They understood the peripatetic upbringing Bruno must have had with his erratic mother, before coming to live with them in England after her suicide.
Both he and Cleo hoped that by introducing him to a stable, loving family environment, they could, in time, change him. But so far there was little sign of that happening. It probably hadn’t helped that he’d been a largely absent father during these past six months, and he determined now that he was back down in Sussex to spend more time with him.
They had an ally in a forensic child psychologist called Orlando Trujillo, who had been giving them advice on how to handle Bruno. Trujillo had warned them against trying to intervene too much at this stage, but rather to simply observe and gradually try to instil in Bruno new values. They were doing their best, but God, it was hard. And to compound their difficulties, with one major trial running at Lewes Crown Court starting tomorrow, and a murder investigation he was leading, in addition to all the preparations he needed to do for the Chief Superintendent boards, he was going to be desperately squeezed for time.
He was about to step into the shower when his job phone rang. Although not on-call today, he glanced at the screen and saw it was Glenn Branson. ‘Hi,’ he answered. ‘What’s up?’
‘Not sure if you’re going to like this or not, boss. Your good buddy, Edward Crisp, has been attacked in Lewes Prison. Stabbed in one eye with a ballpoint pen by a fellow inmate who apparently doesn’t like men who hurt women.’
‘Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Was the pen damaged?’
‘I didn’t ask, boss!’
‘How badly injured is he?’
‘He’s being taken under guard to Moorfields Eye Hospital in London. The prison doctor thinks he may be permanently blinded in that eye. So, it doesn’t look like the trial’s going to be starting tomorrow after all.’
‘How many officers are with him?’
‘Dunno, boss.’
‘Make sure he’s properly guarded, it could be another of his ruses to escape.’
‘Not from what I hear — the pen’s still stuck in his eye.’
‘Too bad the bastard didn’t push it further, into his twisted brain, and spare us all a lot of wasted time in court,’ Grace said.
‘You really are sick, aren’t you?’
‘Just a realist, matey. You’ll get there one day, after you’ve dealt with as many shitbags as I have. Keep me posted. Want me to send him a get well soon note?’
‘What a lovely gesture, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.’
‘So long as he can read it.’
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.