Dead Simple

these.’
    Branson pocketed them.
    Ducking under the jagged cut in the roof, Grace climbed into the back of the van, his shoes echoing on the buckled floor. Branson pulled open the rear doors, letting more light in. Roy stared down at a plastic fuel can, a spare tyre, a wheel-wrench and a parking ticket in a plastic bag. He took the ticket out, and saw it was dated several days before the accident. He handed it to Branson for bagging. There was a solitary, left-foot Adidas trainer which he also passed to Branson, and a nylon bomber jacket. He felt in the pockets, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, a plastic lighter and a dry-cleaning ticket stub with an address in Brighton. Branson bagged each item.
    Grace scanned the interior carefully, checking he had missed nothing, thinking hard. Then climbing back out and sheltering under the umbrella, he asked Branson, ‘So who owns this vehicle?’
    ‘Houlihan’s – the undertakers in Brighton. One of the boys who died worked there – it was his uncle’s firm.’
    ‘Four funerals. Should get a nice quantity discount,’ Grace said grimly.
    ‘You’re a real sick bastard sometimes, you know that?’
    Ignoring him, Grace was pensive for a moment. ‘Have you spoken to anyone at Houlihan’s?’
    ‘Interviewed Mr Sean Houlihan, the owner, himself yesterday afternoon. He’s pretty upset as you can imagine. Told me his nephew was a hard-working lad, eager to please.’
    ‘Aren’t they all? And he gave him permission to take the van?’
    Branson shook his head. ‘No. But says it was out of character.’
    Roy Grace thought for a moment. ‘What’s the van ordinarily used for?’
    ‘Collecting cadavers. Hospitals, hospices, old folk’s homes, places like that where they’d be spooked to see a hearse. You hungry?’
    ‘I was before I came here.’

29
    Ten minutes later they sat at a wobbly corner table in an almost deserted country pub, Grace cradling a pint of Guinness and Branson a Diet Coke, while they waited for their food to come. There was a cavernous inglenook fireplace beside them piled with unlit logs, and a collection of ancient agricultural artefacts hung from the walls. It was the kind of pub Grace liked, a genuine old country pub. He loathed the theme pubs with their phoney names that were insidiously becoming part of every town’s increasingly characterless landscape.
    ‘You’ve checked his mobile?’
    ‘Should have the records back this afternoon,’ Branson said.
    ‘Number twelve?’
    Grace looked up to see a barmaid holding a tray with their food. Steak and kidney pudding for him, swordfish steak and salad for Glenn Branson.
    Grace pierced the soft suet with his knife and instantly steam and gravy erupted from it.
    ‘Instant heart attack on a plate that is,’ Branson chided. ‘You know what suet is? Beef fat. Yuk.’
    Spooning some mustard onto his plate, Grace said, ‘It’s not what you eat, it’s worrying about what you eat. Worry is the killer.’
    Branson forked some fish into his mouth. As he started chewing, Grace continued. ‘I read that the levels of mercury in sea fish, from pollution, are at danger level. You shouldn’t eat fish more than once a week.’
    Branson’s chewing slowed down and he looked uncomfortable. ‘Where did you read that?’
    ‘It was a report from Nature , I think. It’s about the most respected scientific journal in the world.’ Grace smiled, enjoying the expression on his friend’s face.
    ‘Shit, we eat fish like – almost every night. Mercury ?’
    ‘You’ll end up as a thermometer.’
    ‘That’s not funny – I mean—’ Two sharp beeps in succession silenced him.
    Grace tugged his mobile from his pocket and stared at the screen.
     
    Why no reply to my text, Big Boy? Claudine XX
     
    ‘God, this is all I need,’ he said. ‘A frigging bunny boiler.’
    Branson raised his eyebrows. ‘Healthy meat, rabbit. Free range.’
    ‘This one isn’t healthy and she doesn’t eat meat. I mean bunny boiler as in that old movie with Glenn Close.’
    ‘ Fatal Attraction? Michael Douglas and Anne Archer, 1987. Great movie – it was on Sky on Sunday.’
    Grace showed him the text.
    Branson grinned. ‘ Big Boy, eh?’
    ‘It never got that far and it’s never going to.’
    Then Branson’s mobile rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and answered. ‘Glenn Branson. Yeah? OK, great, I’ll be there in an hour.’ He ended the call and left his phone on the table. Looking at Grace, he said, ‘The