by Roy Lewis
He was dismissing the prosecution; Raymond Conroy, on the evidence produced so far, was adjudged to have no case to answer.
3
After a stunned silence, the noise in the courtroom crashed about their ears.
As Raymond Conroy stepped smugly down from the dock, a surge of men and women surrounded him. Mr Justice Abernethy left the courtroom hurriedly, and court officials attempted to hold back the flood of journalists who were almost fighting to get close to Conroy. There was some shouting at the back of the court and from the corner of his eye Eric caught sight of a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man with a shock of red hair waving his fist towards Conroy and shouting, while a woman, presumably his wife, pulled at him, trying to persuade him to leave the courtroom. Her features were tear-stained, her demeanour shaken.
Sharon was already on her way to the robing room; Eric was still gathering up his papers when someone near to his elbow spoke to him. ‘I guess you can understand that guy’s fury.’
Eric turned his head to the speaker. The man was perhaps in his early forties, with deep-set eyes, lean features, a thin-lipped, cynical mouth. He was of middle height, wore an old leather jacket and jeans and the collar of his shirt was frayed. He held a notebook in his left hand, and Eric gained the impression that he might be one of the more restrained members of the media pack that was attempting to obtain an interview with Raymond Conroy.
‘I’m sorry … what were you saying?’ Eric asked distractedly.
‘The couple at the back of the room. The guy who’s shouting. It’s obvious he thinks there’s been a miscarriage of justice. And if you look at his face, he’s enraged, wouldn’t you say?’
Eric looked again at the couple near the exit of the courtroom. The woman was still pleading, dragging at the man’s arm, but his face was still suffused, his eyes wild, and his fist was raised in fury. He was shouting something but Eric was unable to pick out the words in the general hubbub.
‘They’re the parents of one of the murdered women. His name’s Jack Capaldi. Runs a chain of small pizza places in the Midlands, I believe. It looks as though he was expecting a guilty verdict – probably convinced the police had got the right man – and is furious that Conroy seems to have got away with it. Is that your view, by the way?’
It was not a question Eric was prepared to answer. ‘So the Capaldis will have come up from the Midlands to attend the trial?’
‘Seems so.’ The speaker hesitated, then held out a hand. ‘My name’s Fraser, by the way. Tony Fraser.’
Eric hesitated, then shook the man’s hand. ‘You from the Midlands yourself?’
‘Not recently. But I’ve been following the case, and I recognized the Capaldis from photographs published earlier in the hearings. They’d made a television appeal at one point: you know, usual thing, we must bring this monster to justice. Interesting, in view of his own background…. There’s been a great fuss about this whole business in the Birmingham area. There was a near riot, you know, when Conroy was first arrested. A lot of people jumped to the conclusion that he was the Zodiac Killer simply because the police had made an arrest.’
Eric shrugged. ‘It was why the trial was moved up here.’ He hesitated, uncertain why Fraser had engaged him in conversation. ‘Anyway, I’m sorry, Mr Fraser, you’ll have to excuse me but I’m rather busy at the moment.’
‘That’s all right,’ Fraser replied with a flicker of a smile. He nodded in the direction of the milling journalists. ‘So are they, it seems. And they’re frustrated too, now Conroy’s being whisked away. Anyway, I’d like a word with you, Mr Ward, at your convenience.’
‘The best thing would be to make an appointment with my secretary,’ Eric replied hurriedly. Conroy was out of the dock, hustled along by police officers eager to remove the source of the bustling confusion. Sharon had vanished but Eric knew he would find her in the holding room outside the court. He nodded to Fraser, who stepped aside politely, and pushed his way past the throng, entered the robing room and then made his way along the corridor, guessing where Raymond Conroy would be taken.
