by Peter James
Could it be that whoever had done this had gone into the house to look for cash, or drugs, or maybe even Starr’s contacts list, and had been disturbed by Stuie? They’d had a fight with him and then, when they realized he was dead, they did a runner, in panic? He wrote that down too, as a third hypothesis.
‘Is there any CCTV in the area of this house?’ he asked the team.
‘The nearest was on a garage forecourt opposite, but we don’t know yet if it was actually working,’ EJ said. ‘We’ve been running an ANPR check on all vehicles picked up within twenty-four hours prior to the discovery of the body, but so far nothing. We can extend that time frame if necessary. We’ve also carried out a house-to-house, but so far nothing from any of the neighbours.’
‘I see.’ In his mind, Roy Grace intended to make his first priority to look for any evidence that might implicate Terence Gready orchestrating the attack on Stuie Starr. He would have known where to find him.
EJ continued. ‘Apparently the two brothers kept a very low profile. They have one neighbour, an elderly lady, who regularly kept an eye on Stuie whenever Mickey was away. She looked in on him yesterday morning around 9 a.m. before going out for the day. She may well have been the last person to see him alive.’
‘Away for the day, of course she was,’ Grace said, sounding more cynical than he had intended. But throughout his career in homicide investigation, it seemed that a gremlin was constantly at work, ensuring that the one key potential witness was always otherwise engaged at the crucial moment. He smiled, not wanting to give the impression to the team that he was a tired old cynic.
And hoping, privately, that he really wasn’t.
‘I plan to hold a press conference tomorrow and make a public appeal for any witnesses to come forward. I will make sure they understand the vulnerability of the victim and the truly horrendous nature of this crime.’
‘Playing the emotional card, are we, chief?’
‘Yes, Norman, the bastards who did this to poor Stuie didn’t hold anything back. Neither will I.’
36
Friday 10 May
In the tenth-floor office of the building in Hoxton, with venetian blinds permanently angled so no one could see in from any of the buildings opposite, twelve whiteboards lined the walls.
Attached to them now were photographs of each of the jurors in Terence Gready’s trial, along with growing details of their home and workplace addresses, a brief bio, names of close family members and known associates, interests and details of car driven, if any.
The whiteboards were getting increasingly covered in names and information as more research results came in from the team of Rio Zambrano, the former Met detective, Paul Constantinidi, and the two techies.
Constantinidi glanced at his watch. Coming up to midday. So far there had been no activity involving the jurors since they’d been sworn in. The prosecution and defence counsel were locked in legal dispute.
At close of play yesterday, the judge had sent them home for the weekend so the counsels for the prosecution and defence could clear the deck of any legal arguments. The trial would start in earnest on Monday.
It gave Constantinidi and his team useful extra time and they were making the best of it, assembling very detailed information. He read through the whiteboards, checking for any updates he might have missed.
Juror no. 1: Sophie Eaton. A streaky blonde, thirty-six-year-old specialist nurse. Quite a thoughtful-looking young woman.
Difficult to read this one and he had already decided Juror no. 1 could be too principled and dangerous. A large black cross had been marked on the board.
Juror no. 2: Hugo Pink. A portly, self-assured-looking man in his late forties, with a foppish hairstyle much too young for him. Married twenty-three years. Two children, late teens. His only social media presence appeared to be a Facebook page in the name of his company, Pink Solar Systems.
A former mobile phone salesman, Pink had cashed in on the growing demand for solar energy. His sales patter was obliging his customers to help save the world. Their research showed the company was in dire straits and was heading for bankruptcy. Terence Gready would gladly bankroll them out of trouble. Definite potential. A tick was on his board.
Juror no. 3: Megan Magellan. Definite potential also. Currently top of his list. The forty-two-year-old widow. Nice-looking, too, not that there was a huge chance she was going to jump in the sack with him. But there was more work to be done, more due diligence on Meg Magellan – and she was not the only one with potential. He just needed to be beyond 100 per cent certain that when they made their move on any of them, they would capitulate. There would be no second chance.
If they misjudged the integrity of a juror and that person either informed the clerk of the court or sent a note to the judge, it would be game over. Any attempt at nobbling a juror that came to the judge’s attention would result, instantly, in one of two situations, both equally bad. The first would be a new jury which would be sequestered at nights and weekends in a hotel, under close guard and scrutiny for the duration of the trial, and with no communication with the outside world. The second, if the prosecution counsel could make a suitably convincing case, would be that the trial be heard by the judge alone without a jury.
Juror no. 4: Maisy Waller. Miss Drabby, Paul Constantinidi thought. A timid creature, fifty-four years old, with thin, tight lips. Lived alone in the Portslade area of Brighton and Hove with her elderly mother who was suffering from dementia. Worked as a payroll clerk for a local insurance company. No social media engagement. Member of a book group. A volunteer at a charity for the homeless. A question mark on her board.
