The incoming tide was hampering their efforts. A wide cordon had been thrown around the whole area where the car had gone in, canvas sheeting only partially obscuring the view from a swelling crowd of curious onlookers on the far bank. A fire engine, two ambulances, half a dozen police vehicles, including a crash recovery tender, were all parked down the lane. A crane had been driven onto the elderly bridge despite concerns about how much weight it could stand. Grace stood on the bridge himself, watching the recovery proceedings. Police frogmen were working hard to get the hooks of the lifting gear dangling from the crane onto secure fixings on the Toyota. The sky, which had been delivering spots of rain on and off all day, had lightened in the last hour and the sun was trying to break through. The tightly packed mud had made it impossible for the frogmen to get down any further, and the only hope that the occupants were alive rested on the windows having stayed intact and that there was air trapped inside the car. The amount of shards of glass strewn over the bridge made this seem more than a long shot. Two suitcases had been recovered from the abandoned Land Rover Freelander, but all they contained were women's clothes; not one scrap of paper that could give a clue to Michael Harrison's whereabouts. Grace had a grim feeling this car would yield something.
Glenn Branson, standing next to Grace, said, 'You know what this reminds me of? The original Psycho - 1960. When they winch the car with Janet Leigh's body in out of the lake. Remember?'
'I remember.'
'That was a cool movie. The remake was shit. I dunno why people bother with remakes.'
'Money,' Grace said. 'That's one of the reasons why you and I have a job. Because people do an awful lot for money'
After a few more minutes the hooks were in place. Then the lifting began. Against the deafening roar of the crane's engine, Grace and Branson barely heard the sucking and gurgling sounds of the mud, beneath the waters of the rising tide, yielding its prize. Slowly, in front of their eyes, and washed clean by the water, the bronze Toyota rose up in the air, its boot-lid open and hanging. Mud oozed slowly out of all of the window frames. The car looked badly smashed and the roof pillars were buckled. It didn't look as if one single window had remained in place. And as the mud fell out, some in slabs, some in squitty streaks, at first just the silhouettes of the two occupants became visible, and then, finally, their inert faces. The crane swung the car over onto the bank, lowering it on its roof a few yards from a rotting houseboat. Several fireman, police officers and workmen who had come with the crane, unhooked the lifting gear then slowly righted the car. As it rolled back onto its wheels, the two figures inside jerked like crash-test dummies, Grace, with trepidation, followed by Branson, walked down to it, squatted and peered in. Even though there was some mud Still Stuck to her face, and her hair was much shorter than the last time he had seen her, there was no question it was Ashley Harper, her eyes wide open, unblinking.
Then he shuddered in revulsion as a scrawny, long-legged crab crawled across her lap. 'Jesus,' Branson said. Who the hell was the man next to her, in the driving seat? Grace wondered. His eyes were open also, a powerful, thuggish-looking man with a shocked death mask. 'See what you can find on her,' Grace said, wrenching open the driver's door, and checking the man's sodden, muddy clothing for ID. He pulled out a heavy leather wallet from inside his jacket and opened it. Inside was an Australian passport. The photograph was the man in the car, no question. His name was Victor Bruce Delaney and he was forty-two years old. Under emergency contact was written the name Mrs Alexandra Delaney, and an address in Sydney. Glenn Branson wiped mud from a yellow handbag, unzipped it and after a few moments also pulled out a passport, this one British, which he showed to Grace. It contained a photograph that was, without doubt, Ashley Harper, but with close-cropped black hair, and it bore the name Anne Hampson. Under emergency contact nothing had been written. There were credits cards both in the man's wallet and in a purse inside the handbag, but nothing else. Not a clue about where they had come from or where they might be headed.
'Houston, we have a problem' Glenn Branson said quietly to Grace, but there was no humour in his tone.
'We do.' Grace stood up and turned away. 'It's suddenly a whole lot bigger than it was two hours ago.'
'So how the hell are we going to find Michael Harrison now?' After a moment's silence Grace said, 'I have an idea, but you're not going to like it.' Glancing uncomfortably at the occupants of the car, Glenn Branson said, 'I don't like anything much at the moment.'
90
An hour and a half later, Grace helped buckle the diminutive, wiry figure of Harry Frame into the front seat of the pool Ford Mondeo he and Branson had used this afternoon. The pony-tailed, goatee-bearded medium, reeking of patchouli oil and wearing his trademark kaftan and dungarees, had a street map of Newhaven laid out in his lap, and held a metal ring on a length of string in his right hand. Grace had decided to leave Glenn Branson out of this. He didn't want any negative vibes, and he knew that Harry Frame's energy was sensitive at best.
'So did you bring me something, as I requested?' Harry Frame asked Grace as he climbed behind the wheel of the car. Grace dug a box out of his pocket and handed it to the medium. Frame opened it and removed a pair of gold cufflinks. 'These are definitely Michael Harrison's,' Grace said. 'I took them from his flat on my way here.' 'Perfect.' It was only a short distance along the coast from Harry Frame's Peacehaven home to Newhaven. As they drove past the seemingly endless sprawl of shops and takeaway restaurants, Harry Frame was holding the cufflinks in his closed palm.
'Newhaven, you said?' 'There was a car we were interested in that was involved in an accident in Newhaven earlier today. And Newhaven is where Michael Harrison's mobile signal came from. I thought we'd drive to that spot and you could see if you pick anything up. Is that a good idea?' In his effusive, high-pitched voice, the medium said, 'I'm already picking up something. We're near, you know. Definitely.' Grace, following the directions he had been given, began to slow down. Some tyre marks, a spill of oil on the road and a few sparkling shards of safety glass showed him where the Mercedes had been in the accident, and he turned right into a modern housing development of small, detached houses with immature gardens, then immediately pulled over and stopped.
'OK,' he said. 'This is where the accident happened this morning.' Harry Frame, holding the cufflinks in his left hand, began to swing the pendulum over the map, taking increasingly deep breaths. He closed his eyes tightly and after a few moments said, 'Drive on, Roy, just drive straight on. Slowly'
Grace did as he was instructed. 'We're getting closer!' Frame said. 'Definitely. I see a turn-off to the left coming up shortly - might not even be a road, just a track.' After about a hundred metres, there was indeed a track going up to the left. It had been metalled, very many years ago, but had fallen into a state of total disrepair. It went uphill, through windblown, scrubby wasteland, and it did not seem from here, at least, that it was going to lead to anything. 'Make a left turn, Roy!' Grace looked at him, wondering if he was cheating by peeping through his eyelids. But if Harry was looking anywhere, it was down into his lap. Grace turned onto the track and drove up it for a quarter of a mile, then a squat, ugly detached house came into view just on the crest of the hill. It had fine views over Newhaven and the harbour beyond, but little else to recommend it. 'I see a house, all on its own. Michael Harrison is in this house,' Frame said, excitement raising his voice even higher. Grace pulled up outside.
The pendulum was swinging fast in a tight circle, and Harry Frame, eyes still tight shut, was juddering as if he
