if he wasn’t sharing his computer with anyone else?’
    ‘I’m impressed. You really are a closet geek.’
    Ignoring the remark, Branson said, ‘I want you to take a close look at this.’
    Grace did what he was told, and sat down in front of the screen.

15
    Just a couple of miles away, Mark Warren was also hunched in front of his computer. The clock on the flat screen showed 6.10 p.m. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, a neglected Starbucks cappuccino beside him, the froth sunken into a wrinkled skin. His normally tidy desk, in the office he’d shared with Michael for the past seven years, was swamped with piles of documents.
    Double-M Properties occupied the third floor of a narrow five-storey Regency terraced townhouse, a short distance from Brighton station, which had been their first property development together. Apart from the office he was in, there was a boardroom for clients, a small reception area and a kitchenette. The furnishings were modern and functional. On the walls were photographs of the three racing yachts they owned together, and through which their success could be charted – from their first boat, a Nicholson-27, to a more substantial Contessa-33, to the distinctly upmarket Oyster-42 which was their current toy.
    There were also pictures of their developments. The waterfront warehouse at Shoreham Harbour which they had converted into thirty-two apartments. An old Regency hotel in Kemp Town, overlooking the seafront, which they had converted into ten apartments, and two mews houses at the rear. And their latest, and most ambitious development, an artist’s impression drawing of a site in five acres of forest land where they had permission to build twenty houses.
    His eyes were raw from two sleepless nights, and, taking a moment’s respite from the screen, Mark stared out of the window. Directly opposite were a law firm and a discount bedding store. On sunny days it was a perfect spot to ogle the pretty girls walking down the street – but right now it was pelting with rain, people were hurrying, huddled under umbrellas or wrapped in coats, collars turned up, hands in pockets. And Mark was in no mood for thinking about anything except the task in front of him.
    Every few minutes, as he had done all day long, he dialled Michael’s mobile number. But each time it went straight to voicemail. Unless the phone was either switched off, or the battery was dead, this indicated Michael was still down there. No one had heard anything. Judging from the time of the accident, they would have buried him about 9 p.m. the night before last. About forty-five hours so far.
    The main phone line was ringing. Mark could hear the muted warble and saw the light flashing on his extension. He answered it, trying to mask the nervous quaver that was in his voice each time he spoke.
    ‘Double-M Properties.’
    A man’s voice. ‘Oh, hello, I’m calling about the Ashdown Fields development. Do you have a brochure or prices?’
    ‘I’m afraid not, sir, not yet,’ Mark said. ‘Be a couple of weeks yet. There is some information up on our website – ah – OK, you checked that already. If you want to leave me your name, I’ll have someone get back to you.’
    Ordinarily he’d have been pleased to have had such an early enquiry about a development, but sales were the last thing on his mind at the moment.
    It was important not to panic, he knew. He’d read enough crime novels, and seen enough cop shows, to know that it was the guys who panicked that got caught. You just had to keep calm.
    Keep deleting the emails.
    Inbox. Sent Items. Deleted Folder . All other folders.
    It wasn’t possible to erase emails totally, they would still be out there, stored on a server somewhere in cyberspace, but surely no one was going to look that far, or were they?
    He typed keyword after keyword, doing an Advanced Find on each of them. Michael. Stag. Night. Josh. Pete. Robbo. Luke. Ashley. Plans! Operation revenge! Checking every email, deleting any that needed deleting. Covering all the bases.
    Josh was on life support, his condition critical, and he almost certainly