by Peter James
Roy Grace didn’t know whether to be happy or to cry. The monster had escaped justice – in a way. In doing so, Crisp had denied the families of the victims, as well as his last intended victim, the closure of seeing him brought to justice.
Roy Grace was not a religious man. But there were times in his life when he envied those who did have faith. Those who believed in the afterlife.
His mind dwelled for a moment on the concept of the Akashic Records – a theory that, after you died, you were held to account. The Akashic Records replayed every thought, emotion and intent you ever had throughout your life on earth and you had to explain what exactly you had done with your time – just how you had used the amazing privilege of life that you had been granted.
And to be punished accordingly.
It was at times like this he so wished the idea were true. That Dr Edward Crisp, instead of rapid oblivion in the dark, cold current of the Thames, would be made to stand up and squirm as all the horrors he had inflicted on fellow human beings were replayed to him.
‘Very obliging of him, Paul,’ he said. ‘Too bad he didn’t drown in a sewer, which would have been more fitting.’
‘From what I know about him,’ the Met Inspector said, ‘he’d have polluted any sewer.’
Glenn Branson grinned. Grace smiled too, thinking fast. Suddenly, a whole chunk of his workload had gone. No Crisp trial.
Ending the call, he said, ‘I’d better tell our dear ACC.’
‘Please let me listen in!’ Branson said.
‘Be my guest!’ Grace dialled, and felt smugly pleased when he answered, almost immediately. It wasn’t often that Roy Grace actually looked forward to talking to Cassian Pewe. This was one of those rare occasions.
‘Yes, Roy?’
‘I thought you’d appreciate an update on Dr Crisp.’
‘What do you have?’
Grace informed him what he had been told by Inspector Davey. When he had finished, Pewe was uncharacteristically silent for some moments. Then he retorted, ‘At least this resolves the budget issues, Roy.’
‘Actually, sir, I have good news for you on your budget front.’ He winked at Glenn Branson.
‘You do?’ Pewe said, suspiciously.
‘Very good news indeed.’
‘Are you going to keep me in permanent suspense or tell me?’
‘As he died in London, all costs of his postmortem and disposal of his body are down to the Met. I thought you’d be pleased to hear that, sir.’
‘I’d be a lot more pleased if he’d never escaped in the first place.’
‘He wouldn’t have, sir, if you’d allocated the funds for the guard on him I’d recommended.’
Pewe’s response was to slam down the phone on him.
Grace turned to Branson. ‘Good to know Sussex Police have another happy customer!’
‘You need to watch it, matey, one day that bastard’s going to have your arse.’
‘He loves me. He just doesn’t know it.’
‘Or show it,’ Branson cautioned.
‘I feel the love!’
‘In your dreams.’
Grace smiled. Then his thoughts became serious. He shouldn’t be glad about Crisp, but he was. Perhaps because the man had once tried to kill him and had failed. All he really felt was a twofold relief, firstly that there was one monster less in the world, and secondly, that Crisp’s early departure had left him free to concentrate on catching up on everything he had missed during these past six months.
But his hopes of that were dashed by the next call that came in.
It was from Sussex Police Inspector Mark Evans, the duty Oscar-1.
‘Hi, guv,’ he said, very polite as always. ‘Welcome back to Sussex!’
‘Thanks, good to be back.’
‘We all missed you. Am I right you’re the on-call SIO this week?’
‘Yes, I am, Mark, what’s up?’
Evans told him.
77
Monday 20 May
Ending the call from Mark Evans, Roy Grace immediately asked Norman Potting and John Alldridge to come to his office.
As soon as they were all seated around his conference table, he relayed the information he’d just received. ‘Hampshire Police have two men in custody. They were arrested following a police pursuit from the scene of an attempted burglary at a residence in Havant.’ With a grin, he added, ‘I’m sure from your encyclopaedic knowledge of South Coast geography, you know Havant is just ten miles from Chichester.’
