by Peter James
You didn’t.
You just got on with life. You climbed back on your horse, your bike or whatever the hell it was you had fallen off and you got on with it. Until another death of someone you loved felled you again.
Who was it – Max Planck – who said, ‘Science moves forward one funeral at a time’?
As life does, too.
But maybe not cats.
There were some days when Daphne sounded like she had been to cats’ choir practice. Even before Meg had reached the front door, she could hear the creature meowing on the other side.
She had been sick with anxiety but trying to pull herself together on her journey home as she mulled over the evidence they’d heard. Sure, that forensic podiatrist had been convincing in the details he had given that it was, beyond doubt, Michael Starr who had entered the premises of TG Law on that November day last year.
But Gready’s diary clearly showed him to have been out of the office at the exact time Starr was supposed to have been in his office. If that evidence was upheld, then despite the forensic gait expert’s evidence, there was no certainty Gready and Starr had met. She was anxious to see how that played out tomorrow, because it seemed to be the first possible chink in the prosecution case. Along with Cork trying to force the point to the jurors that there had been a clandestine meeting between Gready and Starr, which was why it was not in the diary and why no one in the office had been aware of it.
Checking her phone, she was worried there was still no message from Laura. She unlocked the front door and entered, glad to see there were only a couple of flyers on the floor, no post, no bills. Daphne stared up at her, meowing like some tortured creature.
‘Hey, cool it!’ She scooped the cat up into her arms and cuddled her. ‘What’s your problem, little one?’
Daphne began purring as she stroked her head then chest. After a short while she started to wriggle and Meg set her back down, gently.
She dutifully fed all of Laura’s pets and headed back down to the kitchen, hoping a glass of wine would numb some of her fears. She would bung something from the freezer into the oven then have an early night and try to get some sleep. She again checked her phone. Just gone 6 p.m. That would make it 1 p.m. in Ecuador. Laura said they were doing the zip wire in the morning. This morning. And that she would text her straight after. So why hadn’t she?
Meg was about to message her when there was a ping, indicating a new WhatsApp message, on the phone that bastard had left for her.
Check this out, Meg!
There was a blank screen with a black arrow inside a white circle in the centre. Hesitantly, she clicked on it.
A jerky video began playing, showing images of Laura and Cassie standing in a queue. They were wearing vest tops and shorts, Cassie with a baseball cap and Laura with a straw trilby-style hat at a jaunty angle. Both were licking ice-cream cones. They turned, almost synchronized, and stared in harmony for several seconds directly at the camera, before turning away, clearly giggling.
Then, from a different angle now, she saw a close-up of a terrified-looking Cassie strapped into a harness. Seconds later, she hurtled down a zip wire towards a gorge, heading towards a platform across the far side. Suddenly, to Meg’s horror, Cassie jerked to a halt and, as if the wire had snapped, she plunged into the fast-moving water. An instant later she rose up, dangling several metres above it, dropped again, disappearing beneath the surface, then rose again and stopped, bouncing up and down, looking utterly petrified.
On the video, Meg could hear screams.
Cold terror squirmed inside her.
She could see, too far away to hear any sound, Cassie dangling like a fish.
She was being wound, slowly, jerkily, back up. After what seemed an eternity, she landed on the safety of a platform and was immediately grabbed by two men, who freed her from the harness.
The burner phone rang.
‘Hello?’
The familiar, calm, male voice. ‘Not a nice video, is it, Meg? Such a relief to see your daughter’s friend safe.’
‘You bastard, did you cause this? What are you trying to do?’
‘Please don’t worry, Cassie is fine, just a little shaken. She’s been taken to hospital, accompanied by your daughter, suffering from shock. She’ll be fine. We just need you to understand what we are capable of – treat this as a little reminder.’
‘You don’t have to do this. They are lovely, innocent people. You’ve already made your point; I understand what I have to do.’
