by James, Peter
God, she so desperately needed to talk to someone. But she didn’t dare.
She had a friend on the jury – but who was it? The evidence against Gready today from that officer, DS Alexander, was pretty damning. Although, if she was honest, Meg had lost track a little as he’d detailed, throughout the long afternoon, the chain of overseas companies and how they connected. She’d tried hard to follow, but it had done her head in – as it had for some of the other jurors, too, she could tell.
All that stuff before, about whether or not Terence Gready had been in his office when the man who had driven the vehicle into Newhaven, Michael Starr, had been there, too. That did not seem to have played well with the jurors. During a brief afternoon recess, Mike Roberts, sounding more like a cop than ever, had said he found the evidence so far to be strong and, in his view, the defence was squirming. He was backed up by Maisy, who seemed to have changed her mind, Toby, Edmond, Sophie, Mark and Harold. The ones who had kept quiet were Hari Singh, Rory O’Brien and Hugo Pink.
The man had very definitely said a friend.
Who? Hugo Pink was one possibility, she suspected. He wasn’t accepting any of the negative evidence. Rory O’Brien was possibly another, but she couldn’t be sure, he was difficult to read.
She’d looked up online to see if, with a jury reduced to eleven, a judge could still convict on a 9–2 verdict. They could.
If, however, more than two jurors were unconvinced of his guilt then that would simply result in a hung jury, and the judge would likely go for a retrial. And that wasn’t acceptable. It had already been made very plain to her what was needed. Those two words. Nothing less.
‘Not guilty’ had started to become a mantra inside her head.
Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty.
She’d woken yesterday actually saying it out loud.
She sniffed, went into the bathroom and dried her eyes with the towel hanging there. But as she did so, she began sobbing again. Her phone rang. She hurried over to the bed where she’d left it and answered.
‘Has the judge put his black cap on yet?’
She smiled, despite her tears, at the sound of her friend’s voice. ‘Hey, Ali.’
‘Hey.’
For a moment, for the first time ever in their years of friendship, Meg couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘Megs, are you OK?’
‘Yes.’ Meg was struggling to hold it together.
‘You don’t sound OK. What’s happened?’
Suddenly, she couldn’t help it, the dam burst and the tears flooded again.
‘Megs, I’m coming straight over, be there in fifteen.’
‘N-n-n-no. No.’ Meg thought frantically. Not here. Too dangerous. ‘Why don’t we go to the beach, have a drink in that bar there?’
‘Sure, OK. Actually, tell you what, it’s such a glorious evening, why don’t I bring a bottle and a couple of glasses and we’ll go sit on the beach. Usual place?’
‘Yes, thanks, that would be good.’
‘I’ve got a lovely chilled rosé in the fridge. OK?’
‘Anything, Ali, so long as it’s a big bottle. Like, a really big bottle. Maybe even two bottles!’
‘You’re sounding better already!’
65
Thursday 16 May
‘Look, look, look!’ Cleo said excitedly as Roy Grace arrived home at a few minutes to 7 p.m. She leaned forward to kiss him then showed him the box in her hands.
‘Eggs?’
She nodded vigorously. ‘Well done. You should be a detective – oh, I forgot, you are one!’ she said, playfully.
He grinned, closing the door behind him and giving Humphrey a quick stroke. ‘Something special about these eggs?’
‘There is, open it, something special about both of them!’
‘Both of them?’ He peered inside. ‘OK, they are blue. Any significance?’
‘Nope.’
‘They’re organic, free range and cost a fortune?’ he ventured.
She shook her head. ‘They’re organic, free range and free.’
‘Free?’
‘Those things we have in the big run in the garden. The feathered creatures that make a clucking noise?’
His eyes widened with delight as he finally understood. ‘These are from them?’
‘Yes, our very first blue eggs!’
‘Wow, amazing!’ He felt a real buzz of excitement. ‘Which ones did they come from?’