‘I was a bit rubbish at geography at school, guv,’ Potting said. ‘Alleuvian plains and all that.’
‘Alluvial, I think you mean, Norman,’ Grace corrected him.
The DS nodded, almost wistfully. ‘Like I said, I was a bit rubbish at—’
‘Thank you, Norman,’ he said, firmly.
‘Sorry, guv,’ Potting said, looking sheepish at the reprimand. ‘Was just thinking it would be harder for me to get on in the force today, especially with having to compete with fast-track grad schemes.’
‘Me too, Norman,’ Grace said.
‘And me,’ Alldridge added. ‘Still, be their loss, eh?’
Grace smiled and continued. ‘When the officers searched the car, they found property from other burglaries in Chichester, from which cash, jewellery and electrical equipment had been stolen. All of it was recovered in the BMW vehicle in which they were travelling – and which had also been stolen some hours earlier.’
‘They’re clearly not the sharpest tacks in the box, are they, chief?’ Potting said.
‘Must be the ones that your geography teacher used to pin up his maps, Norman!’ Alldridge retorted.
Ignoring him, Grace actioned them. ‘I want you both to go straight over to Havant now and liaise with the Hampshire Police. Tell them these two suspects they have in custody are persons of interest to us in our murder enquiry, and see if they can establish their whereabouts and movements during the time we believe Stuie Starr was murdered.’ Then he added, with a grin, ‘Use your satnav, Norman, if that helps make up for your geography deficiency.’
Potting gave him a sheepish look.
‘Or if you get lost,’ Grace couldn’t help adding, cheekily, ‘ask a policeman.’
78
Tuesday 21 May
Mickey Starr’s previous cellmate, Charles Nelson, had been transferred to another prison, and to his dismay, Mickey had been moved to a different cell on the remand wing of Lewes Prison. He was now sharing with a tattooed, unfriendly and intimidating hulk of an Albanian bodybuilder called Lorik Vusaj, who was on a murder charge.
The tiny cell, as the one before, but even smaller, consisted of two bunk beds, one above the other, and a toilet and washbasin screened off by a plastic shower curtain. There wasn’t enough room to swing a mouse, let alone a cat.
By dint of the fact that Vusaj was here before him, the beefcake controlled the remote. Which meant Mickey had to endure an endless diet of football games, during which the Albanian shouted, constantly and loudly, at the screen, at pretty much every move every player – on either side – made.
Ever since the news of Stuie’s death, Mickey had been desperate for some peace and quiet. To mourn his brother, but also to study the law, partly as a distraction. It was for these reasons, at 5 p.m. on Tuesday, he was grateful that the Albanian, with his minimal grasp of English, had fucked off to do some weight training.
It left him free to concentrate on his research, both on the laws around drugs importation and around sentence reductions through pleading guilty and turning Queen’s Evidence – a posh description for grassing someone up.
His solicitor, Anu Vasanth, had left him several thick books on the law, at his request, with relevant chapters and pages helpfully highlighted with yellow Post-it stickers. But even so, he was struggling to get his head around the legal jargon.
Suddenly it felt like the sun had gone behind a cloud. Except there was no sunlight in this cell. He looked up to see the bald head and muscular physique of anoth
er Eastern European man he’d vaguely noticed on this wing, who had a teardrop tattoo below his right eye. It signified he might have killed someone.
‘Got a message for you, Mickey. From your good friend Terry.’
Starr looked up.
‘You’re not going to be giving evidence tomorrow.’
An instant later, his throat was gripped by a hand as powerful as the jaws of a bulldozer. Then he saw a plastic blade inches from his left eye.
Mickey’s throat was crushed even tighter. So tight he was struggling to breathe.
He looked into the eyes of his attacker. Eyes that were as dark and empty as the deepest well in the universe. The blade came closer. The pressure increased around his throat. He could not breathe. The blade touched his good eye, cold, a shining blur.
Then, suddenly, the grip on his throat was gone.
