'Smart bastard.'
They stepped out on the fourth floor, walked down a plushly blue carpet and stopped outside 407. Branson pressed the bell.
After a few seconds the door was opened by a man in his late twenties, dressed in an open-neck white business shirt, pinstripe suit trousers and black loafers with a gold chain. 'Gentlemen,' he said, affably, 'please come in.'
Grace looked at him with faint recognition. He had seen this man before, somewhere, recently. Where? Where the hell had he seen him?
Branson dutifully showed him his warrant card, but Mark Warren barely glanced at it. They followed him through a small hallway into a huge open-plan living area, with two red sofas forming an Lshape and a long, narrow black lacquer table acting as a border for a kitchen and dining area.
The place was similar in its minimalistic style, Grace noted, to Ashley Harper's, but considerably more money had been lavished here. An African mask sat on top of a tall black plinth in one corner. Classy, if impenetrable, abstract paintings lined the walls, and there was a picture window looking directly out at the sea with a fine view of the Palace Pier. A news programme, muted, played on a flat screen Bang and Olufsen television.
'Can I get you a drink?' Mark Warren asked, wringing his hands.
Grace observed him carefully, watching his body language, listening to the way he spoke. The man exuded anxiety. Unease. Hardly surprising, considering what he must be going through. One of the biggest problems for survivors of any disaster, Grace knew from past experience, was coping with guilt.
'We're fine, thanks,' Branson said. 'We don't want to keep you long - just a few questions.'
'Do you have any news of Michael?'
Grace told him about their trawl of pubs, and about the missing coffin. But there was something about the way he responded that ran up a flag in Grace's mind. Just a small flag, barely more than a minuscule fluttering pennant.
'I can't believe they'd do anything like taking a coffin,' Mark Warren said.
'You should know,' Grace retorted. 'Isn't it the role of the best man to organize the stag night?'
'So I read in the stuff I downloaded from the net,' he replied.
Grace frowned. 'So you weren't involved in the plans? At all?'
Mark looked flustered. His voice was awkward as he started speaking, but rapidly calmed. 'I - no, that's not what I'm saying. Like I mean - you know - we - Luke - wanted to organize a stripper
gram, but that's kind of so yesterday - we wanted something more original.'
'To pay back Michael Harrison for all his practical jokes?'
Flustered again for a moment, Mark Warren said, 'Yes, we did discuss that.'
'But you didn't talk about a coffin?' Roy Grace asked, locked on to his eyeballs.
'Absolutely not.' There was indignation in his voice.
'A teak coffin,' Grace said.
'I -1 don't know anything about any coffin.'
'You're saying to me that you were his best man, but you didn't know anything about the plans for his stag night?'
A long hesitation. Mark Warren shot long glances at each of the police officers in turn. 'Yes,' he answered finally.
'I don't buy that, Mark,' Grace said. 'I'm sorry, but I don't buy it.' Instantly he detected the flash of anger.
'You're accusing me of lying to you? I'm sorry, gentlemen, this meeting is over. I need to talk to my lawyer.'
'That's more important to you than finding your business partner?' Grace quizzed. 'He's meant to be getting married tomorrow. You are aware of that?'
'I'm his best man.'
Watching Mark Warren's face closely, Grace suddenly remembered where he had seen him before. At least, where he thoughthe had seen him before. 'What car do you drive, Mark?' he asked.
'A BMW.'
'Which model? A 3-Series? 5-Series? 7Series?'
An X5,' Mark said.
'That's a four-wheel drive?'
'Yes, it is.'
Grace nodded and said nothing; his brain was churning.
Standing in the corridor, waiting for the lift, Branson watched Mark Warren's front door, making sure it was shut, then he said, 'What was that about - the business with the car?'
As they stepped inside the lift, Grace pressed the bottom button, marked 'B'. Still deep in thought, he didn't reply.
Branson watched him. 'Something's not right with that dude. You read that?'
