Find Them Dead

45 Monday 13 May

Meg sat in her place on the wooden front row seat in the jury box, with tired eyes from two virtually sleepless nights.

The jurors had bundles of documents in front of them, with coloured, marked tabs sticking out. There was one bundle between two.

She looked up at the packed public gallery, where several people seemed to be staring at her and her fellow jurors, then at the defendant seated in the glassed-in dock, with a guard beside him. As she watched him, Gready suddenly looked straight in her direction. Was it her imagination or did he catch her eye?

She shivered. Had his henchmen already got the message to him? Juror no. 3, she’s your pal, she’s your get-out-of-jail-free card?

Quickly glancing away, she focused on the two rows of lawyers, some wigged and gowned, trying to work out which was the prosecution and which the defence. Several people sat in the press box over the far side. The judge was seated; she could see the top of his shiny blue chair, and the stalk of the black microphone on his bench, alongside a laptop, video monitor and conference telephone. The royal coat of arms, fixed high on the wall behind his seat, was a reminder of the gravitas of this place.

She felt nauseous. It was daunting being here, actually being part of these proceedings rather than a mere spectator. And not just part of it. Clandestinely taking control of it. Pulling the strings. Perverting the course of justice — if she had the strength; courage; ability. Everything felt so overwhelmingly real and purposeful. And powerful. Crown Court. A criminal trial presided over by a senior judge. It didn’t get any more serious than this.

There was an air of expectancy, everyone waiting for the drama to unfold. But there was no curtain about to rise, no lights about to dim for a movie to start. This was real, Meg was thinking. This was about the law of the land, a blunt iron fist under which human beings could be deprived of their liberty for years — sometimes even forever.

The enormity of what she had to do had been sinking in gradually over the past day and a half. She knew she had to do what they had told her; she had the burner phone on her at all times. Her eyes were raw and her brain foggy and she was struggling to even think straight. But she had to. Had to hold it together for Laura. The biggest question she had been churning over relentlessly in her mind ever since that phone call was whether the man’s threat was real or a big bluff.

But no way could she gamble with Laura’s life by risking calling it — in case it wasn’t.

She had few other options. She could send a note to the judge, as he had instructed them last week, or go to the police to see if the British Embassy in Ecuador could intervene and helicopter Laura out of trouble and bring her home.

But at what risk to her daughter with either?

If you try to get a message to the judge, or tell your fellow jurors, or alert anyone who could get the trial stopped, then I’m afraid it’s game over for little Laura.

The most convincing evidence that he had not been bluffing was the photographs. The one at the Equator and the one outside the hacienda. Later on Saturday, Laura had sent her an almost identical photograph of her and Cassie — plus two more — on WhatsApp, as well as posting them on Instagram. These photos had clearly been taken with their consent. All smiles into the camera.

Meg’s attempt to debug the house yesterday — if indeed it was bugged at all — had not gone well. She found a ton of stuff on electronic surveillance devices on the internet, and watched several YouTube videos on how to detect them. Many of the latest bugging devices were almost microscopic in size, barely even visible to the untrained human eye. There was a range of detectors, at an affordable price, but the fastest delivery any were offering was two days. So instead, in the early hours of yesterday, she’d begun her own search, using the assortment of tools in Nick’s box and beginning with the most obvious places.

She removed the covers of the smoke detectors in each room, checking inside before replacing them; similarly the light fittings and all the electrical sockets and plugs. But after two hours, she’d started to realize the hopelessness of her task. She wasn’t tech-savvy enough to risk opening her computer, phone or the phone they had given her — and she wouldn’t have had a clue what to look for if she did.

There could be something concealed in one of the televisions, in the speakers in the ceiling, inside a radiator or in so many other potential hiding places. She’d seen bugs online that were even disguised as small pieces of electrical flex and computer cables. Some extra-powerful ones didn’t need to be in the house at all but could pick up conversations from outside in the garden. They could be hidden behind vents in her car. Anywhere.

She’d had some respite later in the day, when she was coaxed out of the house by her best friend, Alison Stevens, to share a picnic with her on the beach. They’d sat in glorious sunshine, demolishing a bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc. Several times during the afternoon, the more the alcohol kicked in, she’d been increasingly tempted to confide in Ali.

Despite Alison constantly asking her what was wrong, sensing that something was clearly troubling her, Meg said nothing about the situation, not wanting to put her friend’s life at risk.

You tell any friend or go to the authorities and you will find them dead.

She thought about the indictments Terence Gready faced. These weren’t for parking infringements or shoplifting, or some other kind of minor misdemeanour. He was in the dock accused of being a drug dealer on an organized-crime scale — a criminal mastermind.

While they were closeted in the jury room last week, the retired cop, Roberts, had helpfully and somewhat gleefully informed his fellow jurors what the sentences could be for each of the counts if Gready was found guilty. And it was very clear to Meg from the way he spoke that he’d already made up his mind that the defendant was guilty of the entire lot, and faced being locked up and having the key thrown away.

Not a happy prospect for a man at the still relatively young age of fifty-five, who might not see the outside of a prison again until he was a septuagenarian — if he lived that long. A mobster with a criminal empire, with everything to lose, would surely do everything he could to stay free, wouldn’t he?

Although the judge had expressly instructed the jurors not to google the defendant, Meg was so terrified about the situation that she had gone to Brighton Library and done so, anonymously, on one of their computers. But there was not much to interest her about him. Just the name of his law firm. He did not appear to have ever had any social media engagement. She found a few bits relating to his personal life. He had a wife and three children. There was an article showing him and his family at a charity event and a lifestyle piece in the local paper about his wife’s interest in orchids. She appeared to be some sort of expert on them.

Had he deliberately spent years under the radar, or could they possibly have arrested the wrong person? Was it wishful thinking, that they had an entirely innocent man, she wondered? Or the new mindset she was going to have to adopt?

Two loud knocks as loud as gunshots startled her out of her thoughts. They were followed by a stentorian command.

‘The court is in session!’