Dead Simple

small sitting room, then sat down in the armchair she indicated, beside an unlit fake coal fire. ‘Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine? Coffee?’
    ‘A glass of water would be fine,’ he said.
    ‘Nothing at all for me,’ said the WPC. ‘Would you like me to help you?’
    ‘No, thank you, that’s kind of you.’
    The dog looked up at him and gave a begging whine.
    ‘Bobo, quiet!’ Gill Harrison commanded. The dog followed her, slavishly, out of the room.
    Grace stared around. There was a framed print of The Haywain on the wall and another print, of the Jack and Jill windmills at Clayton, a large framed photograph of Michael Harrison, in a tuxedo, with his arm around Ashley Harper, in a long evening dress, clearly taken at some function, another photograph of a much younger Michael Harrison, in short trousers, astride a bicycle and a black and white wedding photograph of Gill Harrison and her late husband, he presumed, from the information Glenn Branson had given him. He could see the resemblance between Michael Harrison and his father – a tall, good-looking man with long brown hair touching his shirt collar. From his huge lapels and wide trousers he guessed it was taken in the mid-seventies.
    Gill Harrison returned, followed by the dog, with a tumbler of water in one hand and a wine glass in the other. She gave Grace the tumbler then sat down on the sofa opposite him.
    ‘I’m very sorry about today, Mrs Harrison, it must have been very distressing for you,’ he said, taking the glass, and sipping the cold water gratefully.
    A young woman walked into the room. She had a suntanned, slightly beaky face, long, ragged blonde hair, and was dressed in a singlet and jeans. She sported rings on her lips and ears and a stud in her tongue.
    ‘This is Carly, my daughter. Carly – this is Chief Inspector Grace of the CID, and WPC Buckley,’ Gill Harrison said. ‘Carly flew back from Australia for the wedding.’
    ‘I saw you at the reception, but we didn’t get a chance to speak,’ he said, standing up to shake her reluctant hand, then sitting down again.
    ‘Nice to meet you, Carly,’ the WPC said.
    Carly sat on the sofa right next to her mother and put a protective arm around her shoulder.
    ‘Where were you in Australia?’ Grace asked, trying to be polite.
    ‘Darwin.’
    ‘I haven’t been there. I’ve been to Sydney.’
    ‘I have a daughter who lives there,’ said Linda Buckley breezily, trying to break the ice.
    Carly shrugged, indifferently.
    ‘I wanted to cancel the wedding and reception completely,’ Gill Harrison said. ‘It was Ashley who insisted. She felt—’
    ‘She’s a stupid bitch,’ Carly said.
    ‘Carly!’ her mother exclaimed.
    ‘Excuse me,’ Carly said. ‘Everyone thinks she’s’ – and she made a cutesy, Barbie doll flutter with her hands – ‘so sweet. But I think she’s a calculating little bitch.’
    ‘Carly!’
    Carly gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but she is.’ Turning to Grace she said, ‘Would you have insisted on the reception going ahead?’
    Grace, watching them both, thought carefully before responding. ‘I don’t know, Carly. I guess she was caught between a rock and a hard place.’
    ‘My brother is the sweetest guy in the world,’ she said. ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You don’t seem to like Ashley,’ he said, seizing the chance.
    ‘No, I don’t like her.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘I think she’s a lovely girl,’ Gill Harrison butted in.
    ‘Oh crap, Mum! You’re just desperate to have grand-children. You’re just pleased that Michael isn’t gay.’
    ‘Carly – that’s not a nice thing to say.’
    ‘Yeah, well, it’s the truth. Ashley’s a manipulative ice queen.’
    Grace, suddenly feeling excited, tried to remain impassive. ‘What gave you that impression, Carly.’
    ‘Don’t listen to her,’ Gill Harrison said. ‘She’s tired and emotional with jet-lag.’
    ‘Bullshit,’ Carly said. ‘She’s a gold-digger.’
    ‘How well do either of you know her?’ Grace asked.
    ‘Met her once – that was once too often,’ Carly said.
    ‘I think she’s a delightful girl,’ Gill answered. ‘She’s intelligent, domesticated – you can talk to her, have a proper conversation with her. She’s been very good to me.’
    ‘Have you met her family?’ Grace asked.
    ‘Poor thing hasn’t got any family apart from her very lovely Canadian uncle,’ Gill said. ‘Her parents were killed in a car crash on