Find Them Dead

by Peter James

  She faced him off.

  ‘You’re pissed. I suggest you get out of here, before I get security to throw you out. That would be really undignified.’

  41

  Saturday 11 May

  Shortly after 6 p.m., as they were on their way back to Brighton from the racecourse, the rain had finally begun. The grey sky and the screech-clunk of the wipers contributed to Meg’s gloom, as she sat in the rear of the Prius behind Peter Dean and his girlfriend, a concert violinist, whose name she, embarrassingly, couldn’t remember. They’d picked Meg up earlier and were now kindly giving her a lift home before heading up to London, where they both lived.

  Dean turned into Meg’s street and pulled up outside her house. He politely declined her invitation to come in for a coffee, explaining he had a complex and harrowing inquest starting on Monday and had to get back to read through a ton of paperwork in preparation, and that Jonquil was playing a new piece tomorrow night and needed to rehearse.

  She walked up to her front door, waved them goodbye as they drove off then entered the house. Daphne greeted her with a glare.

  She knelt and stroked her. ‘Hungry? I’ll get some food in a minute, OK?’

  Meg was still going over and over in her head the encounter with the vile bookmaker earlier, and fretting about the note. A note passed along with a betting slip. The bookmaker, Jack Jonas, had to have known, it must have been deliberate. To give him the benefit of the doubt, maybe it was his clerk, or someone else at the race track who had given it to him to pass to her? But it was still completely creeping her out.

  She’d not said anything to Peter or Daniel about it – not really sure what to tell them. Much of their conversation after the race had revolved around how their jockey had got himself boxed in on the rails. Daniel had said, darkly, that it smacked of race-fixing between the jockeys, which did sometimes happen at the point-to-point level of racing in order to get the odds higher on a future race. But she hadn’t really been able to focus on what they were saying.

  Just what the hell had that note been all about? Who had written it? For what reason? How did they know about Laura and where she was? How had they known she was going to place a bet with them?

  Deep in thought, she slung her jacket on the Victorian coat stand inside the front door, made her way into the kitchen and went straight to the fridge. Removing a bottle of sparkling water, she took a large gulp.

  The cat gave a loud miaowwwwww.

  ‘OK, I hear you, patience!’ She walked over towards the cupboard where she kept the cat food and was about to pull out a tin when something on the kitchen table, lying near Sussex Life and some other magazines, caught her eye. A photograph.

  It had not been there when she left the house this morning. Had it?

  Puzzled, she stepped over to the table and looked down at the 5 x 3, brightly coloured picture of Laura and Cassie on the Equator. The one Laura had WhatsApped her.

  The two girls in shorts, T-shirts, sunglasses and baseball caps, laughing, carefree, legs straddling either side of a narrow, paved path behind a red-and-yellow sign.

  ECUADOR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE WORLD

  Meg hadn’t printed it out. So who had? She picked it up and turned it over, but the reverse was blank.

  She knew the girls had set up a WhatsApp group for their trip. In a wild thought, she wondered if one of Laura’s friends had done it and brought it round as a gift. A surprise gift. But surely they would have left a note with it?

  And how would they have got in? The only person who had a key was her Latvian cleaning lady, Vesma, and she was the last person on earth she could imagine being on social media. Besides, she only came on Fridays.

  Then she remembered the hidden spare key beneath a flowerpot in the garden shed. Laura used it regularly as she was always forgetting her key. Probably half her friends knew where it was. But all the same, she thought, it was very odd there was no note with it.

  Suddenly, looking at the photograph again, she was struck by something. Curious, she pulled her phone out of her bag, opened WhatsApp and went to the photograph Laura had sent on Thursday. Then she compared it to the one on the kitchen table and, with a trembling hand, put her phone down.

  They were different.

