Left You Dead

by James, Peter

  Guy

  The letter contained a cryptic clue which his wife, Cleo, had solved for him. Church bench equalled Pew, she’d suggested, brilliantly.

  For almost two years, Assistant Chief Constable Cassian Pewe, his direct boss, had been the bane of his life, to the point where Grace had been seriously considering leaving Sussex Police and taking up a Commander role he’d been offered in London’s Metropolitan Police, just to get away from the vile and odious man.

  He opened the driver’s door with some misgivings and stepped out into the vast empty space and silence beneath a mackerel sky which seemed to share these misgivings, and which, from his limited experience of sailing, he knew heralded rain in a few hours. But it was still a warm afternoon. As he walked through the car park and then crossed the road towards the compound of single-storey buildings, he thought that if it wasn’t for the high mesh fencing, the place could have been mistaken for a holiday camp.

  Men’s prisons in Britain were categorized from A to D. Cat A were high security, housing violent and dangerous convicts such as serial killers and terrorists who posed the greatest threat to the public, police or national security. Cat B were also high security, but for those who were deemed less of a threat, as well as for prisoners in the local area and those who were being held long-term. Cat C were training and resettlement prisons, enabling prisoners to develop skills to use on their release. Cat D, like this one, were open prisons, for those regarded to be a minimal risk, mostly white-collar criminals, but also for inmates from higher category prisons who were nearing the end of their sentences and were considered safe and suitable to soon re-enter the community.

  All the same, he slipped his warrant card under the glass shield of the security desk with the same unease he always felt arriving at any prison. He waited while the serious-looking woman on the other side, who was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, studied his identity, before shoving the small grey tray containing his warrant card back at him. ‘Please put your phone and any valuables in one of the lockers behind you, Detective Superintendent.’ She gave him only the very faintest nod of acknowledgement that they were both on the same side here.

  Roy complied, immediately feeling naked as he parted with his ID and phone – his lifeline to the outside world – set the combination and stepped through the electric door, which immediately closed behind him like an airlock.

  Tabloid newspapers regularly ran shouty headlines about how cushy life inside British prisons was. But he bet none of their editors had ever sampled even just one night at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.

  He hadn’t either, but he’d talked to plenty of people who had. And no one, ever, had told him it had been a party. In many prisons, such as Sussex’s Category B, HMP Lewes, on some wings the inmates were forced to share a cell with two bunks and a toilet with no seat behind a plastic shower curtain, just three feet from the face of the unfortunate on the lower bunk. And had to try to sleep on pillows harder than breeze blocks.

  At least here, in Ford, he knew each prisoner had his own decent, if cramped, cell.

  After a couple of minutes, a second door opened and an officer, with keys hanging from his belt, greeted him with a friendly smile and an outstretched hand. ‘Detective Super-intendent Grace, don’t know if you remember me from Lewes prison, a couple of years ago?’

  Roy Grace, who had a near-photographic memory for names and faces, looked at him. Short grey hair and rounded shoulders. ‘Andrew Kempson?’

  ‘Well, I am impressed!’

  Roy shrugged.

  ‘Very good to see you again, sir. The Governor thought it best you came after general visiting hours were over, and he’s arranged for you to meet former Detective Sergeant Batchelor in a private interview room, cameras off, and the Governor knows you are going to be handed some evidence.’

  Unlike some prison officers, Kempson at least seemed refreshingly respectful to his charges. Roy Grace followed him across a wide, open courtyard, past a row of prefab single-storey buildings. Several men were mooching around, some stooped, with that air of total defeat he’d observed on previous prison visits, others looking more determined and purposeful. One, with a rake and bin bag, looked like he was actually happy to be doing something useful.

  They entered a large room that felt like an impoverished, denuded public library. Several prisoners were seated at bare tables, either reading newspapers or books, in front of racks of shelves containing, almost exclusively, crime novels. Among them he noticed several by Martina Cole, Kimberley Chambers and Ian Rankin. Following Kempson, Roy was ushered by the officer into a room at the far end.