Sharon Owen was already there in a private room barred to the public. When Eric entered the room Raymond Conroy was seated, staring out of the window at the Quayside, seemingly at ease, though Eric noted the pulse beating excitedly in his temple. Conroy turned his head as Eric entered, and Sharon broke away from the conversation she had been carrying on with the two police officers in plain clothes who had ushered Conroy from the courtroom and the baying pack of journalists. When Conroy saw Eric he gave a thin smile and raised a hand in welcome. He turned his head, addressing the police officers in a confident tone.
‘There, gentlemen, I can assure you all will now be well, since my indefatigable solicitor has arrived. With all due deference to you, of course, Miss Owen.’
‘What’s happening?’ Eric asked as he closed the door behind him.
Raymond Conroy waved a casual, dismissive hand. ‘These two gentlemen suggest it might be as well if they stayed close, to escort me from the premises. It seems there is a back entrance and a police car waiting to whisk me away from any unpleasantness that might be occurring outside on the Quayside and around Wesley Square.’
One of the policemen glanced at Eric. He seemed irritated by Conroy’s attitude, angry at the man’s calmness, perhaps affected by the result of the hearing. He would not be alone, Eric considered. One of the policemen muttered bitterly, ‘There’s a demonstration expected outside. We don’t want any trouble. It would be best if Mr Conroy came with us.’
Raymond Conroy smiled coolly. ‘And I’ve been explaining that since I’ve been in the gentle custody of the upholders of the law for so many months now, I have no desire to continue to impinge upon their hospitality longer. Now that it is no longer forced upon me.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with these officers,’ Eric replied, a little nettled at Conroy’s insouciance. ‘You’re clear to leave, but in the circumstances, the crowd outside, the anger at the way the case against you has collapsed….’
‘Due to your efforts,’ Conroy acknowledged gravely.
‘… you’d be better off getting away in their protective custody.’
Conroy raised his chin and twisted a supercilious lip. ‘I disagree. I’ve no desire to continue my association with these gentlemen. You are still my lawyer. We have matters to settle, the question of fees due and so on, you and Miss Owen….’ His glance slipped towards the silent Sharon, standing just inside the doorway. ‘I think it would be appropriate, and quite safe, if I were to leave the premises in your care, Mr Ward.’
Eric was not keen on the suggestion. He glanced at the police officers. They met his eyes; one of them shrugged indifferently. He guessed they would not press the argument if he agreed to take responsibility for the safe conduct of their former prisoner. Raymond Conroy was now a free agent. They had no jurisdiction over him. Eric bit his lip. ‘I had arranged to escort Miss Owen from the building.’
‘Then we can make a cosy little threesome,’ Conroy suggested blandly.
Eric glanced at the barrister. Sharon’s features were stiff with dislike, but her eyes were resigned. Eric sighed. ‘All right. But where are you going to go?’
‘I’m sure you can arrange a temporary haven for me, Mr Ward,’ Conroy suggested coolly.
Eric glowered at him. He was tempted to refuse, but then thought better of it. He wanted to wash his hands of any involvement with the man. ‘All right. Give me a few minutes. I’ll make a couple of phone calls.’
He stepped outside, called his office, explained the situation. Susie made a couple of suggestions about accommodation. When Eric placed the second call on his mobile phone the two policemen came out of the holding room, nodded to him and made their way out to the corridor. They had given up the responsibility. When he concluded the call, Eric returned to the room where Sharon and Conroy waited for him. The room was silent; there had clearly been no conversation between them. She was staring out of the window.
Conroy had an amused smirk on his lips as he contemplated her stiff back.
‘All right, I think it would be as well if we waited for a while before leaving,’ Eric said. ‘Let’s give the police time to disperse the crowds. Then I’ll take you to your hotel, Mr Conroy. I’ve booked you a room in a quiet place in Gosforth. I don’t know what your future plans might be, but I would suggest you lie low for a few days. We can conclude our business and then you can resume your life. Wherever you will.’
Conroy nodded cheerfully. ‘That’s fine. As for your fees … would you like to take a couple of my paintings in payment?’
