Find Them Dead

by Peter James

Arranging the death certificates of her husband and son. Attending their funerals in a wheelchair. Endless meetings with lawyers. The inquest in Northampton being adjourned by the Coroner only a few minutes after it had started because the police were bringing charges against the van driver. Months of physiotherapy. Then sitting in the public gallery of Northampton Crown Court, listening to the evidence given against the plumber who had killed her husband and son, and very nearly herself and Laura, too. He’d tried to lie his way out of the fact that he had been texting his girlfriend whilst driving down the M1 motorway and hadn’t noticed their camper van at a tailback for a contraflow system. His defence was that the brakes on his van had failed – something later disproved by the police Collision Investigation Unit.

  She had hated that man with every fibre of her body. Just as she hated Terence Gready – and his sinister, creepy accomplice who tormented her over the phone.

  Her husband and son dead. Will would have been twenty now if he’d lived. So much he might have gone on to achieve.

  The plumber got an eighteen-month suspended sentence, an £800 fine and a five-year driving ban. And she got a life sentence. The sense of injustice had never left her. And now it was on the verge of happening again.

  Her mind was all over the place. If – and it was a big if – she somehow succeeded in delivering that ‘not guilty’ verdict, Laura would be safe – so, at least, she had been assured. But at what price to the community at large? How many lives would be destroyed, as Cork had pointed out, by Gready going free?

  She took a bite of her baguette and chewed. But if it wasn’t Gready, she rationalized, it would be others. The supply of drugs wouldn’t stop because one man was removed from the chain. Dozens more would step in to fill the breach.

  She remembered something she had read, years ago, in a book, the title of which she couldn’t recall. Something to do with icebergs? What had that Financial Investigator’s nickname for Gready been? The Iceberg. And now she remembered – it wasn’t icebergs, it was glaciers. Wars were like glaciers, they would just keep on coming. Wasn’t it the same with drugs? Weren’t drug dealers like glaciers, too? Unstoppable. Relentless.

  If Terence Gready went to jail, his shoes would be filled in an instant. But nothing, ever, could replace Laura. If anything happened to her, Meg wasn’t sure she would want to go on living – or even be capable of it.

  95

  Friday 24 May

  Richard Jupp swept into court with a spring in his step, and shortly afterwards the jury followed.

  After he was seated, he addressed them. ‘You are now going to hear the defence counsel’s closing words. Following that I will be giving you my summing-up – don’t worry if you think you might have missed anything, as I will give a very thorough recap.’ He turned to Primrose Brown. ‘Please proceed.’

  Primrose Brown now stood and faced the jury. ‘I would like firstly to thank you for your patience and diligence during this trial. You’ve heard a great deal of evidence from both sides, some of it extremely factual, some of it highly emotional and some of it – I’m referring to the financial evidence – at times deeply baffling!’ She grinned and several jurors smiled back, nodding their agreement.

  ‘My learned friend has outlined the prosecution evidence that he relies on, at times in considerable detail. But in my view this evidence you have heard is at best circumstantial. Despite what my learned friend would imply, there is, firstly and very crucially, not one shred of evidence you can rely on which puts the two men, the defendant, Mr Gready, and his purported colleague, Mr Michael Starr, together at any time.’

  She went on at length to challenge all the evidence that had been presented that the two men had met, including a detailed attack on the testimony provided by the Forensic Gait Analyst, before moving on.

  ‘The links to the financial evidence are not as strong as the Crown’s Financial Investigator would have you believe, and as you have heard, my client has offered an explanation for the computer evidence that has been found, allegedly created by him. As I have previously said, there is no evidence at all that my client has received one penny from this elaborate network of offshore companies and bank accounts. He has told you himself that he believes he is the victim of a plot to frame him, perhaps aided and abetted by vengeful police officers out to get back at him for being a highly successful defence lawyer.’