  And was greeted by the sheepish smile of his former colleague and, until recently, one of the most capable detectives on his team.

  Guy Batchelor, with his burly physique, rose from a chair.

  Some while ago, the Detective Sergeant had totally lost the plot when a woman he’d been having an affair with, and to whom he had apparently made all kinds of promises about a future together, had trapped him in a web of lies. It had resulted, if Batchelor was telling the truth, in a furious row, in which, through an escalating chain of events, she’d ended up dead in a bathtub, and he’d panicked. In the ensuing downward spiral, the DS had attempted to commit suicide and Roy had risked his own life trying to stop him.

  Throughout his life – and career – Grace had always been prepared to see the best in people. He believed, with some exceptions, that most human beings were fundamentally decent, and that it was stuff beyond their control, whether abusive parents in their childhood or something that happened later in their lives, that skewed them onto the wrong path.

  So when Guy had made contact saying he wanted to see him because he had something that might be of value to him, Roy had decided he would see him, both because he was intrigued by what Guy might have to say, but also just to talk to him. And because maybe, in some small way, he could help this man who had ruined his own life and the lives of others in a period of madness.

  All the same, he was here with some reservations.

  It was just like any other interview room. A metal table, hard chairs, wide-angle CCTV camera up near the ceiling. A red notebook sitting on the table.

  ‘I’ll be outside,’ Andrew Kempson said. ‘I’ll be back in an hour but shout if you need me.’

  ‘I doubt that will be necessary,’ Grace said.

  Kempson gave him a ‘you never know’ shrug, and shut the door, more softly than some officers might have.

  4

  Sunday 1 September

  Roy Grace shook Batchelor’s hand, trying to mask his surprise at his appearance. The former DS had aged a decade since he’d last seen him in court. And one of the things that was different about him was that he no longer reeked of cigarette smoke.

  ‘So, how are you, Guy?’ Grace felt so many conflicting emotions, actually seeing him. Batchelor had once been a family man and a highly respected detective. Grace knew that for the rest of Guy’s life, the knowledge of what had happened and the guilt would haunt his dreams and his every waking thought. It would never leave him. And what future lay ahead for him, once he walked out of the prison gates, he couldn’t even begin to guess at.

  ‘Yeah, all right actually. A lot better since I was moved here. Lewes was a real shithole. Five days confined to my room because there weren’t enough officers. No shower or change of clothes. It’s OK here, I can cope.’

  Grace nodded. He’d always hated corrupt police officers and was intrigued to know more as to why Guy Batchelor had become corrupt himself. He was now paying a terrible price. Life gave you second chances for most screw-ups you made. But killing a fellow human being was crossing the Rubicon.

  Then an old saying he had once read came to his mind: Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes.

  Pulling up a chair opposite Guy, he sat down.

  ‘Honestly, boss, I’m gobsmacked you actually came.’

  Grace shrugged. ‘Guy, I’m not condoning anything you’ve done,
by this visit. But I do know shit can happen to any of us, at any time. Who was it who said that we are all just one pay cheque away from being homeless? Anyway, it took a while to organize but I’m here now.’

  It was good to see Guy smile, he thought. And that smile momentarily dropped the decade from his face.

  Batchelor raised his arms expansively. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a drink, boss. Sort of got limited facilities here.’

  It was Grace’s turn to smile. Then, serious, he said, ‘So, tell me? Good cryptic clue by the way.’

  ‘Figured you would get it.’

  ‘Actually, Cleo did.’

  Batchelor tilted his head and said wryly, ‘Not losing your touch, are you?’

  ‘Want to end up in a Cat A prison or do you want to tell me about my good friend, Mr Church Bench?’ Grace said, with mock severity.

  ‘I’ll go for the second option.’

  ‘Thought you might.’

