by Roy Lewis
‘So you’ve followed this case closely,’ Charlie suggested.
‘I’ve watched that arrogant bastard all through this,’ Lawson growled. ‘I’ve watched him standing there, preening, so full of himself, and I told myself that if I ever got my hands on him, I’d tear that arrogance out of him. The things he did to Irene—’
‘And you came up here to Newcastle just to follow the case.’ Charlie scratched his cheek. ‘Time on your hands? What do you do, Lawson? What’s your job?’
Lawson lowered his head. ‘I was working on a building site. I’m unemployed now. I was turned off.’
Charlie could guess why. His obsession would have overcome him. Elaine sighed. Charlie knew she was already up to speed with this. ‘You were there in the courtroom when the judge threw out the case against Conroy.’
‘Him, and that bloody lawyer. She thought she was so smart but it’s all legal tricks. I know that bastard Conroy did it. Did it to Irene, and those other girls as well. I know it, like Jack Capaldi knows it—’
‘Jack Capaldi? Who’s he?’ Charlie asked.
‘He’s Jean Capaldi’s old man.’
‘You’ve talked this over with the father of the first woman to be killed?’ Elaine queried.
‘Why the hell not? We had things in common! We’d both lost someone we loved. And we both know it was Conroy who used that bloody scalpel!’
Charlie rose to his feet, scraping back his chair. He was suddenly irritated. He was himself of the view that Conroy really could be the man who had killed the three women, but it was one thing to suspect, another to be as certain as the man facing them in the interview room. He walked across the room and stood against the wall, hands thrust into his pockets. Elaine glanced at him, frowned, and then continued with her questioning of Gary Lawson. She made no attempt to start the recorder again.
‘So you were in court when the judge threw out the case against Conroy. How did you happen to come across him again last night?’
A confident sneer crept across Lawson’s mouth. He shook his head contemptuously. ‘It was no accident. I know how things work,’ he snarled. ‘Police, lawyers, corruption … you all think people like me and Jack Capaldi are stupid. It suits you to think that, doesn’t it? It masks your own stupidities. It was no big deal, finding out where Conroy would hide himself, like a rat in a sewer. Capaldi and I were in court. We’d already agreed that if things went wrong, we’d work together. So while he was out front in that mob, watching what happened, I stayed away, near the back exit from the tunnel, waiting. And it was the way I’d guessed. Capaldi saw the police car out front, the decoy, but me, I saw that pair of bloody corrupt lawyers drive out with Conroy in the back of their car. It was easy enough to follow them, watch as they dropped the bloody killer at the hotel in Gosforth.’
‘You must have been on foot. So how—’
‘I was waiting, with my motorbike. I followed the lawyers in their car. Easy. I saw them drop Conroy at the hotel. After that, it was just a matter of waiting for the murderous bastard to show himself.’
‘You waited all evening until he came out into the street.’
Lawson’s mouth was hard. ‘He came out. Like always. Careless. Confident. Sneering. Arrogant. But I saw the look in his eyes when I went up to him. He knew what was about to happen. And if there hadn’t been other people about, shoving their noses in, I’d have cracked his bloody skull!’
Elaine looked at the notes provided by the arresting officers. Students passing by had intervened, preventing Lawson completing the assault. ‘So you admit to attacking him, in an unprovoked fashion,’ she stated flatly.
‘Unprovoked? He was a murderer. He killed Irene, and Jean Capaldi and that other girl, and he thought he’d got away with it! I’d do it again, if he was here in front of me! I wanted to smash his face in, make him feel some of the pain Irene must have felt before she died. I wanted it to be slow, a pounding of his face, feeling his nose break, tasting the blood spraying around—’
‘Like blood, do you?’ Charlie asked.
Lawson glared at him in subdued fury.
‘We found a knife in the bushes beside the hotel front,’ Elaine said quietly.
Lawson’s features stiffened as he seemed to retreat, his eyelids lowering. ‘Nothing to do with me.’ He hesitated. ‘There was a crowd gathered straightaway. It was the wrong time to go for that bastard, I know it now. Too many people. But if I had the chance again…. The knife, that could have come from someone hanging around, that was nothing to do with me. I wanted my fists in his face.’
