Dead Simple

both hands.
    ‘Tell me about Michael,’ Grace asked, watching her intently.
    ‘What sort of things?’
    ‘Anything. How did you meet him?’
    She smiled, and for an instant visibly relaxed. ‘I came for a job interview to his firm. Michael and his partner.’
    ‘Mark Warren?’ quizzed Grace.
    A fleeting hesitation, so small it was barely noticeable. But Grace had seen it. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Where did you work before? he asked.
    ‘I was working for a real estate firm in Toronto, Canada. I only came back to England just before I got this job.’
    ‘Back?’
    ‘I’m from England originally – my roots are here.’ She smiled.
    ‘What firm in Toronto?’
    ‘You know Toronto?’ she asked, a little surprised.
    ‘I did a week there with the RCMP about ten years ago – at their murder lab.’
    ‘Right. It was a small firm – part of the Bay group.’
    Grace nodded. ‘So Michael Harrison and Mark Warren hired you?’
    ‘Uh huh, that was last November.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘It was a great job – good pay – I wanted to learn about the property business, and they seemed like really nice guys. I – um – I’ – she blushed – ‘I thought Michael was very attractive, but I was sure he was married or had a girlfriend.’
    ‘Excuse me for being personal,’ Grace said, ‘but when did you and Michael become an item?’
    After a brief pause she said, ‘Very quickly – within a couple of months. But we had to keep it secret, because Michael was concerned about Mark finding out. He thought it would be difficult for Mark if he was – you know – having a thing with me.’
    Grace nodded. ‘So when did Mark find out?’
    She reddened. ‘He came back to the office one day when we weren’t expecting him.’
    Grace smiled. He felt for her, she had a vulnerability about her that he knew would make almost all men feel protective towards her. He felt the same way himself, already, and he’d only known her for a few minutes. ‘And then?’
    ‘It was a little bit awkward for a while. I told Michael I thought I should quit, but he was very persuasive.’
    ‘And Mark?’
    Grace noticed the minutest flinch. A barely visible tightening of her facial muscles. ‘He was OK about it.’
    ‘So it didn’t affect your business relationship?’
    ‘No.’
    Watching her eyes closely, Grace asked, ‘Did you know they have a business offshore, in the Cayman Islands?’
    Her eyes shot to Branson then back to Grace. ‘No – I – I don’t know about it.’
    ‘Did Michael ever talk to you about tax shelters for himself and Mr Warren?’
    Anger flashed in her face, so harshly and so suddenly that Grace was startled. ‘What is this? Are you policemen or are you from the Inland Revenue?’
    ‘If you want to help us find your fiancé, you have to help us get to know him. Tell us everything, even the stuff you think is totally irrelevant.’
    ‘I just want you to find him. Alive. Please God.’
    ‘Your fiancé didn’t talk about his stag night with you?’ Grace questioned, thinking back to his own stag night, when he’d given Sandy a detailed itinerary and she’d rescued him, in the early hours of the following morning, when he’d been abandoned in a back street of Brighton, stark naked apart from a pair of socks, on top of a pillar box.
    She shook her head. ‘They were just going out for a few drinks, that’s all he told me.’
    ‘What are you going to do if he hasn’t turned up by the time of your wedding tomorrow?’ Branson asked.
    Tears rolled down her cheeks. She went out of the room and returned holding an embroidered handkerchief, which she used to dab her eyes. Then she started sobbing. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. Please find him. I love him so much, I can’t bear this.’
    After waiting for her to calm down, and watching her eyes again intently, Grace asked, ‘You were secretary to both of them. Didn’t Mark Warren tell you what they had planned?’
    ‘Just a boys’ night out. I was having a girls’ night out, you know, a hen party. That was all.’
    ‘You know that Michael has a reputation as a practical joker?’ Grace asked.
    ‘Michael has a great sense of humour – that’s one of the things I love about him.’
    ‘You don’t know anything about a coffin?’
    She sat bolt upright, almost spilling her wine. ‘A coffin? What do you mean?’
    Gently, Branson explained. ‘One of the boys, Robert Houlihan – you knew him?’
    ‘I met him a few times, yes. A bit of a