Find Them Dead

15 Saturday 1 December

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.’