Calling Down the Storm

by Peter Murphy

  ‘Second, his reason for taking the knife with him to Mrs Cameron’s house. He told you that he had been threatened by a man who said he was speaking on behalf of Daniel Cleary. You’ve heard a good deal about Daniel Cleary in this trial, and you know that he is a man with a bad record, a man who might well have been capable of threatening someone. You’ve heard the evidence of Miss Fisk – which the prosecution don’t challenge in any way – that Susan Lang said that Daniel Cleary was going to threaten Henry Lang, with the intention of getting him to give up his fight for his children. But Miss Fisk couldn’t tell you that Daniel Cleary ever did such a thing, because she has no way of knowing whether he did or not. She also told you that when she and Miss Turner, quite rightly, challenged her about what she had said and pointed out the possible consequences, Susan Lang retreated very quickly and tried to talk her way out of it by saying that she had nothing to do with it and blaming it all on Daniel Cleary. But members of the jury, that doesn’t make any sense, does it? Why would Cleary have threatened Henry Lang unless Susan had asked him to? Isn’t it more likely that the whole Daniel Cleary story was simply made up for effect?

  ‘Did Henry Lang really believe that he was in danger from Daniel Cleary on the morning of 28 April? He’d been out and about on the two previous days, and he hadn’t taken a knife with him then, had he? What was so different about 28 April? Did he really think that Daniel Cleary would strike him down for not withdrawing his custody application only two days after he had been warned? Did he really think that Cleary would strike him down when he was meeting with his wife and Mrs Cameron? And if he did, why did he expose himself by walking the considerable distance from his home to hers, instead of driving? He said that there were sometimes parking problems in that area, but Susan managed to park there, didn’t she?

  ‘No, members of the jury: when Henry Lang carefully selected that knife from the set he kept in his kitchen, it wasn’t because he was afraid of Daniel Cleary. Henry Lang had already decided to kill his wife if the chance presented itself. The chance did present itself, and he seized it with both hands – literally.

  ‘Third, Mr Lang tells you that he lost his self-control because Susan uttered six words: “What makes you think they’re yours?” A hurtful thing to say? Of course. To a man like Henry Lang it was a low blow, a disgusting thing for her to say, designed, you may think, to wound him as much as possible. If Susan Lang said that, there was no excuse for it. But, members of the jury, he told you himself, didn’t he? She was good at winding him up, and he was used to it. He controlled himself during the meeting with Mrs Cameron, as he had controlled himself every day throughout the time when their marriage had begun to go wrong: when she went out at night; when she came home drunk; when she started smoking cannabis at home; and when she finally left, taking his children – his children – with her. Did that one remark in itself cause him to lose his self-control to such an extent that he made that frenzied attack on her? To stab her with that large knife seven times, with such severity that any one of his blows would have been fatal in itself? Or was this the opportunity he had hoped for when he carefully selected the knife before leaving home?

  ‘Finally, Mr Lang’s claim that he lost his memory of the critical events of 28 April, and recovered it only four days before trial. Members of the jury, if you’re caught red-handed holding a knife covered with your wife’s blood, and she’s bleeding to death right in front of you, you’re going to need a pretty good explanation to avoid a conviction for murder, aren’t you? It takes time to concoct a story good enough to get you out of that. So Henry Lang did the sensible thing. He bought himself some time. He told the police, and he told his own lawyers, that he couldn’t remember anything at all. They repeatedly confronted him with the facts, and still he said he couldn’t remember.

  ‘And then, four days before the trial, hey presto, his memory returns. It’s simply not believable, is it, members of the jury? And the story he concocted during all those long days awaiting trial isn’t believable. The truth is that he made use of the time to come up with a story he thinks will buy him some sympathy in your eyes. But that’s all it is – a story.

  ‘Members of the jury, the only verdict that makes sense is that Henry Lang is guilty of the brutal, premeditated murder of his wife, and it is your duty to say so by your verdict.’

  When the judge and jury had left for the day, and the courtroom was quiet, Andrew approached Ben and Jess, who were gathering up their papers.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said to Ben.

  Ben looked at him inquiringly.

  ‘For stopping me when I was about to go too far with the judge.’

  Ben smiled. ‘I’ve never seen you in that mood before,’ he said. ‘You are always so calm and collected. Rainer is really getting to you, isn’t he?’

  ‘There’s something wrong, Ben. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something not right.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, it’s looking good for Mr Lang. I’m sure you are happy about that.’

  ‘You think so?’ Jess asked. ‘I’m not so sure. That was a convincing closing speech.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Andrew replied. ‘But I think the judge is going to do his best to row him out.’

  ‘I’m not sure we want that,’ Ben said. ‘You know as well as I do: if a judge goes too far in one direction, it often drives the jury the other way.’

  ‘Not in this case.’

  ‘Why not?’ Barratt asked.

  ‘Sympathy,’ Andrew replied. ‘Some of the jurors are going to put themselves in Henry Lang’s position, and say, “You know what? I might have done the same thing.”’

  78

  Aubrey Smith-Gurney finished his tea and checked his watch: 4.30, time to leave for an appointment he was dreading.