  Both must have been taken at almost the same moment, but the one Laura had posted was face-on, with other tourists clearly visible in the background and trees beyond. The printed one was angled, high quality, and must have been taken from some distance away. The girls were clearly not aware of the photo being taken as they were so far away and not looking at the camera at all. Her heart sank as she realized it was most definitely not the same photo.

  There was a creak from out in the hallway and she spun round. Shivers rippled through her. Someone had come in whilst she’d been at the races and put this on the table. Could that person still be in here?

  Another creak. It was drowned out a moment later by the cat miaowing.

  ‘Hello?’ Meg called out, a dark unease coiling through her. ‘Is someone out there?’ She turned sharply, her eyes hunting in every direction.

  Miaowwwww.

  ‘Shut it,’ she hissed. Then listened. The house was old, 1930s, it creaked all the time. She waited a full minute, the thudding of her heart echoing in her ears like drumbeats – boomf . . . boomf . . . boomf . . . A few feet away were a bunch of kitchen knives in a wooden block. She strode over, grabbed the largest then walked to the doorway to the hall. ‘Hello?’ she shouted and marched through, brandishing the knife.

  There was nothing there.

  She stood for some moments, wondering. Should she call the police? And say what? That someone had broken into her house and left a photo of her daughter in the kitchen?

  The thought suddenly occurred to her that she hadn’t checked to see if anything had been taken. Still holding the knife and still scared, she went from room to room. Nothing seemed to have been touched. Laura’s menagerie was all fine. She was topping up the water for the gerbils when she heard a phone ringing downstairs.

  Might it be Laura? She raced back down and into the kitchen, and realized it wasn’t her own phone as she saw another one on the sideboard that she didn’t recognize. A cheap-looking one. Whose was this phone – Vesma’s?

  She answered it, tentatively. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Meg!’

  A male voice. Confident. Pleasant, with the rasp of a heavy smoker. Almost like they were best buddies. Salesy. These kinds of calls really pissed her off. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ she asked, coldly.

  ‘A very good friend, Meg.’ He sounded so hurt that, for an instant, she thought she must know him, and the fault was with her for not recognizing who it was.

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry but your number hasn’t shown up, so I’m not sure who I’m talking to.’

  ‘Do you like the photograph?’

  ‘Photograph?’

  ‘The one I left on your kitchen table. By the way, that’s a nice photograph of your racehorse – I presume it’s yours, the one on the wall. Did your late husband take it?’

  She could scarcely believe her ears. ‘You’ve been in my house while I was out? What? How dare you? Just who the hell are you?’ She began screaming at him. ‘What do you want? What the hell do you want?’

  ‘She’s a lovely girl, your daughter, Laura. Having the time of her life backpacking in Ecuador with her friend Cassie, isn’t she?’

  She was silent for a moment, her mind spinning for traction, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. ‘Laura? Did you say Laura?’

  ‘That’s a cute tattoo she has on her left shoulder. A Tibetan symbol to keep you safe when travelling – very appropriate.’

  ‘Who the hell are you? How dare you come into my house? How – how do you know – my daughter?’

  ‘Let’s just call me her guardian angel.’

  His tone was still cloyingly pleasant.

  ‘Where did you get that photograph?’

  ‘There’s a
guy there all the time, snapping tourists and trying to sell photos to them. Just out to make himself a buck. Actually, that photo was of someone else that day, he just got lucky to have caught Laura and Cassie in the background.’

  ‘Was it you – did you write that note the bookie gave me?’

  ‘The thing is, Meg, I know how much Laura must mean to you. After the terrible loss of your Nick and Will, she really must be so precious to you.’

  She said nothing. Her mind was churning, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. He was silent for a moment, too, before he went on.

  ‘Meg, you need to trust me. Laura’s in danger and I want to help you – we really need to make sure she is safe, don’t we? South America’s a wild and dangerous place, it’s not like England. Life is cheap, people get killed or vanish there all the time. Laura and Cassie are very vulnerable, they need someone to keep them safe. Make sure they don’t get anything stolen, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, scared. ‘What do you mean? Please, please, do not hurt them. What do you want?’