He heard a grunt, then a crashing thud. All the light was momentarily blotted out. He saw his assailant fly back and strike his head against the side of the cell door. An instant later the man was on the ground with Starr’s Albanian cellmate, Lorik, on top of him. Holding the weapon.
‘You going to blind my friend? I’ll cut your ears off, then I cut your dick and balls off and stuff them down your throat if you ever come near him again. We understand each other?’
Mickey’s assailant nodded. Then screamed as the Albanian sliced through his right ear, which fell to the ground, leaving blood spurting out of the side of his head.
‘You lucky man. Today I just take one ear. You come near my friend again, ever, I take your other. Now go fuck yourself.’
Starr’s assailant scrambled, clumsily and unsteadily, to his feet, clamping his hand to his head, and made for the door. Lorik kicked him hard in the backside, sending him forward through the doorway and crashing face down onto the floor, blood still pouring. The Albanian threw the ear after him, then kicked the door shut.
‘Thanks, pal,’ Mickey said.
Lorik patted him on the shoulder. ‘You my friend.’
79
Wednesday 22 May
Meg, waiting to go back into court, reread the message she’d received from Laura late last night.
Hi Mum, Galapagos – amazing! Did a budget boat trip where we were like inches from blue-footed boobies, so close! And red-footed ones. And iguanas everywhere. And we saw all these red crabs – a gazillion! And did I tell u that really creepy guy who’s stalking us is here too? He’s everywhere we’ve been and we’re sure he keeps taking photos of us. Well, we’ve taken a photo of him – attached! Cassie went over to him, he said his name was Jorge and said he wasn’t taking photos of us. But don’t worry, we’re big and ugly enough to sort him out!
Miss you. X
Back in court, Emily Denyer had finished giving her evidence after 4 p.m. on the afternoon of the previous day and due to the lateness of the hour the judge agreed that the cross-examination by the defence could begin this morning promptly at 10 a.m.
The defence counsel was on her feet.
‘Ms Denyer, would I be correct in saying you are unable to specify where this cash deposit of three point five million euros has actually come from?’
For the first time since she had begun giving her evidence, last Friday, Emily Denyer looked a little nervous.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But if we go back to Spreadsheet 11 in your bundle of documents, you will see an equivalent amount transferred from the Cayman Island Elstrom Bank account, which tallies with the amount deposited into the Seychelles Neubank account on the same day.’
‘Can you tell us beyond any doubt that this amount deposited into the Seychelles Neubank account came from the Cayman Islands Elstrom Bank account?’ Brown asked.
Denyer shook her head. ‘Not beyond all doubt, no.’
‘Are you aware that there are many hundreds of transactional deposits daily into the Seychelles Neubank account, many of which are for large amounts?’ Brown pressed.
‘It was not necessary as part of my investigation to look at every deposit made. What I have told the court in my evidence is the electronic information that shows the large movement of monies into the relevant accounts,’ the Financial Investigator conceded.
‘Really?’ Brown said. ‘But I put it to you that this was just a fishing exercise, hoping you would find my client’s name on one of these accounts. Is it correct that you did not find the name of my client on any of these overseas accounts?’
Denyer replied, ‘There was no trace of a specific name but that’s what I would have expected to find. The whole purpose of creating these types of accounts overseas is to conceal identities.’
Meg felt a flutter of hope.
Brown spent the next hour asking Denyer numerous questions regarding her evidence in chief, but it appeared to Meg that the QC was making very little, if any, progress in discrediting any of it.
Brown continued. ‘Ms Denyer, my client is facing extremely serious allegations, it is important that the jury is aware of exactly what you are saying, you understand that?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Ms Denyer, let’s be very clear, there is nothing linking these two transactions except that they are of the same amount, that’s right, isn’t it? There’s no name, company details, nothing whatsoever beyond the cash amount, is there?’
Denyer countered her. ‘That, and the account numbers match.’
‘So, your conclusion is based solely on coincidence?’
