I make my way back to Ray Goodwin’s office and find him, as usual, on the telephone. He beckons me in just as soon as he sees me pacing outside one of the glass walls.
I take a seat opposite him and wait for the call to finish.
‘How’s Sarah Johnson doing?’ he asks the instant he hangs up.
‘Good as her word, boss. Poor woman is reliving every agonising moment of what Crewe did to her.’
‘Well, it won’t be in vain. The chief has just told me that the attorney general and chief prosecutor have signed off on Ashley Crewe’s extradition. The warrant has been served on him by Thai authorities and they have promised to process his return to the UK with expediency.’
‘I’m relieved to hear all that. When will he be back in the UK?’
He grimaces. ‘Expect days, perhaps even a week. His lawyers are bound to appeal. They’ll look for loopholes, pay some bribes, do whatever they can to keep him there.’
‘I can’t wait to see this cowardly sack of crap in the flesh. I don’t care if he says no comment, no comment, no comment to me. I just want to get into his head and make him hate himself.’
Goodwin clasps his hands and becomes thoughtful. ‘I think we have strong evidence in the rape case. The victim’s testimony is supported by Danny Smith’s evidence and dovetails with the faked murder and Ashley Crewe fleeing the country. I see most juries convicting on that. The case of falsifying British passport documentation to illegally settle in another country is even more cut and dried. I’m also confident we can show Ashley was wrapped up in an international drugs ring. The difficulties will come in proving the attempted murder on you.’
‘And the murder of Charlie York?’
‘That too. The Thai police have seized phone handsets in Janjira Chaiprasit’s house. Presuming they show fingerprints from Ashley Crewe we can prove that one of those was used to call Richardson just before York was killed and Richardson tried to murder you. But you know what Ashley is going to claim, don’t you?’
‘He knew nothing about the drugs or the call and it was all Janjira’s doing.’
‘Exactly.’
A penny drops for me. ‘This is precisely why he distanced himself from any involvement in her companies?’
Goodwin nods. ‘Strange, isn’t it, how savage rapists turn out in later life to be smart sociopaths.’
A thought hits me. ‘I think I know a way to bring this home, boss. I need another crack at Raurie Crewe. One more crack. And I need to do it right now.’
119
Paula
Detective Sergeant Patel turns off the recorder and hands a sealed copy of the interview tape to Terry. ‘I am sorry,’ she says to me, ‘but I am under instructions to take you straight through to the custody suite and charge you in relation to the bigamy offence that you have admitted. Would you like a break before we do that?’
I shake my head. ‘No, thank you. I’d just like to get everything finished, please.’
‘I understand. Please follow me.’
Terry and I gather our stuff and we tag along as she leaves the room, holding the door politely for us.
‘What about bail?’ I ask him as we walk behind her.
‘I don’t see a case for keeping you in custody.’
We turn the corner and she swipes an electronic card over a reader pad and we enter a colder, more secure area of the building. The thing that hits me straight away is the noise. Because there are no carpets, curtains or anything soft to soak up sound, our feet slap like drums on a hard floor until we stop at a raised counter and a sign saying Custody Sergeant: Brenda Debarrie. Behind it is a tall, slim, black officer in her early forties. She has big dark eyes set in a full-moon face that’s framed by the most beautifully braided hair I’ve ever seen.
DS Patel brings my musings to a halt. ‘Paula Smith, under the Offences Against the Person Act of 1861, you are charged with bigamy, in that already being married to Daniel Kenneth Smith of Chiswick, London, and not divorced, you did illegally enter into a second marriage to Martin Johnson of Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire.’
The custody sergeant adds, ‘Paula, do you want to make any reply to that charge?’
‘I understand it and I do not deny it,’ I answer.
‘You are being granted police bail,’ she continues, ‘on condition that you surrender the passports you hold in the names of Paula Smith and Sarah Johnson. You may return home to your address in Chiswick, or to another stipulated abode, until a date is fixed for you to appear before a magistrates’ court. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I do. I won’t be going back to my residence in London, so I’ll give you a temporary address in the Cotswolds, if that’s all right?’
