Find Them Dead

by Peter James

  ‘Yaaaaaaa-orrrrrrrr-hrrrrrrrrrrr-eeeeeeeeeee!’ a Japanese man cried, either in terror, or elation – or perhaps both – as he was launched, suspended in the harness, screeching all the way down and across to the platform on the far side. He would return, like everyone else, on the cable car.

  ‘You sure you want to do this, C?’ Laura asked. ‘Looks pretty scary.’

  ‘Wuss!’

  ‘I’m so not a wuss!’ she said, indignant. ‘I’m just not that crazy about dying.’

  ‘It would be quick – the piranhas would eat you the moment you hit the water!’ Cassie replied.

  ‘Shut up!’ Then she looked at her friend, concerned. ‘Piranhas? Do they have them in this river?’

  ‘They’re indigenous to South America, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yech!’

  ‘They start with the soft bits – they’d strip your face in seconds.’

  Laura looked down again. ‘Really not sure I want to do this after all.’

  ‘Come on, don’t be a wuss – it’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop!’

  ‘Great. And then the piranhas get to eat you.’

  ‘I’ll go first and then you can follow if I live,’ Cassie said, grinning, and shot a brief glance over her shoulder, before looking back down at the gorge and inching closer to her friend. ‘Don’t turn around, L,’ she hissed. ‘But Mr Creepy is watching us again. God, he’s weird.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Seriously. He’s on the viewing platform.’

  ‘The same guy?’

  Cassie nodded.

  ‘The one that was in Guayaquil?’

  ‘It’s him, I promise you. The one that has no neck. Our stalker.’

  ‘Let’s go over to him and say hi! Embarrass him!’

  ‘Not worth losing our place in this queue.’

  Laura pulled a handkerchief out of her bag and dropped it on the ground. Kneeling to pick it up, she turned and shot a glance behind her, catching the glint of a lens in the sunlight. Standing up again, she said, ‘You’re right. It is him.’

  Cassie pursed her lips. ‘Why’s he taking photographs of us, L?’

  Putting on a phoney South American accent, Laura replied, ‘Because we iz ze best-looking broads on the trail!’

  Cassie giggled. Then she looked serious again. ‘Maybe we should let him know we’re aware of him?’

  ‘Or make a real effort to give him the slip?’

  ‘And how do we do that, with the tour bus waiting for us, L?’

  ‘Plan B!’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Haven’t figured that one out yet!’ Then she added, ‘But why’s he following us?’

  ‘He’s probably on the same tour trail we’re on. It’s the regular circuit, he’s probably just some saddo – got his bedroom walls lined with pictures of girls and lies there tossing off to them.’

  ‘Gross!’

  The queue moved forward. There were now just three people ahead of them. Laura peered down and the gorge looked even deeper and scarier. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was quite glad her friend was going first.

  ‘Heard from your mum today?’

  Laura shook her head and glanced at her watch. ‘Three thirty p.m. in the UK, she’s probably still in court.’

  ‘Sounds a cool trial, shame she can’t talk about it.’

  ‘Yep. When did you last hear from home?’

  ‘Over a week ago.’

  ‘You’re lucky, not having such a worrier of a mum.’

  ‘I guess because there’s four of us – you’re all your mum has in the world.’

  There was another loud scream as a kid in a bumblebee-striped T-shirt shot down the wire; they moved up another place.

  ‘Think she’ll find someone else one day and remarry?’ Cassie asked.

  ‘Yuck.’ Laura shook her head. ‘Maybe, I don’t know. I don’t like the idea.’

  ‘Would you rather she was alone for the rest of her life?’

  ‘No – I guess – I want her to be happy. But the idea of her – you know – being with a man. That’s just like – yuck.’

  The couple in front of them suddenly shook their heads, wimping out, and stepped away.

  ‘Shit, we’re on!’ Laura said.

  Two young men in green T-shirts beckoned a suddenly very reluctant Cassie forward and began clipping her into the harness.