When he saw the resentment in Eric’s eyes he lifted a contemptuous eyebrow. ‘Just joking, Mr Ward. Just joking.’
Two hours later, after Conroy had been delivered to his hotel under an assumed name and Eric had made the necessary arrangements about the bill, Eric suggested that Sharon came back to his apartment to relax after the tension of the trial and the subsequent hubbub in the streets. Early editions of the evening newspaper already had news of the collapse of the trial in their late bulletins: Eric guessed the morning newspapers would carry banner headlines, reflecting upon the prosecution’s clumsiness and the possible repercussions now that it seemed the Zodiac Killer – whoever he might be – was still at large.
‘They’ll need to be careful what they write,’ Eric remarked as he handed a brandy and soda to Sharon. She took the glass, cradled it in both hands and settled in her easy chair with a sigh. Eric liked the way she seemed to fit into the surroundings. He had lived alone here in the apartment for too long. But it was still early days.
‘I’ve no doubt Abernethy’s behaviour will come in for criticism,’ he said, ‘justified though it was. But if the newspapers imply that Conroy is the Zodiac Killer let free on the streets to kill again, our client could well bring an action for defamation, and earn quite a lot of money.’
‘Just as long as he doesn’t brief you and me to act on his behalf,’ Sharon replied.
‘You’ve had enough dealings with the man.’
‘More than enough. He gives me the shudders,’ Sharon admitted. ‘And you know, I have to admit that I’m left uneasy about this whole business. I know we’re not supposed to have a view about the guilt or otherwise of our clients, just to act on their behalf, do the best we can for them … but Raymond Conroy, well, he leaves a nasty taste in my mouth.’
Eric sat down, sipped at his own brandy. ‘You think he might be the guilty man.’
Sharon shrugged. ‘I think about the murdered women. And if we have helped Conroy escape, when he is the maniac responsible. …’
‘We’ve just done our job,’ Eric assured her. ‘The evidence against him had a thin crust, circumstantial, open to abuse … we just drew attention to the weakness of the prosecution case. Not least that business about him and Paula Gray. How the prosecution hoped to keep the lid on that relationship, I’ll never know.’
‘She denied they had an affair,’ Sharon reminded him.
‘But she didn’t deny going to his flat. I think Abernethy had no choice other than to throw the case out of court. Anyway, it’s finished as far as we’re concerned.’
‘We have no other responsibility in the matter, you mean,’ Sharon murmured uncertainly. ‘Even though we might have been instrumental in putting a killer back on the streets.’
Eric grimaced. ‘Precisely. Anyway, let’s not dwell on it. The business is over and done with for us.’
‘It’s not quite the same for some other people,’ she commented wryly. ‘That couple at the back of the room, for instance.’
‘The red-haired guy doing the shouting. Yes, I gather he was the father of one of the murdered women, Jean Capaldi. But it’s time for us all to move on.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And we’ll start by going out to dinner tonight.’
Sharon put her head back on the chair, and her eyes held a mischievous glint as she looked at him. ‘This some way of looking for a discount from the fee I’m charging?’
Eric laughed. ‘No, just seeking an opportunity for you to wear the dress that’s hanging in the closet in my bedroom.’
‘There’s only the one. Doesn’t give me much choice to create a stir in the town.’
‘Maybe you ought to bring more of your clothes to the apartment. To cover eventualities.’
She smiled. ‘Maybe it’s not just my clothes that should move in.’
‘Permanently?’
‘I wouldn’t want to rush matters,’ she asserted, ‘but the way things have been going between us, maybe we could sort of start trialing the relationship a bit more intensely. I mean, one has to be careful. I might find your personal habits too gross to handle on a regular basis.’
‘I have been on my best behaviour while I’m with you,’ Eric admitted with a smile.
‘And if we’re to shack up seriously, you need to be sure that I come from the right stock. After all, you know nothing about my background. It might be more unsavoury than you imagine.’ She paused, the mocking tone fading and a slight frown appearing on her brow. ‘Talking of which, there’s something we should discuss. I need a lawyer.’
