Branson started the car. 'You said to me some while back that you know a geezer who does some kind of thing with a pendulum?'
Grace looked at him in surprise. 'Yes?'
'Don't remember his name. You said he can find things that are lost, just by swinging a pendulum over a map.'
'I thought you didn't believe in that? You're the one who always
tells me I'm an idiot for dabbling in that terrain. Now you are suggesting I go and see someone?'
'I'm getting desperate, Roy. I don't know what else to do.'
'We press on, that's what we do.'
'Maybe he's worth a try.'
Grace smiled. 'I thought you were the big sceptic'
'I am. But we have a guy meant to be walking down the aisle in church tomorrow at two - and we have - ' he checked his watch ' - just twenty-two hours to get him there. And about fifty square miles of forest to search, with about four hours of daylight left. What say you?'
Privately, Grace believed that Harry Frame was worth a try. But after the fiasco in court on Wednesday, he wasn't sure it was worth risking his career over it, if Alison Vosper were to find out. 'Let's exhaust all our other avenues, first, then we'll see, OK?'
'Worried what the boss might say?' Branson taunted.
'You get to my age, you start thinking about your pension.'
'I'll bear that in mind, in about thirty years' time.'
33
Ashley Harper's address was a tiny Victorian terraced house close to a railway line in an area that had once been a working-class area of Have, but now was an increasingly trendy - and expensive - enclave for singles and first-time buyers. The quality of the cars parked in the street and the smart front doors were the giveaway.
Grace and Branson climbed out of the car, walked past a Golf GTI and a convertible Renault, and rang the doorbell of number 119, which had a silver Audi TT parked outside.
After a few moments the door was opened by a very beautiful woman in her mid-twenties. She gave Branson a sad smile of recognition. 'Hello, Ashley,' Branson said. 'This is my colleague, Detective Superintendent Grace. Can we have a chat?'
'Of course, come in. Do you have any news?' She looked at Grace.
Grace was struck by the contrast of the interior of the house with the outside. They had entered an oasis of cool minimalism. White carpet, white furniture, grey metal Venetian blinds, a large framed Jack Vettriano print of four dudes in sharp suits on the wall, which Grace recognized, pin-pricks of coloured lights jigging on a wall mounted sound system. The hands of a faceless clock on a wall read 6.20 p.m.
She offered them drinks. Branson was given a mineral water in a smart glass tumbler and Grace, seated beside him on a long sofa, a black coffee in an elegant white mug.
'There were three confirmed sightings of your fiance on Tuesday night at pubs in the Ashdown Forest area,' Glenn Branson told her. 'Each of them also confirmed he was with four companions - the ones you know. But we have no information on what they were up to, other than getting drunk.'
'Michael isn't a drinker,' she said bleakly, holding a large glass of red wine in both hands.
'Tell me about Michael,' Grace asked, watching her intently.
'What sort of things?'
'Anything. How did you meet him?'
She smiled, and for an instant visibly relaxed. 'I came for a job interview to his firm. Michael and his partner.'
'Mark Warren?' quizzed Grace.
A fleeting hesitation, so small it was barely noticeable. But Grace had seen it. 'Yes.'
'Where did you work before? he asked.
'I was working for a real estate firm in Toronto, Canada. I only came back to England just before I got this job.'
'Back?'
'I'm from England originally - my roots are here.' She smiled.
'What firm in Toronto?'
'You know Toronto?' she asked, a little surprised.
'I did a week there with the RCMP about ten years ago - at their murder lab.'
'Right. It was a small firm - part of the Bay group.'
Grace nodded. 'So Michael Harrison and Mark Warren hired you?'
'Uh huh, that was last November.'
'And?'
