Find Them Dead

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.

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.