by James, Peter
‘How did it go at the doctor’s today? You’ve not said.’
‘Yes. All good. He said I’ve got the heart of an ox.’
Terence Gready’s mum and dad had been greengrocers in South London. His dad, Godfrey, had been a meek man, short and with a permanently sad, brow-beaten expression, as if the world bewildered him. Gready had memories of him up at the crack of dawn, and later, outside in all weathers, croaking out the prices of his wares: Bananas half price today! Special offer on greengages!
His dad had his dreams and his plan. To sell up at sixty and buy a place in Spain’s Costa del Sol, whilst the two of them were still young enough to make the move and enjoy their life. Their flat above the shop was always littered with brochures about Spanish properties. Often his dad would hold up one of the brochures, with a sunny villa or condominium on the front cover, and say to Terence, ‘Always have your dream, lad, and make sure you get to live it. Pity the man who dies with all his dreams still inside him.’
He’d dropped dead at fifty-four, holding up a bag of satsumas. His last words had been, ‘Cheap at twice the price!’
His mum had died two years later, from cancer.
Sod all that. Terence had gone to university and then to law school. And then had rapidly realized there was no money to be made in criminal law legal aid work. But there was a great – a very great – amount to be made dealing drugs. The clients he ended up defending were the losers. The expendables. The bottom feeders. They were the ones who were always caught, whilst their bosses, quietly and under the radar, amassed fortunes.
And he had always been very happy to live under the radar. He didn’t feel any need to show off. The bang for Gready was knowing just how much money he had stashed away.
Biding his time.
He had his aspirations, of course. His dreams. A hankering for the good life. And one day soon, he planned, he would make the move and start to live it, doing all the things with Barbara he’d ever wanted. She could cultivate rare orchids to her heart’s content. They could live in style in the sun! Do a world cruise. Visit the Antarctic. Perhaps buy a yacht. A plane. Buy houses for the kids and set them up for life.
But for now, there was one obstacle he had to deal with: Mickey Starr. Shouldn’t be a problem. He had plenty of contacts inside Lewes Prison. Perhaps someone could have a quiet word in Mickey Starr’s ear. A gentle warning. But would that be enough?
Perhaps not.
He knew the man’s one weakness. His love for his brother.
‘Are you sure you’re OK, Terry? You just keep looking so worried,’ Barbara said. ‘I know you too well. What is it?’
‘We’re good,’ he said. And thought, Yeah, we are, we are good. ‘Honestly, I’ve got a lot of cases on, that’s all. Trying to do my best for my clients.’
‘Well, I’m off to bed,’ she said.
‘I’ll be up later.’
She kissed him and went out of the room.
He waited until he heard her footsteps upstairs, then hit a stored number on his latest burner phone.
When it was answered, he kept it short. ‘Nick, Mickey Starr’s kid brother, Stuie. Find someone to have a word with Mickey, tell him if he knows what’s good for his brother, he’ll keep his trap shut. Know what I’m saying? Just have someone give him a friendly reminder. Oh yes – and see if he needs anything and send him my regards.’
14
Friday 30 November
It was just gone 11 p.m. on Friday. Roy Grace sat beside Cleo’s bed in the tiny, stark single room adjacent to the maternity ward at the hospital. He was holding her clammy right hand, even though she was now asleep, her face an unnatural chalk white.
Hail thudded against the pitch-black windowpane; a steady, icy draught from the relentless wind outside blew in through the thin glass, onto his face. He should have been up in London tonight, out in the area car supervising the operation he was running from Croydon to Newham, but he’d delegated the task to his second-in-command, so he could be with Cleo.
A sudden light pressure on his hand. She was squeezing it. He looked down, tenderly, and moments later she opened her eyes. ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said, her voice weak and raspy from the breathing tube that had been removed only a few hours earlier. ‘I can’t help thinking I could have stopped this happening.’
He bent down and hugged her gently; both had tears rolling down their cheeks. ‘It wasn’t your fault, you’ve been doing everything right.’
