Find Them Dead

19 Thursday 28 March

Lewes Crown Court was an imposing presence on the town’s High Street. Its classically handsome colonnaded facade of Portland stone gave it an air both of timelessness and of gravitas, but once you were inside, past the security counter and metal detector, it wasn’t so timeless any more, Terence Gready thought.

The furnishings and decor of its common parts and rooms were dated, as was the layout of the building and its courts, some more than others, but especially Court 3, which he would be going up to soon. Modern courts were designed with the benefit of hindsight and experience. Witnesses, the accused, their family and friends, and jurors entered and left via separate entrances and were segregated throughout. And in modern courts the jurors were out of the line of sight of the public gallery. But not here. Everyone came in and left through the same entrance and mingled, however reluctantly and unpleasantly, in the lobby.

Terence Gready knew the building inside out. He’d appeared here countless times with clients and had always liked the faded grandeur and sense of history and importance of the place. But now, to his humiliation, for the first time ever he had not entered through the front entrance. Instead, handcuffed and accompanied by two security guards, he had been driven round to the back in a prison van and unceremoniously marched straight down to the holding cells.

He now sat on a thin blue cushion on the hard bunk, staring around at the windowless room, his thoughts as stark as his surroundings. To add to his despondency, his wife had bought him a brand-new white shirt, which she had delivered along with his blue suit to Highdown Prison last night. Why, he cursed, hadn’t she checked the shirt first? The collar had been creased, carelessly, in the wrong place, so no matter how he had arranged his tie, the starched collar rode up the back of his neck. And the shirt itched.

Mickey Starr was in another of the cells, close by, but Gready didn’t know which one. He glanced at his watch — the shitty one that no one would steal, replacing his Rolex that bitch Financial Investigator had seized. It was approaching 10 a.m. They would be going up soon for the Plea and Trial Preparation Hearing.

God, after all he’d done for Mickey over the years, the man owed it to him to stick by him now, so they had a chance of getting through this crisis. If Mickey did anything other than plead guilty, and failed to stick to the script Nick Fox had given him, Gready knew his entire defence could be scuppered.

His last meeting with Fox, two days ago at Highdown, had not left him feeling confident. Quite the reverse — he’d had the sense that Fox was being evasive when he’d asked him about Starr.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his cell door opening, and the voice of a uniformed female dock officer. ‘You’re on parade, sunshine.’

As he stepped out, he saw Mickey, dressed in a suit for the first time in all the years he had known him, and looking distinctly awkward in it. It seemed at the same time to be both too big and too small for him, with his shirt collar all rucked up and his dark tie stopping halfway down his chest.

With a stern dock officer behind him, he followed the first one up the steps and emerged into the glassed-in booth that was the dock of the wood-panelled Court 3. Countless of his clients had stood here previously, but it was his very first time and he felt like a caged animal in a zoo. Both defendants sat down, separated by a dock officer and with another officer also remaining. Mickey was staring resolutely ahead.

They were at the same level as the wigged judge, His Honour Richard Jupp, with the rest of the court benches below, the empty jury box to his left, the press box, half full, over to his right. He recognized some of the journalists, one in particular — the smart, attractive senior Argus crime reporter, Siobhan Sheldrake, who had doorstepped him during a number of previous trials. He could see her looking at him now, as if somewhat bemused to see him in his reversed role.

A handful of people sat up in the public gallery, among them his wife, son and one of his daughters. He caught Barbara’s reassuring smile and returned it with a discreet nod. Down below in the well of the court sat his barrister, Primrose Brown QC, gowned and wigged, and a short distance along the same row was another wigged brief, representing Mickey Starr.

Seated at the far end of the same row, in the sparsely attended hearing, was a Crown Prosecution Service barrister, a woman he’d not seen before. Some greenhorn cutting her teeth on the easy part of a trial.

Behind Primrose Brown sat his trusted Nick Fox, and next to him was Anu Vasanth, the solicitor from the same firm looking after the interests of Mickey Starr. The mere sight of Fox instilled confidence and optimism in Gready. During the coming difficult months, Gready knew there wasn’t a better man to handle the situation. Fox was a force of nature. So long as they could keep Mickey Starr in his box they would, almost certainly, be OK.

The black-gowned clerk of the court stood, holding a sheaf of papers. ‘Terence Arthur Gready, please rise.’

Gready obeyed.

Reading from the papers, she asked, ‘You are Terence Arthur Gready of Onslow Road, Hove, Sussex?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Terence Arthur Gready, you stand charged on this indictment containing six counts. Count One is being knowingly concerned in the fraudulent evasion of a prohibition on the importation of goods, contrary to section 170(2)(b) of the Customs and Excise Management Act 1979. The particulars of the offence are that you, between the 1st day of January 2018 and the 26th day of November 2018, in relation to a Class-A controlled drug, namely 160 kilos of cocaine, were knowingly concerned in the fraudulent evasion of the prohibition on importation imposed by section 3(1) of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971. How do you plead?’

Gready spoke loudly and clearly: ‘Not guilty.’

The clerk read out to Gready four further counts of importing cocaine, covering four similar significant incidents between 3 February 2013 and 26 November 2018. To each of them he again stated, ‘Not guilty.’

Finally, the clerk finished with: ‘Count Six statement of offence: conspiracy to supply a controlled drug to another contrary to section 4(3)(a) of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971. The particulars of that offence are that you, between the 10th day of January 2003 and the 26th day of November 2018 conspired together with others unknown, to unlawfully supply a controlled drug of Class A, namely cocaine, to another, in contravention of section 4(1) of the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971. How do you plead?’

‘Not guilty,’ he said without hesitation. He glanced down at Nick Fox and caught his nod of reassurance, and wink.

‘Please sit down, Mr Gready,’ the judge commanded.

As he complied, the clerk said, ‘Michael Rodney Starr, please stand.’

Starr stood, looking even more gawky, his collar seemingly bursting out of the top of his jacket. The clerk read out an identical first charge to the one she had for Gready.

‘How do you plead?’

‘Guilty.’

Mickey Starr then pleaded guilty to the further five counts that had been put to his co-defendant.

He also pleaded guilty to counts of assaults on two Border Force officers, two police officers, a member of the public and, in addition, a number of driving offences. Starr sat down.

A discussion followed between the counsels about the various trial dates before they were able to fix a date in early May.

His Honour Richard Jupp, addressing Starr, said, ‘Stand up.’

Starr obeyed.

‘I intend to sentence you at the end of the trial of your co-accused, which is likely to be late May. You may sit down.’

Gready had to wait, patiently, for the next twenty minutes, while the court dealt with a number of administrative matters. Finally, the judge addressed the dock officers.

‘You can take the defendants down.’

Gready followed Starr to the rear of the dock. Then, as they descended the steps and he was out of sight of the judge, he grabbed Starr’s shoulder.

‘Mickey, a gentle reminder not to talk to the cops — you’ve got nothing to say.’