As part of the pre-trial preparations, he had called a meeting at Sussex Police HQ to discuss aspects of the evidence with key members of his team, Norman Potting and Jack Alexander, who were assisting him as case officers. Alexander was not required at court for the Terence Gready trial yet — he had been excluded at the request of the defence, as he was giving evidence against the suspect.
The three of them were seated at the conference table on the first floor of the Major Crime wing discussing a variety of responsibilities. The top of which on Grace’s list was security, because the wily doctor, in his late fifties, had a past history of cunning escapes from custody.
Roy Grace had been Crisp’s arresting officer — nearly losing a leg in the process thanks to being shot by the doctor — so this was personal. For Crisp’s trial, as SIO, he needed to ensure the Exhibits Officer was set up and that the Family Liaison Officers were working with the agencies to support all of Crisp’s surviving victims and the families of the deceased. He wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
He checked with the two detectives about the witnesses the prosecution counsel intended calling to give live evidence, and that all of them were ready. One of their key prosecution witnesses was a plucky lady called Logan Somerville, who had very luckily survived being abducted and imprisoned by Dr Crisp. Another was forensic archaeologist Lucy Sibun.
‘Boss, don’t forget Bobby the dog, who’s going to present the bitemark and DNA evidence,’ Alexander said.
They all laughed. But, as they well knew, it had been Bobby’s barking that had saved another victim’s life, and his bitemark that gave them the breakthrough DNA evidence identifying Crisp.
Grace moved on to the subject of court security. Edward Crisp was one of the most devious criminals he had ever encountered, a man who would have given the legendary Harry Houdini a run for his money. Crisp had a mole-like ability to tunnel his way out of captivity. His sumptuous home in Brighton was riddled with secret passages he had dug. And after evading captivity by Sussex Police and fleeing to France, he had again escaped from a high-security prison near Lyon.
Crisp would be appearing before a High Court judge who was visiting Lewes Crown Court to hear this important trial. Due to the case involving multiple deaths, the criminal justice system required such a figure to preside over the hearing.
Court 3, where the dock was inside a glass enclosure, was already in session. Court 2, where Crisp’s case was listed, had an antiquated open dock. Defendants had escaped from this court’s dock before, and once out of the courtroom there were only a couple of security staff, who would be too preoccupied checking people coming in to prevent any absconder from running out into the busy street and away. Short of bringing the doctor in chained with manacles — which his defence counsel would never have allowed — the court security would be hardly adequate at best, with just two security staff in the dock with Crisp — and that worried Grace.
33
Thursday 9 May
A modern, neat-but-soulless red-brick housing estate, opposite a garage, on the outskirts of Chichester. Carer Denise Clafferty, doing her daily round, rang the doorbell of number 23, a small three-bedroom detached house, dropping in on sweet Stuie Starr.
The thirty-eight-year-old, with Down’s Syndrome, had been living on his own for nearly six months since his brother had been arrested and was currently in prison on remand, awaiting sentencing. Stuie couldn’t understand why his brother hadn’t come home since travelling to Germany to collect a car, a Ferrari that Stuie had been excited to see.
Every day when Denise visited him, to check on his welfare and the state of the house, Stuie persistently asked her the same question: ‘Is Mickey coming home today?’ Then he would add, proudly, ‘We are starting a fish and chip shop!’
Some days, the way he said it broke her heart. She had tried to explain that it would not be for a while, to manage his expectations, but nothing she said could dim his sunny enthusiasm. Every day when he opened the door, he was all smiles for an instant, all expectant, then he would burst into tears when he saw it was her — or on occasions one of her co-workers — and not his brother.
At least the trial of Terence Gready, Mickey’s alleged co-conspirator, was now under way. Sentencing was just weeks off. Hopefully the judge would take into consideration that Mickey Starr had pleaded guilty, that he’d already served six months and that he had a brother who needed him.
There was no response to her ring.
She rang again. Waited.
Still no response. Unusual. Normally, Stuie opened the door within seconds. He had been coping pretty well, ordering his groceries and essentials and getting them delivered, and he kept the house scrupulously, obsessively tidy. For Mickey, he said.
Maybe he was on the loo, she wondered. Or asleep. She rang again and waited. Several minutes passed. She glanced at her watch. Another six appointments today. Reluctantly, using the key she had — much preferring for his self-esteem for him to let her in himself — she unlocked the front door and entered.
‘Stuie!’ she called out.
Silence greeted her.
A silence she did not like.
‘Stuie! It’s Denise!’ she called.
There was no response.
‘Stuie, OK if I come in?’
She waited for some moments, then closed the front door behind her. ‘Stuie?’
The silence made her uncomfortable.
‘Stuie? You OK?’
There was a handful of post on the floor. Ignoring it, she walked through into the kitchen-dining area and saw what looked like the remains of breakfast on the table. Stuie always left the kitchen immaculate in preparation, he told her, for the fish and chip restaurant he was starting with his brother.
‘Stuie?’ she called out again. ‘Stuie, it’s Denise!’ She peered out through the window at the small, neat rear garden but there was no sign of him out there.
She went through into the lounge. The television was on, the sound low, a presenter she vaguely recognized standing on a cliff in a stunningly scenic location, talking earnestly to camera about erosion.
She went out and stood at the foot of the stairs. ‘Stuie!’ she called out. ‘Stuie! Are you up there? It’s me, Denise!’
No response.
‘I’m coming upstairs, Stuie, is that OK?’
She waited, then climbed up the short steep staircase and stood on the landing. Three doors were closed and a fourth was slightly ajar. She called out his name yet again. And again, no response.
She pushed on the door that was ajar and peered in. Stuie, in a T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, was curled up in a foetal position on the floor, beside the bed. The room looked like a bomb had detonated. A chair was upended and half the duvet was on the floor. The dressing-table mirror was smashed. One of the curtains had been pulled off and the rail hung down at a lopsided angle.
She ran across to Stuie and looked down. His hair, and the white rug on which his head lay, skewed sideways, were soaked with blood. There was blood on the walls and ceiling. His right arm was at a strange angle and his hand was covered in blood, too. She knelt and felt his wrist for a pulse.
Shaking, she stood up, backed away a few paces, looking wildly around, then pulled her phone out of her bag and dialled 999.
34
Thursday 9 May
It wasn’t since his more junior days that Roy Grace had been among the first to arrive at a murder scene. Mostly, as head of the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Team, by the time he got there, the well-oiled machinery was well under way.