Elaine glanced at Charlie; he grimaced in distaste. The interview was taking them nowhere. He guessed there was no solicitor present because Lawson didn’t want legal representation, didn’t trust lawyers. He’d have form, no doubt, would know how the system worked. So what were they dealing with here anyway? Breach of the peace? Assault? They would find difficulty linking the knife to Lawson unless there was clear DNA available. And even then, it hadn’t been used.
It would be up to Conroy, he thought. And if Charlie was in Conroy’s shoes he wouldn’t press charges. He wouldn’t want further publicity. Charlie stood away from the wall, grunted, then nodded to Elaine. ‘I’ll send the constable in again.’
For Lawson, maybe another night in the cells and probably a warning, if Raymond Conroy pressed no charges. Even so, he wouldn’t give much for Conroy’s chances if Gary Lawson ever managed to catch up with him again.
Raymond Conroy needed to fade into the background, keep his head down, and hope that in the end everything would all blow over. Assuming he was not the homicidal maniac the public seemed to think he was. In which case Charlie hoped the man would clear off back to the Midlands.
Rather than seek fresh fields to conquer on Tyneside.
At the door Charlie paused. ‘You got a dog, Lawson?’
Suspicion flared in the man’s eyes. ‘At home. Doberman.’
Charlie could have guessed.
2
Eric reached Alnwick at three in the afternoon.
He drove down to the walled town, seat of the Duke of Northumberland, and left his Celica in the small car park outside the city walls. He picked up his briefcase and strolled into the town through the fifteenth-century Hotspur Gate. He found the offices of Strudmore and Evans easily enough in Bondgate: based in a solid red-stoned building with mullioned windows in the main street, overlooking the nineteenth-century marketplace. He had never had dealings with this particular firm of lawyers but from the confident style of their offices the partnership would seem to be a relatively flourishing one. A bit of commercial work, perhaps, but more likely relying upon business undertaken for some of the landed gentry in Northumberland. Estate management could be lucrative enough, as he knew from the period he had worked for his wife. Ex-wife, he grimaced. He pushed open the door and announced himself to the receptionist. A few minutes later he found himself in an office on the first floor, overlooking the narrow gateway to the city walls. The wooden flooring creaked and groaned, proudly proclaiming its age.
Mr Strudmore was short, plump, middle-aged, self-satisfied and friendly. He was dressed in a tweed suit of some longevity as though to announce his country leanings; a somewhat flamboyant bow-tie demonstrated his confidence. His moustache was grey, neatly trimmed and contrasting in colour to the bushy red hair that sprouted above his ears. Red, fading to an odd kind of orange. Bottled youth.
He rose from behind his desk, advanced upon Eric and extended a fleshy, damp hand. ‘Mr Ward. We’ve not met previously, but you’ve been pointed out to me at Law Society dinners. You used to represent and act for Morcomb estates.’
‘I did. Some years ago.’
Strudmore bounced on his heels reflectively, in a curious rocking motion. ‘Ah, yes … I’ve met your … ah … ex-wife, of course, on estate matters. But now you’re here looking after the interests of Miss Owen.’
‘Sharon has asked me to represent her, that’s right,’ Eric agreed.
&n
bsp; Strudmore waved Eric to a chair and sat down himself, behind a polished desk. In front of him was a thick pile of documents, the file cover tied with pink string. He smiled. ‘I’ll be more than a little relieved to hand these papers over to you at long last. It’s been a long-running business, the Chivers Trust.’
Eric nodded in agreement. ‘Miss Owen had more or less suggested that was so.’
‘Goes back three generations,’ Strudmore mused, ‘and it gave rise to certain complications. Unfortunately, we weren’t involved in the matter immediately, and certain mistakes were made by the previous solicitors, papers lost, that sort of thing. It was my father who sorted it out sensibly,’ he added, ‘when the matter was handed over to us at last. By Mr Peter Chivers.’
‘I’m not at all familiar with the details of the case,’ Eric admitted.
‘Ah, well, perhaps I should fill you in a little before you sign for the papers,’ Strudmore replied, putting the tips of his chubby fingers together. ‘A coffee, while we talk?’
