Find Them Dead

by James, Peter

  Meg turned to the jury bailiff. ‘I think you need to let the judge know that we will not be reaching a decision today.’

  Toby exclaimed, ‘Don’t say we are all now going to be sequestered in some bloody shabby hotel. What a nightmare!’

  ‘That happens in films, Toby,’ Roberts said. ‘It only happens in real life if a judge has concerns there might be an attempt to interfere with the jurors.’

  Meg felt her face smarting and hoped it didn’t show. If Roberts was her mystery friend, he was keeping up a remarkable poker face.

  The bailiff suddenly made an announcement. ‘His Honour would like you all back in court, please.’

  When they were seated in the jury box, Jupp addressed them. ‘Have you elected a foreperson? If so, will that person please stand.’

  Meg stood, suddenly a bag of nerves.

  ‘I understand you are still making your deliberations?’

  ‘That’s right, Your Honour.’

  ‘No problem, you can continue tomorrow but I intend to adjourn the court for today. You may all go home, but I will remind you that you must discuss neither this case, nor your deliberations, with anyone, not even your loved ones and closest family. It is also important that you don’t talk to each other about this case either or undertake any research. This includes when you come back to court tomorrow morning and may find yourselves in the retiring room together. Discussions cannot continue until you go back to the room with the jury bailiff. Court is adjourned until 10 a.m. tomorrow.’

  100

  Wednesday 29 May

  It had been a great fishing trip on Saturday, with the sea almost flat calm. Bruno had reeled in a ton of mackerel when they hit a shoal on the way out, and later hooked a fine bass, several good-sized mullet and a Dover sole. They’d taken some of the catch home and Bruno had eagerly helped cleaning and filleting the fish, which they’d then barbecued on Sunday. Bruno seemed in his element, and happier than Roy and Cleo had ever seen him. Humphrey had gobbled down his leftovers, too, and it did seem he might be turning a corner. The vet had referred him for myotherapy treatment at the Galen Centre, where he had started on a course.

  To Roy and Cleo’s relief, the therapist believed through her assessment that the dog wasn’t becoming aggressive but was being grumpy towards Noah as a consequence of being in pain with his muscles. This also explained his occasional reluctance to go for walks and the continual licking of his paws. There was still a way to go with the treatment, but they were happy with the early signs and news that he could be helped back to health with some more sessions. Roy was relieved that Humphrey’s grumpy moods and uncharacteristic bouts of being aggressive had nothing to do with Bruno. He’d never really considered it that seriously, but it was often Cleo’s first thought when Humphrey acted strangely that it must have something to do with his elder son perhaps tormenting him.

  But now, coming up to the 6 p.m. briefing of Operation Canoe, Roy Grace was less happy with the team’s progress in the case. They were still no further along with any clues as to Stuie Starr’s killers, and Norman Potting had warned him earlier in the day, as if he didn’t already know it, that Cassian Pewe was even more on his back than ever.

  Suddenly his door burst open and a beaming Potting lumbered in, holding something in his outstretched hand. Before Grace had a chance to rebuke him for not knocking first, the DS said, ‘We have a breakthrough, chief!’

  ‘Yes? Tell me?’

  Triumphantly, the DS plonked a small black memory stick on his desk. ‘Take a look at this!’

  Grace frowned. ‘What’s on it?’

  ‘Take a look!’ he beamed.

  Grace inserted the USB, then clicked the image that appeared on his screen to open it and saw the start button for a video. He clicked on that and immediately there was an aerial view of lush, rolling countryside. The video was silent, slowly moving across the landscape, and very steady. Was it from a drone, he wondered?

  Shortly, Grace could see a housing estate, and near it a cluster of industrial buildings. The landscape changed, rapidly, to an urban one – the edge of a town or city. He always found aerial views took a while to figure out, everything looked different and distant. But it was starting to look a little familiar as they passed over a large church or cathedral.

  ‘Recognize that?’ Potting exclaimed, his excitement palpable.

  ‘Chichester?’

  ‘Yes! Look at the date and time, top right on the screen!’