  She let the jurors digest this before continuing. ‘A key witness that Mr Cork highlighted is Mickey Starr. You have heard that he can be relied on and that his evidence is strong and clearly shows the defendant is a drug dealer. I challenge that assertion and would ask you to do the same. Starr admitted in court, in front of you, that he lied in a statement that he made regarding these proceedings. How can we be sure about if and when he is telling the truth? It suits his purpose to blame Terence Gready as being the mastermind, but I suggest he is a lying, conniving individual who is looking after his own interests and is prepared to say anything.’

  As the QC looked at her notes, Meg checked the time. It was past 3 p.m. The trial would, for sure, be running into next week. Which meant, she thought bleakly, somehow getting through the long weekend.

  Brown resumed her speech. ‘You have heard eloquently from my client, a solicitor who deals with facts, not fiction. He has explained to you that he is not a powerful drug dealer with international connections and hidden fortunes around the world, but a family man, a man of devout religious faith, with strong ties to his local community. I’m sure you are all familiar with the old expression, “If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck and looks like a duck, then it probably is a duck”?’

  She paused and smiled again. ‘My point being that I’m sure all of you have at times seen images of big-time drug dealers in films, in television series and in newspaper photographs. These tend to be swaggering characters, with fancy clothes, loud jewellery, flashy cars and bold as brass.’ She pointed at the dock. ‘I ask you, does the defendant resemble such an image? I put it to you that he does not in any way at all. Terence Gready is a truly honourable man who has worked hard throughout his life. He has built a highly respected law practice dedicated to helping the less fortunate members of society who require legal aid to help them achieve fair trials for their alleged misdemeanours.’

  She cast her friendly eyes across the two rows of jurors. ‘Successful drug dealers live in swanky homes, often owning big yachts and private jets. I doubt any take their annual holiday as a fortnight in a timeshare cottage in a coastal Devon village. I doubt any live in modest four-bedroom houses in quiet residential streets, such as the Gready family does, or drive nice but medium-priced little saloons and people carriers, again as Mr Gready does. I very much doubt that any criminal masterminds, drug barons or organized crime overlords – all of which the defendant has been called during the course of this trial – would serve as a school governor, as Mr Gready has done for over a decade. And I also very much doubt that any such people I have mentioned would work so tirelessly for local charities as Mr and Mrs Gready do.’ She was relieved as hell that the jury had not heard Barbara Gready’s outburst in court.

  Meg glanced at Gready. There were creases around his eyes as he gave a modest smile. He was the very picture of an upright citizen, seemingly oblivious to his wife’s damning outburst.

  The QC repeated Stephen Cork’s technique of engaging eye contact with the jury, smiling at each of them, before speaking again. ‘It is my view that the prosecution has failed to establish that my client is guilty of any of the charges against him. It is now your duty to consider the evidence and come to the only possible conclusion – find my client not guilty.’

  She sat down. She was pleased with the timing and the fact the jury were going home for the weekend with her words ringing in their ears.

  Richard Jupp said, ‘It is now 4.10 p.m. We will resume at 10 a.m. on Tuesday morning, after the bank holiday.’ Addressing the jury, he said, ‘I will leave you with the reminder that you must not speak t
o anyone about what you have heard during this trial, not to your husbands, wives, lovers, friends or family or any members of the public, nor must you attempt to google or use any internet search engine to look up anything related to it. On leaving this building you may find you are accosted outside by members of the press and media. Do not respond to any of them or you will find yourselves in contempt of court and seeing very little of this weekend’s forecast sunshine. Court is adjourned.’

  ‘All rise.’

  96

  Friday 24 May

  Roy Grace had promised to take Bruno deep-sea fishing tomorrow and had chartered a small boat out of the marina for the day, with a skipper. As he walked from court back towards Police HQ, Glenn Branson strode along beside him, phone to his ear, talking to the CPS solicitor handling the Gready – and Starr – prosecutions.