‘It must be the new hens – Dorothy and Bessie – we’ve not had this colour before. I’ll have to ask Bruno. I’ve put him in charge of them and he’s now responsible for keeping them clean, feeding them and collecting the eggs. I think it will do him good and get him out of that damned bedroom. And I’ve told him if there are any eggs left over, he can sell them and pocket the money.’
‘I like it. Good parenting! I’d actually given up on them ever laying,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘The guy at Wishing Wells Farm said it could be a while before they started laying and he was right. I’ve been checking the nesting boxes every day and so has Bruno, so we know they’re freshly laid.’
‘Great, let’s hope we get a few more quickly and we can make a meal out of them!’
‘Definitely! One of your omelettes?’
‘Bien sur!’ he said, with a French accent. ‘Oeufs Grace? A little grated cheese, chopped chilli, spring onion, red peppers and tomato, madame?’
‘You’re making me hungry!’
‘So tell them to lay some more, quick!’
‘I will pass on your instructions.’
‘How was your day?’ he asked, following her through to the kitchen, slackening his tie and slinging his jacket on the back of a chair.
‘OK, quiet at the mortuary – only two new admissions.’
‘Signed the guest book, did they?’
‘Their hands were a bit stiff.’
He grinned again.
‘And Kaitlynn said Noah’s got a cold and been pretty grumpy. He’s asleep now.’
‘Where’s Bruno?’
‘Where do you think? In his boy cave, the very one I’m trying to find ways of getting him out of!’
Roy stood behind Cleo, putting his arms round her waist, and pulled her in towards him. ‘I’m glad it was quiet at work for you, we need to wrap you in cotton wool. I’m grateful every day that you’re OK now.’
‘Me too. I think about it constantly. It was around now we lost the baby last time.’
‘I know you’re worried, but you are fit and healthy and the doctor’s said there’s no reason why everything shouldn’t be fine. And, of course, now I’m back in Sussex I can wait on my beautiful bride hand and foot.’
She laughed. ‘As if! That will stop the first time you get called out. But I do know you’ve made a big sacrifice not staying on in the Met – I know how much that meant to you.’
He went to the fridge. ‘It was the right decision. I’m good with it. Sussex is where I belong, and where I want to be. For sure my time on the streets in London has opened my eyes, and it’ll help me here. And maybe I’ve made a tiny difference.’
She looked at him. ‘Do you think you’re ever going to win the war on drugs? Are you ever going to be able to stop the suppliers?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He shook his head. ‘I didn’t tell you about the kid we stopped in Newham, fourteen years old, acting suspicious. He had a knife on him and nine wraps of heroin. When we nicked him, I said, “Shouldn’t you be in school, why are you doing this?” He just smiled at me and said, “I make two grand a week – that’s more than you make.”’ Roy shrugged. ‘How do I argue against that?’
Cleo smiled. She had no answer.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’
She pointed at a mug on the table. ‘I’m sipping my infusion. My pregnancy special!’
‘Nice?’
She screwed up her face. ‘It smells like molten tarmac and tastes like mildew.’
‘Sounds
like it could catch on.’
‘It has – either very clever online marketing, or there are millions of pregnant women out there on social media who have different taste buds to mine.’
‘Maybe your taste buds got altered by your pregnancy – that happened with you before.’ He walked over, picked up the brew and sniffed it.
‘Yeccccch!’ He put the mug straight back down. ‘That is vile.’
‘I’m taking it for the team.’
‘Our baby had better damned well appreciate it!’
‘I’ll be reminding him – or her – for the rest of its life.’
Humphrey trotted into the room and over to Roy.
He patted the dog. ‘OK, boy, in a little while, I’ll take you for a nice walk. Yeah, you want to go walkies?’ Normally, Humphrey would have been jumping and pestering, but instead he sloped off under the table.
‘Well, that’s just weird, isn’t it?’
‘What, Roy?’
‘I said the magic walkies word and Humph has taken himself off under the table. Look at him just lying there obsessively cleaning his feet!’
‘Maybe he’s embarrassed because I really told him off earlier – he was growling at Noah. He’s probably gone under there in shame.’
