by Peter James
‘I do, Roy, but we have to think about the kids too. You weren’t here when he was growling.’
‘Let me sort it. Honestly. End of.’
Cleo looked closely at Roy. ‘OK, I’ll leave it with you, Mr Fixit. It’s been making me really stressed. And I do love him too.’
‘I need a drink.’
‘Go and sit down, I’ll get you something. You look shattered.’
‘It’s OK, I’ll get it.’
‘Is it Cassian Pewe again?’
‘Yep.’
‘You want a Martini? I’ll mix you one. Grey Goose, four olives?’
He smiled. ‘I can’t, I’m on call. I’ll have a sparkling water – a strong one,’ he said with a grin. ‘Anyhow, I always feel guilty when I have a drink and you can’t.’
She shook her head with a teasing smile. ‘You’re such a martyr – if it helps your guilt, after the baby is born and weaned, I’m damned well going to make up for it!’
He held her in his arms. ‘I’ll get Humphrey sorted, so stop stressing and focus back on you and bump two, OK?’
‘OK.’ She gave him a tight hug.
‘You know you can depend on me,’ he said.
She pursed her lips. ‘I actually quite like you, too. Now loosen your tie, take your jacket off, sit down, chill, and help me chill! A Detective Superintendent Grace special glass of sparkling water is on its way. Extra strong.’
He complied, untying and kicking off his shoes as well, then flopped down on the sofa opposite hers. Humphrey continued to bark. Moments later, Cleo let him in; he bounded over and jumped straight onto his lap.
Roy stroked him. ‘What’s all this about you growling at Noah?’ he asked, staring him in the eye.
Humphrey nuzzled up to him, the very picture of sweet innocence. Other than the arrival of the postman, which always set him off into a fury of barking, Roy Grace had never seen an ounce of aggression in the dog.
A few minutes later, Cleo handed him the glass and sat down beside him. ‘Just as Humphrey’s master likes it, I hope,’ she said, giving Humphrey a pat. ‘So, good day – bad day? Any update on charming Dr Crisp?’
Grace told her then added, ‘To be honest, and I really should not be saying this – or feeling it – much though I want to see this monster behind bars for the rest of his life, all the time he’s at large, I’m loving Cassian Pewe’s pain!’
‘Until Dr Crisp murders another young woman,’ she said.
Grace shook his head. ‘He’s going to be too busy saving his skin. He’ll know that every police officer in the UK has his photograph – and every Border Force officer. Any documents he has on him will either be stolen or forged. Unless he has a very clever Plan B, he’s going to be picked up within a few days.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘He’s in the last-chance saloon. He’s under arrest on charges that will ensure he’ll never see the outside of a prison wall again. He’s probably taken the view he has nothing to lose – but equally knows that he has little to gain. Unless he has a hidden stash of money or credit cards somewhere, he’s going to be stymied for money – without stealing it. He’s just having a laugh, a final fling, his last hurrah.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ Cleo said, dubiously.
‘So do I.’ He leaned across the dog to reach his glass. ‘So other than Humphrey snarling at Noah, how was your day?’
‘It started well with a lovely pregnancy massage at Sarah Hurst’s down in Brighton. The best massage ever! I think you could do with some massages to de-stress.’
‘Yep, but I’m not pregnant.’
She tried to hold back a smile and failed. ‘They do other types. I’m sure they have a stressed copper one.’
‘I could do with that.’
‘Oh, before I totally forget, I need to ask you something. I was chatting online on my class forum this morning. There’s a fellow student, nice lady who I’ve met a few times, Alison Stevens. She DM’d me because she wanted some advice for her daughter who’s doing a dissertation about jury service.’
‘Go on,’ he said, interested.
‘Well, she knows I’m married to a very important senior police officer,’ she said, buttering him up. ‘She needs to know how someone could nobble a jury. I said I’d ask you what you know.’
‘Yeah, I’d be happy to have a chat with her, if she wants. It won’t be for at least a couple of weeks as I’m tied up on this murder investigation.’
