Питер Джеймс - Find Them Dead

‘Yes, of course,’ Roy said. He smiled down at her then turned to the consultant. ‘We’re devastated by what’s happened, Mr Comber, and we’ll have to come to terms with it. Will it affect our chances of having another baby in the future?’

‘Not at all, you’ve nothing long-term to worry about, Mr — sorry — Detective Superintendent — right?’

Grace nodded distractedly.

The consultant looked at Cleo. ‘You should feel better in a few days, Cleo. I’d advise you to have iron and folic acid at a higher dose, as we know it can help prevent some abnormalities of the baby. I would say to wait a couple of menstrual cycles to let the lining of the uterus recover — and both of you emotionally — then try again. That time will also help raise the level of folic acid in your body.’

After Comber had left, Cleo sighed.

‘How do you feel about what he said?’ Roy asked her.

‘Crap, to be honest. I’m going to have to deal with all the sympathetic well-wishers. I know they’ll all have the best intentions, but I don’t think I can face anyone. I know what they’ll all say. Better it happened now... How far along were you?... Ever thought of adoption? ’

‘Darling, just remember everyone will mean well. What could they possibly say in this awful situation?’

‘Just that they’re sorry , that’s all.’ She was silent for a moment then she said, ‘Maybe we were lucky with Noah.’

He gave her a questioning look. ‘We’ll be lucky again.’

‘We will be,’ she said. ‘We will.’

‘Yes.’

She lapsed into silence, staring down at her bedclothes, her face sad.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ he said after a while.

She gave a wan smile. ‘I was just thinking how bloody random life is. How unpredictable. One moment you’re all excited, you’re going to have a baby, and the next you’ve got blood pouring out of you and you’re in a hospital bed.’

Roy nodded. ‘Coppers see the random nature of the human condition all the time, just like you see every day at the mortuary.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘One moment someone’s having the time of their life, the next, a pathologist’s working out the time of their death.’

In Terence Gready’s dream Lucky Mickey stood in front of the desk in his office, all apologetic, telling him the bastards at Newhaven Border Force had planted the coke in the Ferrari’s tyres.

‘I’m innocent, honest!’

And in his dream, he was disbelieving him.

‘Fitted up, I was. I’d never screw you over, Terry, you know that, you’ve been good to me.’

‘You think I didn’t notice there was always a shortage in your previous runs? Always just a tiny bit missing. Just a few grams and a nice little earner for you. Who do you think I am, Mickey, Mr Potato Head ? I let you get away with it because it was your little perk. Your little bit of cabbage , as they call it in the rag trade. But then your greed got to you, didn’t it?’

As Mickey began to protest his innocence again, Gready heard the sound of a bell. An insistent ringing. Like an alarm clock but not like an alarm clock.

Barbara was nudging him. ‘Someone’s at the door.’

The bell rang again. Followed by a loud rat-a-tat-tat.

Instantly, he was awake.

Heard the bell again. The knocking.

He looked at the alarm clock: 4.45 a.m.

Who the hell?

But he had a horrible feeling he knew just who.

More knocking.

Pounding.

Pounding like his heart now.

BLAM, BLAM, BLAM.

Then a shout, ‘POLICE! THIS IS THE POLICE!’

From the outside, the house looked nothing special. But all the doors and window frames were reinforced, and the glass was bulletproof. Ready for an eventuality like this.

All the same, he was in the grip of panic as he slipped out of bed, hands flapping wildly, telling Barbara not to worry, taking deep breaths to calm himself down as he switched on the light. He found his glasses on the bedside table, pulled on his dressing gown, jammed his feet into his slippers and hurried into his den across the landing.

He unlocked the drawer below his laptop, pulled out his micro SD card, on which he had his entire network of contacts and all his records, removed his three current burner phones, then ran through into a spare bedroom.

This one had an ornate brass bedstead with four short bedposts. He’d had the bed specially commissioned, some years ago, at considerable expense — Barbara, of course, was not aware of this, just like she wasn’t aware of the reinforced doors and windows. The posts, to anyone looking, appeared solid. He went to the nearest one, gave the top five hard turns, then removed it, like a cap, dropped the micro SD and phones down it, and replaced the top, ensuring it was tightly screwed.

BLAM, BLAM, BLAM.

Downstairs, at his front door, he heard more shouting.

‘POLICE! THIS IS THE POLICE!’

‘Coming!’ he called out, hurrying down the stairs.

‘Good morning,’ he said, politely, opening the door. ‘Can I help you?’

An authoritative, good-looking black man came in through the doorway holding up what looked like a police warrant card. ‘Terence Arthur Gready?’

With a nervous smile, he answered, ‘Yes, that’s me. What on earth do you want at this hour?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Branson of Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team. I’m arresting you on suspicion of importing Class-A drugs. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence.’

‘You will allow me to get dressed?’ he answered calmly.

‘You may,’ Glenn Branson said. ‘One of my officers will accompany you while you do so.’

‘I hope you know what you are doing, officer. I am a solicitor, I think you have got something badly wrong here.’

Another police officer entered the house with a spaniel on a leash. ‘Does anyone in your house have an allergy to dogs, sir?’ he asked.

‘We don’t like dogs.’

‘For the benefit of the recording,’ Kevin Hall said, glancing up at the video camera in the small interview room at the Brighton and Hove custody centre, behind the former CID headquarters on the Hollingbury Industrial Estate. ‘The time is 3.30 p.m., Saturday, December 1st. Detective Constable Kevin Hall and Financial Investigator Emily Denyer interviewing Terence Gready in the presence of his solicitor, Nicholas Fox. Will each of you say your names, please.’

All three of them, in turn, did so.

Fox was a tall, leonine, silver-haired Londoner specializing in criminal law. Now in his mid-fifties, he had been Terence Gready’s solicitor for over twenty years and knew where the bodies were buried. Gready trusted him implicitly and had long ago nicknamed him ‘King of the Jungle’. Over the years, Fox, a bruiser behind his smart veneer, had taken enough bungs from him to ensure his loyalty — and silence — with which he had created a very nice nest egg in an overseas bank account.

Gready was bleary-eyed, dishevelled and unshaven, and unhappy in police custody issue plimsolls. His suit and shirt were crumpled after the sleepless few hours he’d had earlier on a hard bunk, in a cell.

He’d already been through several interviews about the alleged offences for which he had been arrested, which included the importation of drugs and his apparent links to LH Classics, with DCs Hall and Wilde, in the presence of his solicitor. This interview was being held as an initial enquiry under the Proceeds of Crime Act.