Juror no. 5: Rory O’Brien. Thirty years old. Born in Ireland. Single. Geeky-looking with shouty glasses, wearing a blue jumper over a grey shirt and chinos. Project manager. Marathon runner. Member of a happy-clappy charismatic church. On a variety of social media, regularly posting contrary political views. Trouble written all over him. A black cross against his name.
Juror no. 6: Harold Trout. Seventy-one years old. Married thirty-seven years. Four children. Seven grandchildren. Resided in Hove. Retired insurance actuary. Rotarian. Former local golf club captain. Weakness: limited at this stage.
Juror no. 7: Mike Roberts. The retired, silver-haired, distinguished former Hampshire Police Detective Superintendent, who he had already studied with some interest, as a potentially aggrieved former cop, like himself. But risky. All the same, he warranted a question mark.
He continued on through the list, which included an actor called Toby DeWinter, a posh middle-class do-gooder, an Uber driver called Mark Adams, an Indian chef, and finally the property developer Edmond O’Reilly Hyland. All of them needing more research. By late afternoon he had come up with a plan. Five names of potentials that he would discuss this evening when he met up for dinner with Nick Fox, in a secluded room they had booked in a private members’ club in Mayfair. Fox had briefed him at the start that among the jurors they needed to find one who was a sure-fire banker.
He was pretty confident he had identified just that person.
37
Friday 10 May
A briefing room at Chichester police station was being used for the press conference. Roy Grace sat in the centre of a row of chairs that had been placed facing the healthy turnout of local media that he had anticipated, flanked on his right by the local district commander, Chief Inspector Emily Souders, and on his left, PC Kerry Foy, the community officer; to her left sat Tony Morgan from the Sussex Police comms team.
In the two rows of chairs facing them were Siobhan Sheldrake from the Argus, as well as reporters he recognized from the West Sussex Gazette, the Chichester Observer, the Bognor Regis Post, Radio Sussex and Radio Solent, a camera operator and presenter from Meridian TV, and a student reporter from the Southampton media school.
Some police officers, in Grace’s experience, viewed all press and media with suspicion and hostility. But he had always found that if you handled them in the
right way, far from being the enemy they could be not only a good ally, but could play a key role in getting that vital public engagement. And right now, when all their investigations had so far drawn a blank on Operation Canoe, hopefully today’s conference might just lead to a member of the public coming forward with a piece of information that could unlock the puzzle.
He began with a restrained smile, friendly but serious. ‘Thank you all for attending today, we are hoping, through your coverage, you may be able to help us solve a very nasty crime. Stuie Starr was a thirty-eight-year-old man with Down’s Syndrome, who shared his home with his brother, Michael, who is currently on remand in Lewes Prison.’ He coughed to clear a frog from his throat.
‘By all accounts, Stuie was a sweet, trusting man, who loved everyone he met and had one dream, which was to run a fish and chip shop with his brother. Yesterday, local police were called to a house, at 23 Smithgreen Lane, Chichester, following a call from Stuie’s carer, who looked in on him daily to check he was all right. They found his body, very savagely beaten, with multiple injuries including kicks to his head – a number of which, according to the pathologist’s report, were inflicted with sufficient violence to have been fatal on their own.’ He paused to clear the frog again.
‘I do really want to emphasize the savageness of this murder. There is no indication Stuie put up any defence – this was an act of gratuitous violence against someone we believe had no enemies. The time of this attack is estimated at somewhere between the morning of Wednesday the 8th of May and the following morning. We are keeping an open mind on the motive, but we are aware his brother is currently awaiting sentence on drugs charges. We are also aware that property may have gone missing from the house, so one of our key lines of enquiry relates to whether the motive was burglary.’
Grace paused again, then continued. ‘If this was burglary, we are considering whether it might have been opportunist thieves who did not realize the house was occupied, or whether whoever did this was searching for a cache of drugs or cash. We believe this attack was the work of at least two people. Stuie’s home was just off a busy main road and opposite a garage. Someone must have seen the perpetrators arriving or leaving. I’m appealing for anyone who was in the area at the relevant time to come forward. You might just have seen something you did not think was significant at the time. Were you driving or cycling through this area with a dashboard or helmet-mounted camera? Or walking past?
‘I want to stress that Stuie Starr was an extremely vulnerable man. If this was a burglary, the level of violence was completely disproportionate and unnecessary, and we are looking at the actions of at least two callous and sadistic individuals who put no value on human life. I would now like to introduce my colleague, PC Kerry Foy, to talk about the community impact of this murder.’
Foy, a short, friendly-looking officer with an empathetic nature, said, ‘I knew Stuie and often saw him around. He was well known in the local community and loved by everyone. He often attended local events, and he was always dressed in his trademark T-shirt emblazoned with the legend I’M A HOMIE WITH AN EXTRA CHROMIE, or else in one of his chef outfits. He was friendly to everyone – I just cannot imagine why anyone would have wanted to harm him.’ She glanced down at her notes. ‘Until the offenders have been apprehended, I would ask the local community to be extra vigilant over locking their doors and who they let into their homes. But I would like to stress we believe this is very likely to be an isolated incident and that risk to the community at large is low.’ She turned to Chief Inspector Souders.
