Find Them Dead

by James, Peter

  Immediately behind them was a suited woman sitting on her own, the Crown Prosecution solicitor, and separated by a wide gap, a woman in her thirties conferring earnestly with a tall, silver fox of a man in his fifties – the defence solicitors. Seated again, all of them on both benches were busy with last-minute preparations, checking through files or jotting notes. And the defence, no doubt, dealing with the late arrival of the financial report.

  To Jupp’s left were a number of reporters in the press box and, below them, to the side of the dock, the usher was seated, with two police officers in smart business attire behind him – the Senior Investigating Officer who he recognized as DI Glenn Branson and another detective, the Exhibits Officer, one or the other of whom would be present for much of the trial.

  Behind the dock was the public gallery, full but not packed, and to Jupp’s right were the two empty rows of the jury box, soon to be filled by a motley crew of people who had received their summons and were now here, reluctantly or otherwise, to carry out their civic duty. They sat currently at the rear of the court, with the jury bailiff.

  Jupp cast a brief eye over his potential jurors. Fifteen of them waiting, some looking expectant, some nervous, some bored. Twelve, plus three spares in case of valid objections by the defendant. He spent some moments logging on to the computer in front of him, as well as checking his printed notes, before nodding to the clerk to begin the proceedings.

  Maureen Sapsed stood up, just below him, and addressed the man in the dock. ‘Are you Terence Gready?’

  His voice was quiet but calm. ‘I am.’

  Jupp then said to the clerk, but addressing the whole court, ‘May we have the jury panel in, please.’

  Meg, along with the other fourteen jurors who had been called, sat waiting. Keeping her fingers crossed that she made the cut. But a little jittery at the same time.

  The clerk addressed the defendant again. ‘Terence Gready, the names you are about to hear called are the names of the jurors who are to try you. If you wish to object to any of them, you must do so as they come to be sworn, and before they are sworn, and your objections shall be heard.’

  Gready gave a single polite nod in response.

  Then Jupp addressed the would-be jurors, as he liked to do to help put them at ease. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, twelve of you will be selected randomly from the fifteen of you present. When you hear your name called out, answer “yes” and make your way to the jury box.’ He pointed to it. ‘Fill the front row first and then the rear.’

  The jury bailiff, Jacobi Whyte, at the rear of the court, shuffled the fifteen cards he held, each bearing the name of a juror, selected one from the pack and read out the name: ‘Sophie Eaton.’

  A casually dressed woman in her mid-thirties replied a hesitant ‘Yes,’ then stood up and walked self-consciously to the box, taking the far end position.

  ‘Edmond O’Reilly Hyland.’

  A charismatic man in his fifties, with a big, open face, dressed like a lawyer himself in a chalk-striped three-piece suit, said, ‘Yes,’ stood up and strode confidently across towards the jury box as if he owned the place.

  ‘Megan Magellan.’

  It took her a second to realize it was her name.

  She jumped up like a startled rabbit. No need to be nervous, she tried to calm herself. You are here out of civic duty. Relax. Enjoy! ‘Yes,’ she said, trying to project, but the word seemed to catch in her throat. She was blushing as she walked the short distance to the jury box, well aware that every eye in the court was on her at this moment.

  She took her place next to the man who smelled, not unpleasantly, of aftershave, unsure where to look. She shot a glance first at the judge, who was studying his computer screen, then at the dock at the defendant, a wretched, miserable-looking man who didn’t look like he was capable of committing any crime. He caught her sympathetic eye and gave a wan smile back.

  The next name was called. ‘Hari Singh.’

  A tubby Indian man in a smart suit and tie and with a nervous, almost apologetic smile, made his way to the box, seating himself beside Meg.

  Another name was called and an instant later the older woman she had exchanged a smile with earlier sat down on the bench.

  ‘Maisy Waller.’

