Calling Down the Storm

by Peter Murphy

  ‘Third, his explanation for taking the knife with him. Let me make this clear, members of the jury: I don’t condone his decision to carry a knife for one moment, and neither should you. It was a stupid thing to do. He knows that now, and he should have known at the time. He should have gone to the police, and reported it to Mrs Cameron immediately. Of course, he should. But that doesn’t mean that he intended to kill his wife. The prosecution ridicule the idea that Henry was afraid of Daniel Cleary, but there is independent evidence that Cleary was a threat to him. First, you know about Cleary’s criminal record, which includes convictions for violence and blackmail – making unwarranted demands with menaces – which is exactly what Henry says he did. It’s not a huge leap, is it, to accept that when one of his drug clients asked him for a favour – leaning on Henry to drop his case – he would have been only too pleased to keep his client happy? Not only that, but you heard from Harriet Fisk, Susan’s barrister, and you remember what she told you, I’m sure. Susan actually told her, in the presence of her solicitor, Miss Turner, that “Danny Ice” was going to put pressure on Henry to drop the case, to threaten him with violence. Mr Pilkington didn’t dispute Miss Fisk’s evidence at all; he accepted that evidence on behalf of the prosecution.

  ‘Yes, it was a foolish thing to do, but Henry is not charged with illegally carrying an offensive weapon. If he were, he would have to plead guilty, but he’s not. He is charged with murder, and if you’re not sure that he took the knife with him with the premeditated intention of killing Susan that day at Harpur Mews, then there must be a reasonable doubt, mustn’t there? I would suggest that, not only is there a reasonable doubt, but the evidence is very much in favour of Henry being afraid of “Danny Ice”, and ill-advisedly taking the knife with him for self-defence in case Cleary decided to carry out his threat.

  ‘Lastly, members of the jury, the prosecution pour scorn on the idea that six words could have caused Henry Lang to lose all self-control. But is that so unreasonable? Remind yourselves, please, when you are in your jury room, of those words. “What makes you think they’re yours?” I will repeat them. “What makes you think they’re yours?” Members of the jury, there’s no doubt, is there, that Henry Lang is a man who cares on the deepest level about his children? Mrs Cameron thought he was a bit obsessive, and she was worried about that tendency in him, and you may well be inclined to agree with her. But surely that supports what Henry told you. This is a man who always talked about “my” children, never “our” children. The prosecution described Susan’s words as stupid. But they weren’t stupid; they were deliberately vicious words, the most cruel she could have spoken to him, carefully calculated to cause Henry as much pain as she could. Could there be anything more hurtful, anything more calculated to send this man into an uncontrollable rage, than to question the paternity of his children? If he wasn’t their father, who was? One of the men she consorted with? Daniel Cleary? Is it so hard to believe that for a few moments – tragically, for long enough for him to take Susan’s life – he lost all self-control?

  ‘His loss of self-control is also shown, I suggest, by what happened after he stabbed her. Did he run away, try to hide, try to dispose of the weapon? No. He did none of those things, none of the things a man in possession of his reason, a man who had just successfully completed a premeditated plan to kill, would have done. Instead, he sat on the floor just a foot or two away from where she lay dying, knife in hand, until the police arrived, and when the police arrived, he did not resist them in any way.

  ‘Henry tells you that he later had no memory of what had happened. Again, the prosecution pour scorn on the idea that he couldn’t remember, and on the fact that his memory returned before the trial began. But, members of the jury, there is no dispute that when the police found Henry Lang, he was in trauma-induced clinical shock, and he remained in trauma-induced clinical shock for two days, during which period he was taken to Barts hospital for treatment. There’s no dispute about that, is there? You heard about it from the police officers. You heard that the police surgeon, Dr Moynihan, diagnosed trauma-induced clinical shock, as did the doctors at Barts.

