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!’
46
Monday 13 May
Richard Jupp took some moments to adjust the mic in front of him, then the position of his water glass. Continuing to take his time, as if in doing so he was further asserting both his stamp of authority and his power over his domain, he peered around, observing who was here and staring for quite some while at the jury, to Meg’s discomfort. ‘I want to apologize that you have been kept waiting for this trial to begin properly until this morning. The reason for this is that I had to deal with a number of legal and evidential issues that needed to be discussed without you present. These have now been resolved and the trial can start.’
He paused for a few seconds, then went on. ‘Members of the jury, you may have seen in the media over the weekend reports regarding the tragic death of a man called Stuie Starr. I can tell you he is the brother of the co-defendant in this case, Michael Starr. You should not take any account of what you have read during this trial or when you make your deliberations. You will not discuss anything about this amongst yourselves or in the jury room.’
He then nodded at the prosecuting counsel. ‘Mr Cork, you may proceed.’
‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ Stephen Cork said very formally and gravely, rising to his feet and turning to the jury, and, as he did so, turning on the charm.
A slim man in his fifties, with horn-rimmed glasses which, combined with his wig and gown, gave him a distinctly learned look, he appeared completely at home in the grandeur — and formality — of this room. He exuded all the confidence of a lion in its natural habitat confidently stalking its prey. He leaned towards the jurors, addressing them in a warm and friendly tone. There was nothing patronizing about his manner, it was more in the style of a compere at the start of a stage variety performance.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case is about conspiracy to smuggle and distribute millions of pounds’ worth of cocaine. My name is Stephen Cork and I will be presenting the case for the prosecution. I will be assisted by my learned friend, Mr Paul Williams.’ He turned briefly to look at the defence counsel, a wigged and gowned woman seated close by. ‘My learned friend Primrose Brown QC appears for the defendant, Terence Gready, assisted by Mr Crispin Sykes.’
He turned back to the jury, all smiles, theatrically removing his glasses, momentarily, so they could all see his kindly eyes, then replacing them. ‘Before we come to the evidence, it is my task to give you an outline of the prosecution case.’
He glanced down at the bundle of notes in front of him, then back up at the jury. ‘The counts you have heard represent conspiracy to import and distribute significant quantities of a Class-A drug. This first charge relates to conspiracy to import into the country drugs worth, at street level, up to six million pounds.’
He paused again, removed his glasses once more and then looked profoundly apologetic. ‘I’m afraid you may hear some rather disturbing information during the course of this trial, but I will endeavour to ensure that you only see what is strictly necessary in helping you to arrive at your decisions.’
He replaced his glasses. ‘Nearly six million pounds’ worth of cocaine weighs over 160 kilos. The method of importing it cannot be via a drugs mule or postal system. Something far more sophisticated must be deployed. Such as a 1962 Ferrari car. At approximately 4 a.m. on Monday November 26th of last year, such a car arrived on the Côte D’Albâtre ferry, transported in an enclosed car trailer from Dieppe to the Port of Newhaven. Nothing unusual about that.’ He smiled again. His trust me, I’m on your side smile.
‘You have before you a folder of documents. The counts on the indictment are behind Tab D. If you turn to Tab F of the bundle you will see a photograph of that car. You may know something about cars or not, but for this case, you do not need to know anything. The essential point is that, as with much of this case, not everything is as it seems. A genuine Ferrari of this type would be worth in the region of five to ten million pounds.’
Cork paused to let that fact sink in. ‘It may therefore be inferred that the last thing anyone would do is tear it apart and use it as a Trojan Horse, cramming as many packages of cocaine into every available nook and cranny. But that is exactly what was done. Because this car is a fake. It was designed to closely resemble a 1962 classic. But it is actually a confection of fibreglass laid on the chassis of a VW Beetle.’
He removed his glasses again and smiled at the jurors, as if to say, I know, incredible, I’m with you on that!
‘Rather fortuitously, the Border Force officer on duty had a particular specialist interest in classic cars. And unlike the Trojan Horse, there was no one to persuade him that everything was fine, or to allay his suspicions. If you could turn to Tab Z, please.’ He waited while they all did so, the rustle of pages turning the only sound in the courtroom for a brief while. Each folder was shared between two jurors. Meg shared hers with Maisy Waller.
‘There you will see images of the drugs in situ, and gradually being removed. This took some time.’ He smiled again, waiting for them to study the photographs.
‘None of this is in dispute,’ he went on. ‘We know when the fake Ferrari arrived, we know where it was loaded, we know the weight and value of the drugs. The question you need to consider, and the answer you need to be sure of is this: to whom did the drugs belong? We will ask you to be patient when we call the evidence of ownership, it is complex — and we say deliberately so. There are a number of shell companies and offshore holdings used to muddy the waters. The prosecution will call experts to help you navigate through them. But having done so, you will see there is clear evidence that the car and drugs were ultimately owned by the defendant, Terence Gready.’