by James, Peter
Meg shot a glance at the dock. Gready was still staring dead ahead, impassive.
The judge told Meg she could sit down, then turned to Gready. ‘Terence Gready, you have been found guilty on all the counts you faced. Tomorrow morning, I will sentence both you and your co-defendant, Michael Starr.’ He switched focus to the two guards behind him. ‘Please take the defendant down.’
After Gready was gone from the dock, Jupp turned again to the jury. ‘You have given diligent and dutiful service throughout what has been a challenging and at times extremely complex trial. I appreciate some of you will have suffered both inconvenience and financial loss due to the trial running into a third week. Tomorrow morning at 10 a.m. I will be sentencing both defendants. There is no obligation on you to attend, as your duties have now been discharged, but should you wish to attend, you will be most welcome.’ He paused before continuing.
‘It just remains for me to thank you for your service. You may like to know, if you do not already, that juries date back to the twelfth century, to Henry the Second, who set up a system to resolve land disputes. A jury of twelve free men were assigned to arbitrate in these disputes. Members of the jury, you will be pleased to know that juries have consisted of female and male jurors as far back as the thirteenth century. Ahead of their time maybe. In my opinion, they have served the model of justice, on which this country can rightly pride itself, well. I thank you for maintaining that tradition.’
‘All rise.’
104
Thursday 30 May
Throughout her train journey back to Hove, fighting off tears, Meg repeatedly tried to get in touch with Laura. No response.
A vortex of thoughts raged inside her head. What to do? What could she do? She had failed. What would she say to her tormentor when he called, as he undoubtedly would?
Now she had nothing to lose, should she go straight to the police and tell them the whole story? But would that put her into legal trouble? Perjury? Perverting the course of justice? None of that would matter if they got Laura back, she didn’t care if she ended up in prison so long as she was safe. But would they get her back? Could they? How? By contacting the police in Ecuador? And saying what? It was a vast country, she didn’t even know if Laura and Cassie were still in the Galapagos – or even in Ecuador at all. They could be anywhere in South America.
She thought back to the tumultuous events of the past hour and a half. At least it was a 10-1 verdict. Not unanimous. Could the evil bastard at least give her some benefit of the doubt? Could he not recognize this was a majority verdict?
When she arrived home, she sorted out all the animals.
All the time waiting for the call.
She occupied herself with every possible distraction, first turning on the television news. But her mind was jumping all over the place, she couldn’t focus – she didn’t care about the news, all she cared about was Laura. Laura had to be safe. Nothing else, nothing in the world, ever, would matter again if anything happened to her.
Call, please call. Darling Laura.
Please call, you evil bastard.
She planned that when – if – he did ring, she would emphasize how hard she had tried, against what had become increasingly impossible odds. She would throw herself at his mercy, appealing to his better nature.
But he did not ring.
105
Friday 31 May
Harold Trout was there, of course, he would be, Meg thought. A retired man with time on his hands, well able to turn up today and no doubt smugly looking forward to seeing justice meted out. Justice he had the satisfaction of playing a part in.
And so had she.
When the chips were down, she had decided she had to be true to her conscience and had voted guilty.
Trout sat at the table in the jury room reading a copy of the Argus newspaper. Not very subtly, as he noticed Meg enter, he shifted his position slightly so she could not fail to see the front-page headline.
BRIGHTON SOLICITOR GUILTY!
Sick with fear for Laura, she gave him a brief nod, in no mood for conversation, certainly not to listen to him gloating, and made herself a strong coffee.
In a parallel universe she, too, would have looked forward to seeing Terence Gready get the sentence he deserved. But twenty minutes later, as she entered the court and took her place in the strangely half-empty jury box, she was still hoping – praying – for a miracle.
It was something her thoughts had returned to frequently during the long night. Occasional snatches of sleep freed her from the prison of her mind, but each time she woke, back to the reality, her terror worsened. In the end, sometime around 3 a.m., she’d given up altogether, gone down into the kitchen, made a mug of tea then sat at her computer. She was completely alone. She hadn’t heard from Laura in what seemed like an eternity.