  Ignoring her comment and her question, he went on. ‘I can keep Laura safe, Meg, no charge, I’ve got contacts there. They’re already looking out for her, for me. I’ll ping you a photo they sent me this morning so you can see. Coming through now!’

  Almost instantaneously, the new phone pinged with a text alert. It was a photograph of the girls sitting on the veranda of a large wooden shack, each holding a wine glass and what looked like a cigarette. Again, it was taken from a distance and the girls were not looking at the camera.

  Beneath was the geomapping time, date, location.

  She stared at it. ‘Why did you send this? Did you leave this phone here? Are you following them?’

  ‘Like I told you, Meg, I just want to make sure your daughter stays safe, and to show you how we are watching her all the time. We’ve left you this pre-paid mobile to keep in contact with you.’

  She stood there, unable to think clearly, feeling like a rabbit frozen in headlights. Anger was rising through her fear. ‘Stop it, just stop it. Get away from those girls.’

  ‘I’m afraid they need me, trust me. I’m phoning to offer you a deal, and I think you should accept it for your daughter’s sake.’

  ‘Really? What deal?’

  For the first time, she could sense a tone of real menace in his voice.

  ‘Firstly, just in case you’re thinking of warning Laura, or telling her to come back home right away, then all bets are off. You do understand me, don’t you, Meg?’

  ‘What is this all about?’ Meg demanded.

  She had a nasty feeling that she already knew.

  ‘I just need you to do something for me, Meg. Something very simple. It’s not rocket science in any way. But you do need to understand my rules if we’re going to work together, if you want me to keep your daughter safe. Am I clear?’

  She was shaking, her voice trapped in her gullet, momentarily unable to speak.

  ‘My first rule, Meg, is you tell no one. No one at all. You don’t breathe a word to any of your friends. We will know, trust me. You tell any friend or go to the authorities and you will find them dead. The phone is to be kept on you at all times, it’s how we’ll contact you. If you try to get a message to the judge, or tell your fellow jurors, or alert anyone who could get the trial stopped, then I’m afraid it’s game over for little Laura. At least when your husband and son died, you were able to go to their funerals. But you wouldn’t have that luxury with Laura – you might not even get her body back. You would never see her alive again. Are you absolutely clear?’

  Raging with anger, but paralysed by shock at the same time, she was unable to speak. She let out the tiniest, high-pitched sound.

  ‘Good, so we understand each other, Meg. As I said, it is very simple. If you ever want to see Laura again – alive – all that has to happen is your jury foreman, at the end of the trial, has to say just two words – and repeat them five times, for each of the counts on which Mr Gready is indicted.’

  She did not respond.

  ‘You know what they are, don’t you, Meg?’

  She remained silent. She knew.

  But he said them all the same, his voice lowering to a whisper. It grated like a wood saw.

  ‘Not guilty.’

  42

  Saturday 11 May

  After his evening meal, which he had barely touched, Mickey left his cell to go for a walk around before lockdown. He didn’t notice anyone on the way, didn’t want to talk to anyone. He returned, finally, and perched, heavy-hearted, on the edge of his bunk, staring at the photograph of Stuie on the wall beside him. The photo that had always made him smile, the last thing he saw at night and the image that greeted him each morning. Stuie in the set of chef’s whites he’d bought online, ready for his duties in the fish and chip shop.

  Stuie was always online, looking at items on Gumtree, eBay and Catawiki mostly, but rarely actually buying anything. For him, the excitement – and challenge – was always to see how long he could stay in the auction without getting caught out and ending up as the final purchaser.

  But this chef’s outfit was something he’d hankered after ever since Mickey had first told him their plans for the chippie. And it was the full monty. Toque, double-breasted white tunic, apron, black and white houndstooth-checked trousers, and he had taken to wearing it whenever he went into the kitchen. In this photograph he was standing upright, proudly posing, the tall white hat as lopsided as his happy grin.