  ‘Get some photos, L!’

  ‘On it!’ She was setting her phone camera to video. Then she stepped forward onto the viewing platform and braced herself against the guard rail. She raised the phone and started recording Cassie’s terrified face. ‘Here’s Cassie, moments before the piranhas eat her!’ she announced for the recording.

  Moments later, Cassie was launched, shrieking. She hurtled down the wire and low over the gorge. But then, suddenly, to Laura’s shock, instead of continuing on to the platform on the far bank there was a loud TWANG.

  Cassie stopped dead, for an instant. She plunged down into the water then bounced back up. Then down again.

  All around, people were screaming.

  Her insides feeling hollowed out, all Laura could do was watch in horror as her friend dropped back down into the foaming water, then rose up again, then dropped down again, staying submerged for several seconds before springing up again, dangling and bouncing like a marionette.

  If the wire snapped and she was swept along the rapids, she would be over the rocky gorge in seconds.

  Shaking and feeling utterly helpless, all she could think for a moment was: This could have been me.

  Then she turned to the two operators who were shouting at each other. One, looking bewildered, was stabbing buttons on a control panel. ‘Do something!’ she screamed at them then looked back at her friend, who was now dangling, legs flailing, in obvious terror, perilously close to the raging water.

  A door opened behind the operators, revealing a large cog. A bulky man in overalls and covered in grease came through holding a crank and yelling at the two younger men. He gave the crank to one of them, opened a metal cabinet cover and began throwing switches inside it. Laura looked back, fearfully, at her friend.

  Suddenly the wire tightened. Cassie rose a few feet, then a few more, away from the water. Laura looked back and saw all three men were turning the crank, which had been inserted into part of the apparatus close to the open door.

  Steadily, slowly, inch by inch, they wound Cassie up in the air. The wire was tight now and she’d at least stopped bouncing. Staring at it, Laura was thinking, Oh God, please don’t break. Don’t snap. Don’t. Please don’t.

  Slowly, agonizingly slowly, seemingly inches at a time, Cassie was cranked back towards them. Laura suddenly realized she was still filming. She shoved her phone in her pocket, anxiously holding her breath.

  Please don’t break.

  The three men were shouting at each other again. Arguing about something. But, mercifully, sweating heavily, they were still working the handle. Cassie was coming closer.

  Closer.

  Now she was just a few feet from the launch platform.

  ‘You’re going to be OK, C!’ Laura yelled.

  To her astonishment, her friend was laughing.

  ‘Nearly there!’ Laura called out.

  And a minute later, to Laura’s desperate relief, Cassie was back over the platform and out of danger.

  Laura ran towards her as the two younger men were freeing Cassie from the harness and apologizing profusely to her. All the time, she was giggling and laughing.

  Laura looked down at her friend, who was now lying on the ground, alternating between crying and laughing.

  ‘You OK, C?’

  But her friend was unaware of her presence. She was in the throes of a total fit of hysterics.

  57

  Wednesday 15 May

  Meg was struggling to concentrate this morning because she was so worried about her daughter.

  All night she had been fretting about Laura doing the zip w
ire today. How many other dangerous sports were she and Cassie engaging in on this trip that they weren’t telling her about? All the time with someone watching them? Laura had promised to text her after she’d done it, to let her know she was safe.

  It was 10.45 a.m. when Stephen Cork called the final witness who worked for Terence Gready’s firm, an intelligent-looking woman in her late twenties, with long, layered brown hair. Her name was Sophie Butt.

  Watching her closely, Meg could see, from her body language, that she was both a determined character and a loyal employee.

  ‘Mrs Butt,’ Cork said, ‘could you tell us the capacity in which you were employed by the defendant?’

  She spoke with clear diction and had quite a posh accent, Meg thought.

  ‘I was Mr Gready’s secretary and the receptionist at TG Law.’

  ‘And how long had you been employed in this capacity?’

