‘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.’
20
Thursday 28 March
Accompanied by a dock officer, Nick Fox went down to the holding cells beneath Lewes Crown Court, to where Terence Gready was sitting. Fox entered and the door clanged shut behind him.
Gready shook his head. ‘Mickey’s got an agenda. You already told me he was asking about what kind of reduction in his sentence he could get by pleading guilty. I bet his next step will be to see what he’d be offered by turning Queen’s evidence. Don’t you think?’
Fox was silent.
‘Nick? Don’t you think?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘My defence relies on Starr saying he doesn’t know me, and he’s never met me. He needs to be in the box for me, not the prosecution. It’s time to play hardball. Even with all the reductions he might get, he’s still going to be inside for a few years. You’d better tell him that if he wants his brother protected, properly protected, then he’d better keep his trap shut. Time to teach him a lesson. Get the boys to go and see Mickey the day before the trial starts, to keep it fresh in his mind. Tell them to go and have a little chat with Stuie, know what I’m saying? That way it’ll get back to his brother.’
Fox smiled. ‘Smack him about a little?’
‘Yep. Smack him about good and proper. Then let Mickey know that’s just the beginning. If he thinks he’s giving evidence against me, life for Stuie is going to be hell. Proper hell.’
‘Understood.’
‘And make sure Mickey understands, gets the message loud and clear.’
‘I know just the right people to do it.’
‘Of course you do.’
21
Friday 3 May
Roy Grace’s last day in his post as Acting Commander of the Metropolitan Police Violent Crime Task Force, began much the same as his first day had. With his job phone ringing in the middle of the night.
Grabbing it and hitting ‘answer’ as quickly as he could, to try to avoid disturbing Cleo, he slipped out of bed and went through into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. ‘Roy Grace,’ he said, instantly awake and alert.
‘Sorry to disturb you, boss,’ said the familiar voice of the on-call SIO, Detective Inspector Davey. ‘We’ve a fatal stabbing in north Croydon.’
‘Thanks, Paul. What details do you have?’
‘Sketchy at the moment, but it sounds like a wrong-time, wrong-place. A young lad walking his girlfriend home. From what we have from her, so far, they were surrounded by a bunch of youths making sexual innuendos and he answered them back. The next thing she knew, he was lying on the ground, bleeding heavily from the neck, and they all ran off. She phoned in hysterics and stayed with him whilst the operator talked her through staunching the blood loss and CPR, but he died at the scene. I know it’s your last day, but I thought you might want to attend as usual, so I’ve dispatched a car to collect you. It can be with you in thirty minutes, if you want to come up?’
‘I do. Where’s the girl now?’
‘Being treated for shock at the hospital, but she’s a plucky kid and has given us some good descriptions. We’ve a pretty good idea who one of the offenders is. I know it’s early, but I’ve already got uniform officers there doing house-to-house and we are sitting on the suspect’s home.’
Despite the tragedy of the situation, Roy Grace knew that when he returned to Sussex, one thing he would miss was the sheer number of officers the Metropolitan Police were able to deploy to a crime scene — and the speed at which they could do it.
Another thing he would miss was having a driver at times like these, he thought. Especially after last night, when he’d had farewell drinks at a pub with his team. He’d grown fond of them all in the short time he’d been in London and would miss them.
Thanking Davey, he started collecting his thoughts about this murder and the day ahead, as he showered and shaved. He needed to be looking sharp for an 8 a.m. breakfast meeting with Alison Vosper — which she had requested, somewhat to his surprise.
He waited downstairs, dressed in his uniform, sipping a strong coffee as he was eyed by a half-awake Humphrey, licking his paws. When he heard the sound of a car pulling up outside, he went upstairs, finding Cleo awake now and sleepily putting on a T-shirt. He apologized for waking her, held her head in his hands and gave her a big kiss. Then he hurried back down, grabbing his laptop and go-bag, and climbed into the back of an unmarked Audi.
Too wired to go back to sleep, he spent the thirty-minute, high-speed, blue-light journey on his laptop, going through the case files of the trial of Dr Edward Crisp.
‘This is as close as we can get, sir,’ his driver announced, bringing the car to a halt.
Grace looked up, surprised they were here already. A street-lit residential road. A couple of low-rise apartment blocks and post-war semis on both sides. Ahead, through the windscreen, he could see a blaze of blue flashing lights, and just beyond, with a uniform scene guard, police tape sealing off the road. It was a hive of activity. A large number of police vehicles, including a marked Transit van and a Crime Scene Investigation truck.
Leaving his laptop on the rear seat, he climbed out with a heavy heart. Every knife-crime murder that happened under his watch he considered to be a failure. A failure down to him.
Opening the boot of the car, he pulled out a protective oversuit, shoes and gloves from his go-bag, wrestled into them, then walked towards the cluster of vehicles and a group of people, mostly youths, hanging around the outer cordon. He showed his warrant card to the scene guard, signed the crime scene log and ducked under the tape.
A short distance ahead was a group of people similarly attired to himself, standing in the glare of temporary floodlights around a tent, the generator powering them rumbling close by. Several POLSA, in blue gloves, were on their hands and knees on the pavement doing a fingertip search, taking advantage of the so-called ‘golden hour’.
The words of the Murder Manual were ingrained in his brain, if not his soul, playing to him as he approached.
Who? What? Why? When? Where? And very importantly — How?
Davey turned to greet him as he approached.
‘What do you have, Paul?’
‘Only what I told you, boss. Nothing more at this stage, I’m afraid. Pathologist is on his way.’ He opened a flap in the tent and stepped aside to give Grace a view of the victim.
A black kid, eighteen years or so old, with a massive wound in his neck. Vacant eyes wide open. Short, bleached dreadlocks. A white, blood-soaked tank top. Dark tracksuit bottoms. Brand-new trainers. A large stain of pooled, drying blood on the pavement.