Dead Simple

isn’t it?’
    Grace eyeballed him, used to being recognized by the press, but wary all the same. ‘And you are?’
    ‘Kevin Spinella, the Argus . Just wondering if you have any update on Michael Harrison for us?’
    ‘Nothing yet, I’m afraid. We’ll be waiting to see if he turns up to his wedding.’
    The reporter glanced at his watch. ‘Cutting it a bit fine, isn’t he?’
    ‘It wouldn’t be the first time a groom has been late.’ Grace smiled and eased past Spinella.
    Hurrying after him, the reporter asked, ‘Do you think Michael Harrison is alive or dead, Detective Superintendent?’
    Stopping for one moment, Grace said, ‘We’re regarding this as a missing persons enquiry.’
    ‘For the moment?’
    ‘I don’t have any further comment, thank you.’ Grace pushed open the heavy door, stepped into the gloom of the porch and closed the door behind him.
    Whenever he entered a church, Grace always felt a sense of conflict. Should he unhook a kneeler, get down on the floor and pray, the way most people did? The way he did as a kid alongside his mother and father, most Sunday mornings of his childhood. Or should he just sit down on a pew, letting the God he was no longer sure he believed in know his anger? For a long time after Sandy’s disappearance he had gone to church and had prayed for her return. Sometimes he had attended services, but mostly he had gone into an empty church. Sandy had never been a believer, and during the past few years, with his prayers unanswered, he had increasingly become an agnostic. It no longer felt right, praying.
    Give me Sandy back, then I’ll pray my heart out to you. But not until then, Mr God, OK?
    He walked past a row of dripping umbrellas, a criss-crossed noticeboard and a stack of service sheets with Michael John Harrison and Ashley Lauren Harper printed on the front, then into the church itself, instantly breathing in the familiar smells of dry, old wood, old cloth, dust and a hint of burning wax. The place was beautifully bedecked with flowers, but there was no hint of their perfume.
    About a dozen people stood in the aisle and nave, all of them silent, expectant, as if they were extras on a film set waiting for the director’s command to move.
    Grace took in the group rapidly, nodding at Ashley, who was sheet-white and clutching the arm of the tall man in the black morning coat, presumably her father. Next to her stood the woman he had seen emerging from the car with Ashley, a handsome woman in her fifties but with the strained look of someone who has been through a sustained rough time. Mark Warren, in a navy suit, sporting a white carnation, stood beside a good-looking young couple in their early thirties.
    He realized everyone was looking at him. In a faltering voice Ashley broke the ice by thanking him for coming and introduced him first to Michael’s mother, who seemed distraught, and then to the handsome, distinguished-looking man he had thought was her father, but turned out to be her uncle. He gave Grace a warm handshake, introducing himself as Bradley Cunningham, staring Grace straight back in the eye and saying, ‘Good to meet you, Detective Superintendent.’
    Picking up on his North American accent, Grace asked, ‘Whereabouts in the States are you from?’
    The man frowned as if insulted. ‘Actually, I’m Canadian, from Ontario.’
    ‘I apologize.’
    ‘No problem, it’s a common mistake you Limeys make.’
    ‘I guess you might have problems differentiating regional accents across Britain,’ Grace said.
    ‘Actually, you are right.’
    Grace smiled, eyeing his morning coat approvingly. ‘It’s good to see someone properly dressed for a wedding.’
    ‘Actually the pants are killing me,’ Cunningham confessed. ‘Rented this lot from your wonderful Moss Bros, but I think I got given the wrong pants!’ Then his face became grave. ‘Still, this is a terrible thing, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes,’ Grace said, distracted suddenly. ‘Terrible.’
    Ashley interrupted them, introducing Grace to the vicar, the Reverend Somping, a short, bearded man in white robes and a dog collar, with rheumy, bloodshot eyes, who looked distinctly angry.
    ‘I told Miss Harper we should have cancelled this completely,’ the Reverend Somping said. ‘It is ridiculous to put someone through this agony – and what about the guests? This is such a nonsense.’
    ‘He will turn up,’ Ashley blubbed. ‘He will, I know he will.’ She looked imploringly at Grace.