by Peter James
And prison was even more shit since the smoking ban had come into effect. In the daytime, anyhow. After evening lockdown he shared cigarettes, which he got on the prison black market, with his cellmate.
Mickey had always been a good listener and was helping the poor sod, Charles Nelson – a posh guy of twenty-nine, an insurance broker who’d been privately educated and never in trouble with the law before – to cope with the nightmare he was currently living through. Nelson was in bits, facing a potential life sentence for one stupid, drunken moment.
Six months previously, Nelson had been with his girlfriend in a bar in Brighton, late night, after a dinner out to celebrate a bonus much bigger than he had been expecting, when another drunken guy had hit on her. Nelson had remonstrated and received a punch for his troubles, which somehow, according to him, had been missed on the bar’s CCTV. In return he’d decked the guy, who had struck the back of his head on a table on the way down. And died.
Charles Nelson, facing a manslaughter charge, was now on remand in prison and was looking at probably four to six years’ imprisonment, and he wasn’t even sure that his girlfriend, whose honour he’d been trying to defend, was still there for him. Her visits were becoming less and less frequent.
The two of them smoked and talked every night in the semi-darkness. With frequent interruptions while his friend just sobbed. They also talked about Stuie. Mickey told Nelson of his plans to open a fish and chip shop, with his brother working in the back room, mostly preparing the fish and slicing the potatoes. It turned out, to Mickey’s surprise, that Charles Nelson had recently inherited a property on Brighton seafront, close to the Palace Pier, with three shops on the ground floor. One of them was vacant – if Mickey wanted it after his release, he was sure they could agree a deal.
Finally, today, the days of lockdown came to an end. Just as he’d returned to his cell having eaten breakfast and was about to head off to his current job in the prison laundry, one of the more pleasant screws appeared in the doorway. ‘The Governor wants to see you,’ he said. ‘She’s free now.’
Mickey’s hopes rose. Throughout his time here he’d been careful to behave, to be, as much as he was able, a model prisoner. So he could get home to Stuie as soon as possible. Maybe the Governor had good news for him? That perhaps, as he had requested, he was going to be allowed to have a special visit from Stuie accompanied by an appropriate adult.
Ten minutes later, accompanied by the screw and trying to look as dignified as his ill-fitting, prison-issue tracksuit and crap plimsolls would allow, he entered the Governor’s small, surprisingly cluttered office.
The Governor, Susan Ansell, held out her hand and shook Mickey’s, then pointed at two chairs in front of her desk.
‘Please have a seat, Mr Starr. Mickey, yes – or is it Michael?’
‘Mickey.’
He sat and the screw left the room, closing the door.
Ansell’s demeanour changed and she suddenly looked very serious. ‘Mickey, thank you for coming to see me.’
Like I had any option, he thought. And hey, this was a better gig than doing laundry. He shrugged.
‘Your brother, Stuie – I understand you have been his carer for some years?’
‘It was a promise I made to our mum when she was dying.’ Alarm bells were ringing.
She nodded. ‘Mickey, I’m sorry but there is no easy way to tell you this. I’m afraid your brother is dead.’
‘Dead?’ He stared at the woman, the word not fully sinking in. ‘Dead?’
Ansell looked back at him with genuine sympathy in her face.
‘What – what do you mean? He’s only thirty-eight. He . . .’ His voice tailed off. He felt gutted. ‘What – what’s – what’s happened?’
‘From the police report, it looks like he was murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Mickey rose from his chair then sank back down into it and lowered his head into his hands. ‘No, please tell me – please tell me it’s – it’s not true.’
‘I’m so very sorry,’ the Governor said.
Mickey stayed for some while, head in his hands, crying uncontrollably. ‘It’s not true. It can’t be.’ Finally, when he had composed himself a little, he looked back up, dabbing his eyes with a corner of his top. ‘What do you know – about – what happened? Who did it? How?’
‘I don’t have much information, Mickey. Do you – or your brother – have any enemies?’