  Aubrey had a wide acquaintanceship at the Bar, but while he knew Stephen Phillips as an opponent in one or two cases, he did not know any of the three members of Phillips’ chambers from whom Conrad Rainer had stolen so blatantly. Now he had to meet them on their home ground, and he had to ask a lot of them. What made it worse was that, in their position, he knew, he wouldn’t agree to what he was going to propose. If he had not given Conrad Rainer his word he would have called it off, but it was too late for that now. Reluctantly, he picked up his briefcase, left his room, and made his way down the building’s main staircase and out of chambers. Slowly, with the air of a man carrying a huge burden, he walked up Middle Temple Lane and turned right into the Inner Temple towards Crown Office Row.

  The senior clerk greeted him when he arrived and took him to Stephen Phillips’ room, where Frank Reilly, Jonathan Weatherall and Martin Cohn were already waiting with Phillips. He declined the offer of tea, and the clerk left discreetly. Phillips waved him into an armchair. Aubrey sat down and put his briefcase on the floor beside him.

  ‘Do you know these fellows, Aubrey?’ Phillips asked. ‘Left to right, Martin, Jonathan and Frank.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m sure we’ve seen each other around the Temple, but not in court as far as I remember. Aubrey Smith-Gurney. I’m in Two Wessex Buildings, Gareth Morgan-Davies’ set.’

  ‘Bernard Wesley’s set before he went on the bench?’ Martin Cohn asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I thought so. I’ve had a long-running saga in the Family Division against Kenneth Gaskell. He’s in your set, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is, indeed.’

  ‘Johnson v Lambeth Borough Council, wasn’t it, Aubrey?’ Phillips asked. ‘That was the last time we saw each other in court, I think. I thought the Court of Appeal had rather an off day myself, but I’m sure you were pleased with the result.’

  ‘Pleased and rather surprised,’ Aubrey smiled, ‘an all-too rare experience for me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You always were too modest, Aubrey,’ Phillips replied. ‘Anyway, down to business: what can we do for you?’

  Aubrey
swallowed hard and took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m here to ask for your help,’ he replied, ‘and I know it’s not going to be easy. I have to tell you about something that has happened, and ask you to try to understand it. It involves Conrad Rainer, who is a very old and dear friend of mine.’

  The mention of Rainer’s name produced smiles.

  ‘How is Conrad?’ Jonathan Weatherall asked. ‘We haven’t seen him in chambers since he was appointed. Is he still the life and soul of every party in town?’

  ‘Not every party in town, surely,’ Frank Reilly insisted, ‘only the fashionable ones – at Annabel’s and the like.’

  ‘He’s well enough, physically,’ Aubrey replied, ‘but I’m afraid his lifestyle has rather caught up with him.’

  There was some laughter.

  ‘Well, that was only a matter of time,’ Reilly said. ‘There are only so many hangovers the body can take before it starts to fall apart.’

  ‘It’s not a matter of drink,’ Aubrey said, ‘or perhaps I should say, that’s not the main problem. To be perfectly candid, he’s got himself into a lot of trouble. Conrad has a gambling habit.’

  Glances were exchanged around the room, but this time there was no laughter.

  ‘We all know that,’ Reilly said.

  ‘I’m sure you do. What you probably don’t know is that over the last year or two it’s got worse; in fact, it’s safe to say that it’s become an addiction, and it’s got out of control.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s lost money?’ Phillips asked, after a silence.

  ‘A great deal of money, I’m afraid,’ Aubrey replied.

  Weatherall shrugged.

  ‘And this is our problem because…?’

  Aubrey paused.

  ‘That’s quite a long story, Jonathan. I’ll try to keep it as short as I can.’

  ‘Take your time,’ Phillips said.

  Aubrey nodded.

  ‘Conrad, shall we say, fell into bad company and started gambling on a regular basis at an establishment called the Clermont Club.’

  Weatherall nodded. ‘John Aspinall’s place, upstairs from Annabel’s.’

  ‘Yes. He played a card game called chemin de fer. I won’t go into detail about the game unless you want me to. Suffice it to say that it’s a game of chance with not much skill involved, and you can lose a fair bit of money in an evening if your luck isn’t good. Over the course of time, no one’s luck is all that good, and Conrad was no exception. He lost money – a lot of money. To be perfectly frank, I’m not even sure of the exact amount. He didn’t add it all up for me, and I didn’t press him. But from what he has told me, I’m sure it must be at least £30,000, and it may be significantly more than that.’

  ‘I’m still not seeing what that has to do with us,’ Weatherall said.

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ Aubrey replied.

  He made a massive effort to put the mortgage and Deborah’s trust fund out of his mind.

  ‘When you’re addicted to gambling and your luck has deserted you, you look around for sources of funding to chase your losses. It’s not a sensible thing to do, obviously. The sensible thing is to cut your losses and give it up, but when you’re an addict, you don’t think sensibly.

