'First, Mike, I'm going to give you the house rules. You don't ask my name and you don't ask where we are. You got that?'
Michael grunted again.
'I'll remind you later, anyway. You ever see that Stephen King film, Misery!'
Michael heard the question through his drifting mind, but was unsure whether it was directed at him or someone else. Misery. He seemed to recall it. Kathy Bates. He tried to ask if Kathy Bates was in it, but his damned lips wouldn't move. 'Mnhhhh,' he said.
'That was some movie. Remember, James Caan got caught by his crazy fan, Kathy Bates, who smashed his legs with a sledgehammer so he couldn't run away? But that wasn't faithful to the novel, you know, Mike? Did you know that?'
'Mnhhhh.'
'In the novel she actually cut one leg off, then cauterized it with a blow torch. You got to be pretty weird to do that, wouldn't you think, Mike?'
Michael stared into the darkness, trying to make out his features, to put a face to the voice, to check if this voice was coming from above him, below him, inside him.
'You would, wouldn't you, Mike?'
'Mnhhhh.'
'I've been listening to you for five days, Mike. You and your buddy, Davey. Figured you were getting pretty frustrated with him I would have been too, in your shoes.' The man laughed. 'I mean, that's pretty tough shit. You get trapped and the only person in the whole world who knows you're alive is a fucking moron!' He was silent for some moments, then he continued. 'Of course, I was there with you, Mike, as well, but I just didn't want to interrupt. Breakers' code, don't butt in on someone else's conversation. Well, that's my code anyway. How you doing?'
Michael's head was throbbing, darkness swirling all around him even faster now.
'You're doing OK. Another twenty-four hours in that grave and you might as well have stayed there. But you'll be OK now. I'll get your strength up; you're lucky, I was trained in the Australian Marines. Signals. I know all about survival; you couldn't be in better
hands, Mike. I'd say that was worth a lot, wouldn't you? I'm talking about money, Mike. Big money! Moolah!'
'Mnhhhh.'
'But I'm afraid I'm going to need some bona fides, Mike. Understand what bona fides are? Proof it's you - are you on my bus?'
Michael squeezed his eyes shut against another burst of light. Then he opened them again and caught a glint of steel.
'This will hurt a little, but you don't have to worry, Mike. I'm not doing a Kathy Bates on you - I'm not crazy; I'm not about to cripple you. Just need some bona fides, that's all.'
Then Michael, through his delirium, felt an excruciating pain in his left index finger. He bellowed in agony, a tornado of air hurtling up his windpipe and screeching through the duct tape like a banshee.
65
Arriving back in Brighton shortly before midnight, Roy Grace was wide awake. The large espresso Candille had made him seemed to be having an effect like rocket fuel on his energy level. For no particular reason he decided to make a small detour and swing past the offices of Double-M Properties, in the street just below Brighton station.
As he approached he was surprised to see Warren's BMW parked right outside. He pulled up in front of it, climbed out and looked up. He could see on the third floor that the lights were on, and again, purely on a whim, he walked up to the front entrance and pressed the Double-M button on the panel.
After some moments he heard a crackly, very wary-sounding Mark Warren.'Hello?'
'Mr Warren - Detective Superintendent Grace.'
There was a long silence. Then Mark Warren said, 'Come on up.' There was a sharp rasping sound from the lock, and Grace pushed open the door, then climbed three steep, narrow flights of stairs.
Mark opened the glass-panelled door into the reception area, looking sheet-white and, in Grace's opinion, very uneasy. 'This is a bit of a surprise, officer,' he said clumsily.
T was just passing, saw the lights were on - wondered if we could have a quick chat. I thought you might like an update.'
'Um - yes, thank you.'
Mark shot a nervous glance at an open door behind him, which led into an office where he was clearly working. He then steered Grace in a different direction, into a cold, windowless boardroom, switched on the lights and pulled out a chair for him at the highly polished conference table.
But before he sat down, Grace fished in his pocket and pulled out
the bracelet he'd been given by Ashley. 'I found this on the staircase - does it belong to anyone who works here?'
Mark stared at it. 'On the staircase?'
Grace nodded.
Actually, yes, this is mine - it has tiny magnets at each end -1 wear it for my tennis elbow. I -1 don't know how it got there.'