  Grace checked the weekend’s weather on his phone. The judge had been right, the forecast was sunny, but it was the shipping forecast that Roy was most interested in at the moment. Last time he’d gone on a fishing trip had been with a group of colleagues a few years ago, and the sea had been unpleasantly choppy. The smell of the freshly caught fish lying on the deck, exhaust fumes and the heavy swell had combined to sandbag him. After throwing up, he’d spent the next six hours on a bunk down below, his brain feeling like it was rolling around inside his skull, pretty much wishing he was dead. His only consolation had been former Detective Superintendent Nick Sloan, cheerfully telling him not to worry, that Lord Nelson used to get seasick, too.

  But, despite the horrific memory, he was delighted Bruno actually wanted to do something with him – and something different from being holed-up in his bedroom playing computer games all weekend. So he had pre-armed himself with seasick tablets and a wristband that supposedly helped and was now praying for light wind, or preferably no wind at all.

  To his relief, the forecast was benign. Light to moderate decreasing light; sea state calm.

  ‘He’s happy,’ Branson said, shoving his phone into his pocket.

  ‘CPS?’

  ‘Yep. Reckons the jury is with Cork.’

  ‘I thought that QC put up a spirited closing.’

  Branson shrugged as they walked in past the visitors’ reception. ‘Yeah, well, these briefs have to say something to justify the money they charge,’ he quipped.

  Grace smiled.

  ‘You off home, Roy? Fancy a quick jar?’

  ‘Would have loved to, but I’ve got a briefing on Op Canoe at 6 p.m. and I need to get up to speed on anything that’s happened today – although from the lack of traffic on my phone, it doesn’t seem much.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t have me as the SIO.’

  Grace smiled again. ‘You’re full of it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m in a good mood. I scent blood, we’re going to win!’

  Grace gave him a sideways glance as they headed up the hill of the sprawling Police HQ campus. ‘Just remember, it ain’t over until it’s over.’

  ‘Hopefully the judge’ll hammer the final nail into Gready’s coffin when he sums up on Tuesday.’

  ‘I don’t want to piss on your parade, matey, but two things to bear in mind while you’re all loved up with Siobhan over the weekend. First is that judges aren’t allowed to direct juries to convict – and if they are not utterly impartial, it gives the defence grounds for an appeal. Second is something you’ll learn from time in this game – juries are totally unpredictable.’

  ‘Want to have a bet on the result?’ Glenn asked. ‘A friendly fiver?’

  As they walked in the entrance to the Major Crime suite Grace shook his head. ‘Nah, don’t want to take sweeties off a child.’

  ‘Yeah yeah!’

  ‘Have a good weekend.’ Grace bounded up the stairs, followed by Branson.

  ‘You know what you are?’ Branson called out. ‘You’re a born pessimist!’

  Grace paused in the corridor at the top of the stairs. ‘Know the definition of a pessimist?’

  Branson shook his head.

  ‘It’s an optimist with experience.’

  Grace entered his office, logged on to his computer and stared at the screen, quickly glancing through his emails, then the day’s serials of all crimes logged, in case there was anything of significance. There wasn’t. He entered the password-protected evidence file on Operation Canoe, the investigation into the murder of Stuie Starr, and began viewing the video taken of the exterior and interior of the Starrs’ house by the CSI. He’d viewed it all before but now wanted to look at it again, to see if he could have missed anything.

  First, he studied the exterior, looking at all doors and windows on both floors, as the camera tracked 360 degrees. Next was a slow panoramic sweep showing the busy main road in front of the house and the garage opposite. Cars and other vehicles streamed by. From the pathologist’s estimate and other factors, it appeared Stuie had been killed in the daytime. Someone must have seen something. Maybe a passing car – or even a cyclist – had caught something on a dash or helmet camera? But it would be a near-impossible task to find every car that had passed during the window of time in which Stuie’s killers might have been entering or leaving the house, and it would require immense resources and manpower. He made a note in his Policy Book, all the same, not wanting to rule this out. If someone had seen them, they might remember them. No matter how hard-nosed any killer was, in the immediate aftermath of having committed their crime all villains, in his experience, would be in an agitated state as they left the scene – the red mist, police called it.

