Want You Dead (47 page)

Visitors always found prisons uncomfortable places, and Lewes, built in Victorian times, was as formidable as they came. Grey cement floors, stark, bare walls, and the smell all prisons had, which he had never fully been able to describe – a mixture of disinfectant, institutional soap, stale clothes, sweat and despair.

Information was the prison currency. Everywhere you walked you would see prisoners, in their crimson tunics, loitering, listening. Seeing what information they could eavesdrop. Which was why no sensible prison officer ever said where he or she lived, or what car they drove, or where they were going on holiday. You never knew who might one day be out for revenge against you.

Setterington went into his office and switched on the kettle to make himself a cappuccino, then sat at his desk and unwrapped the egg and tomato sandwich and carrot cake his wife, Lisa, had made him. The office was stark and functional, with a window that looked down, through the rain, onto the sodden exercise yard. In addition to enabling him to keep an eye on the prisoners, he could also see from here the occasional package of contraband that was lobbed over the wall from outside – containing usually either drugs or mobile phones.

Guarding seven hundred and twenty prisoners, many of them highly cunning, was not an easy task. Setterington did not like it, but it was a fact of life he had to live with: that stuff always had been smuggled into prisons and always would be. Thrown over the walls, exchanged in contact between loved ones during visits, sometimes mouth to mouth. If a prisoner wanted something brought in from outside badly enough, he could usually get it.

The governor logged on to his computer and began running through the mountain of overnight emails, noting concerns that officers had about particular prisoners, security risks and details about impending construction work to modernize the remand wing, which would be commencing in a few weeks. He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ he called out.

One of his officers entered, a burly man called Jack Willis, keys dangling from a chain on his belt. ‘Morning, guv,’ he said. ‘Sorry to bother you so early, but I’ve got a prisoner on the remand wing who’s asking to speak to you – says it’s very urgent.’

‘Did he tell you what it’s about?’

‘Wouldn’t say, sir. He’s a bit nervous.’

Prisoners giving information about fellow prisoners could be highly valuable. But at the same time, all of them were worried about being seen as snitches. Punishments meted out to those suspected by their fellow prisoners were brutal. There was an elaborate procedure in place, where they would be seen in an interview room, rather than be observed going to the staff office. Any contact between a prisoner and a senior staff member was noted by other prisoners, and queried rigorously.

‘Okay, bring him along to an interview room.’

Ten minutes later, Setterington sat behind a small table, in a room well away from the prying eyes of any other prisoners. The officer showed in a gangly, wiry man, with a shaven head and stooped posture, who Setterington had known for many years.

Darren Spicer was in his early forties, and looked two decades older, thanks to most of his life being spent in prison, and he smelt of cigarette smoke. A career high-end house burglar, he was a true recidivist – what they termed here as a revolving door prisoner. He had a string of previous convictions for drug dealing and burglary, and regularly ensured he got arrested around this time of year so that he could spend Christmas in prison.

Although he never became emotionally attached to any of his prisoners, Setterington had time for this man. For all his sins, life had dealt Spicer a shitty hand, and he was a model prisoner. Brought up in a single-parent family of third-generation dole scroungers and petty villains, he’d never had a role model in his life. Burgling was all he knew, and in all likelihood, all he ever would. Yet he had, in his own distorted way, moral principles. And he was a keen reader, which was why he never seemed to mind being incarcerated. He was currently on remand after being caught breaking into Brighton’s Royal Pavilion, trying to steal one of its most valuable paintings.

Setterington gestured for him to sit.

Spicer gave him a sheepish grin. ‘Nice to see you again, sir.’

‘It would be nicer not to see you here, Darren. But it doesn’t seem that’s ever going to happen, does it?’

He hunched his shoulders, lowering his head and peering up at Setterington in an almost childlike manner. ‘Yeah, well. You know, sir, I have my dream. To be married again, have kids, live in a nice house, have a nice car, but it’s not going to happen, is it?’

‘You’ve told me that before. So why not?’

‘I got over one hundred and seventy previous. Who’s going to give me a chance?’

‘Didn’t you get a nice lump of money about a year ago, Darren? Fifty thousand quid reward through Crimestoppers. Couldn’t that have set you up?’

Spicer shrugged, then sniffed and pointed to his nose. ‘That’s where most of it went, to tell you the truth. I prefer being inside – I like it in here.’