‘Growling? He’s normally a big softy. What’s happened?’
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps he knows there’s going to be another baby in the house and is getting jealous. I hope Bruno hasn’t been teasing him. I often see him winding him up, maybe that’s it?’
‘Bruno? Bruno is great with him. Don’t start thinking bad of him. It’s one of his positive traits.’
‘All I’m saying is we’ll need to keep a very close eye on the dog when he’s with Noah and the new arrival. If he shows any aggression—’ Cleo held back from saying something she might regret.
‘Hey, come on, darling, you’re always telling people a dog is not just for Christmas, it’s for life. We’ll watch him and, if we need to, we can separate them. I’m sure it’s nothing.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ she said, flatly.
‘I hear what you’re saying, OK. Come on, let’s not get annoyed about something that hasn’t even happened! I’ll be all over Humphrey, watching him like a hawk, and he won’t do anything to any of the children. I promise. Remember, I’m a detective, so you have to believe me!’ he said, trying to lighten up the conversation a little.
‘Good. OK, detective, how was the rest of your day?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been going through the paperwork for Dr Crisp’s trial with Glenn and our legal team.’
‘Slippery Dr Crisp. Who nearly blew your leg off. But it’s not personal, is it, for you?’
He grinned. ‘Personal, moi? A nice kind family doctor who has a penchant for raping and killing young women and who shot me in the leg with a twelve-bore, so I’m still limping a little eighteen months on – why should it be personal?’ He grinned again. ‘He was just doing his job and I was doing mine.’
Cleo gave him a strange look, as if unsure for an instant whether he was joking or not.
‘The bastard is scheming to escape, I know it, and I want extra security – hospitals are easy for a man of Crisp’s ingenuity, but idiot Pewe won’t hear of it. He refuses to liaise with the Met Police on this, because of costs coming back to us. Can you believe it?’
‘How did Pewe ever get to be where he is?’ she asked. ‘Who on earth promoted him in the first place?’
‘The Peter Principle,’ Grace replied.
‘The what?’
‘A guy back in the 1960s – I think he was a sociologist called Peter something – came up with the theory that in every organization, sooner or later people get promoted to the level of their incompetence.’
‘That fits,’ she replied. ‘Guess you’d better make sure you don’t get promoted again.’ She grinned.
‘Thanks a lot!’ He gave her a friendly punch on the shoulder then shook his head. ‘The problem with Pewe is no one ever knows where they are with him. I’m only just back from the Met and I’ve seen him a couple of times and he’s been fine, almost friendly. In fact, he’s going to support my application for the Chief Superintendent process in Sussex. But this Crisp business is taking him back to his old self.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, I’m almost wishing that he would bloody escape, just to piss off Pewe!’
His job phone rang, interrupting him. It was Norman Potting.
Roy Grace got his wish. Crisp had escaped.
66
Thursday 16 May
7.30 p.m. and it felt as hot as mid-afternoon in the still air. Dozens of people were on the beach, soaking up the last of the day’s rays, and the tide was far out, exposing a vast area of mud. Closer in, just beyond the pebbles, two toddlers in sun hats, under the scrutiny of their parents, were busy digging with their plastic spades, creating a lopsided castle. A detectorist in a combat jacket and safari hat worked his way across the expanse, sweeping his scanner in arcs, occasionally stopping and digging with his trowel, and a short distance beyond the lazy surf, a paddleboarder moved serenely along. There was a tempting smell of barbecuing wafting in the air.
Alison and Meg found a quiet spot by a breakwater and settled down. Alison was someone who always seemed to Meg to be happy in her skin. She had a good marriage with Archie, a gentle giant of a man, a former bodybuilder who owned a couple of small health clubs in the city, and whom Meg liked a lot. Alison was a partner in a local advertising agency, a job she enjoyed, and she had the knack of always dressing appropriately for any occasion. This evening she wore a baseball cap over her long brown hair, fashionably large Dior sunnies, a short, floral smock and diamanté-studded sandals. She dug into her beach bag, produced a bottle of wine in a cool bag, a corkscrew and two large glasses.