‘It’s fine,’ confirms Patel. ‘You can write it on the bail form in just a moment. Paula Smith, you are further charged, under the Fraud Act of 2006, that on various dates you unlawfully obtained a passport, a driver’s licence and various banking services under the name of Sarah Johnson, to which you were not entitled. These facilities will be suspended forthwith. I also have to advise you that we will be contacting authorities in Italy and assisting them should they wish to pursue actions against you for making false declarations to the marriage registrar in Tuscany, namely that you claimed to be single and therefore eligible to enter into a marriage when in fact you were not. Do you understand the charges as I have outlined?’
‘I do.’
Patel adds, ‘Do you have any questions?’
‘No, I don’t. Thank you.’
She picks a document off the counter top. ‘This is a search warrant in respect of your property in London and the dwelling in Chipping Norton, where you have cohabited with Mr Johnson. We are seeking the recovery of the fraudulent documents obtained by you and discovery of any other offences you may have committed.’
‘I’ll take that.’ Terry extends a hand and snatches the paper.
Patel gives me a sympathetic look. ‘If you just sign these forms, then you are free to go.’
Free? I think to myself, that’s the last thing I feel I am.
120
Annie
Raurie Crewe has been stewing in a police cell since we charged him with drugs offences and magistrates refused his plea to be released on bail.
We call his solicitor back to the station and, once we have them both paired up in the interview room, I trigger the tape recorder and caution him that he is being interviewed because new information has come to light.
In front of me is a thick manila file. I take out three sheets of paper and pass them over one at a time. ‘This is a mugshot of your brother, Ashley. It was taken in a Thai police station, where he is being held. This is the English extradition warrant asking for him to be sent back to the UK. And this final document is the Thai government’s official agreement to that extradition.’
I watch their eyes roam the papers.
‘At this very moment, Raurie, I have search teams going over everything Andy Ellison, your former bookkeeper, ever touched. Andy kept accounts. You know it, and I know it – and sooner or later, we’ll find them. Meanwhile, your brother Ashley is already talking deals, Raurie.’
This is a lie, but they can’t know that. I watch their eyes and see worry bloat their pupils.
‘Ashley says the drugs were nothing to do with him. Nor the murder of Charlie York. Or Richardson’s attempt to kill me. It was all you. And guess what? Janjira backs him up. She even says the only reason her daughter is in England is that you demanded she be there – as collateral – to ensure Ashley provided the Asian hook-ups you needed to bring the yaba into Europe.’
‘She’s lying. That’s rubbish,’ snaps Crewe.
Beard puts a hand on his forearm. ‘Raurie, remember, you do not have to say a word.’
‘I think he does, Mr Beard. I think he has to talk a lot. Because I’ve spoken to my boss, and he’s spoken to the DPP and she’s spoken to the attorney general, and after all that speaking there’s a deal for you. But it only lasts
until I find Ellison’s books. Then, you’re on your way to court and a jail stay that will be at least as long as Kieran’s.’
I take another pause. Watch worry spread like a chill through Raurie’s frame. Watch it whiten his clenched knuckles.
‘What are you offering?’ says Crewe nervously.
‘Raurie,’ snaps Beard. ‘Say nothing else.’
‘Oh, shut the fuck up, Jordan. Can’t you see this isn’t the time for denial? This is the time to make a deal.’
‘He’s right, Jordan. Under the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act of 2005, I have the authority, via the attorney general, to offer immunity against prosecution. Put simply, Raurie, a stay out of jail card. In return for full admission – and I mean full admission – of all your guilt, and your continuous cooperation right through trial and appeal if necessary, I can guarantee you will not be prosecuted, and, furthermore, you will be relocated under a police witness protection programme.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I say cautiously. ‘You’re going to lose everything. Everything except your liberty. Houses, cars, cash and assets – they are all going to be seized. But in return for giving evidence against Ashley, you’ll be free to start over again.’