  ‘Yes.’ It came out as a timid squeak. A tight-faced, terrified-looking mouse of a woman in her fifties with limp grey hair and wearing an old-fashioned floral-print summer frock followed, approaching the jury box as if it were a cage full of lions, then almost tiptoed to her place.

  Next up was Harold Trout, a rather intellectual-looking man in his early seventies, in a tweed suit and a golf club tie.

  The litany of names continued, whilst Meg looked around the court, trying to figure out what the roles were of everyone present, occasionally shooting glances at the dock, but each time quickly looking away as the defendant was staring directly at them. She glanced up at the sea of faces in the nearly full public gallery, almost all of whom were looking down towards her and her fellow jurors. In the front row, she clocked a denim-jacketed, ponytailed man, who looked like a rough diamond, sitting a little stiffly and too far away for her to have noticed the pen clipped to his breast pocket. He seemed to be taking a particularly keen interest in them all, and she wondered if he was perhaps a relative of the defendant.

  When the two rows were filled, three potential jurors remained behind, looking like lost little Billy-No-Mates.

  Maureen Sapsed then turned to the jury box. ‘Members of the jury, the defendant, Terence Arthur Gready, stands charged on this indictment containing six counts.’

  She proceeded to read out all of the counts in full, before pausing for a moment to glance down at her notes. Then she looked at the jury again. ‘To each count the defendant has pleaded not guilty, and it is your charge to say, having heard all the evidence, whether he is guilty or not.’

  She paused to let this sink in. Then she looked at the three jurors left behind in the selection area. ‘Would those remaining jurors who have not been selected please leave now with the jury bailiff.’

  There was a brief, expectant silence as they filed out.

  Meg looked back at the defendant, who was sitting impassively, staring ahead, with a guard behind him. The dock looked like the loneliest place in the world. It was a very strange feeling being here, being a juror. This wasn’t some party game. Over the coming days – weeks – she and the other eleven randoms would be deciding on this man’s future. The charges sounded very serious, and no doubt would not have been brought without good reason, she assumed. The trafficking of the drugs particularly revulsed her. But could that mild little man really have been behind all that?

  Then she thought about Harold Shipman, the harmless-looking bearded and bespectacled family doctor who was estimated to have murdered over three hundred of his patients. Appearances sure were deceptive.

  Richard Jupp studied the twelve jurors in the box, privately assessing them. Eight men and four women. A few of them looked quite bright. One man looked to him like a cop – or a retired one. And the fellow in the suit with the grand name looked like a man used to being in charge. No doubt he would consider he should be the foreman.

  He addressed them the way he always did, to try to put them at ease, leaning towards them with a warm, avuncular smile. ‘I’d like to welcome you all to the jury,’ he said. ‘It’s you and me who will be trying this case together. The first thing I’d like to say to you, as I see many of you have your pens out, is please do not be distracted by taking notes.’

  He paused then went on. ‘Of course, some details and timelines will be significant and may be complex, but I’ll be doing a thorough summing-up at the end of the trial before you go out to consider your verdict, and you’ll have a full recap then. What is important for you as jurors is to concentrate on listening to all the arguments for and against the defence of the man standing in the dock. It is your assessment of the evidence that is crucial. Will you believe the evidence of the prose
cution against this man, or the evidence of the defence? You twelve people alone will have to make that decision. I want you to arrive at your decision based on what you see and hear, on body language and on the verbal evidence. I don’t want you distracted by feeling you must write down notes – and perhaps in doing so miss something crucial.’

  He paused again. ‘I do also want to emphasize that, as jurors, you are forbidden to talk about this case to anyone other than your fellow jurors. You must not say a word to your wives, husbands, partners, friends or business colleagues. And you must not attempt to google the defendant. If any of you have any concerns about the trial, if you realize you know the defendant personally, or have had any professional dealings with him, please send me a note via the clerk of the court.’