  But despite a public appeal by the local press and media, and his own plea for members of the public to come forward at the press conference he had given two weeks ago, so far there was nothing – and traffic coming down this road could have come from four different directions.

  Next he looked at the video footage of the interior of the house. Gartrell had made a careful video record of the downstairs of the house, showing all the possible entry and exit routes. But he knew there was no sign of any forced entry.

  He next viewed the sickening scene in Stuie’s bedroom. The Home Office pathologist had identified kicks to Stuie’s body made by two different-sized shoes. It was impossible to tell from the chaotic mess and destruction whether it was the work of two or even more people. He froze the image repeatedly on the wide sweep and then the different angles of close-ups and the crime scene markers laid down. He was interrupted by his phone ringing. It was Cassian Pewe.

  ‘Just calling for an update on Operation Canoe, Roy. Any good news for me, for the weekend?’

  Grace was sorely tempted to lash into him over the promotions board, but at this point he wasn’t supposed to know that the ACC had failed to support him despite his promise. So instead he kept calm and studiously polite.

  ‘I’ll be able to give you more after our next briefing at 6 p.m., sir, I hope.’

  ‘Hope?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hope doesn’t interest me, Roy. Come to my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow and we’ll do a complete review of the case and investigation to date.’

  Grace’s heart momentarily sank. Then he decided to stand firm. ‘I’m afraid I’m taking my son fishing tomorrow, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘Fishing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are the SIO of a murder enquiry and you’re taking time out to go fishing?’

  ‘I am, yes,’ Grace replied, calmly. ‘I will ask Acting Detective Inspector Potting, who I’ve appointed to be SIO in my absence, to meet you at 9 a.m. tomorrow and he will fully brief you.’

  ‘Isn’t it about time Potting was pensioned off? He’s long past his sell-by date.’

  ‘If you want to get rid of one of the best detectives we have, then yes, sir.’

  ‘He’s yesterday’s man.’

  ‘I don’t agree.’

  ‘Fishing, when you are running a murder enquiry. I think this is very bad, Roy. Not setting a good example at all.’

&nb
sp; ‘There is some good news,’ Grace replied, mischievously.

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Yes, the forecast is good.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s funny. Call me when you have some proper good news.’ He ended the call abruptly.

  That won’t be possible, thought Grace. Because the good news will be when I can hold a press conference announcing your sudden and tragic death.

  97

  Tuesday 28 May

  Meg, fighting a yawn, sat along with her fellow jurors and everyone else in Court 3. She had so badly wanted – needed – to be rested and fresh for today. Ready for the biggest and most terrifying challenge she’d ever had to face in her life. Instead she felt terrible, her eyes raw, her brain a porridge of leaden, tangled thoughts.

  A bag of nerves over the long weekend, which seemed longer than ever, she’d wandered around the house like a zombie, spending the entire three days alone, despite invitations from friends. She didn’t want to see anyone, that way she could avoid difficult conversations. She’d tried to watch Twelve Angry Men again, but her mind kept drifting. Thinking about Laura – and dear Cassie. What had happened to them? Were they safe? How could she trust her caller? What if they were already – God forbid . . .

  She pushed that thought away, just as she had done repeatedly since the nightmare began. They weren’t dead. Her captor knew full well that if she succeeded in delivering the right verdict and then she found out something had happened to Laura, she would go straight to the police and tell them everything. There would then be a retrial, and from the research she had done, in cases where there was a real danger of tampering with a jury, the case could be heard by a judge alone, without a jury. In that scenario, from what evidence she had heard against Gready, he wouldn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of going free.

  She’d excused herself from meeting Alison on Saturday, mindful they would be watched and their every word recorded, and she hadn’t felt up to attending the barbecue at their house on Sunday. A couple of other friends had phoned to see how she was, and she hadn’t picked up, letting their calls go to voicemail.