The Governor nodded. ‘I know, you’ve told me your reasons before. You like the food, you’ve got everything paid for, and most of your friends are here, right?’

‘Yeah. And I like the Christmas dinner especially.’

‘Fifty grand could have bought you a lot of Christmas dinners.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.’ He nodded and for an instant the governor detected a wistful look in the man’s eyes.

‘So, you have something to tell me that’s urgent?’

Spicer looked around furtively, as if worried there were other people in the room listening, and up towards the ceiling. Then he leaned forward, and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s about a bloke I’ve been chatting with on the remand wing, see.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘His name’s Bryce Laurent.’

Suddenly, Spicer had Setterington’s full attention. ‘Okay, what about him?’

‘Well, the thing is . . . I don’t want to be a snitch, right?’

‘The conversation we’re having is private, Darren. There are no microphones or cameras in here. You can talk freely.’

‘Yeah, well, the thing is, he’s trying to hire a hitman.’

‘A hitman? To do what?’

‘To kill his ex. Get revenge. Her name’s Red. Red Westwood, I think he said. Thing is, he’s got a stash, a very big stash.’

‘How much?’

‘Over half a million quid. In folding.’

‘Cash?’

‘Yeah, cash. And he’s offering fifty grand for the hit.’

‘And has he found any hitmen yet?’

‘Well, there’s quite a few people in here interested, he told me. I ain’t surprised. That’s big money, that is.’

‘So why haven’t you had a go for it yourself?’

Spicer grinned. ‘I have. I told him I knew just the bloke. But that I wanted to know the dough was real first.’

‘Has he told you where?’

‘He is willing to tell me where some of it is. The fifty’s spread over two different bank security boxes. He’ll pay half now to show he’s real. The balance on completion.’

‘And has he told you where these boxes are, Darren?’

‘No, but he will tell me where the first one is, if I can confirm I have someone.’

‘And I suppose you want a cut if you tell the police, right?’

‘Yeah. That’s it. A cut.’ He shrugged. ‘Someone’s going to do it for that money, Mr Setterington, sir. That’s a lot of money, that is.’

116

Monday, 11 November

Roy Grace had one thing to do this Monday morning, before setting off on honeymoon. Although they were due to leave for the airport in just over three hours, he left his casual clothes, which he had laid out the night before on the chair in the bedroom, put on a shirt and tie and donned a work suit. Then he gulped down a quick bowl of porridge and a mug of tea, and kissed Cleo, who was breastfeeding Noah, on the cheek, and promised he would be back in plenty of time. Then he kissed his son on the forehead.

‘When are your parents arriving?’ he asked.

‘They said they’d be here by nine to collect Noah.’

‘You sure you’re not going to miss him?’ He stifled a yawn, and glanced at his watch. 7.20 a.m. He needed to leave now to make the 8 a.m. meeting in good time. And he dared not be late.

She gave him a tired smile. ‘After he managed to keep us awake most of the night? Yes, of course I will. But I’m so much looking forward to spending time with you, I’ll get over it!’

He grinned and kissed Noah again. ‘Bye, my noisy little prince,’ he said to him. ‘Daddy’s going to miss you, too. But you’re going to be spoiled rotten, I’m not sure you’ll miss us at all!’ He grabbed his keys and hurried out to his car.

Twenty-five minutes later he drove through the security barrier of Malling House, the police HQ on the outskirts of Lewes, parked in the visitors’ car park, then hurried over to the Queen Anne building which housed the top brass. As ever when entering this building, he was taken straight back to memories of being at school and being summoned to the headmaster’s study.

He was taken straight up to Tom Martinson’s office, by his assistant, and shown in. The Chief Constable was standing there, in dark uniform trousers, a white short-sleeve shirt with epaulettes featuring the crown and cross-tipped staves, and black tie, alongside ACC Cassian Pewe in his full uniform.

Both men shook hands with him. ‘Roy,’ Martinson said. ‘It’s good of you to make the time to come and see us – I’m aware you’re in a hurry. What time is your plane?’

‘Two o’clock from Gatwick, sir,’ he said. He smiled, trying not to show his nerves. He had been wondering what this meeting was all about ever since getting the call from the Chief himself last night. He had a pretty good idea. Two officers were dead. Both working on an operation he was involved in.

