The imperative in his voice got through. Reluctantly she said, 'OK -1 just don't know if it's a good idea coming to you - we could meet somewhere neutral - how about a bar or a restaurant?'
'Great, somewhere the whole world can hear us?'
'We'll just have to talk quietly, OK? It's better than me being seen coming over to your apartment.'
'Jesus, you are paranoid!'
The? You're a fine one to talk about paranoia. Name a restaurant.' Mark thought for a moment. A police car would collect him in half an hour. It was about half an hour's drive out to the site. Maybe just ten minutes there, then half an hour back. It was eight o'clock on Monday night; places would be quiet. He suggested meeting at ten at an Italian restaurant near the Theatre Royal, which had a large upstairs dining area that would almost certainly be empty tonight.
It wasn't. To his surprise, the restaurant was heaving - he had forgotten that after the Brighton Festival the city was still in full swing, its bars and restaurants crowded every night. Most of the tables upstairs were taken as well, and he was squeezed into a cramped table behind a rowdy party table of twelve. Ashley wasn't there yet. The place was typically Italian: white walls, small tables with candles jammed in the top of Chianti bottles and loud, energetic waiters.
The ride out to Crowborough and back had been uneventful: two young detectives in an unmarked car, who had spent most of the way out there arguing about football players, and most of the way back discussing cricket. They showed no interest in him at all other than to tell him they should both have gone off duty an hour ago and were in a hurry to get back. Mark viewed that as good news.
He directed them to the start of the track, with the double cattle grid, then sat and waited as they radioed for the local search team to join them. After a short while several minibuses, headed by a police Range Rover, arrived in convoy.
Mark got out of the car, explained how far up they had to drive, but did not volunteer to join them. He did not want to be there when they found the grave - and they would find it for sure.
He needed a drink badly, but was not sure what he wanted. He was thirsty, so he ordered a Peroni beer to tide him over, then stared at the menu as a distraction from his thoughts. Moments later, Ashley arrived.
'Still drinking?' she admonished, by way of a greeting, and without kissing him, squeezed in opposite him, throwing a disapproving glance at the rowdy group beside them, who were guffawing at a joke , then put her very bling pink Prada handbag on the table.
She looked more beautiful than ever, Mark thought, dressed in a [ ftwhionably ragged cream blouse, which gave her breasts considerftble, and very erotic, exposure, and a small choker; she had her hair Up. She looked fresh and relaxed, and smelled of a gorgeous perfume he recognized but could not name.
Smiling at her, he said, 'You look stunning.'
Her eyes were darting around the room impatiently, as if seeking a waiter. 'Thanks - you look like shit.'
'You'll understand why in a moment.'
Semi-ignoring him, she raised a hand, and when a waiter finally scuttled over, she imperiously ordered a San Pellegrino.
'Want some wine?' Mark said. 'I'm going to have some.'
'I think you should have water, too - you're drinking far too much just recently. You need to stop, get a grip. OK?'
'OK. Maybe.'
She shrugged. 'Fine, you do what you want.'
Mark slipped his hand across the table towards hers, but she withdrew her hands, sitting bolt upright, arms firmly crossed.
'Before I forget, tomorrow is Pete's funeral. Two o'clock, the Good Shepherd, Dyke Road. Luke's is on Wednesday; I haven't got the time yet - and I don't know about Josh and Robbo yet. So what's this big latest thing you have to tell me?'
The waiter came with her water, and they ordered. Then when the waiter had moved away Mark began by telling her about the finger.
She shook her head, sounding shocked. 'This cannot be true, Mark.'
Mark had put the finger in the Jiffy bag into the fridge in his apartment, but he'd brought the note with him and gave it to her.
Ashley read it carefully, several times, mouthing the words as if in total disbelief. Then suddenly there was anger in her eyes and she looked at him accusingly. 'This isn't your doing, Mark?'
It was Mark's turn to be shocked. He mouthed the word before he said it. 'What? You think I have Michael hidden somewhere and I cut his finger off. I might not like him too much but--'
'You're happy to let him die of asphyxiation in a coffin - but you wouldn't ever do something nasty to him, like cut a finger off? Come on, Mark, what kind of bullshit is this?'
He glanced around, alarmed at the way she had raised her voice. But no one was taking any notice.
Mark could not believe the way she seemed to be turning on him. 'Ashley, come on, this is me. Jesus Christ, what's got into you? We're a team, you and I - isn't that the deal? We love each other; we're a team, right?'
She softened, glanced around, then reached forward, took his hand and brought it to her lips, planting a gentle kiss on it. 'My darling,' she said, her voice lowered. 'I love you so much - but I'm just in shock.'
The too.'
'I suppose we all handle shock, stress - you know - in different ways.'
He nodded, pulled her hand towards his mouth and kissed it tenderly. 'We have to do something for