  He stopped to sip a glass of water. ‘The most important thing for you as jurors is your eyes and ears. You must watch and assess for yourselves each person giving evidence for or against the defendant. I want to remind you that under English law this man standing before you, accused of these crimes, is currently innocent until – and unless – proved guilty. That is the question for you alone. It is not a question of maybe he did it, or even that he probably did it. You need to be sure that he committed these offences, in order to convict. So, your role, as fellow human beings, is to assess both the credibility of the defendant and the witnesses both for and against him. I hope that is clear.’

  30

  Thursday 9 May

  ‘Very clear, Your Honour!’ Rio Zambrano said loudly, with a grin.

  Sixty miles away from Lewes Crown Court, on the tenth floor of a high-rise office building in Hoxton in East London, Zambrano, a thirty-eight-year-old computer programmer, originally from Quito in Ecuador, sat in front of his large computer screen. He was listening intently to the court proceedings being relayed to him through his headphones by Jeff Pringle’s concealed video camera. He had pulled off stills of each of the faces of the twelve jurors, which he saved into individual files.

  Beside him sat Paul Constantinidi, a private investigator and disgruntled former Met Police detective who had been forced into early retirement following an accusation – not for the first time – of excessive violence during an arrest. He had been for some months in the lucrative pay of Mickey Starr and, as it appeared now, ultimately the top boss, Terence Gready. Paul Constantinidi had retained many friends within the Met, one of whom was proving particularly helpful in checking the backgrounds of each of the jurors as he relayed them to him, whilst at the same time – along with two techies who ran the county lines network for Starr – doing a google search on each of them.

  Juries, if they could not agree a unanimous verdict, could reach a majority verdict as directed by the judge either on an 11–1 or 10–2 basis. If a jury could not agree then they would be discharged by the judge and, in normal circumstances, there would be a retrial. But the clear plan, outlined by Gready’s solicitor, Nick Fox, was to do better than that. Much better.

  So far three names had produced hits. The first was potentially interesting: Mike Roberts, a retired Hampshire Police Detective Superintendent and former Senior Investigating Officer on the Major Crime Team. A stocky, silver-haired man of sixty-two, who left the police a decade ago as part of the government’s A19 programme. Highly unpopular, it had forced officers to retire at thirty years’ service, regardless of their rank or experience, to be replaced with new recruits, so the government could claim the salary saving and at the same time claim they had kept police numbers up. He could be a potential, Paul Constantinidi thought. An aggrieved former cop, like himself?

  The second was an obese guy, Hugo Pink. His search showed that he was in deep financial trouble. Definitely a potential target. Terence Gready would be more than happy to bail him out.

  The third was very interesting. A forty-two-year-old widow, Meg Magellan. Her husband and teenage son had been killed in a car crash five years ago. Now her teenage daughter, Laura, was on her gap year, backpacking through South America, and from her latest posts, currently near Quito, in Ecuador.

  He turned to Rio. ‘You must have friends back in Ecuador?’

  ‘Sure, many. Why?’

  Paul Constantinidi nodded. ‘Good to know. Might be useful.’

  31

  Thursday 9 May

  In the court, Richard Jupp gave the jurors another we’re all in this together smile of reassurance and silently hoped that was the case. Then he shot a glance at the defendant. Terence Gready sat behind the glass shield, all nicely shaven, with his neat blue suit and butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-his-mouth expression. Wrongfully accused. Fitted-up. The police getting their own back on the legal profession. Only the flimsiest circumstantial evidence to link him to any of the crimes for which he was standing trial.

  Jupp had read through all the documents, every word. He’d read the evidence stacked against the accused solicitor and studied the defence’s arguments. He was confident Stephen Cork, the prosecutor, would drive a coach and horses through those.

  He gave Gready, who was staring, deadpan, straight ahead, another quick look. The man disgusted him. Not only a traitor to his profession but actually, in doing what he was accused of, in many ways a traitor to his country. In Jupp’s view, laws were the glue that held civilized society together. When legal practitioners perverted them, they were committing a far worse sin than lining their pockets through greed. They were threatening the very fabric of the nation they fed off. They were like leeches that attached themselves to their host.