  Once again Mickey was fighting back tears. Who the hell had done this? When he found them, he would rip their heads off – after he had torn off every other appendage first. He punched the wall in frustration, then punched it again.

  ‘Do you want to talk, Mickey?’ said his cellmate, from the bunk above him. Mickey hadn’t even noticed he was there.

  ‘No, I don’t want to talk, I want to fucking do something. I’ve gotta find out who did this – find out and—’

  He was interrupted by a figure stepping in through the open doorway. It was one of the officers he liked, and who had been sympathetic towards him. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Mickey,’ he said.

  Starr frowned. It was 7.30 p.m. and visiting time had ended several hours ago. ‘It must be the solicitor,’ he said.

  Maybe, he thought, with more information on how Stuie had died. Or perhaps with the news that they’d caught the bastards who had done this. Not that he really wanted to see anyone or talk to anyone. He just wanted to be on his own with his thoughts. He didn’t want people to see him crying.

  Mickey followed the officer, almost blindly, along the gridded landing, down the stairs, through the maze of stark corridors, through one double door after another – assiduously unlocked and locked by the officer – and finally into the large visitors’ area. Normally, most of the brightly coloured chairs, facing each other across a table, would have been occupied and it felt strange to Mickey that tonight they were deserted. Everything felt strange at the moment, badly strange, as if the world he knew had been kicked over onto its side, into shit.

  A tall figure rose over on the far side of the room. Nick Fox.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the officer said. He jerked a thumb towards the observation platform. ‘I’ll be over there – have as long as you need.’

  Starr thanked him and walked over to the solicitor. Fox clasped Starr’s right hand and held it for some seconds, looking deeply upset, too. ‘Mickey, I’m so sad for you. What a terrible thing to have happened. I know how much Stuie meant to you and how you cared for him.’ He shook his head. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  They sat, facing each other. Mickey nodded. ‘I don’t know what’s happened – do you know anything? Are there any suspects?’

  Fox raised his arms. ‘Not so far – it’s early doors. There’s a CCTV camera on the garage forecourt opposite your house. The footage is being looked at, I’m told, but I think it’s the wrong angle to be of much help.’ He
was silent for a moment. ‘Is there anyone you might have upset – on the outside or in here?’

  ‘Upset? You mean enough that they’d go and kick my brother to death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mickey shook his head. ‘No way – I mean – absolutely no way. OK – I decked a couple of cops at Newhaven, but—’ He shook his head again.

  ‘No one you’ve pissed off in here? Done over? Tucked up?’

  ‘I’ve followed your advice, Nick. You know how badly I’ve been wanting to get out – for Stuie. I’ve kept my head down, stayed clear of any trouble, been respectful to the screws, even the bastard ones.’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh, Jesus. I guess I’ve had one thought – Stuie was always online on the internet. He loved chatting to strangers. He’s not always the most tactful person, know what I’m saying?’ He looked up. ‘He doesn’t always know what words mean, or realize, sometimes, when he’s being rude. Maybe that’s a possibility – that he upset someone online?’

  Fox looked at him, dubiously. ‘Enough that they would kill him – do you really think so? The police are also looking at whether it was a burglary gone wrong.’

  ‘I dunno what I think. Nothing else makes any sense. Shit, I need a fag.’

  The solicitor smiled. ‘I’m sure they’re not hard to get hold of in here.’

  Starr barely acknowledged the comment. ‘Make me one promise, Nick.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When they get the bastard – or bastards – who did this, you’ll give me ten minutes alone in a room with them.’

  ‘Won’t you let me join you?’

  Both men grimaced at each other.

  ‘Think hard, Mickey, is there anyone, anyone at all who has reason to be upset with you?’

  Starr was silent. Then he said, ‘There’s only one person I can think of – but I’ve always trusted him like he’s one of my family.’

  ‘Who’s that? Who do you mean?’