‘Fine, I’ll let her know.’
‘Jury nobbling does go on but not as often as people think. It’s pretty rare, these days.’
73
Monday 20 May
Meg sat in the jury box, trying to follow the Financial Investigator, Emily Denyer, as she continued to give her complicated evidence. For the second day, she was talking the jury through a mountain of spreadsheets, detailing transactions through an increasingly complex network of offshore bank accounts. She listed dates of transactions, amounts, what credits and debits had occurred, and highlighted ones that she considered to be of specific interest.
In truth, Meg was completely lost, and she could see from the expressions of some of her fellow jurors that they were, too. She was struggling to remain focused. There had been no word over the weekend from Laura. Her daughter usually responded to her calls or messages within a few hours. She decided if she hadn’t heard by the end of the court session, she would try to call Cassie. She really didn’t want to bring Cassie’s parents into this yet – that would not be a good move in the eyes of the people watching her.
On top of that, she was deeply worried that she’d said too much to Alison on Thursday night and by what the man had threatened. They’d met for a coffee yesterday morning and Ali had assured her she was keeping everything to herself. Trust me, she’d said.
Meg had to; she had no choice.
This morning, before the hearing had recommenced, several of her fellow jurors seemed to have made up their minds that Gready was guilty, based on the Financial Investigator’s evidence on Friday. Meg was becoming increasingly anxious about what was now seeming an impossible task. She noticed Gready staring intently at the jury box, and in her direction. At her? She fleetingly caught his eye and detected the flicker of a nod. She glanced quickly away, with a shock, as if she had touched an electric fence.
74
Monday 20 May
Throughout his career, Roy Grace had always found it helpful to revisit crime scenes a week or two later and look at them with fresh eyes.
It was now nearly two weeks since Stuie Starr’s murder. As Norman Potting pulled up the car right in front of the house, the area seemed back to normal. A handful of vehicles were on the forecourt of the garage opposite, some refuelling with petrol or diesel and one that looked like it was plugged into a charger.
He climbed out and looked at the small, bland, red-brick house. It was a fine summer’s day, with a clear blue sky and the promise of fine weather to come. But, as always in this job, a cloud hung over him. This particular one was called Cassian Pewe. The murder of a Down’s Syndrome man had caused a wave of revulsion which had ripples well beyond just the county of Sussex. The pressure on him to solve it was even greater than ever.
But at this moment he had no bone to throw to his ACC.
As he looked again at the house, and then at the constant stream of passing traffic, he wondered how it was possible that the offenders had arrived, parked, done their horrible deed and left, without a single person noticing them.
Above him, high in the sky, he heard an engine. He looked up and saw a small aeroplane. And remembered something. Sandy, his now dead former wife, had loved cars. Several times, they’d been to the Goodwood Revival race meeting. The race circuit was around the perimeter of the Goodwood Aero Club, just a couple of miles from here. He turned to Potting.
‘Norman, I’ve an action for you. This is probably a total long-shot but have someone check out Goodwood Airport – and any flying or gliding clubs
nearby. Just in case anyone flew over this area on the day Stuie Starr was killed – they might have seen something.’
Potting nodded. ‘Right away, chief!’
75
Monday 20 May
Like several other members of the jury, Meg had taken to bringing her own lunch in, rather than having to go out during the recess. She’d have preferred to have taken a walk around Lewes and got some fresh air, particularly on this glorious, sunny early afternoon, after the stuffy atmosphere of the court, but it gave her the opportunity to talk to any of the jurors doing the same as herself. Today there were just three other jurors in the room. Good, she thought, a chance to speak one to one.
Hari Singh had a wonderful-smelling picnic box, from which he again pulled samosas and proffered them to his colleagues. Maisy Waller looked at the one handed to her, dubiously, and nibbled the edge like a mouse at a piece of cheese which it knows is a trap.
Harold Trout declined with the excuse that spicy food gave him indigestion.
Meg gobbled hers down and could happily have had another. ‘So, what do you think so far, Hari?’ she asked.
