With pleasure, Grace thought. ‘A consultant surgeon went into Dr Crisp’s private room to check on the wound in his eye. It appears that Crisp took him by surprise, overpowered him, rendered him unconscious and switched clothing, putting him in the bed instead of himself. I understand the room was dark to ease the pain for Crisp’s eye — he was claiming that bright light hurt it. As a result, no one was aware of what had happened for several hours, until the consultant regained consciousness.’
Pewe, with his tensions rising, opened and shut his mouth several times, looking like a cat trying to cough up a hairball, before speaking. ‘There was meant to be a police guard, twenty-four-seven, outside Crisp’s door — what were they doing — ordering their online shopping?’
‘Guarding,’ Grace said, and then waited for Pewe’s response.
‘I mean, honestly, Roy, how — how could they have let this happen?’
‘I’m afraid it’s very simple, sir. Shortly before the consultant visited on his rounds, the previous police guard went off shift and was replaced by another PC who had never seen Dr Crisp. The consultant was, apparently, wearing scrubs, with a cap and a mask hanging loose over his chin. The new PC hadn’t taken a close look at him. When Crisp came out, some minutes later, dressed in this kit, he had no reason to question him.’
‘I’m holding you personally responsible for Dr Crisp’s escape, Roy,’ Pewe said.
Despite Pewe’s currently senior rank, Grace jabbed a finger at him. ‘No, sir, you’re the one responsible. I emailed you, after we’d learned his injury was self-inflicted, that this might be an escape plan and recommended that we should ask the Metropolitan Police to double up on his guard, which you rejected for cost reasons knowing that they would recharge Sussex Police.’
Pewe narrowed his eyes. ‘Roy, you’ve been the SIO all along on the Crisp case. It’s your responsibility to make sure your prisoner is properly guarded until he is brought to justice and — if there is any justice — sentenced. You’ve failed abjectly. I suggest you buddy up with the Met Police PDQ and recapture the doctor. A man wandering the streets of London in surgical scrubs shouldn’t be too hard to find, even for an incompetent like you.’
Grace bristled at the insult. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m not going to take that crap from you.’
‘No? Well, maybe you’ll take this, instead: get Crisp back under lock and key within the next forty-eight hours or I’m reassigning you from Major Crime. We could be looking at suspension here because of the way you are reacting to this.’
Grace responded. ‘This is typical of you. You know you are wrong, so you pull rank, just like a bully.’
Pewe hesitated a moment, mouth opening and closing again as if trying to find the right words. ‘Well, perhaps suspension isn’t appropriate here.’
‘That’s very generous of you,’ Grace retorted. ‘But if you take me off Major Crime — assuming you even have the authority to do that — I would go straight back to the Met in a Commander role, where I have the ear of the Deputy Assistant Commissioner. And my first recommendation to her would be that you are flushed down a fucking toilet into the Thames estuary. But before I do that, I will be sending a full report to the Chief Constable and to the Police and Crime Commissioner on my recommendations to you on how Dr Crisp should have been guarded. And how you rejected them. I wrote them in my Policy Book along with a note about your bullying conduct.’
Pewe winced at Roy’s words, raising a conciliatory hand. ‘Perhaps we are both getting a little bit heated, Roy.’
‘Not me, sir. I’m a cucumber.’
‘Cucumber?’
‘Cool as.’
‘Very well. Look — let’s forget our differences, shall we?’
Grace stared him in the eye, saying nothing.
The ACC blinked first. ‘You and I, we go back a long way.’
Unfortunately, Grace thought.
‘I’ve said it to you before and I’ll say it again now. We may never be best friends. But we have a common purpose, don’t we? To try to make this world a better place.’
Yes, thought Grace, and it would be a much better place without assholes like you.
70
Friday 17 May
In a small interview room in the cell corridor under the courts in Lewes’ Crown Court building, Nick Fox looked at his client. This was the first time the two men had been alone without Primrose Brown or her junior present since Stuie’s death.
Terence Gready sat opposite him, hunched and with a worried expression, looking small and vulnerable. Fox thought he already looked like a crushed man. Except, of course, as Fox well knew, the man was a consummate actor and even more consummate manipulator.
‘What the fuck went wrong with Stuie? I told you to have him roughed up a bit, not to kill him. You’ve lost the one hold we have over Starr, our best bargaining chip.’
‘We can’t turn the clock back now, Terry, what’s done is done. Let’s focus on the trial.’
‘How do you think it’s going then, Nick?’
Both men kept their voices low, aware of the watchful eye of an officer standing a short distance away.
‘So far, Terry, if you want my honest opinion, you’re the filling in a triple-shit sandwich.’ He smiled. ‘But all we’ve been hearing so far is the prosecution. Cork’s good — but so is Primrose. Once she gets going it’s all going to swing your way — trust me. And, we have our Plan B!’
Both men smiled. Then Gready said, ‘You are confident in Plan B?’
‘Oh, yes.’ The dapper, unflappable Nick Fox smiled, then frowned. ‘But we have a potential fly in the ointment we need to sort.’
‘Who or what?’
‘Michael Starr.’
‘Mickey? Why do you say that, I trust him — despite him pleading guilty to get a softer sentence — I understood his reasons for doing that, his responsibility for his brother, Stuie. Fair play to him.’
Fox shook his head. ‘Not any more.’
Gready suddenly adjusted his position and sat more upright, leaning forward. ‘What do you mean?’
His solicitor tapped the side of his own head. ‘It may just be the rumour mill, Terry, but I don’t think so. As a result of what happened to his brother, I’ve heard from a good source that Starr, through another solicitor — obviously — is exploring what kind of a deal he could cut for grassing you up.’
In all the years Fox had worked for Terence Gready, he could never remember seeing the man angry — until now. Gready always took everything calmly, in his stride. But now he looked like the Devil himself was inside his head. ‘Grassing me up?’
‘That’s what I’ve heard.’
‘He’s exploring what kind of a deal he could get by doing that?’
‘Yes, Terry.’
‘I just can’t believe he’d do this.’
‘When people are desperate, they do things differently. He’s a very hurt and angry man because of Stuie.’
Gready sat in silence for some while, thinking. Lucky Mickey had the ability to sink him. If he started giving evidence for the prosecution it was going to take more than the current tampering with the jurors, it was going to take a miracle. ‘Mickey doted on his brother. Has he forgotten how much I’ve helped him over the years? Everything I paid for? Now he’s looking to make a deal by grassing me up? What happened to loyalty, Nick?’
‘They say that when a Black Mamba bites you on the end of your dick, you find out who your true friends are.’
Gready, absorbed in his thoughts, didn’t react. ‘I can’t believe Mickey could do this.’
‘Well, you’d better, and you’re going to have to move fast if you want to stop him. The way the prosecution case is going, they’ll finish next week so they’ll have to call him then.’