Find Them Dead

64 Thursday 16 May

It felt like the defence had hit a brick wall, Meg thought, despondently, reflecting on today’s proceedings. She was in Laura’s bedroom, giving the daily treats to the rodents, as per the very precise list of instructions her daughter had left. A handful of dandelions for Horace the guinea pig, which he scoffed in seconds. She stroked him with her finger before moving on, hand-feeding some cucumber and pumpkin seeds to the gerbils. She did a quick spot clean to keep things fresh in between the deep clean she was instructed to do each week, then topped up the water in each cage. This whole process made her feel sad and worried. Laura cared for the welfare of each and every creature she kept and now, there she was, in danger, unaware and far, far away.

She stared at a purple cushion with a large L embroidered on it, on the bed. Then glanced around the room with a wistful smile. Her daughter’s string of fairy lights; her stack of boxes that contained her precious, different-coloured trainers; the large map of the world; the clutter of her make-up and hair products on her dressing table; the fluffy rug; framed inspirational quotes dotted around the walls.

Then the photograph on the bookshelf. Taken just months before that fatal day. All four of them doing a family fun run in Reigate, which they’d done with Nick’s brother and his family for charity.

The memory twinged, painfully. She turned and looked out of the window at the rear garden. A thrush was washing itself in the birdbath. It was a gloriously warm evening. Just five weeks shy of the longest day. Normally she loved this time of year. Normally. But nothing was normal any more. It never had been since Nick and Will had died. The day her world had skewed sideways. And had remained sideways until last week when it had skewed again, this time completely upside down.

It was 6.20 p.m. A long, light evening stretched out ahead. She should sit out in the garden and read a book, but she had barely read a single page since that first phone call last Saturday evening. Nor could she focus on anything much on television. Alison had been telling her for ages about a series called Succession. She’d tried the first episode a few nights ago in her attempt to switch off from all the horror of her predicament, but within seconds her mind had wandered.

A drugs gang was watching her — and had invaded her home. Her daughter, thousands of miles away, was being followed around the clock and they had threatened to kill her if there was anything other than a ‘not guilty’ verdict. She was breaking the law and risked going to prison herself — not to mention trying to help a major criminal evade justice.

The spinning wheel in the gerbil cage began squeaking; one of them was inside, turning it increasingly quickly, as if at some point, if he got fast enough, it would stop simply rotating and actually lead him somewhere — perhaps Mongolia, where most of them originated from, Meg thought with a faint smile. At first when Laura had given her the list, she’d viewed looking after these creatures as a chore, but now she found them comforting; grounding.

She was so damned wound up. A run would do her good, she knew, realizing she hadn’t done any exercise for almost a week. Overwhelmed, suddenly, by everything, she sat down on the soft bed, feeling utter despair.

God, she so desperately needed to talk to someone. But she didn’t dare.

She had a friend on the jury — but who was it? The evidence against Gready today from that officer, DS Alexander, was pretty damning. Although, if she was honest, Meg had lost track a little as he’d detailed, throughout the long afternoon, the chain of overseas companies and how they connected. She’d tried hard to follow, but it had done her head in — as it had for some of the other jurors, too, she could tell.

All that stuff before, about whether or not Terence Gready had been in his office when the man who had driven the vehicle into Newhaven, Michael Starr, had been there, too. That did not seem to have played well with the jurors. During a brief afternoon recess, Mike Roberts, sounding more like a cop than ever, had said he found the evidence so far to be strong and, in his view, the defence was squirming. He was backed up by Maisy, who seemed to have changed her mind, Toby, Edmond, Sophie, Mark and Harold. The ones who had kept quiet were Hari Singh, Rory O’Brien and Hugo Pink.

The man had very definitely said a friend.

Who? Hugo Pink was one possibility, she suspected. He wasn’t accepting any of the negative evidence. Rory O’Brien was possibly another, but she couldn’t be sure, he was difficult to read.

She’d looked up online to see if, with a jury reduced to eleven, a judge could still convict on a 9–2 verdict. They could.

If, however, more than two jurors were unconvinced of his guilt then that would simply result in a hung jury, and the judge would likely go for a retrial. And that wasn’t acceptable. It had already been made very plain to her what was needed. Those two words. Nothing less.

‘Not guilty’ had started to become a mantra inside her head.

Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty.

She’d woken yesterday actually saying it out loud.

She sniffed, went into the bathroom and dried her eyes with the towel hanging there. But as she did so, she began sobbing again. Her phone rang. She hurried over to the bed where she’d left it and answered.

‘Has the judge put his black cap on yet?’

She smiled, despite her tears, at the sound of her friend’s voice. ‘Hey, Ali.’

‘Hey.’

For a moment, for the first time ever in their years of friendship, Meg couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘Megs, are you OK?’

‘Yes.’ Meg was struggling to hold it together.

‘You don’t sound OK. What’s happened?’

Suddenly, she couldn’t help it, the dam burst and the tears flooded again.

‘Megs, I’m coming straight over, be there in fifteen.’

‘N-n-n-no. No.’ Meg thought frantically. Not here. Too dangerous. ‘Why don’t we go to the beach, have a drink in that bar there?’

‘Sure, OK. Actually, tell you what, it’s such a glorious evening, why don’t I bring a bottle and a couple of glasses and we’ll go sit on the beach. Usual place?’

‘Yes, thanks, that would be good.’

‘I’ve got a lovely chilled rosé in the fridge. OK?’

‘Anything, Ali, so long as it’s a big bottle. Like, a really big bottle. Maybe even two bottles!’

‘You’re sounding better already!’