Ever jolly, he said, ‘Well, you see, I really don’t know if I should be on this jury at all. I am just not a person who can easily sit in judgement of my fellow human beings.’
‘But that’s why you are,’ said Trout, sourly and pedantically. ‘That is precisely what doing jury service is.’
Singh nodded. ‘Oh yes, Harold, you are absolutely quite right to make this point. But you see I am having this problem because of my beliefs.’
‘You’re a Buddhist, you told us, is that correct?’ Trout said the word ‘Buddhist’ with a faint hint of distaste – not overtly disapproving, but making clear his dyed-in-the-wool mistrust of anything alien to his own culture and belief system.
‘Indeed I am!’ Singh replied with pride.
‘So, forgive my ignorance,’ Trout said. ‘What does being a Buddhist have to do with deciding whether the defendant is guilty or innocent? Surely the law is the law, and right and wrong are the same, regardless of anyone’s beliefs?’
Singh nodded, still smiling, and Meg watched, loving the way he stood up to the dull old fart.
‘Well, sir, you are quite right. But what you need to understand is that the Buddha teaches kindness and understanding.’
Trout frowned at him. ‘Are you suggesting that slimy creep – that monster – in the dock who has clearly destroyed countless lives through the drugs he sells – deserves any kindness?’
Singh rose to his own defence. ‘What I am saying, sir, with much respectfulness, is that until today, we have heard only from the prosecution. At this moment the defendant, Mr Gready, is charged with offences relating to drugs, but these do not mean he is a drug dealer. That will only happen if we, the jury, decide that he is guilty. Surely you will respect the opinion of the people called as witnesses, both for the prosecution and the defence?’
‘Well, yes, of course,’ Trout said, with some hesitation. ‘Are you saying you doubt the quite overwhelming evidence we have all heard to date against the defendant?’
‘No, sir, that is not at all what I am saying. But you need to understand that my duties as a juror are in conflict with my own personal conduct as a Buddhist.’
‘So, what are you actually saying?’ Trout quizzed, his voice laden with doubt. ‘I’m a little confused.’
‘What I am saying is I am not very comfortable to be sitting in judgement of a fellow human being.’
Trout stared at the man. Meg could see the contempt in his face. She could almost read his mind. All the prejudices Trout probably had about any race, or culture, different to his own were showing in the twitches in the corners of his mouth. Sure, Singh’s views, in terms of reaching a verdict, were not the kind of tick-box that Trout would understand. But she was very happy to take Singh as another potential ally.
A loud sneeze from Maisy Waller interrupted her thoughts. Maisy sat at the table, sipping herbal tea and eating a particularly bland-looking cheese sandwich. She sneezed intermittently, having sniffed all the way through this morning’s proceedings, to Pink’s especial annoyance. During a brief recess earlier in the morning he had rounded on her, telling her in no uncertain terms that she should be home in bed before she infected the entire jury.
To Meg’s surprise, Maisy had argued back robustly, telling him it was a summer cold that was doing the rounds, and it wasn’t going to prevent her from performing her duty. But it probably explained, Meg thought, why there were fewer people in here eating their lunch than there had been last week.
As she bit into a falafel wrap she’d picked up from a deli on her way in that morning, she began eagerly reading a long WhatsApp message from Laura that had just come in, to her relief after the long silence, telling her their plans and itinerary for their visit to the Galapagos. Meg calculated the current time difference from the time stamp on the message and worked out that Laura must have been up and compos mentis at 7 a.m. today. If there was one positive about her daughter’s trip, Meg thought, it had at least cured her – even if only temporarily – of her ability to sleep all morning.
‘Looking pretty open and shut to me,’ Trout said, suddenly, in his monotone Yorkshire accent, turning away from Singh and looking at Maisy Waller. He had all the spreadsheets open in front of him.
‘I’d certainly have to agree with you on that one at the moment,’ Maisy said and sneezed again.