  ‘The prosecution’s own expert, Dr Harvey, told you that this man suffered trauma-induced clinical shock, and he told you that retrograde amnesia is a known symptom of that condition. Is it so surprising that this man of hitherto good character was traumatised by what he had done? Is it so surprising that the memory of what he had done was so painful that his mind took pity on him and spared him the agony of reliving it for as long as it could?

  ‘Members of the jury, on any view, this is a tragic case. There is nothing you can do about the tragedy of Susan Lang’s death. But there is one thing you can do. By your verdict, you can prevent a second tragedy – the tragedy of convicting Henry Lang of an offence he didn’t commit, and taking him away from his children for ever.’

  83

  When Mr Justice Rainer began to sum up, Ben and Andrew exchanged nervous glances. Not only did he still look tired, pale and drawn, but he had not asked them for any guidance about the law of provocation. Both barristers knew that it was not an easy branch of the law for juries to understand, and any error in the summing-up could have a serious effect on the verdict. But to their considerable surprise, the judge delivered a textbook summing-up, not only getting the law exactly right, but also putting it in such simple terms that the jury could hardly fail to understand it. He then reviewed the evidence, of which he had taken hardly any notes, accurately and thoroughly, before reminding the jury briefly of the points Ben and Andrew had made in their closing speeches.

  ‘Members of the jury,’ he concluded, ‘if there’s anything you and I have learned from this case, it’s surely that an evil man like Daniel Cleary can do irreparable damage to people’s lives. He is, you may think, a man with a record for violence, apparently without conscience; a man who thinks nothing of threatening to destroy others for his own gain, willing apparently to destroy Henry Lang for nothing more than a chance of keeping a client, to whom he sold illegal drugs, happy.

  ‘Members of the jury, it’s a matter entirely for you, but you may think that Henry Lang may well have been so afraid that he took a knife with him for protection. You may also think, and again it’s a matter entirely for you, but you may also think that when Susan Lang uttered those terrible, terrible words, calculated to destroy her husband as surely as Daniel Cleary intended to destroy him, he reacted in a blind rage and lost all self-control. You may think that the justice of this case lies in what I have just said, and while, I say again, it is a matter entirely for you, if that’s the view you take, you would be entitled to reflect that view in a verdict of manslaughter.

  ‘Wait for the jury bailiff to take his oath, and you may then retire to consider your verdict.’

  The jury retired just after midday.

  ‘Which way do you think the judge is leaning?’ Andrew asked, approaching once the jury had retired and the judge had left the bench. ‘Difficult to tell, wasn’t it?’

  They all laughed.

  ‘I think I can guess,’ Ben replied. ‘He wasn’t particularly subtle about it, was he? I only hope he hasn’t turned the jury against us.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Andrew said. ‘My money’s on manslaughter, but I wish I knew what this man’s obsession with Daniel Cleary is about.’

  ‘He does seem to have it in for old Danny Ice, doesn’t he?’ Barratt said. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t had him arrested.’

  ‘There’s something about that side of the story that disturbs him,’ Jess said, ‘that’s for sure. He kept bringing him up, time and time again, didn’t he?’

  ‘Well, there you go,’ Andrew said. ‘Nothing we can do about it. At least he got the law right. That’s something.’

  As Andrew turned away, he saw DI Webb approaching.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Pilkington, but could I have a word?’

  ‘Ye
s, of course,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘Outside court, sir, if you don’t mind.’

  84

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind coming with me, sir,’ Webb said as they left court, ‘we’ve got a quiet corner in the hall over here. We shouldn’t be disturbed.’

  Looking towards the corner, Andrew saw a uniformed officer, by his appearance an officer of high rank, and another man whom he recognised as John Caswell, a senior lawyer in the office of the Director of Public Prosecutions, with whom he had often had dealings.

  ‘Mr Pilkington,’ Webb said, ‘this is Assistant Commissioner Lawton.’

  ‘Brian Lawton,’ the officer said, extending his hand.