‘How the hell could Stuie have any enemies? He’s the sweetest person. He wouldn’t harm a fly. He loves everyone. He makes people smile. It’s not possible. Please tell me – there must be a mistake.’
‘From what I’ve been told he seems to have put up a spirited fight. His room was wrecked.’
Mickey Starr sat still, in silence. Trying to absorb what he had been told. Trying to make sense of it. He shook his head, then dabbed his eyes again. ‘Who? I mean, why? Was it burglars? Did some bastards know I was in prison and decide to burgle my house – and Stuie disturbed them?’
‘The police told me that there is evidence of property having been stolen and there are some signs of ransacking. It’s also possible your brother may have been the target. Could he have upset anyone?’
‘With respect, ma’am, that’s bloody ridiculous. As I said, Stuie loves – loved – everyone.’
‘I will, of course, give you leave to attend his funeral, after his body is released – accompanied by officers from here. And we will respect, if we can, any wishes you have regarding the funeral.’
‘That’s very big of you,’ he replied, bitterly. ‘What do you mean, he was the target?’
‘I understand he was beaten up pretty badly.’
Starr buried his face in his hands again.
‘Do you have any idea at all who might have done this?’ the Governor asked.
Starr shook his head.
‘We’ve contacted your solicitors, and I understand someone will be coming to see you later today. If there is anything we can do for you at this difficult time, please ask one of the officers to let me know.’
Mickey sat in silence for a long while. Finally, he answered, ‘There is something.’
‘Yes?’
‘Find the bastards who did this.’
39
Saturday 11 May
After her earlier thrill at being selected for the Gready trial, so far serving as a juror had turned out to be a bit of an anticlimax, Meg was thinking. But hey, hopefully next week would be more exciting. For sure it would be interesting.
She looked down at the list of names of her fellow jurors and a brief description of each of them to help her remember them. A disparate group of people, none of whom seemed to have anything much in common with any of the others. They’d spent much of Thursday closeted in the jury room, apart from being allowed to leave the court building and go into town during the lunch period. Most of them passed the time reading, doing emails, some with headphones listening to music or watching films or television on their hand-helds. As well as talking, some of them increasingly argumentatively. A recurring complaint had been the lack of convenient parking in Lewes.
One particularly annoying juror, a woman in her early fifties, Gwendoline Smythson, told them she cycled the five miles to court from her country home. She had suggested they all do that and then they would have no problem with parking.
Meg had pointed out that would have meant a fourteen-mile cycle ride each way, much of it along perilous main roads. Another juror, who lived near Hastings, indignantly said it would mean a thirty-mile trip each way – again, much of it along main roads.
The one juror who made Meg smile was Hari Singh, a chef. He worked in a modern Brighton restaurant. He’d arrived on Thursday morning with a bag full of samosas, one for each juror. It had amused her to see the stiff, hesitant reactions from the two crusties on the jury to his act of generosity and kindness.
Late afternoon on Thursday they were informed by the jury bailiff that the trial would resume on
Monday morning. But by then tensions were rising among the jurors, firstly over whether the person they elected as foreman should be called, as they were now known, the foreperson. And secondly – and more vociferously – over who should have the role.
The retired cop, Mike Roberts, a former Hampshire Police senior homicide detective, had volunteered to take it on. In Meg’s view, he would be good: he had both experience of the law and a calm authority about him. But Hugo Pink, with his arrogant self-importance, had thrown his hat in the ring. So had the retired actuary, Harold Trout, who was insisting he had the best credentials.
For God’s sake, Meg thought, what the hell did it matter? She hadn’t as yet put herself forward and was slightly disappointed none of the other female jurors had. Maybe she should enter the fray herself on Monday. Laura would have fought like hell to have been in that position if she was one of the twelve, she knew.
But at this moment, swigging her second or perhaps third glass of Taittinger champagne and finishing a sumptuous seafood lunch in the owners’ enclosure at Plumpton Racecourse, feeling decidedly – and very pleasantly – tipsy, all of that was forgotten.