‘You are one.’
‘Tell me about it! But like they say, a lawyer who acts for himself has a fool for a client. I’ll tell you about it over dinner. First, I need to finish this drink, and take a shower. I feel as though a certain grubbiness has rubbed off on me. Raymond Conroy – not one of the more savoury of my clients, and that’s saying something. I’m glad we’ve more or less seen the last of that creepy, cold-hearted bastard.’
They left the apartment at eight in the evening. Eric had thought about driving into Newcastle to visit one of their favourite restaurants but finally was persuaded by Sharon that it would be more sensible to use one of the brasseries that had sprung up in the High Street in Gosforth. It had changed radically over recent years, with new restaurants and pavement cafés appearing to cater for university students: a café society, in spite of the northern climate. It never seemed to affect the youngsters, Eric considered: mid-thigh skirts and low-cut tops, in spite of the whistling winds of the north. Kidney trouble in the future.
They found a restaurant which advertised the excellence of its Mediterranean cuisine and they both settled for John Dory, agreeing also on the starters: scallops. Eric ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio and they settled down in the surprisingly large room, decorated with scenes of Spanish and Portuguese villages and lifestyle.
‘Somewhat forced,’ Sharon murmured.
‘A Gosforth view of exotic climes,’ Eric suggested. ‘Anyway, what’s this about needing a lawyer?’
Sharon smiled and sipped her wine. ‘It’s a bit of a long-running affair. As is often the case with family quarrels. But that’s one of the reasons I don’t want to get too closely involved myself: having to dig into distant family feuds and learning a little too much about family peccadilloes makes my flesh creep. I’d rather get it all cleared up by someone other than myself. That’s where you come in.’
Eric grimaced. ‘Family matters can get messy.’
‘Exactly. But I’d be grateful if you could look into the matter for me. There can’t be much more to do. Just a matter of bringing an end to a long-running saga.’
‘So what’s it all about?’ Eric asked.
She smiled, teasingly. ‘First of all, I think you need to know that you’re in danger of tying yourself in with a fairly wealthy young woman.’
‘It was always your money I was after,’ Eric assured her solemnly.
She grinned. ‘Well, you made a good choice. The fact is, our family is pretty well loaded. Has been for a couple of generations. And that’s where the problems come in.’
‘Inheritance?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. I mean, my parents – who as you know are both dead now – they left me well enough heeled through general inheritance, but there’s also the matter of a trust fund which was originally set up by my grandfather. It was always separate from the mo
ney my parents left me. The trust’s given rise to certain problems among the two beneficiaries. Me and my cousin. I don’t want to go into details over dinner now, but if I gave you the name of the lawyer who’s been handling the estate – slowly, I might add – maybe you’d be able to look into it for me, and bring the whole messy business to an end.’
Eric shrugged. ‘It hardly needs saying that I’ll be happy to do what I can to help.’
‘There’ll be a fat fee, of course,’ she teased.
‘I’ll take it in kind.’
‘I won’t be averse to that.’
The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly. Eric regaled her with some of the more colourful stories about his life before he had become a lawyer, when he had been a police officer on the Tyneside beat, and she asked him about his problems with glaucoma, which he now kept under control with drugs. It was almost eleven before they left the restaurant for the short walk back to the apartment.
There was a police car some hundred yards away, its blue light flashing. It was not an unusual occurrence: with so many bars and cafés in the area there was bound to be a certain amount of drunken behaviour late at night. Sharon glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Trouble?’ she queried.
Eric shrugged. ‘Nothing to bother lawyers, yet. The police can deal with it.’ He turned his head, realized the car was stationed not very far from the hotel where he had arranged a room for Raymond Conroy and wondered briefly whether their erstwhile client had already got himself into difficulties. He shook the thought aside. He gripped Sharon’s elbow firmly, steering her across the road towards his apartment.