On Death Row in prisons in America, appeals went on for years, didn’t they? Wouldn’t Primrose Brown stand up the moment the judge entered and say she was appealing? Was that how it worked? She had repeatedly tried googling the appeals process, but whether she was too tired, or unable to concentrate with her brain jumping all over the place, she kept, annoyingly, ending up on American websites, aware the legal system there differed in numerous aspects from the UK.
And every few minutes during the night, she’d picked up her phone, checking to make sure there wasn’t a voicemail from Laura from a call she’d somehow missed, or a text, or a WhatsApp. And each time after she’d done that she’d tried calling again.
Where was Laura? And, of course, Cassie? And what about Cassie’s parents? How was she going to explain things to them?
Where were they?
Where were the bastards keeping them?
She was startled by a voice whispering in her ear, accompanied by a sudden whiff of halitosis. ‘I hope he gets what he deserves.’
It was Maisy Waller, and she was nodding at Meg. Again, whispering, she said, ‘I know you did your best to make it a fair debate for us all, but it’s the right verdict. I think we all know that, don’t we?’
Meg gave her a wan smile and returned to her thoughts. She looked at the defence QC and her junior barrister, Sykes, and at Gready’s tall, silver-haired solicitor seated behind, along with two others who were, presumably, his assistants. The trio had been busy throughout the trial, passing notes between themselves, conferring, then whispering or passing notes either to Primrose Brown or her junior. She wondered what the solicitor was thinking. He looked a sly, hard man – was he going to pull a rabbit out of a hat at the last minute before sentencing? If he was, he gave no clue. He was leaning back in his chair, looking too relaxed for her liking, as if he were a member of the audience in a theatre, contentedly waiting for the curtain to rise on a show he was going to enjoy.
Perhaps it was like that for lawyers, she thought. Win or lose, they got their fees, it was just a game for them. She looked up at the public gallery, which, unlike the jury box, was rammed. She saw Barbara Gready and her son and daughters, who were there to see the outcome of the trial. Then she noticed a man with slightly Latino looks who was staring down at the jury box. At her?
She glanced away, towards the empty dock, then back. He was still looking, but his face gave nothing away; it was as if he was studying an exhibit in a museum.
Was it him, she wondered?
He was dressed in a smart, casual jacket over a white open-neck shirt and his dark hair was shiny. She tried to engage eye contact, but he just looked elsewhere. Then, the moment she turned away, she could feel his eyes back on her. She shot him a sudden glance and saw she was right.
She shivered. What game are you playing with me?
Looking away again, she noticed another wigged and gowned barrister in the court today, with what was presumably a solicitor or junior seated behind him. Was this Michael Starr’s legal team?
Judge Jupp entered the courtroom, turning to the dock officers. ‘You can bring the defendants up now.’
A sudden murmur
went around the court, and people started turning towards the dock. Terence Gready and Michael Starr entered, with two dock officers standing behind them. Both defendants wore suits. Gready looked quite at home in his regular attire, while Starr looked like he’d put on a hand-me-down. The jacket hung loosely over his shoulders and the sleeves came halfway down his hands. His shirt, by contrast, looked too small for the top button to be done up, and the collar was held partially clamped by his tie. He looked uncomfortable and agitated.
Hardly surprising, Meg thought.
Neither man glanced at the other. They stood like two strangers who had never met, just as Gready had claimed in his defence.
106
Friday 31 May
The clerk told the defendants to sit down. The judge then entered into a lengthy discussion with both defence barristers about the sentencing guidelines.
Meg was surprised, she had thought it would all be over in minutes. Instead, the barristers and judge engaged in what sounded like a cross between a verbal sparring match and a horse trade, as each referred to past cases and judgements, citing varying lengths of sentences. Reference books were produced, with Jupp thumbing for some minutes through one before he found what Brown had asked him to read.