‘I’ve got a spare in here, in case,’ she said, tapping the bag with a smile. She worked the cork out, then filled both glasses halfway and handed Meg one. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers.’ Meg was wearing a large straw hat and one of Nick’s shirts over a bikini, in case for some mad reason they went in for a swim, and flip-flops.
They clinked glasses and each sipped a little.
‘Right,’ Alison said. ‘So, talk to me.’
Further out to sea a jet-ski rasped along, trailed by a plume of spray. Meg sat in silence, staring at her glass, turning it round in her hands. She’d left the phone behind, deliberately, despite what they had told her, in case there was a listening device of some kind implanted in it by the bastards. She looked around, warily. Had anyone followed her here? Was anyone in earshot? The nearest people were two young canoodling lovers, a good fifty yards away. She took another sip; it tasted good, cold and crisp. Then another for courage.
‘God, Ali,’ she said, leaning forward and peering down into her glass again. Thinking. She’d recently watched an episode of an American spy drama where someone had used a directional mic to pick up a conversation hundreds of yards away. And another episode of the same series where two operatives held a conversation in a hotel washroom, where they ran a tap to muffle the sound and prevent any eavesdropping. ‘Want to go and paddle in the surf?’ she said.
Alison looked surprised. ‘OK, sure.’
‘We can take our glasses!’
Alison topped them both up. They walked across to the edge of the pebbles, kicked off their shoes and headed out towards the water, Meg enjoying the cooling sensation of the moist muddy sand. Making the pace, she led them knee-high into the icy surf then stopped and clinked glasses with her friend again. ‘Thanks for coming, Ali.’
They stood in silence for some moments. Meg watched the tall structures of the wind farm some way out to sea, then turned back, looking at the shore.
‘So, Megs, what is it, what’s going on?’
‘This may sound crazy, but I’m scared to tell you.’
Alison frowned. ‘What do you mean? Scared to tell me what?’
Meg desperately wanted to check across the beach and beyond, to se
e if she could spot the glint of binocular lenses. But that would be a giveaway, she thought. ‘I don’t want to put you in danger,’ she said, quietly, barely above a whisper.
‘Danger?’
‘Oh God, Ali, I’m living a nightmare. I went to hell and back after Nick and Will died and now I’m back in hell again.’
‘What do you mean? What is it, what on earth has happened?’
‘I’m scared to tell you. They – he – said they would kill anyone I told.’
‘I can look after myself, and anyhow, I’ve got Archie to protect me too, Megs. He’s been a bouncer and a bodyguard and in his teens he was once a bare-knuckle cage fighter – if you need someone sorting out, he’ll do it!’
Meg smiled and shook her head. ‘Thanks, but these people – I just have a feeling they are seriously dangerous. I don’t think their threats are idle.’
‘What people? Who are you talking about? Please tell me.’
‘Alison, listen to me carefully.’ Meg made and held eye contact with her, speaking quietly. ‘I’m being watched.’
‘What?’
‘Ssshhhh, I’m serious, don’t react. Mine and Laura’s lives depend on this. When I tell you what I’m about to, act as if we are just chatting normally, try not to give anything away with your body language, and don’t look around. It’s really, really important, OK?’
‘Yes, OK,’ she replied, dubiously.
Meg took a few further paces into the sea until the water was above the bottom of her shirt. No one was around. In addition to the breaking waves behind them, the jet-ski was buzzing back in the opposite direction. No one, she was sure, could eavesdrop on them here. She told her friend the full story.
‘Oh God, this is awful,’ Alison said when she had finished. ‘If you could find out who this bastard is, Archie would go and find him and break every bone in his body.’
‘I wish. But that’s not going to stop it, Ali, that’s not going to protect Laura. He’s probably just some hired gun. From all I’ve heard in court, this is a major and totally ruthless mob. Like – a kind of English Mafia.’
‘Megs, they might think they’re above the law but, ultimately, no one is.’