‘I hope I’m not disturbing you, Roy?’ she asked, pleasantly, although he sensed an edge to her normally assured voice.
‘Not at all, ma’am — I’m just going through a long phone log on Operation Canoe.’
‘That poor man who was murdered — he had Down’s Syndrome?’
‘Yes, very sad — and a particularly brutal attack.’
‘How’s it going?’
He sensed from the tone of her voice this wasn’t the reason for her call. ‘Slowly, but we’ll get there.’
‘I’ve every confidence you will.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’
There was a brief silence, then she said, her tone suddenly both sympathetic and a little awkward, ‘Roy, I wanted to let you know myself that unfortunately you haven’t been put forward for the Chief Superintendent’s promotion boards.’
It took an instant for the words to register. Then it felt as if the floor had been pulled away from under him. Before he could comment, she went on.
‘I know this will come as a disappointment to you, Roy; there have been limited vacancies and I’m afraid ACC Pewe has chosen other candidates as opposed to you.’
‘I see,’ he said, blankly, feeling stunned. Inside he was seething, but he knew better than to vent his anger at her. ‘Well, I really appreciate your telling me, ma’am.’
‘I hope you will apply again in the future, Roy.’
‘Yes,’ he said, lamely. ‘Thank you. Maybe.’
‘I hope more than maybe, Roy.’
He said nothing.
‘But I do have a little bit of good news for you,’ she went on. ‘It has been approved that you will be receiving the Queen’s Gallantry Medal for your actions when rescuing the drowning hostage on your recent kidnap case, Operation Replay.’
The award was one of the highest honours a police officer could receive. Under any normal circumstances he would have been elated. But at this moment, it felt like he had been handed a tarnished trophy that no one had bothered to polish. ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as he could.
‘I thought you’d also be pleased to hear that we are ready for the delayed award to be presented to your late colleague, DS Bella Moy. I know how much you valued and respected her, and just how upset you were by her death — just as we all were.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear that, ma’am. And I think DS Potting will be very grateful for this recognition.’
‘They were engaged to be married, weren’t they?’
‘Yes. I had been so happy for them both.’
‘Well, I’m very pleased to tell you the decision’s been made that both medals will be awarded at a ceremony in London, where they will be presented by HRH the Prince of Wales accompanied by HRH the Duchess of Cornwall — the date will be advised.’
‘Thank you, ma’am, it is very gratifying news.’
‘Perhaps DS Potting may wish to accept the medal on DS Moy’s behalf. Does she have any other close relatives?’
‘Her mother. I know she’s not been in good health, but I’m sure she will want to accompany Norman.’
‘Will you make the approaches?’
‘I will, ma’am. And thank you.’
As soon as the call ended, Grace sat, staring at his phone, all joy about the medal eclipsed by his fury at Pewe. That lying shit, he thought. His first reaction, which he reined in, was to call him and shout at him.
Then he thought, What the hell am I doing sitting in my office at 8 p.m. working for a boss who is a total wanker and a liar?
He left everything as it was, stormed out, slamming the door behind him and went down to the car park. As he fired up the Alfa’s engine, he had just one angry thought.
I will get even with you, Cassian. I promise you.
84
Thursday 23 May
Richard Jupp, robed and regal, entered as normal, carrying his laptop and several folders, and took his commanding position in his chair. The jury filed in and took their seats. The judge peered at the jury, as if counting and checking they were all present and correct, then addressed the defence counsel below him in the well of the court. ‘Please proceed.’
Primrose Brown stood up. ‘I call my first witness, the defendant, Terence Gready.’
Accompanied by a security guard, Gready momentarily disappeared from the glass-fronted dock before emerging from the rear. The guard left him to make his own way to the witness box, under the watchful eye of everyone in the court. Wearing a navy suit, white shirt and plain tie, and with an upright, but not too proud posture, as rehearsed with his team, he took the stand with a respectful air, already looking more a victim than a perpetrator.
Not remotely a believer, despite his former regular churchgoing with his wife to keep up appearances, Gready held the Bible and swore on it with true, passionate reverence to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
Meg stared at him with both surprise and contempt. Seeing him walk to the witness box, she realized how small he seemed, in every way. Five foot five at most, thin, with dark little eyes behind his tortoiseshell glasses and tiny, delicate hands. His lank, thinning hair, still mostly black, was neat and he was clean-shaven. Other than his glasses, he could have been a travelling sales representative or perhaps a ticket clerk. Neither ugly nor handsome, he was truly nondescript, Meg thought, although he did definitely have an attitude, an expression on his face that said: Don’t misread me, I’m not anyone’s pushover.
She was about to see how true that was.
Primrose Brown asked him, ‘Mr Gready, you are indicted on a number of counts relating to the importation of Class-A drugs and conspiracy to supply these drugs. Can you tell us your reaction to these allegations when they were first put to you?’
Gready seemed, in front of Meg’s eyes, both to grow in stature and at the same time let his demeanour soften into a warm, approachable man. He smiled politely, first at his defence counsel, then at the jury, clocking in particular the good-looking woman in the front row who was absolutely on his side but always avoided eye contact with him, then with the corpulent businessman in the row behind her, whom he was saving from bankruptcy.
He began speaking, addressing the jury as if they were the only people in the world he cared about. His voice was sincere, his tone that of a genuinely wounded innocent. ‘It was complete astonishment.’ He gave a derisory little laugh. ‘I mean, I thought it was mistaken identity — that they couldn’t possibly be charging me.’
Brown probed. ‘Anything else?’
Still totally zeroed-in on the jury, he opened his arms out. ‘I have been in court so many times, I’m a firm upholder of the law. It is what I have made my career in. I believe in the justice system and want every person to have their chance for justice.’
‘What do you say about the evidence you have heard over the last few days?’
‘Over the past ten days you’ve heard a litany of very convincing evidence against me, painting me as a complete monster. If I were any one of you jurors, based on what I’d heard to date, I would be wanting to lock me up and throw away the key. No question!’
His barrister cut him short. ‘Mr Gready, could you get to the point, please.’
He continued. ‘But what you have heard during these past ten days is a very elaborate and cleverly planned and orchestrated tissue of malicious lies.’
‘Can you tell us your reasons for believing this?’ Brown coaxed.
‘Yes, I can. These are lies perpetrated by someone — or some group — out to destroy my reputation, in order to further their commercial gains in the vile world of drugs importation and distribution they inhabit.’