Dead Simple

mistake.’
    ‘Trust me,’ Ashley said. She gave him a fierce look. ‘Don’t start wimping out on me now.’
    ‘Christ, I’m not wimping out – I just—’
    ‘Want to bottle out?’
    ‘This is not about bottling out. Come on, partner, be strong!’
    ‘I am being strong.’
    She wormed her way down his body, nuzzling her face in his pubic hairs, his penis limp against her cheek. ‘This is not what I call strong,’ she said mischievously.

42
    Grace started his weekend the way he liked, with an early-Saturday-morning six-mile run along Brighton and Hove seafront. Today it was again raining hard, but that did not matter; he wore a baseball cap with the peak pulled down low to shield his face, a lightweight tracksuit and brand new Nike running shoes. Powering along at a good, fast pace, he soon forgot the rain, forgot all his cares, just breathed deep, went from cushioned stride to cushioned stride, a Stevie Wonder song, ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered’, playing over in his head, for some reason.
    He mouthed the words as he ran past an old man in a trenchcoat walking a poodle on a leash, and then was passed by two Lycra-clad cyclists on mountain bikes. It was low tide. Out on the mudflats a couple of fishermen were digging lugworms for bait.
    With the tang of salt on his lips, he ran alongside the promenade railings, on past the burnt-out skeleton of the West Pier, then down a ramp to the edge of the beach itself, where the local fishermen left their day boats dragged up far enough to be safe from the highest of tides. He clocked some of their names – Daisy Lee , Belle of Brighton , Sammy – smelled bursts of paint, tarred rope, putrefying fish as he ran on past the still-closed cafes, amusement arcades and art galleries of the Arches, past a windsurfing club, a boating pond behind a low concrete wall, a paddling pool, then underneath the girdered mass of the Palace Pier – where seventeen years back he and Sandy had had their first kiss, and on, starting to tire a little now, but determined to get to the cliffs of Black Rock before he turned round.
    Then his mobile phone beeped with the message signal.
    He stopped, pulled it from his zipped pocket and looked at the screen.
     
    You can’t tease a girl like this, Big Boy. Claudine XX
     
    Jesus! Leave me alone. You spent the whole evening attacking me for being a cop, now you’re driving me nuts. So far his only experience of internet dating wasn’t working out too well. Were they all like Claudine? Aggressive, lonely women with a screw loose? Surely not, there had to be some normal women out there. Didn’t there?
    He pocketed the phone and ran on, knowing he owed her a reply, but wondering if it was better to just continue ignoring her. What could he say? Sod off and stop bothering me? It was nice meeting you but I’ve decided I’m gay?
    Eventually he decided he would send her a text when he got back. He would take the coward’s route: Sorry, I’ve decided I’m not ready for a relationship .
    His relaxing mind turned to work, to the paper mountain that seemed to be forever building and building. The Nigerian trafficking of young women; the trial of Suresh Hossain; the cold case of little Thomas Lytle; and now the disappearance of Michael Harrison.
    This really bugged him. And one thought in particular had woken him during the night and stayed with him. He reached the under-cliff walk, ran along below the white chalk bluffs, high above the Marina with its rows of pontoons and forest of masts, its hotels and shops and restaurants, and on for two more miles.
    Then he turned, feeling the burn in his lungs, his legs high from the exertion, and ran back until he reached the point where he was near the Van Alen building. He ran up the ramp onto the promenade, waited for a gap in the busy traffic of Marine Parade and crossed over. He made his way down the narrow street along the side of the building, and stopped by the entrance to the underground car park.
    His luck was in. Within moments, the gates swung open and a dark blue Porsche Boxster drove out, a predatory-looking blonde in dark glasses – despite the dull, wet day – at the wheel. He slipped in before the gates closed. It was good to be out of the rain.
    He breathed in the dry, engine-oil-laced air as he ran down the hard concrete, past a red Ferrari he remembered from before, and several other cars he recalled, and then stopped in front of the gleaming, mint-clean BMW X5 off-roader.
    He