‘I’m sure, Meg. But we just don’t want you getting too complacent. It was a better day in court, today, but there are a lot more witnesses to come. You’ve got your work cut out. The next video I send you might not have such a happy outcome for Laura, if you get my drift.’
‘Your drift?’
‘You know what I’m saying.’
‘Please, I’m doing everything I can.’
‘Oh, we know that, Meg. And we are right with you, doing everything we can, too. You do have a friend on the jury.’
‘Friend, or someone else like me who you are threatening?’
He sounded hurt. ‘We are helping them just like we are helping you.’
‘Helping me? Really?’
‘Trust me, Meg, we are looking after your daughter in a dangerous country. You’ve seen how easily an accident can happen. Look upon me as your daughter’s guardian angel on this trip of a lifetime that I know you are worried about. And you will see tomorrow how we are helping you in other ways, too. We have made your life easier, but so much is still down to you.’
‘How have you made my life easier?’
‘Wait until the morning, Meg. You’ll know then.’
He ended the call.
59
Wednesday 15 May
Meg sat down at the kitchen table, unsteady. Had those bastards tampered with the zip wire? And if so, what else could they tamper with?
Poor, poor Cassie.
The next video I send you might not have such a happy outcome for Laura, if you get my drift.
Bastards. Bastards. But what should she do? What could she do? What if that had been Laura?
Until the zip wire, she had seriously been considering calling the man’s bluff and sending a note to the judge. Now she didn’t dare. How could she get Laura out of danger? How could she persuade her to come home? But would even that take her out of danger?
She wondered, momentarily, if she should tell Cassie’s parents what was going on. They would go crazy if they knew. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t tell anyone; she did not dare.
She dialled Laura and heard the flat monotone of the overseas dialling tone. To her relief, she answered after just three rings.
‘Hey, Mum!’
Meg thought she could detect the stress in her voice. But she couldn’t let on she knew what had happened. ‘Darling, how did it go? Did you do the zip-wire thing – was it fun?’
She felt the hesitation in her daughter’s voice, desperately wanting to reach out to her but acutely aware her conversation was almost certainly being monitored.
‘Actually, Mum, it was a bit shit.’
‘Oh?’
Laura recited what had happened. Meg gave no indication that she already knew.
‘God, how is Cassie?’ Meg asked, desperately.
‘Yeah, she’s OK – she was pretty freaked out – they’ve given her something for shock and she’s asleep. They want to keep her here in hospital until tomorrow.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘They’re cool with me staying with her here – in the room. Sorry I hadn’t messaged you yet, it’s all been a bit crazy.’
Meg desperately wanted to scream at her daughter, ‘Come home! Come home now!’ Instead she said, meekly, ‘OK, my angel, that’s so good of you to be so caring.’
‘She would do the same for me.’
God, Meg thought, please don’t let that be necessary.
‘If anything else happens, anythin
g at all, ring me day or night, and don’t forget to keep an eye on your drinks when you are out.’
Ending the call, with Laura promising to message her in the morning with how Cassie was, Meg decided to watch Twelve Angry Men again. It was about the trial of a young black man accused of murdering his father. The evidence was compelling, especially to an all-white male jury back in 1957. One of the things that had resonated with her was a juror who reminded her of Gwen’s protestations that she did not want to miss Royal Ascot. He was wanting a quick ‘guilty’ verdict, because he had tickets to a major baseball game.
Meg made herself some supper, then settled down in front of the television with a tray and a notebook and pen. As the film progressed, she repeatedly stopped it and noted down the arguments the actor, Henry Fonda, used to change the minds of one after another of the jury, until he had them all finally convinced.
She fell asleep as the end credits rolled.
60
Thursday 16 May
At 8.30 a.m., Roy Grace sat with his team around the conference table in the Major Crime suite. A series of photographs were stuck to a fourth whiteboard behind him. They showed a replica set-up, outside the Starrs’ Chichester house, of the crime scene that had been there the previous week. The cordons, scene guard, a high-visibility police vehicle and a number of police officers.