‘No, I was stupid – we had a whopper brought into the mortuary on Wednesday – a woman weighing thirty-four stone. I helped Darren lift her – and immediately didn’t feel right afterwards.’
He shook his head. ‘We’ve already discussed that.’
She looked puzzled. ‘We have?’
‘Yesterday, with the consultant. He said lifting something is extremely unlikely to cause a miscarriage – unless there was some underlying problem with the pregnancy.’
She looked puzzled. ‘I – don’t – remember.’
He stroked her cheek, gently. ‘I’m not surprised, you’ve been through a lot in the past day and a half – a blood transfusion and a general anaesthetic. I had a long chat with the consultant earlier. He explained miscarriages are very common – something like one in five. And he said that fifty per cent of miscarriages are because of a genetic problem.’
The door opened and Craig Comber, the consultant gynaecologist, peered in, then entered. A tall, smiley man in scrubs and a blue mop hat, surgical mask hanging below his chin, he said, ‘Good evening, just thought I’d check on how Cleo is doing before I head home.’ He looked down at her. ‘Good to see you’re awake – how are you feeling?’
‘A little tender.’
He smiled again. ‘I’m afraid we had to do a rather invasive surgical management of the miscarriage. There was a lot of tissue stuck near the lower end of your uterus – in the cervix – causing you more pain than usual and making you bleed heavily. You did right not to stay at home and miscarry, as you were in cervical shock – that’s when what’s happening causes a rapid drop in your blood pressure and heart rate, leading to collapse. But you’re out of any danger and you’ll be feeling much better in a couple of days. The nurse will be in shortly to give you something to make sure you sleep. I’ll come and see you in the morning, Cleo, and, all being well, you’ll be able to go home.’ He looked at Roy. ‘Will you be able to drive her?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Roy said. He smiled down at her then turned to the consultant. ‘We’re devastated by what’s happened, Mr Comber, and we’ll have to come to terms with it. Will it affect our chances of having another baby in the future?’
‘Not at all, you’ve nothing long-term to worry about, Mr – sorry – Detective Superintendent – right?’
Grace nodded distractedly.
The consultant looked at Cleo. ‘You should feel better in a few days, Cleo. I’d advise you to have iron and folic acid at a higher dose, as we know it can help prevent some abnormalities of the baby. I would say to wait a couple of menstrual cycles to let the lining of the uterus recover – and both of you emotionally – then try again. That time will also help raise the level of folic acid in your body.’
After Comber had left, Cleo sighed.
‘How do you feel about what he said?’ Roy asked her.
‘Crap, to be honest. I’m going to have to deal with all the sympathetic well-wishers. I know they’ll all have the best intentions, but I don’t think I can face anyone. I know what they’ll all say. Better it happened now . . . How far along were you? . . . Ever thought of adoption?’
‘Darling, just remember everyone will mean well. What could they possibly say in this awful situation?’
‘Just that they’re sorry, that’s all.’ She was silent for a moment then she said, ‘Maybe we were lucky with Noah.’
He gave her a questioning look. ‘We’ll be lucky again.’
‘We will be,’ she said. ‘We will.’
‘Yes.
’
She lapsed into silence, staring down at her bedclothes, her face sad.
‘Penny for your thoughts,’ he said after a while.
She gave a wan smile. ‘I was just thinking how bloody random life is. How unpredictable. One moment you’re all excited, you’re going to have a baby, and the next you’ve got blood pouring out of you and you’re in a hospital bed.’
Roy nodded. ‘Coppers see the random nature of the human condition all the time, just like you see every day at the mortuary.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘One moment someone’s having the time of their life, the next, a pathologist’s working out the time of their death.’
15
Saturday 1 December
In Terence Gready’s dream Lucky Mickey stood in front of the desk in his office, all apologetic, telling him the bastards at Newhaven Border Force had planted the coke in the Ferrari’s tyres.
‘I’m innocent, honest!’
And in his dream, he was disbelieving him.