  It read: Wednesday 8 May 3.24 p.m.

  Grace felt a beat of excitement. This was the day before Stuie Starr’s body was discovered by his carer. The day on which, according to the pathologist, Stuie might have died. It fitted.

  ‘Keep watching, chief!’

  More of the city appeared as the camera tracked over it. Then, suddenly, the image froze. It began zooming in on a particular area below, before it started moving again.

  ‘I’ve had Digital Forensics work on this all day, enhancing it,’ Potting said.

  Grace could now see a garage, with a housing estate opposite. As the image was enlarged even further, he could make out what he was pretty sure was the Starrs’ house. A lone car was parked further down the road and, after the camera zoomed in further still, he could recognize the marque, a Mercedes, dark-coloured – either a C or E-class, he wasn’t sure.

  Two figures, in hoodies, suddenly ran out of the house, sprinting away to the car. They looked furtively around, then jumped into the Mercedes and drove off at speed.

  ‘Norman, this is bloody brilliant! How did you get it?’

  ‘We didn’t have any luck from the aerodrome, but whilst I was out I passed a park in Chichester and saw people flying their drones. I went over and spoke to them and asked if any of them had been flying them on the 8th of May. They said they hadn’t but would mention it to other drone enthusiasts that they knew. One of them contacted me earlier today and produced this video. Sheer luck, chief.’

  ‘Excellent work, Norman.’

  The video continued moving away from the house, in the opposite direction to the car, across the city, circling out over the harbour and the sea. Grace stopped and replayed the earlier part.

  ‘A local dealer’s confirmed the model as a current E-Class,’ Potting said. ‘I’ve had the ANPR team check all cameras in the Chichester area for an hour either side of 3.24 p.m. The gods are smiling on us, it was relatively light traffic. Just five of that particular model had pinged any cameras and only two of them dark-coloured. And here’s the bit you are really going to like, chief – one of them has a Sussex Police marker on it as being linked to a suspected armed drug dealer. Name of Conor Drewett.’

  ‘That’s a familiar name.’ Grace smiled. ‘I nicked him a while back in a drugs bust.’

  ‘Yep, well, he’s still around and still a nasty piece of work. I had the pleasure of being bitten on the nose by him about ten years ago and then ending up with a dislocated thumb as I put him on the ground. We have his address. With your permission, chief, I’d like to arrange some of our guys and the local team to pay him a visit early tomorrow.’

  Grace grinned. ‘What a shame to spoil his beauty sleep.’ He shook his head. ‘Driving a known car and parking it in the same road. I often think how lucky for us that some villains are not the whole enchilada.’

  ‘The whole enchilada? You’ve been away in the smoke for too long. Know what I mean?!’

  ‘Six months in the Met, you pick up their jargon, but I’m back home now.’

  ‘He could be a candidate for the Darwin Awards,’ Potting said.

  Grace frowned. ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s a spoof award, given annually to the person who by the nature of their stupidity has contributed the most towards Darwin’s theory of natural selection. Mostly they’re awarded posthumously for editing themselves out of the gene pool.’

  Grace smiled. ‘Love it. Any idea who the other person with him is?’

  The DS shook his head. ‘No doubt one of our fi
ner citizens, chief. If we arrest Drewett, maybe he’ll squeal, or we’ll find some DNA in the Mercedes.’

  ‘Whatever, nice work, Norman.’ His phone rang. Grace answered and listened to the call, intently. The moment he ended it he turned to Potting. ‘That was the lab – it shows that good detective work will always produce results. The lab has found DNA material in the drain-hole contents in the shower tray, belonging to Conor Drewett. My hunch about the towels on the floor has come up trumps. I had a feeling that with all that blood at the crime scene, one of them may have taken a shower.’

  As soon as the DS had left his office, Grace dialled Cassian Pewe’s number. Long past his sell-by date Pewe had said, dismissively, about Norman Potting.

  He waited, eagerly, for the ACC to answer.