Meg looked up and saw Trout pop the lid off a plastic lunch box, remove a stick of carrot and crunch on it with small, sharp-looking incisors. She noticed, for the first time, what a very small mouth the man had, as well as virtually no chin at all. He was rather odd-looking altogether, thin and angular, with a greying comb-over, glasses perched on a beak of a nose and a bobbing, protruding Adam’s apple above the collar of his checked shirt which was at least one size too big for him. He wore a drab tweed jacket, a lichen-coloured tie, grey flannels and sandals over socks. He reminded her of one of Laura’s rodents.
‘Well,’ Meg said, calmly but defensively. ‘I think it’s a bit early to start forming any judgements. The prosecution hasn’t finished giving evidence and we haven’t yet heard any of the defence witnesses.’
Trout tapped the pile of spreadsheets. ‘It’s all here, all we need to know. That Financial Investigator lady is pretty sharp. The Iceberg, she called him.’ He gave a rather smug smile. ‘I’d say that is a pretty accurate description. So much so very cleverly concealed.’
To Meg’s surprise, Maisy suddenly interjected. ‘I think we need to bear in mind that the defendant is a criminal solicitor – a specialist in legal aid cases. I once worked for a legal aid law firm and, I can tell you, they are very poorly paid, for what they do. They are decent, dedicated people who really struggle financially.’
‘And your point is?’ Trout said, rather petulantly.
‘In my experience, the police hate lawyers – certainly criminal ones, and legal aid ones. They don’t like the idea of them defending people they believe are clearly guilty. We need to consider whether this case against Mr Gready could be a police conspiracy – a vendetta. We’ve seen a long history of falsified or unsafe evidence given by police in the past. The Birmingham Six is one. The recent enquiry into the Met Police investigation of high-profile sexual abuse accusations is another. Who’s to say this is not yet another case of trumped-up evidence?’
Good for you! Meg thought. Maisy seemed to change her mind a lot.
Trout tapped the spreadsheets again. ‘These, madam. These are irrefutable, in my humble opinion.’
‘I’m a payroll clerk,’ Maisy said. ‘And I’ve been studying these spreadsheets carefully myself. I agree with our foreperson.’ She nodded at Meg. ‘It is certainly a convoluted trail of shell companies and bank accounts, but I’ve not yet seen anything that comes anywhere near to establishing beyond doubt any link between the defendant and these companies.’
Trout removed another carrot and c
runched on it, noisily, looking miffed. When he had finished, he said, ‘Clearly, the man is devilishly clever, I will concede that.’
‘And since when,’ Maisy Waller asked, ‘has being devilishly clever been a crime?’
76
Monday 20 May
‘Hi, Paul,’ Roy Grace said. He nodded to Glenn and put the phone on loudspeaker. ‘How are you? Missing me already?’
The Inspector replied, sounding serious. ‘Actually, yes, guv, we all are. Got to figure out a way to tempt you back to the Met. But that’s not why I’m calling. It’s about Dr Crisp.’
‘Our happy fugitive!’
‘Yep, well, I’m afraid he’s not such a happy bunny now.’
‘Tell me?’
‘He was identified on CCTV by one of the Met Super Recognizer Unit, walking along the Thames Embankment in the direction of Waterloo Bridge earlier today. Three cars and the helicopter were deployed – two cars on the south of the bridge and one to the north. As he reached the bridge the two officers in the car to the north approached him. He did a runner across it. When he saw the car blocking off the south exit, he jumped over the parapet into the river.’
‘Shit. Did he get away again?’
‘Not this time, Roy. People underestimate the current in the Thames. If you jumped off the north bank at Waterloo at certain times, you’d be carried down to the Albert Bridge long before you reached the south bank. The River Police pulled him out a mile east of Kew Bridge. Dead. Drowned.’
Grace heard the last few words in numb silence. Dead. Drowned.
It took him some moments to process this. ‘You’re absolutely sure it is him, Paul?’ He caught Branson’s shocked expression.
‘We’ve had fingerprint identification and we’ve sent DNA off, but it’s him, Roy, I’m certain – and there’s a very obvious eye injury. I’ll send you a couple of photographs.’