Dead Simple

one email on Michael’s Palm. Mark – and the others – had sent him several, teasing him about the stag night.
    He rang Ashley, fearing the worst. She sounded distressed, and at the same time strangely formal – he presumed for the benefit of anyone who might be tapping the phones.
    ‘I – I don’t know exactly what’s going on,’ she said. ‘About half an hour ago I had a phone call from a young woman detective called Emma-Jane something – um…’ She was silent for moment. Mark heard a rustle of paper and then her voice again. ‘DC Boutwood. She asked me if Michael wore an earring. I told her he did when I first started going out with him, but I made him take it off because I thought it was bad for his image.’
    ‘You were right,’ Mark replied.
    ‘Do you think he might have put it on for his stag night?’
    ‘It’s possible; you know he’s always liked dressing up a bit wildly for an evening out. Why?’
    ‘I’ve just had a call back from this Detective Constable. They’ve found a body that matches Michael’s description – in the woods near Crowborough.’ She began crying. It was a great performance if anyone was listening to their conversation.
    ‘Oh Jesus,’ Mark said. ‘Are they sure it’s him?’
    In between deep, gulping sobs she said, ‘I don’t know. Michael’s mother has been asked to go to the mortuary to identify the body. She’s just rung to ask if I’ll go with her. They want us to go over as soon as we can.’
    ‘Do you want me to come? I could drive you both?’
    ‘Would you mind? I – I don’t think I could cope with driving, and Gill can’t, she’s on the floor. Oh God, Mark, this is so terrible.’ Then she began crying again.
    ‘Ashley, I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll pick Gill up first as she’s nearest to me, then you. Be with you in half an hour.’
    Ashley was crying so hard he wasn’t even sure if she heard him.

60
    Grace, driving back towards Brighton, phoned Jaye and apologized to her that he had had to cut short their day out.
    ‘What’s his name, the lost boy?’ she asked.
    Grace hesitated, then could see no harm in telling her. ‘Michael.’
    ‘Why is he hiding, Uncle Roy? Has he been naughty?’
    He smiled; children saw the world so much more simply than adults. But it was a good question. He had learned a long time ago in police work never to take anything at face value; turn over every stone, open every door, always think out of the box. It was important to consider Michael Harrison as an active participant in his disappearance, as much as a passive one. Despite the corpse that should already be at the mortuary by now.
    ‘I’m not sure,’ he answered.
    ‘What happens if you don’t ever find Michael?’
    It was an innocent question, but it hit home with his emotions. ‘I think we will find him.’ He didn’t want to say anything about the corpse.
    ‘But what happens if you don’t?’ she persisted. ‘How long will you keep looking?’
    He smiled sadly at her innocence. She’d been born a year after Sandy had disappeared and had no idea of the poignancy of her questions. ‘For as long as it takes.’
    ‘That could be a long time, if he’s hidden really well. Couldn’t it?’
    ‘It’s possible.’
    ‘So that means we might not get to see a giraffe for years and years?’
    After he had finished his conversation with her, he immediately dialled Emma-Jane Boutwood in the Incident Room. ‘What did you find out about the earring?’
    ‘Michael Harrison used to wear one all the time – a small gold ring, until his fiancée stopped him. But it’s possible he was wearing it for his night out.’
    Not good news, Grace thought. ‘OK. Mobile phones. We should have the mobile phone numbers of Mark Warren and Ashley Harper on file by now – I want you to get on to the companies and get copies of their logs from – ’ he thought for a moment, ‘ – last Saturday.’
    ‘I might not get much joy until tomorrow, sir. I’ve had problems getting anything out of phone companies at weekends before.’
    ‘Do your best.’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    *
    Ten minutes later, for the second time this weekend, Grace drove up to the long, low building that housed the Brighton and Hove City Mortuary. The bright May sunlight made no impact on its grim exterior, as if the grey pebbledash walls were there to ward off any therms of warmth that might dare try to enter. Only cold corpses and even colder souls were permitted inside.
    Cleo