  101

  Thursday 30 May

  Meg had slept better. Certainly her first reasonably decent night’s sleep since the nightmare of the trial had begun. Eight of the jury, including herself, were ready to deliver a ‘not guilty’ decision. She just needed one more to get a 9–2 verdict, once the judge had said he would accept a majority verdict.

  Hopefully, after his night of thinking over the spreadsheets, geeky oddball Rory O’Brien would have arrived at the same conclusions as the majority of them – and Laura would be safe.

  And if O’Brien didn’t, she was confident she could work on him and on the other two who had voted ‘guilty’, one of whom had to be Harold Trout.

  She made sure she arrived early, and was already seated by 9.30 a.m. The rest of the jurors filed in over the next twenty minutes, and there was a relaxed, end-of-term feeling in the room.

  At 10 a.m., there was just one absentee. Rory O’Brien.

  Where was he, Meg wondered? Five minutes later he had still not appeared, and a dark thought crossed her mind. Had something happened to him? Surely there would have been nothing to gain by Gready’s henchmen doing anything to him?

  A couple of minutes later, the geek hurried in, muttering an apology, something about a change in the bus timetable.

  With all eyes on him, he took a while to settle down and find his place in the bundle of documents he had left in situ from yesterday. He then apologized again, to Meg, for his tardy arrival.

  ‘No problem, Rory,’ she said in an encouraging tone.

  The jury were summoned to the courtroom for a short time before being escorted back to the jury room by the bailiff, as before, to continue their deliberations.

  102

  Thursday 30 May

  ‘Have you arrived at your own verdict?’ Meg asked the young man.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m there. But I don’t think you are going to like this.’

  Meg looked at O’Brien and felt, suddenly, very scared. There was something about the calm way he had spoken that unnerved her. His words ground into her brain like the whine of a chainsaw.

  I don’t think you are going to like this.

  She held her breath for a moment then said, ‘Tell us your thoughts, Rory?’

  The man looked nervous, as if unused to having an audience. He stammered a little. ‘Well – um – the thing – the thing is – the d-d-d-dates – this is what I find in-in-interesting.’

  He fell silent.

  ‘Dates of what, Rory?’ Meg asked, maintaining her gently inquisitive tone.

  ‘I’ve checked the dates of the classic car importations and also the large deposit transfers involving the overseas accounts and the classic car company. From these dates provided I’ve discovered that, if Mr Starr is to be believed, Mrs Gready was very conveniently abroad, judging orchids in international competitions, on each of those dates. All the competition dates were in the document bundle.’

  ‘And your point is?’ Meg asked.

  O’Brien responded, ‘Well, it’s very simple. Is it beyond coincidence that on all twenty-seven occasions that Mrs Gready has been abroad, engaged in her judging, that a classic car, packed with Class-A drugs, has entered a British port, or a large cash deposit has been moved through the LH Classics account? I don’t think so. I would say that to consider this a series of coincidences is pretty far-fetched.’

  ‘You’re suggesting Gready deliberately chose the dates for when his wife would be out of the country?’ Roberts asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  Meg felt deep, growing anxiety.

  The former detective looked thoughtful. ‘That does make a lot of sense. These quantities of drugs and cash movements are enormous by any standard. If Gready was involved – indeed, the mastermind – then in the immediate hours and days following the arrivals of the shipments he would have been busy, probably around the clock, inundated with calls on burners. He might have had a problem explaining to his wife quite what the hell he was up to. Much better if she was conveniently out of the country.’

  There was a palpable silence in the room.

  Meg was thinking hard and fast. ‘It could simply be coincidence,’ she replied. But the moment she had spoken, she realized just how lame that sounded.

  So, it seemed, from the change of atmosphere in the room, did everyone else.

  ‘Twenty-seven coincidences,’ Roberts said. ‘With respect, Meg, do you really think that is plausible?’

  There was a long silence, during which Meg was struggling to come up with a response. Suddenly, from feeling in control, she was staring up at a seemingly impenetrable wall. ‘On the face of it, no,’ she was forced to admit. ‘But there may be another blindingly obvious explanation.’