Denyer started to respond but, before she could, Brown added, ‘That’s pretty desperate, isn’t it?’
Cork immediately stood up and said to the judge, ‘I object to my learned colleague’s last comment, Your Honour.’
‘I agree,’ said Jupp, and instructed the jury to ignore it.
‘I have nothing further for this witness,’ Brown responded, and sat down.
You are good! Meg thought, privately. But then she worried, Or am I just clutching at straws in desperation?
Cork got to his feet. ‘I have only one more question, Your Honour. My learned friend suggests your conclusion is based solely on coincidence but how would you describe the evidence?’
Emily Denyer replied, ‘Strong circumstantial evidence.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cork. ‘I have no more questions.’
The prosecution case against Terence Gready had been due to finish around mid-morning and all the jurors had been eagerly anticipating the start of the defence, which would commence soon after Emily Denyer had finished giving her evidence. And there was anxiety among some of the jurors that although they’d been told the trial was expected to last a couple of weeks, there was now every indication it might run longer.
Their anxiety was compounded by Stephen Cork making a surprise announcement that he had a new prosecution witness – someone who had formerly been lined up as a defence witness. Primrose Brown had immediately requested an adjournment to give her team time to prepare their cross-examination. Richard Jupp had given her short shrift. ‘You are well aware there is no property in a witness,’ he said, sternly. ‘You know this person, you know what evidence he has. I’ll give you fifteen minutes – time to let the jurors have a quick coffee break.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Court is adjourned. We reconvene at 11.35.’
In the jury room, while everyone else discussed Emily Denyer’s financial evidence, Meg again read the WhatsApp message from her daughter, and stared at the attached photograph, the first one she had seen of the man that Laura said was following and photographing them.
She had been anticipating some swarthy slimeball with greased hair and slick sunglasses. But what she saw was a guy in his early thirties, with South American looks and close-cropped curly hair, casually dressed in a jogging top over jeans and trainers. He looked harmless, the kind of guy who could blend into any crowd. Which, presumably, was the intention.
Jorge.
Had the photographs which had been put on her kitchen table been taken by this man?
‘The financial evidence is
utterly compelling,’ droned the voice of Harold Trout. ‘I don’t see how anyone could think otherwise.’
‘Well, I can,’ Toby DeWinter announced. ‘I am completely and utterly lost – and I didn’t like that woman anyway, she’s trying to bamboozle us with figures, IMHOP.’
‘Imhop?’ queried Maisy Waller.
DeWinter shook his head. ‘In my humble opinion,’ he translated.
‘Ah.’
‘Absolute nonsense,’ Trout retorted. ‘If you were concentrating, you’d have found it all very clear.’
DeWinter bristled. ‘There’s a big difference between following and understanding. That woman,’ he said, with contempt, ‘that Financial Investigator is nothing more than a prosecution puppet. She’s spent God knows how many hours trotting out links between shell companies, board members and bank accounts all around the world, but in all these bloody spreadsheets is there one mention of the defendant’s actual name on any board of directors or on any bank account?’
‘Well, of course not,’ Trout replied, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down frantically, his voice rising. ‘That was the whole point – total obfuscation.’
‘Hey!’ Meg interrupted. ‘Can we all keep our tempers, please? Getting angry with each other is not going to get us very far. We’re not a bunch of squabbling school children. Please remember, Harold, that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, whether you agree with them or not.’
In the moment of awkward silence that followed, Meg did wonder whether she should have let the argument continue. If it had broken into a fight, what would have happened? Two jurors who couldn’t be in the same room together – would that be enough for a retrial with a fresh jury – and a safe solution for her and Laura?
Then she heard the pompous voice of Hugo Pink. ‘I’m with Toby on this one,’ he said. ‘We’ve been shown very fancy financial shenanigans, I’ll grant you. But I’ve not yet seen any conclusive link to the defendant.’
There was a rap on the door and the jury bailiff entered, announcing they were required back in.