‘One week on from the anniversary of when we believe Stuie Starr was murdered, we set up a facsimile of the scene,’ he informed them. ‘A team of officers were deployed to the area to stop and question all vehicle drivers and pedestrian passers-by, to establish if they had been there on the previous Wednesday and Thursday and had seen anything. DC Alldridge led the operation. What do you have to report, John?’
The DC replied, ‘Boss, we spoke to a number of people who had been in the area, and logged their names and contact details, which I have here.’ He tapped a document in front of him. ‘Unfortunately, none of them were able to provide any useful information at this stage.’
Grace thanked him. ‘I sat down with Alex Call last night and we’ve agreed a number of further submissions to the forensic lab, and hopefully we should get some results in the next few days. Nothing fresh has come up from the press and media appeal or house-to-house last week, nor from a CCTV and ANPR trawl. We’ve also drawn a blank on our drugs intelligence sweep. So, at the moment we are struggling to find any witnesses. But someone must have seen something. We believe at least two people carried out the attack. Someone must have seen them arrive and enter the property or leave it.’
At the end of the briefing, Grace returned to his office. Shortly after, Norman Potting appeared at his door.
‘Brief update for you, chief,’ Norman Potting said, walking into Roy Grace’s office. ‘About our one-eyed monster.’
The Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team had moved buildings three times in as many years, firstly from Sussex House into a former dormitory building at Police HQ, and then to another building close by. At least, Grace thought gratefully, he now had his own desk, in his own private room, and a conference table, albeit one that could just about fit four very slim people around it. ‘One-eyed monster? You’ve lost me, Norman.’ He sipped his second strong coffee of the morning, although it was only just after 9 a.m.
‘Dr Crisp.’
‘Ah.’ Grace understood now. ‘Tell me? But first, how are you?’ Grace realized he hadn’t spoken to him since he had finished his treatment for prostate cancer.
Potting waggled a finger in the air. ‘All working tickety-boo – the winky action! Just need a new lady in my life now, and I think I may have found her.’
‘Really?’
Sitting down, Potting said, ‘I’ve met this fantastic lady and I think I might be in love again, Roy.’
‘That’s great news!’ Grace smiled, albeit a little dubious. During the ten years he had worked with Norman, he had come to greatly respect his abilities as a homicide detective, but somewhat less so as a man able to judge potential life partners – with one tragic exception, a wonderful detective on his team who was just the kind of down-to-earth, caring person Norman deserved. But she had died, heroically but tragically, whilst off-duty, when she had gone into a blazing building to attempt to rescue a trapped girl and a dog.
Before her, much of Norman Potting’s love life had, in Grace’s opinion, been a total train crash, due to his choosing completely the wrong women. The worst of them was a Thai con artist the detective had met online, who had rinsed him. But he was glad to hear him sounding so happy – Norman had been grieving for a long while and it was good he was now able to move forward. ‘Tell me about her?’
Norman Potting gave him a dreamy look. ‘She’s Swedish, Roy. Her name is Kerstin Svenson and she’s gorgeous and very witty. Amazing, I never thought at my age I’d meet someone like her!’
‘And she’s how old?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘Punching above your weight, aren’t you?’ Roy asked him, quizzically.
Potting beamed. ‘Maybe just a little!’
‘How many times have you been out with her?’
Potting shook his head and reddened a fraction. ‘Well, it’s a bit difficult because she lives in Sweden – a town called Sundsvall.’
‘Where did you meet her?’
‘Ah.’ Potting suddenly looked evasive and reddened again. ‘Well, we haven’t actually met yet, Roy – I mean physically.’
‘So, who introduced you?’
‘We met online.’
‘On a dating site?’
Potting looked sheepish. ‘Yes.’
Alarm bells were clanging inside Grace’s head. ‘OK, when are you going to physically meet?’
