by Roy Lewis
‘His name’s Lawson. He was involved with one of the dead women. Or at least,’ Conroy sneered, ‘he claims to have been.’
‘So he’ll gain some sympathy in the public mind. I would tread carefully, Mr Conroy. And in view of my advice, I regret I would not wish to represent you if you wanted to take action. That doesn’t prevent you going elsewhere for representation.’
There was a short silence. Raymond Conroy’s good eye held Eric’s for several seconds; there was a glint of understanding in the glance. At last the man nodded coldly. ‘I thought that might be your advice … and your reaction. It’s advice I am prepared to accept. You’re right, of course. It would be foolish to court publicity. I’ve no desire to face the media pack again. I shall now seek a quiet life. But … I was going to ask you to do one more thing for me. However, in view of your feelings, I’ll seek assistance elsewhere. You see, Mr Ward, I’ve decided not to return to the Midlands.’
Eric was barely surprised. Conroy would find it difficult to keep a low profile in Birmingham after what had happened, not least since no further killings had occurred during the time he had been held pending trial. ‘So what will you do?’
Conroy’s mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile. He glanced out of the window, nodding towards the Quayside and the river. ‘The Midlands hold no attraction for me. I’ve put my apartment on the market. I have some private income which enables me to keep my head above water: indulgent, wealthy, dear departed parents,’ he mocked. ‘How could one have gone on without them?’ He waved towards the window. ‘My presence here had been forced on me, of course, but I’ve now become quite enamoured of the far north. The decay of industry, the collapse of shipyards, the dark gleam of the river, the area offers me scope for my work, my painting. And I’m told the Northumbrian countryside is quite beautiful, and empty. Peaceful. That’s what I crave now, Mr Ward. Peace. So, I came to see you to pay your fees but also to ask you to find a little property for me – a cottage, perhaps, in the country.’
Eric hesitated, opened his mouth to speak but was forestalled.
Conroy held up a hand. ‘But I understand. You don’t wish our acquaintance to be continued. I’m not surprised. I know you don’t like me, Mr Ward.’ The cold eyes held a glint of faint amusement. ‘It’s of little consequence. And the cottage … I can always see to that myself. Find some other agent, perhaps.’ He stepped a little closer to Eric. ‘So this can be by way of an au revoir.’
Eric was relieved to hear it. He moved away, not wishing to shake the man’s hand.
Conroy turned, walked away, then hesitated at the door. ‘I won’t thank you for what you’ve done,’ he continued, speaking with difficulty as he caressed his swollen lips. ‘After all, you were simply doing your job. Efficiently, I’ll admit. Though, of course, the prosecution case was a weak one … and I was innocent of the charges they brought.’
Eric had a crawling feeling along his spine. He had acted for Raymond Conroy, done his best to expose the weakness in the prosecution case, but he felt no great confidence that the man facing him was indeed innocent of the murders of the three women in the Midlands. And he detected a certain triumphalism in Conroy’s tone, a hint of mockery as though the man felt he had won a prize, overcome his detractors.
When the door closed behind Conroy, Eric waited, and then left his office, passed a silent Susie in the anteroom and went along the corridor to the bathroom. There he washed his hands with care and rinsed his face. He stared into the mirror, observing the greying of his hair, the lines in his lean features, the settled grimness of his mouth.
He still felt grubby, unclean for having acted successfully for the man who, with his help, had probably escaped responsibility for the brutal murders of three young women. He washed his hands again, angrily, but suspected that it would be a long while before he would be able to clear his mind of guilt.
CHAPTER THREE
1
Assistant Chief Constable Jim Charteris was sharply dressed, as always. His uniform was immaculate, his shirt crisply white, his closely shaven features appropriately hawkish and his greying hair smartly arranged. His eyes were alert, his back stiff, everything about him was to attention. Charlie Spate always felt, when he saw Charteris, that the senior officer was expecting to be interviewed for promotion at any given moment. Charlie was aware that the ambitions of the assistant chief constable were as carefully honed as his appearance: the man did not intend staying too long in the north and would be seeking an early move to a more senior position, preferably in the south, which accounted for the driven fastidiousness with which he approached his work and the whip he regularly cracked over officers like Charlie, whom he regarded as insufficiently respectful of authority, even louche to a certain degree.
