Find Them Dead

42 Saturday 11 May

After his evening meal, which he had barely touched, Mickey left his cell to go for a walk around before lockdown. He didn’t notice anyone on the way, didn’t want to talk to anyone. He returned, finally, and perched, heavy-hearted, on the edge of his bunk, staring at the photograph of Stuie on the wall beside him. The photo that had always made him smile, the last thing he saw at night and the image that greeted him each morning. Stuie in the set of chef’s whites he’d bought online, ready for his duties in the fish and chip shop.

Stuie was always online, looking at items on Gumtree, eBay and Catawiki mostly, but rarely actually buying anything. For him, the excitement — and challenge — was always to see how long he could stay in the auction without getting caught out and ending up as the final purchaser.

But this chef’s outfit was something he’d hankered after ever since Mickey had first told him their plans for the chippie. And it was the full monty. Toque, double-breasted white tunic, apron, black and white houndstooth-checked trousers, and he had taken to wearing it whenever he went into the kitchen. In this photograph he was standing upright, proudly posing, the tall white hat as lopsided as his happy grin.

Once again Mickey was fighting back tears. Who the hell had done this? When he found them, he would rip their heads off — after he had torn off every other appendage first. He punched the wall in frustration, then punched it again.

‘Do you want to talk, Mickey?’ said his cellmate, from the bunk above him. Mickey hadn’t even noticed he was there.

‘No, I don’t want to talk, I want to fucking do something. I’ve gotta find out who did this — find out and—’

He was interrupted by a figure stepping in through the open doorway. It was one of the officers he liked, and who had been sympathetic towards him. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Mickey,’ he said.

Starr frowned. It was 7.30 p.m. and visiting time had ended several hours ago. ‘It must be the solicitor,’ he said.

Maybe, he thought, with more information on how Stuie had died. Or perhaps with the news that they’d caught the bastards who had done this. Not that he really wanted to see anyone or talk to anyone. He just wanted to be on his own with his thoughts. He didn’t want people to see him crying.

Mickey followed the officer, almost blindly, along the gridded landing, down the stairs, through the maze of stark corridors, through one double door after another — assiduously unlocked and locked by the officer — and finally into the large visitors’ area. Normally, most of the brightly coloured chairs, facing each other across a table, would have been occupied and it felt strange to Mickey that tonight they were deserted. Everything felt strange at the moment, badly strange, as if the world he knew had been kicked over onto its side, into shit.

A tall figure rose over on the far side of the room. Nick Fox.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the officer said. He jerked a thumb towards the observation platform. ‘I’ll be over there — have as long as you need.’

Starr thanked him and walked over to the solicitor. Fox clasped Starr’s right hand and held it for some seconds, looking deeply upset, too. ‘Mickey, I’m so sad for you. What a terrible thing to have happened. I know how much Stuie meant to you and how you cared for him.’ He shook his head. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

They sat, facing each other. Mickey nodded. ‘I don’t know what’s happened — do you know anything? Are there any suspects?’

Fox raised his arms. ‘Not so far — it’s early doors. There’s a CCTV camera on the garage forecourt opposite your house. The footage is being looked at, I’m told, but I think it’s the wrong angle to be of much help.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Is there anyone you might have upset — on the outside or in here?’

‘Upset? You mean enough that they’d go and kick my brother to death?’

‘Yes.’

Mickey shook his head. ‘No way — I mean — absolutely no way. OK — I decked a couple of cops at Newhaven, but—’ He shook his head again.

‘No one you’ve pissed off in here? Done over? Tucked up?’

‘I’ve followed your advice, Nick. You know how badly I’ve been wanting to get out — for Stuie. I’ve kept my head down, stayed clear of any trouble, been respectful to the screws, even the bastard ones.’ He buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh, Jesus. I guess I’ve had one thought — Stuie was always online on the internet. He loved chatting to strangers. He’s not always the most tactful person, know what I’m saying?’ He looked up. ‘He doesn’t always know what words mean, or realize, sometimes, when he’s being rude. Maybe that’s a possibility — that he upset someone online?’

Fox looked at him, dubiously. ‘Enough that they would kill him — do you really think so? The police are also looking at whether it was a burglary gone wrong.’

‘I dunno what I think. Nothing else makes any sense. Shit, I need a fag.’

The solicitor smiled. ‘I’m sure they’re not hard to get hold of in here.’

Starr barely acknowledged the comment. ‘Make me one promise, Nick.’

‘What’s that?’

‘When they get the bastard — or bastards — who did this, you’ll give me ten minutes alone in a room with them.’

‘Won’t you let me join you?’

Both men grimaced at each other.

‘Think hard, Mickey, is there anyone, anyone at all who has reason to be upset with you?’

Starr was silent. Then he said, ‘There’s only one person I can think of — but I’ve always trusted him like he’s one of my family.’

‘Who’s that? Who do you mean?’

‘Terry. I got his message about keeping my mouth shut — surely he wouldn’t have killed my brother. He’s a bastard, but he wouldn’t have killed Stuie.’

As he said the name, he noticed the very faint upwards curl of Fox’s eyebrow.

And suddenly he knew for sure.

‘Terry?’ Fox replied. ‘No way.’ He shook his head. ‘Never!’

Mickey let it drop, and they chatted on. But all the time he was thinking silently, burning inside as if the blood in his veins had turned into a corrosive acid.

After Fox left, promising to update him the moment he had further news, Mickey was escorted back to his wing. He was deep in thought, replaying over and over in his mind that twitch of Fox’s eyebrow when he’d suggested Terence Gready might be behind this. Had he touched a nerve? Did Fox have the same suspicions?

For sure he did. That twitch was the giveaway. Maybe he even knew?

Hiding behind the carefully constructed artifice of respectable citizen, family man, champion of the underprivileged and charitable benefactor, Lucky Mickey was aware, better than anyone, what an utterly ruthless man Gready was. The invisible mastermind behind a string of children and vulnerable young adults, many with mental health issues, coerced through drug addiction — engineered by him — into acting as his dispensable foot soldiers. He had cuckoos in towns across the South Coast — addicts forced by the threat of withdrawal of their drugs into using their residences to deal from. Mickey knew this because he ran the whole operation on behalf of Terry.

Just as Gready had used a bent copper in his pay to get him acquitted eighteen years ago — and to ensure his ongoing loyalty — perhaps the solicitor had his eyes and ears throughout the police and prison system today. Had word got back to Gready that he had been in discussions about grassing him up to further reduce his own sentence?

Although he’d been using a different brief to broker this, had he or someone else told Fox? They were both from the same firm, after all.

By the time he was back in his cell, which stank of shit, and the door had banged shut behind him, he had convinced himself.

‘Sorry,’ his cellmate said, from the other side of the plastic curtain which screened off the toilet. ‘Got the runs.’

But Starr barely heard him. He perched back down on his bunk. Terence fucking Gready. There was no one else. He’d seen it in the twitch of Fox’s eyebrow. He was certain.

And he knew the one thing he could do to take revenge.