Again, Potting looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, we should have met last Friday – she was coming over to see me – but she was in a car crash on her way to the airport – some senile idiot pulled out in front of her. It’s made a pretty good mess of her car, apparently.’
‘Really?’ Grace was doing his best not to sound sceptical, but it was hard. ‘So, the car belongs to her elderly mother and it’s her only means of transport? And Kerstin discovered she’s not on the insurance policy, right?’
‘It’s not like that, chief.’
‘WAKEY WAKEY, NORMAN!’ His voice was so loud it startled the DS. ‘Operation Lisbon? Does that ring any bells?’
Potting looked at him. ‘Last October, the internet romance fraudsters we busted, you mean?’
‘Yep.’
‘This is different, honestly. Kerstin’s the real deal. I’m not Johnny Fordwater.’
Potting was referring to a former army major who he had been sent to see at Gatwick Airport. The man, a widower in his late fifties, was in the Arrivals lounge, waiting for the love of his life, a German woman, to come through after landing from Munich. Potting had had to break the news to the man that this woman did not actually exist. Tragically, Fordwater had sent her over £400,000, every penny he had in the world.
‘Really?’
‘Really, chief. Even if she asked, which she hasn’t, I wouldn’t lend her one penny until we’ve met. She’s flying over this weekend.’
Grace looked at him in despair. ‘Fine, good luck. But just stick to your guns and don’t send her a penny until you’ve met her and made sure. OK?’
Potting agreed, but with the dreamy eyes of a man besotted.
‘So, you said you have news about our one-eyed monster?’
‘Yes. The officers at Lewes Prison thought it was a fellow inmate who’d stabbed him in the eye, but the inmate’s denying that vigorously, and now they’ve got CCTV to back that up. Crisp attacked the man himself, for no good reason, and at some point during the fight, Crisp pulled out a ballpoint pen and stabbed himself in the eye with it.’
Grace frowned. ‘Has he gone mental or something?’
Potting shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. There’s been talk of moving him to a maximum-security prison. If he’d got wind of that, knowing his past histor
y as an escape artist, I’m guessing this is all part of a plan. I understand they want to keep him in hospital in London until the end of this week, at least. My suggestion is that we should increase the guard on him.’
Grace nodded. ‘Good thinking, Norman.’ He grinned, mischievously. ‘Tell you what, you go and put that request to ACC Pewe.’
‘Would you suggest I do that, chief?’
‘Definitely.’
Potting glanced at his watch. ‘Got to go now, chief, got to ring my Swedish lady.’ He hurried from the room, closing the door behind him. Leaving Grace shaking his head in bewilderment and drawing a large intake of breath.
No more than a few seconds later the door burst open and he saw a huge beaming smile on Norman’s face. ‘By the way, chief, I’m only joking about Kerstin . . . she’s not my next lover! I’m working with her on a romance fraud case that the Swedish police are dealing with. You should’ve seen your face, I had you going there for a minute, didn’t I!’
Roy picked up a magazine and hurled it at him as Potting ducked behind the door and slammed it shut.
61
Thursday 16 May
The jury bailiff, Jacobi Whyte, peered around the jury room, checking everyone was there and in place, before announcing, ‘Very regrettably, one member of the jury is indisposed. I’m informed the lady in question apparently came off her bicycle on her way home from court yesterday evening. I understand she was found lying in a hedge, unconscious, with very serious injuries.
‘The judge is now speaking to counsel, which is why you are remaining here for the moment.’
It was quite wrong, Meg knew, not to have much sympathy for her, but she wondered how many of the other jurors felt the same. Everyone in the jury room earlier had been commenting on Gwendoline Smythson’s no-show, and they’d all presumed she must have been delayed by a puncture or some other problem with her bike – or, as Mike Roberts had suggested, perhaps she had been unavoidably detained by her own self-importance. And it was ironic how the woman had told them, the first time they’d all been together, that cycling here was the best solution to the parking problem in Lewes.