Питер Джеймс - Find Them Dead

Branson sat upright, excited. ‘Yes? You have its name?’

‘Yes, it was simple. I rang the number and the switchboard answered.’

‘You’re a star! What’s the firm?’

Gilbert told him.

As he heard the name, Glenn beamed. ‘Brilliant, Aiden,’ he said. ‘Just brilliant!’

‘Yes?’

‘Christmas has come early.’

Six million pounds’ worth of cocaine seized, and along with it the Ferrari, taken apart at Newhaven Port, every panel of its bodywork, every pillar and post dismantled, some of it opened up like a tin can — violated — by Fire and Rescue officers using tools more normally used for cutting victims out of wrecked cars. All thanks to the dumb greed of a one-armed minion he’d thought he could trust.

The Ferrari was a fake, a copy, but an expensive copy and still worth big money in the hands of a dealer turning a blind eye to the more questionable areas of its history. And there was one particular dealer that had shifted plenty of his high-end classic cars, all with seemingly squeaky-clean provenance. He had also brokered a number of the cars built by LH Classics over the last sixteen years.

Now the car had been seized under the Proceeds of Crime Act, and his one meagre crumb of comfort was the knowledge that, with the damage that had been done to it, as well as it being exposed as a fake, neither Customs and Excise nor the police were going to be able to sell it.

Since the early days of his career as a legal aid solicitor, Terence Gready had been living behind an elaborate and scrupulously maintained facade. The seeds of the idea for his empire had been planted after listening to the stories — and aspirations — of an old lag called Jimmy Pearson whom he’d defended early on in his career.

The world of drugs offered riches beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, but most of the people who chased those dreams, like Jimmy Pearson, were ultimately losers who played the blame game the way so many cons and ex-cons did — I was fitted up... it was a bent copper... my brief was on the take... Few were ever smart enough to avoid, finally, getting caught. And what often nailed so many offenders were their sudden, uncharacteristic spending sprees. The flash new car, clothes, holidays, boats, homes. The law-enforcement agencies had one dictum in their eternal hunt for the major players: Follow the money.

But Terence Gready was smart enough — and going very nicely, thank you, twenty-five years on — thanks to his entirely fortuitous career choice. Being a solicitor practising legal aid, criminal law had presented him with both the perfect opportunity — and the perfect cover.

He’d realized that every day in his work he would be encountering criminals, and occasionally some with wide networks of connections. From talking to the brighter ones, it hadn’t taken him long to build up a picture of how the drug supply chains in England operated, the ports where drugs entered the country, the areas for distribution that were carved up between the crime families and the hotspots where there were gaps in law enforcement.

Distributors and dealers were the low-hanging fruit of the drugs world — they were easy for the police to catch. And even easier for someone like himself to replace, because there was always going to be a never-ending supply of lowlife wanting to dip its snout in the rich pickings of the drugs trough. He defended dealers every day of the week, most just small-beer street runners, but others a rank or two higher up the food chain. Some of them talked openly to him. And he listened. Made notes. Crucially, he made decisions about who he could trust.

The Mr Bigs of the drugs world ran their empires, mostly out of metropolitan London, in a tight, businesslike manner, with an accountant, a lawyer and a manager operating a group of foot soldiers — mainly teenagers coerced through drug dependency or fear. Most of the bosses originated from the criminal fraternity in South London or the Caribbean and more recently Eastern Europe, and they were raking in fortunes. Dealing half a kilo at a time, mostly of cocaine or heroin, buying it 40 per cent pure then cutting it, reducing it to 10 or 15 per cent for onward sale, they could earn £50,000–£100,000 in a very short time.

A large amount of the drugs trafficked into England, Gready had learned, originated from countries in Central and Eastern Europe, with supplies for the South East, his manor, coming mostly through the Essex and London docks — and just occasionally through Liverpool. It was one particular network of Eastern Europeans, from Albania, who had begun to interest Gready.

They were universally feared for the brutality of their retribution to anyone who crossed them, but, as he learned, they were also the best people to buy from, good businessmen, and that was rare in a flaky trade. They would deliver on time, always top quality, and if you weren’t happy — just like a wholesale version of Marks & Spencer — they operated a no-quibble returns policy. And, of course, he took very special care to look after any of them should they come to him with their legal issues.

The secret of success, Gready had figured, was to buy top-quality Class-A drugs and remain totally remote from those selling it on the streets, for two reasons. Firstly, to avoid getting into turf wars with any of the existing crime families — if they didn’t know who was behind a new supply on the streets, it was much harder for them to muscle in and stop it — especially if the quality was better than their own and the price cheaper. Secondly, whenever a street dealer was arrested, there was no way of linking it back to him. He had organized his own empire by placing Mickey Starr as its nominal head. Whilst he made all the decisions, Starr was the operational contact for the importation and distribution. He made sure he had no involvement in this part whatsoever and could not be connected to it.

But now, for the first time, he was really worried. A big fly in the ointment.

Lucky Mickey Starr.

Lucky. Why the hell had that fool ever been called Lucky ?

The television was on, an episode of Endeavour , one of the few crime dramas Terence Gready bothered to watch, because he liked its accuracy. But tonight, to him, it was all blurred images and noise. The volume up so damned loud. ‘Barbs, can’t you turn it down a little?’ he said to his wife, who was perched on the sofa opposite.

‘I’ve already turned it down once. Any more and I won’t be able to hear it,’ she replied.

He peered at her, fresh out of humour. ‘You need to get your ears tested — maybe you need a hearing aid.’

‘My hearing’s fine,’ she laughed.

Gready had been seething with rage for the past four days and still seethed now. He sat in the living room of his home, his glass of whisky empty, just a few partially melted ice cubes in the bottom rattling in his shaking hand. Scarcely able to believe the greed of the man he’d always paid so well. What a fool. Stuffing the tyres of the Ferrari with drugs. Hadn’t he realized the X-ray would pick them up?

Now Starr was banged up on remand in Lewes Prison, but could he trust him to keep his trap shut? The stupid idiot was looking at around fifteen years, minimum. Would Mickey Starr do anything to lessen his sentence? Gready thought he was loyal, but he couldn’t be sure.

And what if he did squeal?

For the past two decades, Gready had so very carefully covered his tracks, hiding behind the cover of his law firm, never been remotely ostentatious in any way and was ever diligent.

Nicked for drink-driving at 3 a.m. and in urgent need of a solicitor? Terence Gready was your man! He would always obligingly rock up to the custody suite to advise you. Unfailingly polite to police officers, custody sergeants and to his clients, he had earned grudging respect from most police officers, who as a general rule intensely disliked lawyers, especially his grubby kind.