  ‘Over eight years.’

  ‘To what extent were you aware of Mr Gready’s day-to-day activities?’

  ‘Well, very aware, I kept his diary,’ she answered stiffly.

  ‘And in keeping his diary, you were aware of his daily appointments and meetings?’ Cork asked.

  ‘I was, yes.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘All of them,’ she said, resolutely.

  ‘On the morning of Wednesday November 21st last year, do you recall Mr Gready meeting at any time with a gentleman by the name of Michael Starr? Quite a distinctive-looking man, it would seem, with a prosthetic right arm.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ she said.

  ‘Does the office have a visitors’ book where guests sign in and out?’

  ‘No,’ she answered.

  ‘Is it possible Mr Gready could have met with him without your knowledge?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Would there ever be meetings Mr Gready held that might have escaped your notice?’

  ‘Not during business hours, certainly not. Mr Gready was a busy man, much in demand – he relied completely on me for keeping his schedule.’

  ‘Would you organize his meetings, court appearances and such?’

  ‘I would keep a diary of his commitments.’

  She was clearly thinking carefully each time before she spoke. Meg wondered if she had been coached for this grilling.

  ‘And you would ensure he was not double-booked, was in the right place at the right time, and keep his diary up to date?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Did you always know exactly your boss’s movements, or did he ever do some things himself without informing you?’

  ‘We always worked closely as a team,’ she replied.

  ‘Was there any flexibility in your working arrangement for Mr Gready to meet anyone without your knowledge?’

  ‘I would say not really, no.’

  Meg, in the jury box, wondered exactly where this was going. She rather liked this woman, who stood with her head held very high, her body language telling Stephen Cork she was not going to be intimidated by him.

  There was a sudden, expectant hush in the court. All eyes locked on Cork. Clearly some kind of sucker punch was coming.

  Without taking his eyes off the woman, he said, ‘In Tab M of the bundle you will find a statement that you gave to the police, shortly after Terence Gready’s arrest.’ He turned to the jury, indicating for them to check their bundles. Then Cork’s assistant counsel, Paul Williams, handed him a document, marked with fluorescent tags.

  ‘Mrs Butt, do you recall giving a statement to the police on the 11th of December 2018?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  He then asked the usher to pass the statement to the witness.

  ‘Mrs Butt, do you recognize this document?’

  ‘Yes, it’s the statement that I made to the police.’

  Cork said, ‘Might I ask you to read paragraphs 12, 13 and 14 just to yourself?’

  After a short time, she looked up and said she had done so.

  Cork said, ‘In your evidence you stated that Mr Gready would not meet anyone without your knowledge – that is what you said just now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cork continued. ‘But that isn’t quite what you told the detectives in your statement on the 11th December?’

  For the first time, Sophie Butt looked flustered. ‘Well – not exactly, no. I was confused and frightened when speaking to the police.’

  ‘Your exact words were: My boss is mostly pretty good at keeping me filled in, but he’s a very busy man, much in demand, and does sometimes forget to tell me about appointments.’

  Cork had just the hint of a predatory smile on his face. ‘This is what you told the police. In light of this, can you assure this court categorically that your boss did not meet Michael Starr on the morning of Wednesday November 21st last year? Can you be absolutely certain that Mr Gready and Mr Starr did not meet?’

  She wavered. ‘Well, not completely certain I suppose, no. But there is no client file on a Michael Starr.’

  ‘And would there be files on clients, generally?’

  ‘Without exception.’

  Cork nodded. ‘So, can we safely say from that, Mr Starr is not a client of TG Law?’

  ‘Yes, you can.’

  ‘So, if indeed a meeting took place on that day between the defendant and Mr Starr, it would have been of a personal or private matter?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘Something they might not have wanted recorded, which was why no file was opened?’

  Primrose Brown jumped up, indignantly. ‘Your Honour, that is mere speculation on my learned friend’s part.’