‘Fitted up, I was. I’d never screw you over, Terry, you know that, you’ve been good to me.’
‘You think I didn’t notice there was always a shortage in your previous runs? Always just a tiny bit missing. Just a few grams and a nice little earner for you. Who do you think I am, Mickey, Mr Potato Head? I let you get away with it because it was your little perk. Your little bit of cabbage, as they call it in the rag trade. But then your greed got to you, didn’t it?’
As Mickey began to protest his innocence again, Gready heard the sound of a bell. An insistent ringing. Like an alarm clock but not like an alarm clock.
Barbara was nudging him. ‘Someone’s at the door.’
The bell rang again. Followed by a loud rat-a-tat-tat.
Instantly, he was awake.
Heard the bell again. The knocking.
He looked at the alarm clock: 4.45 a.m.
Who the hell?
But he had a horrible feeling he knew just who.
More knocking.
Pounding.
Pounding like his heart now.
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM.
Then a shout, ‘POLICE! THIS IS THE POLICE!’
From the outside, the house looked nothing special. But all the doors and window frames were reinforced, and the glass was bulletproof. Ready for an eventuality like this.
All the same, he was in the grip of panic as he slipped out of bed, hands flapping wildly, telling Barbara not to worry, taking deep breaths to calm himself down as he switched on the light. He found his glasses on the bedside table, pulled on his dressing gown, jammed his feet into his slippers and hurried into his den across the landing.
He unlocked the drawer below his laptop, pulled out his micro SD card, on which he had his entire network of contacts and all his records, removed his three current burner phones, then ran through into a spare bedroom.
This one had an ornate brass bedstead with four short bedposts. He’d had the bed specially commissioned, some years ago, at considerable expense – Barbara, of course, was not aware of this, just like she wasn’t aware of the reinforced doors and windows. The posts, to anyone looking, appeared solid. He went to the nearest one, gave the top five hard turns, then removed it, like a cap, dropped the micro SD and phones down it, and replaced the top, ensuring it was tightly screwed.
BLAM, BLAM, BLAM.
Downstairs, at his front door, he heard more shouting.
‘POLICE! THIS IS THE POLICE!’
‘Coming!’ he called out, hurrying down the stairs.
‘Good morning,’ he said, politely, opening the door. ‘Can I help you?’
An authoritative, good-looking black man came in through the doorway holding up what looked like a police warrant card. ‘Terence Arthur Gready?’
With a nervous smile, he answered, ‘Yes, that’s me. What on earth do you want at this hour?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Branson of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. I’m arresting you on suspicion of importing Class-A drugs. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence.’
‘You will allow me to get dressed?’ he answered calmly.
‘You may,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘One of my officers will accompany you while you do so.’
‘I hope you know what you are doing, officer. I am a solicitor, I think you have got something badly wrong here.’
Another police officer entered the house with a spaniel on a leash. ‘Does anyone in your house have an allergy to dogs, sir?’ he asked.
‘We don’t like dogs.’
16
Saturday 1 December
‘For the benefit of the recording,’ Kevin Hall said, glancing up at the video camera in the small interview room at the Brighton and Hove custody centre, behind the former CID headquarters on the Hollingbury Industrial Estate. ‘The time is 3.30 p.m., Saturday, December 1st. Detective Constable Kevin Hall and Financial Investigator Emily Denyer interviewing Terence Gready in the presence of his solicitor, Nicholas Fox. Will each of you say your names, please.’
All three of them, in turn, did so.
Fox was a tall, leonine, silver-haired Londoner specializing in criminal law. Now in his mid-fifties, he had been Terence Gready’s solicitor for over twenty years and knew where the bodies were buried. Gready trusted him implicitly and had long ago nicknamed him ‘King of the Jungle’. Over the years, Fox, a bruiser behind his smart veneer, had taken enough bungs from him to ensure his loyalty – and silence – with which he had created a very nice nest egg in an overseas bank account.