Someone was going to have to be held to account.

Himself?

‘This won’t take long, Roy,’ Martinson said, and glanced at Cassian Pewe, who nodded his confirmation. ‘Some tea or coffee?’

‘Thank you, sir, I’d love a coffee.’

Martinson picked up the phone on his vast, spotless desk, and requested three coffees, then directed Grace to one of the two sofas. The Chief and the ACC sat on the other. Grace studied their body language, but could read no sinister message in the relaxed way they sat.

Cassian Pewe brought his hands together on his lap. ‘Roy, the Chief and I wanted to see you before you went off, because we know you must be feeling pretty bad about the loss of Sergeant Moy. We’re aware you knew her personally and that you had a long professional history together. We’re sure you are also feeling bad about the loss of Sergeant Morrison on the helicopter, as we all are. This has been a really difficult week for everyone in Sussex Police – and one hell of a start to my role here. There are going to be a lot of questions asked, but we felt it was important to keep a perspective.’ He fell silent.

Grace waited for him to continue, wondering when the sting in his tail was going to strike.

‘You’ve had a damned tough job with this case, dealing with a monster, and the Chief and I want to congratulate you on your handling of it. Your quick thinking undoubtedly saved the life of Ms Westwood and resulted in a highly dangerous man being brought into custody. We don’t want you to blame yourself for what happened. We are both right behind you.’ Pewe looked at Martinson.

‘I’d like to echo that, Roy,’ the Chief Constable said. ‘Sergeant Moy died in an act of supreme bravery, which she undertook of her own accord, whilst off-duty, saving the life of a child, and you can in no way be blamed for her death. I also do not believe that you should feel responsible for the downing of NPAS 15 and the loss of life of the personnel on board. That’s really what we wanted to say to you. You aborted your honeymoon to take over command of a situation that had become life-threatening to Ms Westwood, and I commend you for that. I want you now to go and enjoy your delayed honeymoon with a clear conscience.’

Grace stared back at him, amazed, and very relieved. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. Then he turned to Cassian Pewe. Was he a changed man? He doubted it. Playing Mr Nice Guy in front of the Chief to show him that Roy had nothing to worry about, that their past antagonistic history was just that now, history? More likely. ‘I’m very grateful for your support, sir.’

Pewe smiled at him with what seemed, despite his reptilian smile, genuine warmth. Absolutely, Roy.’

‘What’s going to happen regarding the funerals?’

‘It will be a while before their bodies are released by the Coroner,’ Tom Martinson said. ‘Neither will take place until well after you are back. So we want you to go with a clear conscience that you did your duty, and relax and enjoy. Focus on cherishing your very beautiful and delightful bride.’

The assistant came in with a tray laden with their coffee and a plate of biscuits.

‘I’ll try,’ Grace said. ‘I can assure you of that.’

‘I think you know that Detective Chief Superintendent Skerritt is planning to retire next year, Roy,’ Martinson said.

‘Yes, sir, I had heard.’

‘Well, I hope you’ll apply for his job. I’d like to see you in that role.’ He looked at Cassian Pewe.

‘I endorse that, Roy.’

Grace stared at both men in turn. With Martinson he felt it was genuine. With Cassian Pewe, he wondered whether he might be being handed a poisoned chalice. He was already doing some of this role, but was still able to be hands-on with cases when he wanted to be. Stepping into Skerritt’s shoes would make that harder – particularly given all the politics now involved since the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime Teams were merged. But it was good to be asked.

‘I’ll certainly think about it,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I’m very grateful for your support. I think the one thing that is going to worry me, above all else, is the knowledge that whatever sentence Bryce Laurent receives, he might not be kept behind bars for ever. The nightmare is never going to really end for Red Westwood, is it? She’s always going to have to live with the fear that he might escape one day, or get released.’

‘Roy, you’ve given her a Warning Notice,’ Tom Martinson said. ‘You’ve offered for the police to help her change identity and move to another part of the country. She’s chosen not to take that advice. All of us have to make decisions in life, based on weighing up all the information we have. You’ve done all any police officer could to protect her. If, God forbid, Laurent is ever released, then we – and she – will have to make decisions based on what we know at that time. But for now, it’s job done. Okay?’