‘I said, I’ll take it. I’ll take the deal.’
‘I need a sign of good faith. Who ordered Colin Richardson to kill Charlie York?’
‘Don’t say a word, Raurie,’ insists Beard. ‘We need a written guarantee of this immunity.’
‘My promise is on the record, Mr Beard.’ I nod to the tape recorder. ‘You get a copy; I get a copy. We need to establish trust and understanding here.’
‘I called Ashley soon after you left my office. Initially, I rang Charlie York and he said he’d sort out the mess, but I didn’t have the confidence that he would, so I called my brother. Ash told me not to worry, he said he’d make sure neither copper caused us problems going forward.’
‘And what did you take that to mean?’
He pauses for a second. Realises his lawyer is no longer any use to him. He’s on his own. ‘I took it to mean he was going to have Richardson kill both you and York.’
Just to be doubly sure of the hierarchy in the family, I ask, ‘And you rang Ashley why?’
He smiles. ‘Because Ash calls all the shots. Literally, and figuratively. We were small time until he went abroad. First to Spain, then Morocco and finally Asia. He built the links we needed and I handled the European financials while Kieran handled the muscle.’
I sense a missing piece of the jigsaw has just turned up. ‘You said “first to Spain” – what did you mean?’
He lets out a long sigh. ‘Some of it you’ve worked out. Some I don’t think you know. Back when we were small time, we messed up with the Appletons. They were our suppliers, our bosses. Ashley raped Michael Appleton’s ex-girlfriend, a girl called Karina Becks. Only she wasn’t his ex. He was just more interested in some other girls, and Karina had been sidelined. It became a respect thing. My dad was called by his dad and told to sort it out, or we’d all get wasted.’
‘And for the sake of the tape, by wasted you took it to mean killed?’
‘I did. My old man had his marbles back then, so he came up with the idea of faking Ashley’s death and getting him out of the country. As the oldest, it was down to me to implement it.’
‘So how exactly did you get Ashley out of England?’
‘Easily. At the time, he and Kieran looked very alike, so he just used Kieran’s passport and took a flight to Marbella. No one ever asked a question. Needless to say, Ash never came back. He moved from there to Morocco and everything was fine, but then the local cops in Marrakech busted a lot of the guys he was dealing with. We needed a new passport to get him out of the country and that’s when I went back to Danny Smith for his.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, with genuine relief. ‘I am going to call a short break to this interview, and then, Mr Crewe, I’d like to start at the very beginning and chronicle every single detail of every single crime. Can I rest assured of your full cooperation going forward?’
The enormity finally hits him and he buries his head in his hands.
‘My client has already promised you such cooperation,’ says Beard. ‘He is a man of his word.’
121
Danny
There’s an AA meeting startin’ in half an hour, at a little place I used to go to when I first got round to admittin’ I had an alcohol problem. It’s in a church hall not far from Chiswick Park and is run by a saintly woman in her seventies who you’d want as your gran. Noreen is a gem of an old dear and never tries to hurry you out, once all the ‘business’ is done. I’ve even seen her wrappin’ biscuits and food up for blokes unlucky enough to be sleepin’ rough.
Before goin’ in, I ring Paula. My heart beat doublin’ as the call connects.
To my amazement, she actually answers.
‘Danny—’
I cut off whatever objection she’s going to voice. ‘Paula, guess where I am?’
‘Danny, I’m at the police station. I’m not really in the mood for guessing.’
I sense she’s about to hang up on me. ‘Paula, I’m on my way in to an AA meetin’. My idea. Not even Stevie’s. I’m tryin’. Really tryin’ to sort myself out.’
‘That’s good. I’m pleased for you,’ she says, half-heartedly, not that I blame her, she’s heard me sayin’ this kind of thing a lot of times. ‘Stick at it this time,’ she adds. ‘You’ve got it in you to be sober again.’