Gready was bleary-eyed, dishevelled and unshaven, and unhappy in police custody issue plimsolls. His suit and shirt were crumpled after the sleepless few hours he’d had earlier on a hard bunk, in a cell.
He’d already been through several interviews about the alleged offences for which he had been arrested, which included the importation of drugs and his apparent links to LH Classics, with DCs Hall and Wilde, in the presence of his solicitor. This interview was being held as an initial enquiry under the Proceeds of Crime Act.
Emily Denyer, smartly dressed and looking fresh, had a sheaf of forms in front of her. ‘Mr Gready, I just need to establish with you some information about your income and expenditure.’
‘Of course.’ He blinked several times. ‘Fire away.’
‘You have a rental flat in Marbella in Spain, for which you paid £272,000 in cash, no mortgage, eight years ago. Is that correct?’
His blink rate increased, and his hands jigged. ‘Yes, from memory I believe that was the amount, yes. But we have never stayed there, it is permanently rented out.’
She shuffled through some of the papers. ‘I have here the past ten years of your company accounts, filed at Companies House – TG Law. That is your company, of which you are the owner?’
‘It is.’
She looked down at the documents. ‘After paying the salaries of your staff as well as bonuses, and yourself taking drawings of approximately £80,000 each year, you have a net retained profit of approximately £20,000 year on year. Is that correct?’
Gready hesitated and glanced at his solicitor, who looked impassive. ‘More or less – I can’t remember the exact figures.’
‘I have them here, in case you’d like to check them?’
‘No, I’m sure they are accurate.’
‘What I’m struggling with is this, Mr Gready,’ she said. ‘Out of your salary, net of tax, you are paying off the mortgage on your house in Hove, yet you and your wife were able to put all three of your children through expensive private schooling, at a cost for several years of over £95,000 a year. Where did that money come from?’
‘Our parents helped out.’
Emily Denyer nodded. ‘Good money in the greengrocery business?’
‘There was, yes, back in my father’s time. He stashed away a lot of cash.’
‘Enough to pay all those
school fees and to pay for the flat in Marbella? He must have sold a lot of bananas.’
Out of the corner of her eye she caught both Kevin Hall and Nick Fox concealing their smiles.
‘It was all different back in my dad’s time,’ Gready said, defensively.
‘And in your in-laws’ time too?’ she pressed. ‘Your wife’s father was a travelling sales agent for a number of handbag manufacturers – his patch was the North of England, wasn’t it? Are you saying he salted away enough cash to let you buy the Marbella flat?’
‘He was a very canny man, investing every spare penny he earned on the stock market. He died a very wealthy man.’
‘That’s odd,’ Denyer said, shuffling through more documents. ‘I have a copy of his grant of probate, filed with the Probate Registry. It showed he left a net of £177,532, to be divided between your wife, Barbara, and four other relatives. I’m struggling at the moment, Mr Gready, to get to the £272,000 you paid for your Marbella flat.’
‘Yes, well, I’m sure you are,’ Gready said, testily. ‘I’m afraid what the will isn’t showing you is all the money he had placed, quite legitimately, abroad. He was an extremely good salesman and his customers loved him and supported him strongly. There is a lot of money to be made in handbags.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, I’m an ordinary guy, this is all hugely embarrassing. I’m struggling to keep my legal practice afloat thanks to the ridiculously low fees we get these days. So, my wife and our parents stashed away a bit of cash – good on them. You’ve also not mentioned the money my wife inherited from her mother, close to £300k. What’s your problem?’
Emily Denyer went through a number of documents and spreadsheets regarding his financial accounts and background over the next hour.
‘Have you now all the answers you need, Ms Denyer?’ Fox asked.
Gready glanced at his wrist, forgetting his watch wasn’t there – it had been taken off him for safekeeping after his arrest. He glanced at his solicitor’s watch. 4.53 p.m.
Emily Denyer produced a clear plastic exhibits bag, with an Envoseal tag securing it and a signed exhibit label. Inside was his beloved Rolex.