She was enjoying the company of Nick’s mates and their partners who shared the ownership of Colin’s Brother, and looking forward to the race, the Butler’s Wine Cellar Hurdles, due to start in just over a quarter of an hour, at 3.35 p.m. A short while earlier they’d stroked the horse and chatted to the jockey, who was bullish. He’d ridden to victory in this same race last year and said the thoroughbred was on peak form. The going – good to soft – was the one in which Colin’s Brother performed best.
Knocking back the rest of the contents of her glass, she said to her friends, ‘Just going to check out the odds on our nag with the bookies.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Peter Dean said. ‘I’ve a good feeling about our chances today.’
‘Me too!’
Dressed like a true racegoer, in her smart Barbour, designer jeans and ankle boots, and accompanied by Dean, sporting a trilby hat, his enclosure pass hanging from his neck along with binoculars in an ancient leather case, they walked out into a cloudy, blustery afternoon with the threat of rain in the air. As they hurriedly threaded their way through the crowd of people, many similarly garbed themselves, holding race cards or folded copies of the Sporting Times, kindly Peter Dean asked, ‘So how are you doing?’
The former family doctor had, for some years, been the Coroner for Suffolk. He understood the pain of bereavement like few others of Meg’s circle of friends.
‘I’m OK – looking forward to a new challenge, whatever that might be. But I’m really missing my baby!’
‘When is she coming home?’
‘Not until the end of August. Then in October she’s off again to Edinburgh Uni.’
‘To study to become a vet, right?’
Meg nodded.
‘Must be tough to have to let her go. But you’re lucky, you know, Meg. She’s a good kid.’
She gave him a wan smile. ‘She is.’
‘Listen, this summer you must come out for a day on our boat on the Thames!’
‘I’d love to.’
They reached the bookmakers, each of them with a line of punters queuing to place bets. ‘See you back in the enclosure?’ she said.
‘I’m going to go up in the grandstand to watch the race with Daniel,’ he said.
‘I’ll find you guys there.’
The first stall bore the name PHIL HOMAN at the top of a tall board. The names and odds of each horse in the race were listed below, and at the bottom were posted the words EUROS TAKEN.
The bookie, a tall man in a flat cap and greatcoat, was taking a bet from a punter, whilst shouting an instruction to his clerk sitting out of sight behind him. Meg looked at the list of runners. Colin’s Brother, no. 3, was showing odds of 2:1. She could see that the next stall, headed WILLIAM HILL, was showing only a marginally better 10:4. The next one along showed the same. Clearly, she thought, she wasn’t going to make a fortune on this race if the horse did come good.
As she continued walking along the bookies’ stalls, looking at the constantly changing odds they were posting, she was alarmed to see the next two were also shortening the odds to 2:1.
Then, to her pleasant surprise, she saw that the last one, JACK JONAS, was showing no. 3 at 4:1.
She joined the back of the queue, digging her purse out of her handbag and watching his board. It was an extravagant bet she was about to place, but last year she’d got back over £1,000 on the win, so if she lost a little of that today, what the hell. Nick would have been proud of her boldness. And if she won, she had decided, she would put the money into Laura’s bank account to help with her start at uni.
Jonas, a wiry, chirpy man in his fifties in a pork pie hat, was taking cash, handing out tickets and calling to his clerk behind him as each bet was placed. She stared at the posted odds, nervous they would shorten before she could put her own bet on, and she was relieved when she finally got to the front of the queue.
Before attending to her, he turned to his board and shortened the odds on two horses, but to her relief, left Colin’s Brother still showing 4:1.
‘Yes, darling?’ he said, turning back to her.
Holding out the wad of banknotes she’d withdrawn from a cashpoint yesterday, she said, boldly, ‘Number three, one hundred and fifty pounds to win.’
‘Number three, Colin’s Brother, one hundred and fifty to win,’ he shouted briskly to his clerk and gave her a betting slip. ‘There you go, darling!’ Instantly, his attention was on the next person in the queue.