Eric nodded, then waited while Strudmore phoned down to his secretary. ‘Now then, where was I?’ Strudmore said, smiling. ‘Ah, yes, the Chivers Trust.’
Eric leaned back in his chair. He had the feeling that though he would have been able to work out the details for himself by a perusal of the files, Strudmore was anxious to tell him all about it. Perhaps he had little else to do.
‘Now, let me see,’ Strudmore said, putting his head back on his leather chair and staring at the ceiling, ‘I’ll indulge myself, if you don’t mind, by recalling the details without reference to the files. A good procedure, I believe, testing the memory. Don’t you agree? In legal matters a good memory is important, recalling details. Yes. Right, as I recall, the trust was originally set up by one George Chivers, bypassing the interests of his son and daughter, whom he provided for separately. But let’s start at the beginning.’
Eric thought that would have been the beginning. He sat back in resignation and awaited the arrival of the coffee.
‘From what I’ve been able to ascertain, not being in possession of all the facts, George was an interesting, somewhat mysterious character. He was born about 1920 and became quite wealthy as a result of his activities in the Second World War. Ostensibly, the wealth came from his business in the munitions industry. He never served in the armed forces, but on the other hand there were a number of unexplained absences from home during the forties and a few hints among the extant papers that would lead me to believe he was involved to some extent in intelligence activities. Be that as it may, there is no doubt he accumulated a great deal of money from his factories. Government contracts, it seems. A favoured client. As for his various escapades, well, they are lost in the mists of time and official fudging of details.’
Escapades. There had been a certain relish in the manner in which Strudmore had used the word. Eric had the feeling that Strudmore would have liked to know more about George Chivers and his dashing, possibly raffish existence.
‘George had married quite early in life, perhaps because of the war and the feeling that all could be over very quickly. Many young people did, I understand. Carpe diem, you know, seize the day.’ Strudmore squinted at Eric, a hint of lasciviousness in his smirk. ‘Or maybe it was just animal passion. Anyway, he married Flora Denton in 1939. Their first child, Peter, was born in 1941. A second child, a daughter called Anne – that’s Miss Owen’s mother – was born a year later. Quite how much the children saw of their father during the war is difficult to ascertain; certainly, once the war was concluded George seems to have been very much the absentee husband. You will see from the files that by 1947 he was living and working in Scotland, in Edinburgh and Glasgow. There’s nothing in the papers to suggest a formal separation or a marital breakdown, but it’s clear that Flora saw little of her husband over the following years, and the children, who were in due course sent to boarding schools, lacked the guidance of a male parent in their lives.’
There was a tap on the door; a young woman with fashionably tousled hair and knowing eyes came in with the coffee. Strudmore smiled at her in a benign fashion and with an old-world courtesy personally handed Eric his coffee. As the young woman left with the empty tray, Strudmore’s glance lingered almost hungrily over her swaying hips. He was silent for a little while as he sipped his coffee, then laid the cup down on his desk.
‘Now, where was I? Ah, yes, Scotland. As I explained earlier there is some mystery about what George was up to in the north after the war but as far as I can make out it was something to do with the Ministry of Defence. But no matter. None of this is strictly relevant, hey?’ Strudmore giggled. ‘Just background matters. What is clear is that his business interests continued to flourish and by the time the children reached their majority there was certainly no shortage of money and Flora was living in some style here in Alnwick. You probably won’t know the building, but it’s quite a handsome Victorian mansion just off the A1 …’ Strudmore paused, frowned slightly, picked up his coffee cup and raised it to his lips. ‘She was still there in 1971 when some sort of argument arose, tore at the family. I don’t know whether it occurred because of George’s natural inclinations, or perhaps it was a result of marital breakdown, it’s not clear, and it’s all a private matter hushed up by the family anyway, but it seems George had been keeping a mistress in Glasgow. George was fifty years old by then, and his, ah, companion was at most about twenty, or twenty-two. Thereabouts. There was a flurry of letters, it would seem, because the girl – Sally Chalmers, I believe she was called – may have been in some financial difficulty. I’m not sure what it was all about because correspondence originally in the file had been weeded, at the insistence of Mrs Flora Chivers, I believe.’