  ‘Which is?’ said Harold Trout.

  She felt her face reddening. Part with embarrassment and part in anger at the look of smug triumph on his face.

  Pressing his perceived advantage, Trout said, in a condescending voice which angered her even further, ‘You have demonstrated that you are clearly a highly intelligent lady, Meg. Do you really expect any of us to accept that on each of the twenty-seven times that Mr Gready’s wife has been abroad, judging these competitions, it is entirely coincidental that major drug deals, allegedly by her husband, took place? Does that extraordinarily high number in any way fit the issue of innocence? I’m afraid it doesn’t for me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Mark Adams.

  ‘Doesn’t do it for me either,’ said Toby.

  ‘I’m afraid that much though I want to believe Mr Gready is indeed a nice man, this does change the landscape for me,’ Hari Singh said.

  Edmond O’Reilly Hyland had been quiet for some while, but now chipped in. ‘As well as this, we need to remember the evidence found at Gready’s house and in the deposit box. In my opinion it’s inconceivable that Gready would have told anyone else about the hollowed-out bedpost. To me, his suggesting that Starr was behind this is total nonsense.’

  Meg looked bleakly around the solemn faces and felt tears welling, but needed to be strong and not let it show. Only Hugo Pink met her eye, and he gave her a reluctant chin up grimace.

  The jury continued with their deliberations until lunchtime, when it became apparent they would not be able to reach agreement. Meg turned to the jury bailiff. ‘Can we return to the court to let the judge know we are not close, or likely to be unanimous?’

  A short time later, with all parties back in court, the judge turned to the jury. ‘I understand that you are unable to reach a unanimous verdict on the counts and that there is no likelihood of you doing so. As we are reduced to eleven members, I am able to accept a majority verdict of 10–1 or 9–2 from you. This is in accordance with section 17 (1) b Juries Act 1974.’

  He then asked the jury bailiff, Jacobi Whyte, to take the jury back to their room to continue their discussions.

  103

  Thursday 30 May

  Forty-five minutes later the jury followed their bailiff back into court and took their places in the box. Meg was shaking, her brain almost frozen by despair and terror. She could scarcely believe the events of the morning, just how quickly the panel had turned.

  She looked around the court. There was utter
silence. No one was moving. It was as if she had entered a tableau at Madame Tussauds. Terence Gready was seated, neatly dressed, staring dead ahead, as motionless as a statue. All the legal counsel in their grey wigs and dark garb were static, the public gallery filled with people as motionless as cardboard cut-outs and the full press gallery equally frozen.

  Time had stopped.

  She felt as if she might faint.

  The imposing figure of Judge Richard Jupp dominated the courtroom. The clerk of court, Maureen Sapsed, stood and faced the jury. Looking directly at Meg, her tone friendly, but stiffer and more formal than previously, she said, ‘Will the foreperson please stand.’

  Meg rose, trembling even more, gripping a sheet of paper. She was terrified she would throw up at any moment.

  ‘I understand you have reached your verdict.’

  ‘Yes.’ She stared, fearfully, back at the judge. Her voice was trapped inside her throat. She was conscious that every single pair of eyes in the court was focused on her. Utter silence. A drop of perspiration trickled down the back of her neck. She began to hear a drumming in her ears. The pounding of her heart.

  Sapsed continued. ‘On the first count, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of the charge?’

  ‘Guilty, Your Honour,’ she managed to say, finally.

  There was an audible gasp throughout the court. A woman up in the public gallery shouted, ‘Oh my God, no!’

  The judge looked up, with clear annoyance, and waited for silence. The court clerk addressed Meg again. ‘Is that the verdict of you all?’

  She glanced at the sheet of paper for reassurance. ‘It is a majority verdict, Your Honour, 10–1.’

  Meg continued to read the verdicts of the jury for the other five counts against Gready. Each verdict was guilty by a majority of 10–1.

  Sapsed cast her eye over the entire jury. ‘Your verdict, by a 10–1 majority, is that the defendant is guilty on all counts.’ The jurors looked back at her, a couple nodding.