Dead Simple

email he had sent Michael on Monday, telling him they all had a real treat in store for him, and giving him cryptic clues – too cryptic for Michael to have figured out in advance what they were going to do to him, but a total giveaway to the cop.
    Mark eased the blade of the screwdriver under the lid, then levered it up a few inches, until he could get his fingers in. Taking the strain with his left hand, he put the screwdriver down on the ground above him, then lifted the heavy lid as high as he could, barely registering the deep, jagged groove that had been carved on the inside.
    Inky water shimmered back at him, the soggy remnants of a magazine floating on the surface, large bare breasts just visible in the bright beam.
    Mark screamed and the Maglite fell from his teeth, splashed into the water and struck the bottom of the coffin with a dull thud.
    There was no one inside.

55
    The lid fell down with a bang like a gunshot. Mark scrambled to his feet, tripped and went sprawling in the muddy soil. He hauled himself to his knees, swivelled in a complete circle, his eyes scanning the darkness, whimpering, panting, his brain seized up in his panic, wondering which way to run. To the car? Into the woods?
    Oh sweet Jesus. Christ. Christ.
    Still on all fours he backed away from the grave and spun around in a complete circle again. Was Michael out there, watching him, about to strike?
    About to blind him with a flashlight beam?
    He stood and ran to the car, wrenched open the door, climbed in and the bloody interior lights all came on, fucking floodlighting him! He slammed the door shut, hit the central locking button, twisted the ignition key, rammed the gear lever into drive , snapped on the lights and floored the accelerator, swinging the car round in a wide arc, the beam of the lights traversing the trees, shadows leaping, fading; he continued round in a circle, then another circle, then a third.
    Oh Jesus.
    What the hell had happened?
    He hadn’t got the fucking Palm. Had to go back and check. Had to.
    How the hell could…?
    How could he have got out? Screwed the lid back down? Put the earth on top?
    Unless?
    He’d never been there?
    But if he hadn’t been there, why didn’t he turn up to the wedding?
    Thoughts hurtled round his brain. All jumbled. He wanted to call Ashley, and, oh sure, he knew the first thing she would ask him.
    Did you get the Palm?
    He drove up to the edge of the grave, sat in the car, waiting, watching. Then he opened the door, jumped down, flat on his stomach, and without bothering to roll up his sleeves plunged his hands into the cold water. Hit the soft, satin bottom. Felt the padded sides, then the bottom again. Found the torch and retrieved it. No longer working. His hands hit something small, round, metallic; his fingers clasped around it and pulled it out too, holding it up to the beam of the headlights. It looked like the cap of a whisky bottle.
    He turned and stared fearfully at the woods all around. Then he plunged his arms back into the coffin, working his way from one end to the other. The sodden page of a magazine wrapped itself around his hand. Nothing else. Nothing at all. The damned thing was empty.
    He stood up, replaced the corrugated iron sheet, half-heartedly throwing some grasses over it, then got back into the safety of his car. He slammed the door and hit the central locking button again, then turned and headed back down the track, accelerating hard, crashing through the ruts and puddles until he rumbled over the two cattle grids and reached the main road.
    Then he switched the diff lock off and pushed the gear lever back to normal high-gear drive and turned back towards Brighton, staring into his rear-view mirror, fearful of every pair of headlights that appeared behind him, wanting desperately to call Ashley but too confused to know what to say to her.
    Where the hell was Michael?
    Where?
    Where?
    He drove back past all the wreaths, glancing at the orange glow of the dash, then at the road, then into his mirror. Had he imagined it? Hallucinated it? Come on, guys, what’s your secret? What do you know that I don’t? You put an empty coffin in the ground? OK, so what did you do with Michael?
    As he drove on he began to calm down a fraction, starting to think more clearly, convincing himself it was unimportant now. Michael was not there. There was no dead body. No one had anything on him.
    Clenching the steering wheel with his knees, he pulled his rubber gloves off