  ‘OK – when I was in Lewes prison, in a tastefully furnished double room with en-suite bog, last redecorated circa 1890, I had a cellmate who, like myself, had never been inside before. He was a very charming Indian man, a stockbroker with a small London City firm. As you can imagine, we had many hours, especially because of staff shortages, in which we were locked in the cell with nothing to do except read, watch television or chinwag.’

  Grace nodded.

  ‘He liked to talk. When I went in, I’d tried to keep it quiet that I’d been in the police, obviously, but it was common knowledge before I’d even arrived. My cell buddy – I won’t give you his full name, let’s just call him Raj – told me he’d become friendly with a senior copper in the Met a few years back. At the time this officer had been with the Serious Fraud Office and they were investigating a wealthy client of Raj’s firm who had alleged links with organized crime. Anyhow, those links turned out to be unprovable and the investigation was dropped. But, in the interim, Raj had struck up a friendship with the Met detective.’

  ‘Whose name I might possibly know?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’ Guy gave a thin smile. ‘Raj slipped a few insider-trading tips to said officer, enabling him to amass considerable personal wealth. Quite illegally. Raj’s firm, a relative minnow by City standards, had outperformed the stock market for their clients for several years – through this insider trading practice.’

  ‘Then the crunch came?’ Roy Grace suggested.

  ‘Exactly. Raj’s company had hit the Financial Regulator’s radar. Raj’s buddy in the Met made a phone call to tell him to get his house in order, PDQ. It was a deliberate breach of the Data Protection Act, providing information that should not have been disclosed. He may well have also perverted the course of justice.’

  ‘And?’ Grace quizzed.

  ‘As a result of this call, Raj was able to take preventative action to reduce the evidence that would be recovered by the Met when they raided his home and business premises. That tip-off, Raj told me, probably halved his prison sentence. He’s expecting a future visit from the Met Financial Crimes Team to find out what more he can say about his former clients – he wants to use his information as a bargaining chip to try to get moved from Lewes to an open prison in the Birmingham area to be closer to his family.’

  ‘So, do you want to confirm this Met detective’s name?’ Grace said.

  Guy Batchelor grinned again. ‘It’s as you deduced, Sherlock – or rather, Cleo did. Her maiden name’s not Watson by any chance?’ He opened the notebook on the table and began to read, stumbling at times as he tried to decipher his own handwriting – a problem Roy Grace had often encountered himself, as a junior officer, taking statements in the days before they had become mostly electronic.

  When Batchelor had finished, Roy had to restrain himself from punching the air with elation.

  Stockbrokers routinely recorded all phone conversations with clients, as proof of any instructions should the client dispute one. Guy Batchelor had just read out the details of a digital recording of Cassian Pewe, pleading with Raj to wipe all records of him making stock purchases and sales over the previous three years before the investigation. Apparently Raj left the evidence with a family member before being imprisoned.

  If the real recording was anything close to what Raj had apparently recited to Guy, this was dynamite.

  Roy Grace said nothing for a short while, thinking it through. Then he said, ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand, Guy – which is why you’re telling me this?’

  Batchelor shrugged. ‘Two reasons, boss. One’s personal, the other isn’t. Personal first. I sent a request to ACC Pewe, asking if he would appear as a character witness at my trial, and he never responded. I sent the request three times.’ He shrugged again. ‘Second reason is I know how much he fucked you around. You always stood by me. I remember your words in court, despite all I’d put you through. I didn’t deserve it, but I’ll respect you forever for it.’

  ‘Can you do me a favour, Guy? Keep this information confidential for the moment. I’d like to take it directly to Alison Vosper – she’s now a Deputy Assistant Commissioner in the Met. At the time Pewe appears to have committed these crimes he was a serving Metropolitan Police officer. Will you do that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I really appreciate you coming forward with this information, whatever your reasons for doing so.’ Grace sat for a moment, thinking. ‘So, if I need what you have in that notebook, can I use it? You can expect a visit from the Met’s Anti-Corruption Team, and probably sooner rather than later.’