‘I will be. I promise. Listen, I know you want to hang up, but I’ve been thinkin’ about things, about us and the past and us and the future and—’
‘Danny!’ She raises her voice. ‘I can’t do this right now.’
‘Don’t hang up, please don’t hang up. Thirty seconds. Less. That’s all I need.’
‘Be quick,’ she snaps.
‘I love you, Paula. You know I do. I’ve always loved you, always will. Which is why I’m now able to say this. Go through with the divorce. Let me get sober, let me sort myself out. If I can do that, then I know I can win you back. But you don’t have to stay married to me. You don’t have to make that deal with the devil.’
‘Danny—’
‘I just want the best for you, Paula. I want you to be happy, with or without me. After all the shit I’ve put you through, you deserve that.’ I feel emotional but I keep talkin’ so she doesn’t interrupt again. ‘And don’t worry about him. About that Martin bloke. I’m not going to talk to the cops again or go after him. I’m done with the bad stuff. Done with badness eatin’ me up. I’m goin’ to be a new Danny. Or at least I’m goin’ to try to be.’
There’s silence. Long, awkward silence, then she says, ‘Thank you. Thank you for everything you’ve just said. Let me get away from here, Danny, then I’ll call you back. You can tell me how you went on at the meeting.’
‘Okay. Thanks. Love you.’
She hangs up without reply. But I’m not downhearted. Just the opposite. I am going to sort my life out. I really am.
Some gangly youth lookin’ down at his phone bangs straight into me. Head on. ‘Hey!’ I shout a split second after impact. He grabs me and steadies me. Then instead of a ‘sorry’, the fucker punches me in the stomach and scarpers.
I double-up in pain.
Fuck! That really hurt. The beanpole has knocked all the air out of me.
A fire erupts in my stomach.
I drop to my knees.
My world tilts. Left right. Forward. Backward.
I take my hands off my belly and see blood. Lots of blood. Knife in the stomach, pumpin’ blood like fuckery.
A black cloud billows towards me.
It is the cloud of death and I can’t move.
It rolls around me. Turns me cold. Fills my lungs and the back of my eyes with its darkness.
I am coughin’ blackness.
Coughin’ dust.
Coughin’ death.
Four Months Later
122
Annie
The Central Criminal Court, London
‘Ashley Crewe, you murdered Daniel Smith.’ The accusation comes from Prosecuting QC, Sylvia Oughton, and she makes it while pointing straight at Crewe as he slouches in the dock of Number One Court. I confess, I feel my heart jump with excitement as the man I’ve hunted across continents squirms in the most famous courtroom in the world. ‘You murdered Daniel Smith,’ she continues, ‘just as surely as if it had been your hand on the knife, instead of that of the teenager Ronnie Croft, standing in the dock beside you. And you did it in the most cowardly of ways. You did it from a distance. From the safety of your palatial home in Thailand, from the luxurious base of your global drug dealing empire.’
The trim fifty-year-old stares Crewe down for several more seconds to register her full contempt, then she turns to the jury of seven men and five women. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, by Ronnie Croft’s own admission, he was a street soldier, a raw recruit in Crewe’s empire, but one willing to do whatever he was told in order to earn some money and so-called respect for himself.’
My eyes glide from Crewe to Croft and I remember the nineteen-year-old looking relaxed and happy in his mum’s garden. I remember his child, swaddled in clothes to keep out the winter chill being passed around and hugged. And I think of all the lives, past, present and future that Ashley Crewe has ruined.
‘Croft told you,’ continues Oughton, ‘that as the son of career criminal Colin Richardson, he was proud to have helped his father escape from Full Sutton prison. He said he was as equally proud to assist Richardson in the abduction of Andrew Ellison and, had the pair not inopportunely come into contact with DI Parker in a supermarket car park, he would have accompanied his father into the store where they planned to purchase a blowtorch to use on Ellison – to torture him into surrendering the financial accounts that this court has seen. Books detailing five years of the Crewe family’s illegal income from selling category A, B and C drugs across Britain.’
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