  Nodding, the judge turned towards the jury. ‘You will please ignore that last remark by the prosecution.’

  Shit, Meg thought. Cork was cunning. Just by making that suggestion, however wrong he was to have made it, the damage was done. It would stick in the rest of the jurors’ minds. He had successfully driven a locomotive through Sophie Butt’s credibility.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Butt, no more questions.’ He took his seat.

  Primrose Brown rose. Her junior barrister, Crispin Sykes, passed her a sheet of paper, which she in turn handed to Sophie Butt.

  ‘Mrs Butt,’ she said, ‘I would like you to tell this court what this page is.’

  The woman studied it for some seconds, then said, ‘It is a copy of Mr Gready’s diary page, from November 21st last year.’

  ‘Would it be Mr Gready’s office diary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Containing his appointments?’

  ‘That is the function of office diaries.’

  Her response provoked several smiles. But not from Cork.

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She addressed the witness again. ‘Mrs Butt, could you please read out to the court the entries for the morning of Wednesday November 21st?’

  The woman studied the sheet, then began. ‘At 8.30 a.m. I was going through three case files relating to forthcoming court appearances with Mr Gready. At 9 a.m. he had a client meeting with a lady charged with DUI.’ She paused and smiled at Ms Brown. ‘Driving under the influence of alcohol,’ she said, by way of clarification.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Butt, I am familiar with the term.’

  Butt continued. ‘At 10 a.m. he met with a gentleman charged with possession of stolen goods. At 10.45 a.m. he went out to a dental appointment. He returned to the office at 11.30 a.m., where he had a sandwich delivered, to enable him to work through the lunch hour, preparing for a court hearing in the afternoon.’

  Primrose Brown continued. ‘So, Mrs Butt, in checking the diary for that day it appears that Mr Gready was busy throughout and only left the office for a dental appointment.’

  ‘That is correct,’ Mrs Butt replied.

  ‘Does your boss have a separate diary for private events?’ the QC asked.

  ‘Not to my knowledge, no.’

  Brown than
ked her. ‘I have no more questions.’

  Stephen Cork stood. ‘One last question for you. The court has heard evidence indicating that Michael Starr entered the premises where you worked, having been buzzed in. Do you recall seeing him that day?’

  ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘If you did not see him, where would he have gone in the building?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Thank you. No more questions.’

  Mrs Butt was instructed to leave the witness box and she walked calmly out of the courtroom.

  The rest of the day was taken up by the prosecution reading a number of statements from witnesses. These had been agreed in advance with the defence, and included evidence of the arrest of Gready, provided by a number of police officers. There was also additional evidence from Border Force officers who had been deployed at the port at the time of the attempted drugs importation. The jury then heard evidence from the forensic laboratory confirming that the white powder, seized from the vehicle, was cocaine and was analysed to be of high purity.

  Primrose Brown rose and addressed Jupp. ‘Your Honour, there is an issue I need to raise with you without the jury present.’

  The judge looked at the clock. It was coming up to 4.15 p.m. He turned to the jury. ‘As you have just heard, there is an issue we need to sort out. I will adjourn court and we will recommence at 10 a.m. tomorrow.’ He looked at Cork, then at Brown. ‘Come to my chambers in five minutes.’

  58

  Wednesday 15 May

  ‘It is what it is!’ Nick used to say. All the time.

  It used to irritate her, Meg remembered. So damned much. The phrase had gotten into his head like a mantra. The electricity bill’s more expensive this month than last! It is what it is.

  It was his answer to any piece of bad news, however insignificant.

  Now she would give everything she had in the world to hear him say it one more time. And that was never going to happen.

  Daphne, she thought back sadly. A feisty little nine-month-old kitten when Nick and Will died. Only the day before, Will had confessed that he’d never liked cats before Daphne. They’d had a real bond together.

  How did you explain death to a cat?

  How did you explain to a kitten that its owner had been wiped out by a man in a van busy texting his girlfriend?