  ‘Commissioner,’ Andrew replied, taking his hand. ‘John, how are you?’

  ‘Well, Andrew, thank you,’ Caswell replied.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Andrew asked.

  ‘It’s a sensitive matter, Andrew, and an urgent one. We have a very difficult situation on our hands, on which the Commissioner and I would like your advice.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Earlier this morning, the police received a complaint against Mr Justice Rainer.’

  ‘A complaint against the judge?’ Andrew asked, taken aback. ‘A complaint about what?’

  ‘Three of the barristers in his former chambers say that Rainer stole cheques from them, forged their signatures to make it appear that they had endorsed the cheques in his favour, and deposited them in his own bank account.’

  Andrew was speechless for some time.

  ‘How much money is involved?’ he asked.

  ‘A little more than £16,000,’ Caswell replied.

  Andrew paused again to allow it all to sink in.

  ‘When is this supposed to have happened?’

  ‘Shortly before he was appointed to the bench.’

  ‘Fortunately,’ Lawton said, ‘the officers who took the complaint realised immediately how sensitive it was, and referred it to my office without delay. Because DI Webb has been involved in this case, I have asked him to take charge of the investigation, and I have instructed him to interview Rainer as soon as possible.

  ‘I also contacted Mr Caswell to discuss how to proceed. On his advice, I have already obtained a search warrant for Rainer’s address in London. He has a flat at the Barbican. He also has a house, a family home, down in Guildford. I’ve asked the Chief Constable of Surrey, on a confidential basis, to stand by to get a warrant down there if needed.’

  ‘It’s a bit early in the investigation to apply for a search warrant, isn’t it?’ Andrew asked. ‘Do you know what you’re looking for at this stage?’

  ‘They have the evidence, Andrew,’ Caswell replied. ‘The head of chambers and the senior clerk brought the paperwork with them. They have all the details, and we’re taking steps to get copies of the cancelled cheques, which should confirm what we know already. The solicitors who issued the cheques will also have records.’

  ‘But what do you hope to find if you search his flat?’

  ‘We have reasonable grounds for believing that there may be further evidence to support the allegations,’ Lawton replied, ‘and there’s every reason to believe that we may find evidence of further offences. According to the head of chambers, Rainer has a serious gambling problem, and is very heavily in debt. It appears that he resorted to stealing the cheques to buy himself time to win some of the money back, but it didn’t work. It may be that these three barristers are not his only victims. The senior clerk is checking his records.’

  Andrew took off his wig and ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘This is incredible,’ he said.

  ‘Did you notice anything strange about the judge during the trial?’ Lawton asked. ‘I mean, was there anything about his behaviour that seemed unusual?’

  Andrew nodded.

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact I’d been in touch with the Director’s office about it. He handled the trial competently enough, certainly given that it was his first criminal trial. The summing-up was sound – a little too defence-minded for my taste, but nothing I can really complain about. But he was obviously very stressed. He looked as though he hadn’t been sleeping well. His behaviour in court was erratic, and when we called him on it, he admitted that he wasn’t feeling well.’

  ‘It’s a stressful job,’ Caswell suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ Andrew agreed. ‘But there were a couple of other things that concerned me.’

  ‘Go on,’ Caswell encouraged, as Andrew hesitated.

  ‘One thing was that he seemed to have an obsession with a man called Daniel Cleary. Cleary has a record for violence and blackmail, and it was part of the defence case that he had threatened the defendant to get him to drop his child custody proceedings. So he was a significant figure in the trial, but not to the extent the judge seemed to think. He was continually reminding us all what an evil fellow Cleary was. It was out of all proportion to his actual importance.’

  ‘We could look into whether there has been any connection between Rainer and Cleary,’ Lawton suggested.

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ Andrew agreed.

  ‘What was the second thing?’ Caswell asked.