Eric shifted in his chair. He suspected all this might have nothing to do with the trust; it was merely the prurient inquisitiveness of an ageing lawyer.
Strudmore put the tips of his fingers together and stared again at the ceiling. ‘In a spare hour I once caused a check to be made of the local press at the time. Just as a matter of curiosity. I can’t be sure it was the same person, but it seems there was a prison sentence involved. It was a sad business, really, because George died in 1973 and little more is heard of the unfortunate Sally Chalmers.’
‘You say, “unfortunate”?’
Strudmore nodded. ‘George Chivers was a wealthy man. He had made a will in 1958. It seems, however, that he never effected any changes to the will to take account of his liaison with Miss Chalmers.’
‘I see.’
Strudmore appeared slightly disturbed and shook his head. ‘Yes. Used and cast aside, I fear. Way of the world. Originally, there was a letter in the file, written by Miss Chalmers. I can’t imagine what it was about. There is a reply, a sort of final letter that tells us little. You will see it for yourself. But the rest, I’m afraid it was the supporting correspondence ensuing that was later weeded out.’ Strudmore’s glance wavered and dropped from the ceiling, and in a slightly flustered tone, as though he realized he had been wandering, went on, ‘However, I’m rambling. All this is strictly speaking nothing to do with Miss Owen and the trust fund.’
Eric sipped his coffee, relieved that perhaps they were now approaching the core of the matter.
‘After the death of George Chivers, most of his money went to his widow Flora, with legacies to the two children Peter and Anne. George’s son Peter took over the running of the family business but soon began to diversify into property development. He displayed a business acumen which was certainly the equal of his father’s. When his mother Flora passed on, her estate was divided equally between Peter and his sister Anne. However, a large part of the estate had already been tied up in a family trust, set up by George in favour of his grandchildren, and while Peter was by now running his own property business successfully, trouble arose because of the activities of Anne’s husband.’
Eric was getting a little lost. ‘Peter’s sister Anne had married?’
Strudmore nodded. �
�The daughter of George Chivers, Anne, married a solicitor. James Owen.’
‘That would be Sharon’s father.’
‘Correct,’ Strudmore enunciated primly. He eyed Eric carefully for a few moments. ‘It would have been better, in my view, if the trust had been handled independently of family, but that did not happen. James Owen, whose own legal practice had never been particularly flourishing, took it upon himself to administer the Chivers Trust personally. Possibly at the suggestion of his wife Anne. Not a good idea. I fear he was not very … shall we say, efficient.’
There was something in his tone that suggested more than lack of efficiency. ‘How do you mean?’ Eric asked, his curiosity at last being aroused.
‘You’ll be aware, naturally, that in any trust business of any consequence there are restrictions relating to the use of investments … wider range and narrower range. Investments were made by James Owen. But when James Owen died suddenly of a heart attack three years ago it was discovered that he had paid little regard to these legal restrictions. As a consequence, quite a lot of money would seem to have been dissipated. Which brings us to the crux of the problem.’
‘Family dispute,’ Eric sighed, and finished his coffee.
Strudmore nodded. ‘My own take on the situation is that the two siblings, Peter and Anne, had never been particularly close. Perhaps because of their upbringing, with their father always away from home. Or Flora’s … rather cool character, perhaps? Who can tell? However, the families were not really in touch with each other, quite distant even though they both lived in the north. Peter ran his property development business and his daughter Coleen was in due course made a board member.’
‘Coleen would be a granddaughter of George Chivers, and therefore a beneficiary under the trust,’ Eric suggested.
‘That is correct, Mr Ward.’
‘You haven’t mentioned Peter Chivers’ marriage.’
‘Ah, but of course.’ Strudmore seemed briefly disorientated, disturbed in his narrative. ‘Yes, Peter Chivers married, but his wife died in childbirth. The daughter, Coleen Chivers, was born in 1973. Father and daughter were close; he trained her into the business. From the correspondence, and the instructions she has given to her legal representatives in the matter of the trust, she seems to be a hard, aggressive businesswoman.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I take no sides in this quarrel, of course.’
