Питер Джеймс - Find Them Dead

The firm of classic car dealers, LH Classics, to which the Ferrari had been consigned, was, to anyone investigating, owned by a Panama company, with nominee directors. A money-laundering front — and a method of importing drugs — which he had successfully used for several years. No way could the police connect it to him. He’d doled out enough cash to his international lawyers to ensure that. Just like the Chinese takeaway below his office and the twenty others around Sussex, who were laundering drugs cash. All of their proprietors had big gambling habits, spending thousands weekly at the local casinos and never raising any suspicion. The Chinese community was well known for being big gamblers. No one had ever suspected it was mostly his money they were playing with. Oh yes, he had been so clever, so many tentacles to his business!

Barbara suddenly pointed at the screen where a BMW was being dismantled. ‘Look!’ she said. ‘Smuggling drugs hidden in a car, a bit like that Ferrari that was just in the news.’

‘Yes, that was quite a bust at Newhaven; I don’t imagine that was just somebody operating on his own. There’s bound to be a Mr Big behind it,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

‘I hope he gets bloody nailed,’ she said, vehemently. ‘You know my views on drugs, my love. And how much it upsets me when you get some dealer off who you’re pretty sure is guilty. Any drug dealer who uses kids should be lined up against a wall.’

‘I agree,’ he said quietly.

‘What’s up, Terry?’ Barbara asked suddenly. ‘Please tell me. You’ve not been yourself for days now.’

Endeavour was over, the credits rolling. He looked at her. ‘I’m fine.’

‘How did it go at the doctor’s today? You’ve not said.’

‘Yes. All good. He said I’ve got the heart of an ox.’

Terence Gready’s mum and dad had been greengrocers in South London. His dad, Godfrey, had been a meek man, short and with a permanently sad, brow-beaten expression, as if the world bewildered him. Gready had memories of him up at the crack of dawn, and later, outside in all weathers, croaking out the prices of his wares: Bananas half price today! Special offer on greengages!

His dad had his dreams and his plan. To sell up at sixty and buy a place in Spain’s Costa del Sol, whilst the two of them were still young enough to make the move and enjoy their life. Their flat above the shop was always littered with brochures about Spanish properties. Often his dad would hold up one of the brochures, with a sunny villa or condominium on the front cover, and say to Terence, ‘Always have your dream, lad, and make sure you get to live it. Pity the man who dies with all his dreams still inside him.’

He’d dropped dead at fifty-four, holding up a bag of satsumas. His last words had been, ‘Cheap at twice the price!’

His mum had died two years later, from cancer.

Sod all that. Terence had gone to university and then to law school. And then had rapidly realized there was no money to be made in criminal law legal aid work. But there was a great — a very great — amount to be made dealing drugs. The clients he ended up defending were the losers. The expendables. The bottom feeders. They were the ones who were always caught, whilst their bosses, quietly and under the radar, amassed fortunes.

And he had always been very happy to live under the radar. He didn’t feel any need to show off. The bang for Gready was knowing just how much money he had stashed away.

Biding his time.

He had his aspirations, of course. His dreams. A hankering for the good life. And one day soon, he planned, he would make the move and start to live it, doing all the things with Barbara he’d ever wanted. She could cultivate rare orchids to her heart’s content. They could live in style in the sun! Do a world cruise. Visit the Antarctic. Perhaps buy a yacht. A plane. Buy houses for the kids and set them up for life.

But for now, there was one obstacle he had to deal with: Mickey Starr. Shouldn’t be a problem. He had plenty of contacts inside Lewes Prison. Perhaps someone could have a quiet word in Mickey Starr’s ear. A gentle warning. But would that be enough?

Perhaps not.

He knew the man’s one weakness. His love for his brother.

‘Are you sure you’re OK, Terry? You just keep looking so worried,’ Barbara said. ‘I know you too well. What is it?’

‘We’re good,’ he said. And thought, Yeah, we are, we are good. ‘Honestly, I’ve got a lot of cases on, that’s all. Trying to do my best for my clients.’

‘Well, I’m off to bed,’ she said.

‘I’ll be up later.’

She kissed him and went out of the room.

He waited until he heard her footsteps upstairs, then hit a stored number on his latest burner phone.

When it was answered, he kept it short. ‘Nick, Mickey Starr’s kid brother, Stuie. Find someone to have a word with Mickey, tell him if he knows what’s good for his brother, he’ll keep his trap shut. Know what I’m saying? Just have someone give him a friendly reminder. Oh yes — and see if he needs anything and send him my regards.’

It was just gone 11 p.m. on Friday. Roy Grace sat beside Cleo’s bed in the tiny, stark single room adjacent to the maternity ward at the hospital. He was holding her clammy right hand, even though she was now asleep, her face an unnatural chalk white.

Hail thudded against the pitch-black windowpane; a steady, icy draught from the relentless wind outside blew in through the thin glass, onto his face. He should have been up in London tonight, out in the area car supervising the operation he was running from Croydon to Newham, but he’d delegated the task to his second-in-command, so he could be with Cleo.

A sudden light pressure on his hand. She was squeezing it. He looked down, tenderly, and moments later she opened her eyes. ‘I just can’t believe it,’ she said, her voice weak and raspy from the breathing tube that had been removed only a few hours earlier. ‘I can’t help thinking I could have stopped this happening.’

He bent down and hugged her gently; both had tears rolling down their cheeks. ‘It wasn’t your fault, you’ve been doing everything right.’

‘No, I was stupid — we had a whopper brought into the mortuary on Wednesday — a woman weighing thirty-four stone. I helped Darren lift her — and immediately didn’t feel right afterwards.’

He shook his head. ‘We’ve already discussed that.’

She looked puzzled. ‘We have?’

‘Yesterday, with the consultant. He said lifting something is extremely unlikely to cause a miscarriage — unless there was some underlying problem with the pregnancy.’

She looked puzzled. ‘I — don’t — remember.’

He stroked her cheek, gently. ‘I’m not surprised, you’ve been through a lot in the past day and a half — a blood transfusion and a general anaesthetic. I had a long chat with the consultant earlier. He explained miscarriages are very common — something like one in five. And he said that fifty per cent of miscarriages are because of a genetic problem.’

The door opened and Craig Comber, the consultant gynaecologist, peered in, then entered. A tall, smiley man in scrubs and a blue mop hat, surgical mask hanging below his chin, he said, ‘Good evening, just thought I’d check on how Cleo is doing before I head home.’ He looked down at her. ‘Good to see you’re awake — how are you feeling?’

‘A little tender.’

He smiled again. ‘I’m afraid we had to do a rather invasive surgical management of the miscarriage. There was a lot of tissue stuck near the lower end of your uterus — in the cervix — causing you more pain than usual and making you bleed heavily. You did right not to stay at home and miscarry, as you were in cervical shock — that’s when what’s happening causes a rapid drop in your blood pressure and heart rate, leading to collapse. But you’re out of any danger and you’ll be feeling much better in a couple of days. The nurse will be in shortly to give you something to make sure you sleep. I’ll come and see you in the morning, Cleo, and, all being well, you’ll be able to go home.’ He looked at Roy. ‘Will you be able to drive her?’