  ‘So Conrad was looking around for a supply of money and he was introduced to a man who offered to provide it. This man told Conrad that he was part of a syndicate that made loans to people in his position.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Reilly said.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I need hardly add that this man has connections to organised crime, and in fact, I happen to know that he has a record for violence.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘What was he thinking?’ Cohn asked.

  ‘He wasn’t thinking,’ Aubrey replied, ‘at least, not rationally. That’s the point I’m trying to make. He was thinking like an addict. Obviously, someone with Conrad’s experience of the law wouldn’t touch a loan like that if he was in his right mind. The syndicate charges a massive amount of interest and, if you don’t pay, they don’t take you to court. They have more direct methods of debt collection.’

  ‘How much did he borrow?’ Phillips asked.

  ‘He tells me £20,000.’

  There were gasps around the room.

  ‘In addition to what he had already lost?’

  ‘Yes. Needless to say, although that kept him afloat for some time, his luck didn’t get any better.’

  ‘Has he lost it all?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. He came to me for help earlier this week, and he still had some of that money left, though probably not very much. Of course, I told him that everything depended on his staying away from the Clermont Club, and away from the bad company he was in. That was a condition of my support. I think he understood and he promised me that he would stop immediately.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’ Reilly asked.

  ‘Yes. I think he has finally come to terms with the position he’s in. He realises that it’s gambling that has brought him to that position, and I think he wants to do something about it. Well, he has to. He has no choice. It’s destroying him.’

  ‘This is terrible,’ Phillips said.

  Aubrey closed his eyes.

  79

  ‘I’m afraid there’s worse to come,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Just before Conrad was appointed to the bench, he was in chambers one day. He was in the clerk’s room, but the clerks were elsewhere.’

  He paused.

  ‘Stephen, I want to make it clear that I’m not defending what he’s done. I’m trying to explain it to you – and to myself. As a matter of fact, I don’t think Conrad would try to defend himself if he were here. Be that as it may, he was in the clerk’s room and he noticed – I think your clerk puts the cheques for your fees into small brown envelopes: is that right?’

  Phillips nodded. ‘Yes, and leaves them in our pigeon-holes in the clerk’s room.’

  ‘He noticed that there were brown envelopes for Frank, Jonathan and Martin, and he took them.’

  There was a shocked silence.

  ‘What?’ Phillips whispered eventually.

  ‘The calculation he made seems to have been this: everyone knows it takes solicitors forever to pay our fees. It’s the bane of all our lives. So we barristers don’t question our clerks about fees unless the fee is outstanding for a very long time. It was a calculated risk, but it bought him some time for his luck to change. In the long run, it was madness, of course; he couldn’t possibly have got away with it indefinitely. One of you was bound to ask your clerk about your fees at some point, and as soon as any one of you did that, the clerk would say that the cheque had been put in your pigeon-hole. He would then contact the solicitors, who would say that the cheque had been paid, and the game would be up. If his luck hadn’t changed by then, it was over.’

  ‘But in order to benefit from the cheques,’ Weatherall said, ‘he would have had to –’

  ‘Forge your endorsements on the cheques so that he could pay them into his account,’ Aubrey said. ‘Yes. That’s exactly what he did.’

  Another silence.

  ‘This is outrageous,’ Reilly said. ‘How did he ever think he could get away with it?’

  ‘In the same way he thought he could get away with everything else. His luck would change, he would win the money back, and everything would be fine.’

  ‘The man’s a High Court judge,’ Reilly said. ‘It’s insanity.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling him,’ Aubrey said. He smiled. ‘Still, here I am today, several months later, and apparently none of you knew your cheques were missing until I told you.’

  He reached for his briefcase, and took out several sheets of paper. He stood and handed them to Phillips.

  ‘This will give you all th
e details – the cheque numbers, the amount of the fees, the dates of payment, and so on. If you ask your clerk to check his records, you will be able to reconstruct the whole thing.’

  Phillips perused the papers and handed them to Martin Cohn.

  ‘You said you wanted our help, Aubrey,’ he said. ‘What exactly are you asking us to do?’

  ‘I’m asking you to work with me to make sure that Frank, Jonathan and Martin get their money back,’ Aubrey replied.

  ‘It doesn’t sound as though there’s much chance of that,’ Reilly said. He sounded deflated. Everyone had now looked at the papers Aubrey had handed to Phillips.

  ‘I think there is a chance. It will take some time, but I think it can be done. But I have to ask you to be patient, and I have to ask you to wait until he has paid back his loan to the syndicate.’

  ‘Why should we wait?’ Cohn asked indignantly.

  ‘Because the syndicate won’t wait,’ Aubrey replied, ‘and if they get to him first, you’ll never get a penny.’

  Cohn was shaking his head.

  ‘Look. I understand how you must feel. I know how I would feel if it had happened to me. I would want to go straight to the police.’

  ‘That’s exactly what we should do,’ Weatherall said.

  ‘But if you do that, you will never see your money, I can promise you that. Conrad will face ruin and bankruptcy. He will be removed from the bench, and the chances are he will end up in prison. That doesn’t do anyone any good.’

  He took advantage of a hesitation as the barristers looked at each other grimly.