Peter James - Dead Simple

Location: Van Alen Building, Marine Parade

Transcript: An hour later he was reversing his silver BMW X5 into his underground parking slot in the Van Alen building. He took the lift up to the fourth floor, and let himself into his apartment. It had been a financial stretch to buy this place, but it took him a step up in the world. An imposing, modern Deco-style building on Brighton seafront, with a bunch of celebrities among the residents. The place had class. If you lived in the Van Alen you were a somebody. If you were a somebody, that meant you were rich. All his life, Mark had had just that one goal – to be rich. The voicemail light was winking away on the phone as he walked through to the large open-plan living area. He decided to ignore it for a moment as he dumped his briefcase, plugged his mobile into the charger, then went straight to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a couple of fingers of Balvenie whisky. Then he walked over to the window, stared down at the promenade below, still buzzing with people despite the weather and the hour. Beyond that he could see the bright lights of the Palace Pier and the inky darkness of the sea. All of a sudden his mobile beeped sharply at him. A message. He stepped over and looked at the display. Shit. Fourteen new messages! Keeping it connected to the charger, he dialled his voicemail box. The first message was from Pete, at 7 p.m., asking where he was. The second was from Robbo at 7.45, helpfully telling him they were moving on to another pub, the Lamb at Ripe. The third was at 8.30 from a very drunken-sounding Luke and Josh, with Robbo in the background. They were moving on from the Lamb to a pub called the Dragon, on the Uckfield Road. The next two messages were from the estate agent concerning the deal in Leeds, and from their corporate lawyer. The sixth was at 11.05 from a very distressed-sounding Ashley. Her tone startled him. Ashley was normally calm, unflappable. ‘Mark, please, please, please call me as soon as you get this,’ she urged in her soft, distinctive North American accent. He hesitated, then listened to the next message. It was from Ashley again. Panicky now. And the next, and the next one after that, each at ten-minute intervals. The tenth message was from Michael’s mother. She also sounded distraught. ‘Mark, I left a message on your home phone too. Please call me as soon as you get this, doesn’t matter what time.’ Mark paused at the machine. What the hell had happened? The next call had been Ashley again. She sounded close to hysterics. ‘Mark, there’s been a terrible accident. Pete, Robbo and Luke are dead. Josh is on life support in Intensive Care. No-one knows where Michael is. Oh God, Mark, please call me just as soon as you get this.’