All the time, Meg was distracted by the Latino who still seemed to be playing games with her. Watching her, looking away, watching her.
Who the hell are you, damn you? Are you signalling to me – telling me something about Laura? Telling me I had my chance and I blew it?
‘The starting tariff for that would be fourteen years,’ she heard Jupp say. ‘But that is just the starting tariff, and the scale of this particular offence warrants a sentence towards the higher end on that particular charge. You are aware the maximum sentence I could impose on this charge is life, aren’t you?’
Meg felt the silent vibration of her phone, in her jeans pocket. Laura? At last? God, please, please, please. She pulled it out quickly, scared it would ring off, and glanced down surreptitiously. To her disappointment, it was only a message from the recruitment agency she had joined. She would read it later.
As she slipped the phone back, she heard Jupp say to both barristers, ‘Before I make my final decision, are there any mitigating circumstances you wish me to be aware of?’
Starr’s barrister, Michael Footitt QC, a striking-looking man in his late forties who kept nodding his head, replied, ‘Your Honour, my client promised to take care of his younger brother, Stuie. Mr Starr has fulfilled this promise in an exemplary manner, by having Stuie live with him ever since his mother died, until his incarceration. Mr Starr has been in a state of deep anxiety for many months now, ever since being remanded, because Stuie, right up until his dreadful murder, had difficulty understanding why his brother could not come home.’
‘Well, Mr Footitt,’ interrupted Jupp, ‘perhaps your client might have considered the risks of going to prison and the impact it would have on his promise before committing the crimes he did.’
More frantic nodding by the barrister. ‘Yes, of course, Your Honour, my client does realize that and wishes to apologize to the court for his misdemeanours.’
Jupp frowned. ‘Misdemeanours? You are calling the importation and supplying of drugs, to the value of many tens of millions of pounds, misdemeanours? How many people have died from overdoses or other conditions resulting from taking drugs imported and supplied by your client? How many families have been destroyed, how many lives ruined? How many innocent people have been the victims of crime, from drug users needing cash for their next fix breaking into their cars, their homes, and taking things or mugging them on the streets for their phones or handbags? Misdemeanours? Your client is not a schoolboy who has nicked a few chocolate bars from a corner shop.’ The judge was now glaring at him in undisguised fury. ‘Mr Footitt, I’m not at all clear on the point you are making, regarding mitigation. The length of sentence I impose will make no difference at all to the care of the defendant’s brother, since he is tragically deceased.’
‘No, Your Honour, the point I wanted to make is to show aspects of my client’s good character that have perhaps not been brought to your attention.’ He then pointed out that Starr had pleaded guilty at the first opportunity and that he had given evidence for the prosecution which had helped convict his co-defendant. At the conclusion of his mitigation Jupp responded with a terse, ‘Thank you.’
The judge then turned to Primrose Brown. ‘Do you have anything you want to say on behalf of your client that I should take into account before I pass sentence?’
‘I would like to call a character witness,’ Brown replied.
‘Go ahead.’
The Reverend Ish Smale, vicar of the Good Shepherd, Hove, entered the box.
With his silver, shoulder-length hair, the vicar looked more like an old rocker than a member of the clergy. But he delivered to the court a portrait of a man deserving of a royal gong. He talked about Terence and Barbara Gready’s devout Christianity, evidenced through their regular attendance in church. As well as their ceaseless work for Brighton and Hove charities and their generosity to them. The couple were, in his eyes, examples to the community, examples which, if we all followed, would truly make the world a better place.
The judge thanked him for attending court.
Brown then spoke briefly, accepting that, as he had been found guilty after a trial, her client could not expect his sentence to be reduced. However, she once again stressed his good character and standing in the local community.