  ‘The defence made an application to admit some evidence which, on the face of it, was privileged. Rainer held that it wasn’t privileged and allowed it in. I opposed it, but actually I think he was probably right on the law. That’s not what concerns me. What concerns me is that he knew that the application was going to be made, and what it was about, before the defence mentioned it in court.’

  ‘Perhaps the defence nobbled him out of court,’ Webb suggested.

  ‘No,’ Andrew replied firmly. ‘Ben Schroeder and Barratt Davis are straight arrows. There’s no question of that.’

  ‘So, the judge had input from someone else?’ Lawton asked.

  ‘I think that’s very likely,’ Andrew replied.

  ‘That’s not necessarily suspicious, is it?’ Caswell asked. ‘You said it was his first criminal trial. He may well have approached someone to help him behind the scenes. There’s nothing wrong with his taking advice as long as he makes his own decisions.’

  ‘Except that whoever he approached seemed to know all about what the defence was planning,’ Andrew pointed out.

  ‘Well,’ Lawton said, ‘we can look into those things, but they don’t seem to have any bearing on the matters we’re investigating now.’

  ‘There may be a connection to his gambling,’ Andrew suggested. ‘I didn’t know about that before you told me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Lawton agreed. ‘But the question is: what do we do now? From my point of view, the sooner DI Webb interviews him, the better.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Andrew said.

  ‘Why not? What’s he doing at the moment, other than sitting in his chambers waiting for the jury’s verdict?’

  ‘No,’ Andrew insisted. ‘He’s presiding over a murder trial. If DI Webb interviews him before the trial finishes, he may take the view that he has to withdraw from the case. I may even have to ask him to withdraw myself.’

  ‘It’s looking like a defence verdict,’ Webb grinned. ‘Would we necessarily object to a retrial at this stage?’

  ‘Yes, we would,’ Andrew replied sharply. ‘We have a duty to ensure fairness. The defendant is always at risk of disadvantage in a retrial. I am advising in the strongest terms that you wait until the jury has returned a verdict and Lang has been sentenced.’

  ‘In any case,’ he added, after a pause, ‘you can’t conduct a formal interview with a High Court judge in his chambers. You would have to take him to a police station – and do it very discreetly.’

  ‘I have to agree,’ Caswell said.

  ‘When will the trial be finished?’ Lawton asked.

  ‘Some time later today.’

  ‘And would he be sentenced t
oday?’

  ‘There’s no reason to delay. If Lang is convicted of murder, it’s life imprisonment, and if he’s convicted of manslaughter the tariff in this kind of case is about four years. That’s not going to change. If he delays at all, it wouldn’t be later than Monday morning.’

  ‘I don’t like having to wait that long.’

  ‘In that case I could have officers keeping him under surveillance over the weekend, sir,’ Webb volunteered.

  Lawton nodded reluctantly.

  ‘All right, but I want this dealt with as soon as he’s passed sentence,’ he said.

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ Webb replied.

  ‘Just be careful, Inspector,’ Andrew cautioned. ‘You’re dealing with a High Court judge. Don’t go jumping in before you’re sure of your ground.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Caswell agreed.

  ‘All I’m going to do, sir, is show him the paperwork,’ Webb said, ‘and ask him what he has to say about it. Unless I’m missing something, I don’t see that there’s anything he can say. I don’t think he’s going to argue with us. I think he’ll put his hands up.’

  ‘Just be careful,’ Andrew repeated.

  85

  The hours of waiting dragged on, seemingly interminably. In the bar mess, Ben and Jess made endless cups of coffee and talked about anything but the case. Barratt spent two hours in the cells with Henry Lang, but by then his nerves were getting the better of him. Henry was subdued and uncommunicative, and in any case there was nothing more to say; nothing left but small talk. Barratt had no appetite for that, and rather than risk conveying his anxiety to his client, he eventually came back upstairs. He used a public phone box to call his wife, Suzie, and tell her he would be late home. The rest of the time he sat in the dim evening light of the hall outside court, pretending to be interested in The Times.