She turned away and headed back through the throng. After showing her pass to the steward on the gate for the private enclosure and entering, she stopped to tuck her ticket, headed JACK JONAS, in her purse. It was only then she noticed there was a second, flimsy slip of paper beneath it.
A receipt, she presumed at first, but then she saw the shadow of handwriting on the reverse. She turned the slip over and read the words, written in ink in very neat handwriting.
Then stood, stock-still, shaking.
40
Saturday 11 May
Is your daughter having a great time in Ecuador with her friend, Cassie? Laura is such a pretty name. I really hope she stays safe.
Meg had to read the note twice. Was she dreaming? Had the bookie written it? What did he mean by it?
Her stomach heaved with sudden fear. She turned, barged past the steward, back out of the enclosure gate, then knelt and threw up on the grass.
‘Are you OK, madam?’ a kindly male voice behind her asked.
‘God,’ said a disgusted, haughty female voice. ‘Don’t people know how to behave any more these days? I mean, really. This is a race meeting, not a chavs’ day out.’
Ignoring both, and the commentary over the speakers announcing they were under starter’s orders, she ran, stumbling her way back through the crowd towards the bookies.
‘It’s Spartan from Blue Dancer, Alcazam, Made of Honour, then Colin’s Brother, Gemini, What-a-Boy, Gunslinger.’ The commentary rang out, echoing, across the entire racecourse. Increasingly, people were stopping whatever they were doing and listening.
‘Made of Honour is a faller. It’s now Spartan from Blue Dancer, Alcazam making ground, then Colin’s Brother, What-a-Boy, Gunslinger on the rails.’
To Meg, as she hurried on, it was just noise, it meant nothing, her bet forgotten. To her relief there was no queue now for Jack Jonas. The bookie was tapping an electronic device.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, breathlessly, as she reached him.
He looked up at her, blankly.
‘I placed a bet with you a few minutes ago,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Sorry, darling, no more bets, the race has started.’
‘No, that’s not what I want to talk about. I placed a bet – £150 – on Colin’s Brother, do you remember?’
‘I’m sorry, darling.’ His tone was turning increasingly unple
asant. ‘Don’t think you heard me the first time. I said, no more bets.’
‘I don’t want to place another bet. I want you to explain this.’ She held up the slip of paper.
‘Look, clear off, lady, I’m busy.’
‘You gave it to me, underneath the betting slip,’ she persisted.
He made a show of studying it for some seconds then shook his head. ‘Never seen it before in my life.’
‘I’m telling you, you gave me this – with my betting slip.’
‘And I’m telling you, darling, I ain’t never seen this in my life. Are you sure you placed your bet with me?’ He stared hard at her and jerked a finger to his right. ‘Wasn’t with any of them?’
She stared equally hard back at him. ‘No.’ She produced the ticket bearing his name. ‘I put a £150 bet with you on Colin’s Brother. Don’t you remember?’
‘Darling, I’m a bookmaker, not a bleedin’ circus Memory Man.’ He looked back down at his electronic device and tapped keys on it.
Conversation over.
Meg continued to stand there, fighting off tears. ‘Please help me. Maybe it was your assistant – the guy sitting behind you?’
‘Beg pardon?’ he said, without looking up from his device.
‘Someone put this note with the betting slip – ticket – whatever. Could it have been your colleague? Shall I ask him?’
Jack Jonas looked up, suddenly, his face full of menace. ‘Colin’s Brother you bet on?’
‘Yes.’
‘Each-way or win?’
‘To win.’
‘Wouldn’t have mattered.’ His expression morphed into a smug smile. ‘Came fourth, you’d have lost anyway. Now stop bothering me before I call security.’
‘Call them,’ she challenged, standing her ground.
‘You sure?’
‘I’m very sure.’
‘Before I do, darling,’ he sneered, ‘let me just tell you that vomit down the front of your jacket really doesn’t become you . . . Not a good look at a nice race meeting.’ He nodded at her badge. ‘Had a fancy lunch in the owners’ enclosure restaurant, did you? A bit too much of the posh sparkles? Happens all the time. Know what I suggest?’