The judge pondered for a few moments and then looked at the dock and the men sitting there. ‘Stand up, please,’ he said authoritatively. ‘Michael Starr, you are an evil drug dealer who has made millions of pounds over many years peddling death. I take into account that you pleaded guilty at the first opportunity and that you assisted the prosecution by giving evidence against your co-defendant. For those factors I will give you credit. My normal starting point for these offences would be to send you down for twenty-seven years, but the appropriate sentence, I believe, is a term of imprisonment on each of the counts of twelve years, to run concurrently. You will, of course, be subject to the Proceeds of Crimes Act procedures.’
He then turned to Starr’s co-defendant. ‘Terence Gready, you have brought shame on the legal profession with your drug-dealing activities and by exploiting your knowledge and position as a person of trust. Your conduct is abhorrent. You’ve thought you are above the law, despite being one of its practitioners. You’ve let your family down with your tissue of lies that you even convince yourself with. You have maintained the facade of being a pillar of the community whilst profiting from poisoning vast numbers of it. You only had one motivation. Greed. You have contested these matters since the day of your arrest, never having the courage to accept your criminal conduct. Now you will suffer the consequences of that. I can give you no credit for pleading guilty and therefore my sentence will be severe. I would normally be looking as the appropriate sentence for these matters to be one of life imprisonment, but having heard about your charitable work, which I am taking into account, I have decided the correct sentence is one of twenty-seven years’ imprisonment, concurrent for each charge.’
Meg was about to glance up again at the Latino, when she saw a strange movement in the dock. With his left hand, Michael Starr appeared to be pulling hard at his right hand. An instant later his prosthetic right forearm came free of his jacket sleeve. She just had time to notice the spike protruding several inches from its base, before Starr shouted, ‘You might not be giving him life, your nibs, but I will! He fucking killed my brother!’
As he shouted, he plunged the spike twice into Gready’s chest and then several more times, in a frenzy, into his neck, before the dock officers realized what was happening and lunged forward. Blood jetted onto the dock glass and onto the security guards. People were screaming. Pandemonium. Everyone in the court staggered to their feet. More security people came rushing in.
A klaxon began ringi
ng outside.
Jupp was staring, frozen in utter disbelief.
Gready’s hand, covered in blood, was clutching at his throat as blood spurted from it in uneven squirts. He was making gurgling noises, as if struggling to breathe and pleading for help at the same time. The guards wrestled with Starr. Two more rushed into the dock as well as a police officer, the detective Glenn Branson.
The last thing Meg saw of Gready, as he sank down and became blocked from her view by the guards and police officer, was the look of utter helplessness and terror in his eyes.
107
Friday 31 May
Five minutes later, as the court was emptied, Meg stumbled out into the corridor in a complete daze, into a scene of utter chaos. She heard the wail of sirens approaching, emergency vehicles were arriving. Someone was crying and someone else was screaming.
She’d just seen a man stabbed, many times, in the chest and the neck. It looked like his throat had been ripped open, an artery severed. It was almost all she could see, those few seconds replaying on an endless loop in her mind.
Her head was throbbing, her body shaking. As she was jostled down the steps, she felt limp, like a rag doll. The look of terror in Gready’s eyes was burned into her brain. Someone bumped into her from behind, unbalancing her and sending her lurching into the back of a bulky man in front of her. A voice behind called out an apology. She was pushed from the side. Left, then right. Someone stood, painfully, on her foot.
Suddenly, to her surprise, she felt a hand gripping hers. A strong, coarse, reassuring, masculine hand. Stealthily pressing something soft and crinkly into her palm. It felt like a banknote.
In an instant, the hand was gone.
Gripping whatever it was tightly, she looked around in astonishment. She saw one of the court ushers she recognized, hemming her in to the right, and a young Chinese guy, who looked like a student, to her left. She turned and behind her stood a tall, tweedy woman. As she caught Meg’s eyes she asked, ‘Do you know what has happened? Why are they clearing the building, is there a terrorist bomb?’
