‘Yeah, all right actually. A lot better since I was moved here. Lewes was a real shithole. Five days confined to my room because there weren’t enough officers. No shower or change of clothes. It’s OK here, I can cope.’
Grace nodded. He’d always hated corrupt police officers and was intrigued to know more as to why Guy Batchelor had become corrupt himself. He was now paying a terrible price. Life gave you second chances for most screw-ups you made. But killing a fellow human being was crossing the Rubicon.
Then an old saying he had once read came to his mind: Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes.
Pulling up a chair opposite Guy, he sat down.
‘Honestly, boss, I’m gobsmacked you actually came.’
Grace shrugged. ‘Guy, I’m not condoning anything you’ve done, by this visit. But I do know shit can happen to any of us, at any time. Who was it who said that we are all just one pay cheque away from being homeless? Anyway, it took a while to organize but I’m here now.’
It was good to see Guy smile, he thought. And that smile momentarily dropped the decade from his face.
Batchelor raised his arms expansively. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a drink, boss. Sort of got limited facilities here.’
It was Grace’s turn to smile. Then, serious, he said, ‘So, tell me? Good cryptic clue by the way.’
‘Figured you would get it.’
‘Actually, Cleo did.’
Batchelor tilted his head and said wryly, ‘Not losing your touch, are you?’
‘Want to end up in a Cat A prison or do you want to tell me about my good friend, Mr Church Bench?’ Grace said, with mock severity.
‘I’ll go for the second option.’
‘Thought you might.’
‘OK — when I was in Lewes prison, in a tastefully furnished double room with en-suite bog, last redecorated circa 1890, I had a cellmate who, like myself, had never been inside before. He was a very charming Indian man, a stockbroker with a small London City firm. As you can imagine, we had many hours, especially because of staff shortages, in which we were locked in the cell with nothing to do except read, watch television or chinwag.’
Grace nodded.
‘He liked to talk. When I went in, I’d tried to keep it quiet that I’d been in the police, obviously, but it was common knowledge before I’d even arrived. My cell buddy — I won’t give you his full name, let’s just call him Raj — told me he’d become friendly with a senior copper in the Met a few years back. At the time this officer had been with the Serious Fraud Office and they were investigating a wealthy client of Raj’s firm who had alleged links with organized crime. Anyhow, those links turned out to be unprovable and the investigation was dropped. But, in the interim, Raj had struck up a friendship with the Met detective.’
‘Whose name I might possibly know?’
‘Quite possibly.’ Guy gave a thin smile. ‘Raj slipped a few insider-trading tips to said officer, enabling him to amass considerable personal wealth. Quite illegally. Raj’s firm, a relative minnow by City standards, had outperformed the stock market for their clients for several years — through this insider trading practice.’
‘Then the crunch came?’ Roy Grace suggested.
‘Exactly. Raj’s company had hit the Financial Regulator’s radar. Raj’s buddy in the Met made a phone call to tell him to get his house in order, PDQ. It was a deliberate breach of the Data Protection Act, providing information that should not have been disclosed. He may well have also perverted the course of justice.’
‘And?’ Grace quizzed.
‘As a result of this call, Raj was able to take preventative action to reduce the evidence that would be recovered by the Met when they raided his home and business premises. That tip-off, Raj told me, probably halved his prison sentence. He’s expecting a future visit from the Met Financial Crimes Team to find out what more he can say about his former clients — he wants to use his information as a bargaining chip to try to get moved from Lewes to an open prison in the Birmingham area to be closer to his family.’
‘So, do you want to confirm this Met detective’s name?’ Grace said.
Guy Batchelor grinned again. ‘It’s as you deduced, Sherlock — or rather, Cleo did. Her maiden name’s not Watson by any chance?’ He opened the notebook on the table and began to read, stumbling at times as he tried to decipher his own handwriting — a problem Roy Grace had often encountered himself, as a junior officer, taking statements in the days before they had become mostly electronic.
When Batchelor had finished, Roy had to restrain himself from punching the air with elation.
Stockbrokers routinely recorded all phone conversations with clients, as proof of any instructions should the client dispute one. Guy Batchelor had just read out the details of a digital recording of Cassian Pewe, pleading with Raj to wipe all records of him making stock purchases and sales over the previous three years before the investigation. Apparently Raj left the evidence with a family member before being imprisoned.
If the real recording was anything close to what Raj had apparently recited to Guy, this was dynamite.
Roy Grace said nothing for a short while, thinking it through. Then he said, ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand, Guy — which is why you’re telling me this?’
Batchelor shrugged. ‘Two reasons, boss. One’s personal, the other isn’t. Personal first. I sent a request to ACC Pewe, asking if he would appear as a character witness at my trial, and he never responded. I sent the request three times.’ He shrugged again. ‘Second reason is I know how much he fucked you around. You always stood by me. I remember your words in court, despite all I’d put you through. I didn’t deserve it, but I’ll respect you forever for it.’
‘Can you do me a favour, Guy? Keep this information confidential for the moment. I’d like to take it directly to Alison Vosper — she’s now a Deputy Assistant Commissioner in the Met. At the time Pewe appears to have committed these crimes he was a serving Metropolitan Police officer. Will you do that?’
‘Of course.’
‘I really appreciate you coming forward with this information, whatever your reasons for doing so.’ Grace sat for a moment, thinking. ‘So, if I need what you have in that notebook, can I use it? You can expect a visit from the Met’s Anti-Corruption Team, and probably sooner rather than later.’
Batchelor shoved it across the table towards him. ‘It’s yours, take it. I kind of feel I owe you one.’
Roy Grace had been asked a number of times over the years if he had ever felt his life had been on the line during his work as a police officer. And his answer was, yes, on several occasions. The most recent of which had been, despite his fear of heights, scaling the vertical, interior ladder of Brighton’s 531-foot-high i360 tower in an attempt to stop a panicked Guy Batchelor from jumping off the top. What had been far worse than climbing up it, when he had been fuelled by adrenaline, was having to climb back down, knowing that if his grip slipped for just one moment he would have plunged to certain death.
‘You could say that,’ he replied. Then he held up the notebook. ‘Consider the debt paid, with interest.’
5
Back in the prison car park, Roy Grace sat in his Alfa, window cracked to let in some breeze, and opened the red notebook. His hands were shaking as he began to read Batchelor’s notes — or rather, began the slow work of deciphering them.