  That leech in the dock, Jupp had a feeling, by the time this court had finished with him, would not be harming anyone again for very many years. With luck, maybe even forever. Just so long as, he hoped fervently, this wasn’t going to turn out to be a jury dominated by numpties.

  32

  Thursday 9 May

  Roy Grace was hoping he would get a bright, attentive jury, and not a bunch of numpties, too. Next week, Brighton’s biggest ever serial killer, family doctor Edward Crisp, was in Court 2 at Lewes Crown Court facing seven counts of murder and a host of other offences. From all he had done, the doctor deserved never to see the outside of a prison cell again. And Grace was determined to make sure that happened.

  As part of the pre-trial preparations, he had called a meeting at Sussex Police HQ to discuss aspects of the evidence with key members of his team, Norman Potting and Jack Alexander, who were assisting him as case officers. Alexander was not required at court for the Terence Gready trial yet – he had been excluded at the request of the defence, as he was giving evidence against the suspect.

  The three of them were seated at the conference table on the first floor of the Major Crime wing discussing a variety of responsibilities. The top of which on Grace’s list was security, because the wily doctor, in his late fifties, had a past history of cunning escapes from custody.

  Roy Grace had been Crisp’s arresting officer – nearly losing a leg in the process thanks to being shot by the doctor – so this was personal. For Crisp’s trial, as SIO, he needed to ensure the Exhibits Officer was set up and that the Family Liaison Officers were working with the agencies to support all of Crisp’s surviving victims and the families of the deceased. He wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

  He checked with the two detectives about the witnesses the prosecution counsel intended calling to give live evidence, and that all of them were ready. One of their key prosecution witnesses was a plucky lady called Logan Somerville, who had very luckily survived being abducted and imprisoned by Dr Crisp. Another was forensic archaeologist Lucy Sibun.

  ‘Boss, don’t forget Bobby the dog, who’s going to present the bitemark and DNA evidence,’ Alexander said.

  They all laughed. But, as they well knew, it had been Bobby’s barking that had saved another victim’s life, and his bitemark that gave them the breakthrough DNA evidence identifying Crisp.

  Grace moved on to the subject of court security. Edward Crisp was one of the most devious criminals he had ever enco
untered, a man who would have given the legendary Harry Houdini a run for his money. Crisp had a mole-like ability to tunnel his way out of captivity. His sumptuous home in Brighton was riddled with secret passages he had dug. And after evading captivity by Sussex Police and fleeing to France, he had again escaped from a high-security prison near Lyon.

  Crisp would be appearing before a High Court judge who was visiting Lewes Crown Court to hear this important trial. Due to the case involving multiple deaths, the criminal justice system required such a figure to preside over the hearing.

  Court 3, where the dock was inside a glass enclosure, was already in session. Court 2, where Crisp’s case was listed, had an antiquated open dock. Defendants had escaped from this court’s dock before, and once out of the courtroom there were only a couple of security staff, who would be too preoccupied checking people coming in to prevent any absconder from running out into the busy street and away. Short of bringing the doctor in chained with manacles – which his defence counsel would never have allowed – the court security would be hardly adequate at best, with just two security staff in the dock with Crisp – and that worried Grace.

  33

  Thursday 9 May

  A modern, neat-but-soulless red-brick housing estate, opposite a garage, on the outskirts of Chichester. Carer Denise Clafferty, doing her daily round, rang the doorbell of number 23, a small three-bedroom detached house, dropping in on sweet Stuie Starr.

  The thirty-eight-year-old, with Down’s Syndrome, had been living on his own for nearly six months since his brother had been arrested and was currently in prison on remand, awaiting sentencing. Stuie couldn’t understand why his brother hadn’t come home since travelling to Germany to collect a car, a Ferrari that Stuie had been excited to see.