  Batchelor shoved it across the table towards him. ‘It’s yours, take it. I kind of feel I owe you one.’

  Roy Grace had been asked a number of times over the years if he had ever felt his life had been on the line during his work as a police officer. And his answer was, yes, on several occasions. The most recent of which had been, despite his fear of heights, scaling the vertical, interior ladder of Brighton’s 531-foot-high i360 tower in an attempt to stop a panicked Guy Batchelor from jumping off the top. What had been far worse than climbing up it, when he had been fuelled by adrenaline, was having to climb back down, knowing that if his grip slipped for just one moment he would have plunged to certain death.

  ‘You could say that,’ he replied. Then he held up the notebook. ‘Consider the debt paid, with interest.’

  5

  Sunday 1 September

  Back in the prison car park, Roy Grace sat in his Alfa, window cracked to let in some breeze, and opened the red notebook. His hands were shaking as he began to read Batchelor’s notes – or rather, began the slow work of deciphering them.

  Half an hour had passed, he realized with a start, by the time he had finished. And his hands were now shaking even more. Shit, if this was true, he would have ACC Cassian Pewe bang to rights!

  He started the car and headed back towards home, his mind in turmoil. He felt conflicted. If what Guy had given him was genuine – and he little doubted it was – and if this Raj, whoever he was, would hand over the recording of Pewe and testify – and he had a good motive for doing so – then Cassian Pewe’s career was toast. And he might well face a prison sentence.

  But Grace wasn’t smiling as he drove. Sure, Pewe was a pain in the arse, but he churned over in his mind for some minutes the morality of destroying a fellow officer’s career – however much he loathed the man. Could he do this? Deep down he knew that, having this information, it was now his duty to do so, and immediately.

  He pulled into a lay-by on the A27 and switched the engine off. He picked up his phone, found Alison Vosper’s mobile number in the address book and dialled it.

  Expecting it to go to voicemail, he was both pleasantly surprised – and somewhat nervous – when she answered on the third ring.

  ‘Roy! Nice to hear from you. So have you changed your mind and decided to take my offer of a Commander role in the Met? I presume that’s why you’re calling?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, not exactly – though this is connected t
o your offer, albeit in an oblique way.’

  ‘Oblique? Should we be doing our heads in with words like “oblique” on a Sunday evening?’

  In all the time he’d known the former ACC of Sussex, he’d found it hard to tell when she was being nice, indeed humorous, or just plain sarcastic.

  ‘I’ll skip the oblique and come straight to the point, ma’am.’

  He summarized what Guy Batchelor had told him earlier, much of it seemingly confirmed by the notes in the red book.

  She was silent for so long after he had finished that he began to wonder if they’d been cut off. Then, the tone of her voice very different, serious and to the point, she said, ‘Roy, how certain are you this former officer has told you the truth?’

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ he said, without hesitation.

  ‘Even though he’s serving time in prison?’

  ‘He’s not looking to get anything out of this personally, ma’am.’

  ‘So why has he given this to you?’

  ‘Because he hates corrupt coppers, even though he is one – perhaps he doesn’t see that – and he wanted to repay me for standing up for him at his trial with a character reference.’

  ‘Always loyal to your team, aren’t you?’

  ‘It wasn’t loyalty, ma’am – his appalling behaviour was out of character and the court needed to hear that.’

  That seemed to satisfy her. ‘OK, Roy. Don’t discuss this with any of your colleagues in Sussex. Can you scan and send me the contents of the notebook as soon as possible?’

  ‘I can do it when I get home – half an hour.’

  ‘Good. What I’ll do is place this in the hands of the Met Anti-Corruption Unit.’ She paused. ‘Roy, I don’t need to tell you this is a very delicate scenario – it needs to be handled both carefully and highly confidentially.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I will also personally brief the Chief Constable of Sussex and the Police and Crime Commissioner – they need to be made aware. I don’t need you to do anything else at this stage.’