The District Commander nodded. ‘I have to agree with PC Foy. It makes no sense that anyone would have wanted to harm such a warm and loving person. It is my strong view that in all likelihood this was a one-off attack, carried out by villains who knew that Stuie’s brother was in prison, and who may have been looking for drugs and cash. However, I have put extra patrols and a visible police presence in the area. And I would like to reiterate that Chichester is a safe place to live and work.’
‘We’ll now take a few questions,’ Roy Grace said.
Several hands immediately shot up. Siobhan Sheldrake called out to Emily Souders. ‘Commander?’
‘Yes?’ she answered.
‘You’ve just said the perpetrators might have been looking for cash or drugs concealed in the house. Are you implying that the police team who must have carried out a thorough search of the house after the brother’s arrest might have missed these?’
Roy Grace stepped in quickly with a reply. ‘The search team were highly professional and experienced and it is highly unlikely they would have missed anything of significance following Michael Starr’s arrest. The point being made is that if this was a burglary, the offenders were clearly ignorant of the depth of search that would have been done.’ He shot a glance at Souders.
She nodded. ‘That is correct.’
Another voice shouted out, the reporter from the West Sussex Gazette. ‘Detective Superintendent, do you have any suspects?’
‘We are working on a number of leads but at this time, no, we have no prime suspects. But we are confident we will find the offenders and bring them to justice.’
He fielded a number of further questions, then brought the conference to a close. ‘I would like to again thank you all for attending, and to remind you that how you report this could, ultimately, be the make or break in bringing these vile people to justice. Someone will know something or have seen something. Anyone with basic human decency must be repulsed by this attack. I would request that you publicize the number of the Incident Room from the sheets you have been given and stress that alternatively they can call Crimestoppers, in complete anonymity, the number of which is also on the sheet. Thank you again.’
Along with the others, Grace hurried out of the room, then followed Souders along to her office for a quick debrief. He was, as usual after press conferences, sodden with perspiration, knowing he had done his best, but aware, as always, he could probably have done better.
38
Friday 10 May
For some inmates, spartan though it was, prison was home, a way of life. They had their friends, three meals a day, television and their board and lodging all found – and jobs within the prison where they earned pin money. Many of those persistent reoffenders considered the times when they were released on licence to be their holiday. Freedom to do drugs, sell drugs and shag. Then back inside again until the next time.
A smaller minority – much smaller – used their time to learn a trade or craft, or even to read and write – with the intention of going straight once they were released. And an even smaller – depressingly small – percentage would succeed in doing just that.
But many lived in morose silence, relieving the boredom by working out, body-building, doing drugs, or just drifting around, sometimes in the library, sometimes anywhere. Thinking. Sometimes daydreaming.
The common factor for most of them was the numbing tedium. Doing time was the right expression. Waiting for time to pass. Welcoming any distraction, however small – a phone call, a visit, a work-out, when they weren’t confined to their cell for days on end because of a shortage of prison officers.
Mickey Starr, in Lewes Prison, was in his third consecutive day of being locked in his cell this week, due to staff shortages, and was literally going up the wall with frustration, most of all because this prevented him from making his daily phone call to Stuie. And neither he nor his cellmate had been able to have a shower or a change of clothes for three days.
The previous occasion he had been in prison was eighteen years ago, after being arrested and convicted for possession and dealing cannabis on Brighton’s seafront, down under the Arches. His then solicitor had turned up one day and told him about an associate, Terence Gready, whom he had never met, who ‘knew people inside the police’.
Gready had offered him a deal. He could get him acquitted on appeal with the help of a bent detective who would testify that the chain of evidence wa
s unsafe. This happened and Starr walked free. He developed a relationship with Gready over the next eighteen months and one day Gready told him he wanted to make him an offer. Partly in return, but also because he needed someone he could trust, Starr would work for Gready as his trusted confidant in the various drug operations that he was looking to set up.
It had been the start of a friendship – and bond – between the two men. Starr had trusted Gready implicitly ever since. And despite his current predicament, he still had faith that the legal team would pull some kind of a rabbit from a hat and get him out of this shit.
But he had been here now six months and there was no sign of it yet. Gready was himself in the dock and Mickey knew that part of Gready’s defence was that there was no connection at all between the two of them and that they did not know each other.
It was both Nick Fox’s team and the barrister he had got him, who had advised him – out of kindness to him and Stuie – that if he pleaded guilty, he would get a lesser sentence and be reunited with Stuie sooner. So long as Mickey kept up his story that there was no connection between him and Gready, it would be fine.
Mickey knew how stressed his brother always was when he was away, and couldn’t imagine quite how Stuie was feeling with him being absent for this length of time. He was desperate to get out and carry on doing what he had done before his arrest, giving his little brother the best life he could.