As he took his seat in the crowded briefing room, Charlie sighed. He had to admit that he had nursed certain ambitions of his own once, but he had lacked the ferociously egocentric drive that Charteris displayed. As a young officer Charlie’s investigative talents had been recognized and he had obtained promotion in the Met. The temptations, however, were too numerous: accepting some of the invitations presented on a plate to him in the Soho area had finally led to an internal enquiry which, while failing to demonstrate that there had been a dereliction of duty on his part, or any financial corruption, had nevertheless come to the conclusion that he would be better employed elsewhere. Hence, a transfer to the north-east.
There were temptations enough on Tyneside, of course, and he had succumbed to one or two, but now that he had attached himself to DS Elaine Start his libido was more than satisfied. Charteris also would have liked to get into Elaine’s knickers, Charlie suspected, but the ACC’s ambition overrode his sexual leanings. As for Charlie, he was happy enough with his rank as detective chief inspector and his location in Elaine Start’s bed. Occasionally. When she dictated.
He glanced along the rows of officers seated in the briefing room. DS Elaine Start was at the end of the row in front of him. He felt she was aware that his eyes were on her, but she did not turn her head. A controlled woman, he considered.
Except in bed.
ACC Charteris cleared his throat loudly. ‘I would like first to introduce to you all Assistant Chief Constable Rawlins, who has hitherto led the hunt for the Zodiac Killer in the Midlands. As you will all be aware, the trial of the man charged with the killings was transferred to Newcastle to avoid the prejudice of public feeling in Birmingham. You will also be aware of the manner in which that trial collapsed.’
Charteris paused as a low, rumbling murmur of discontent ran around the room. He waited, his handsome features set grimly. When silence fell, he continued. ‘I thought it would be a good idea if we held this conference this morning with ACC Rawlins in attendance, in order that he may give us the benefit of his views about the man Raymond Conroy. But first, I will allude to the incident that occurred a few days ago in Gosforth, when Conroy was attacked outside his hotel.’ He smoothed a hand over his slicked-back, greying hair and bared his teeth in a grimace of distaste. ‘The assailant in question is known, I understand, to ACC Rawlins. His name is Gary Lawson, a bit of a fantasist who claimed he was involved with one of the dead women, and he was investigated by our colleagues in the Midlands at the time. His attack upon Conroy in Gosforth was motivated, he claimed, by a desire to obtain the kind of justice against Conroy that the law had failed to administer. He wanted to give him a good kicking—’
‘He’s not alone in that,’ a burly officer along the row from Charlie Spate muttered.
Charteris caught the comment but made no response to it. ‘Lawson was arrested at the scene, brought in, questioned, and given a warning.’
‘Should have been a medal,’ another officer chimed in from the back of the room.
This time, Charteris glared at the officer concerned. He did not like being interrupted. ‘Lawson has now been released. It seems that Raymond Conroy will not be pressing charges against Lawson, and it’s felt that it would not be i
n the public interest for us to commence proceedings ourselves. Lawson has been warned, told to go back to Evesham, where he is located, and stay out of trouble. He should not get further involved in the life of Raymond Conroy.’ Charteris paused, then glanced at the man seated beside him. ‘But perhaps ACC Rawlins would like to take over at this point.’
Rawlins was perhaps fifty years of age. The pouches beneath his eyes were dark, as though he had suffered too many sleepless nights. His shoulders were broad but slumped, and there were signs of deep-seated dissatisfaction about his mouth. Charlie Spate had the impression the man would be seeking retirement soon, disillusioned by his experiences in the police force, perhaps broken by the final straw supplied by the court’s decision in the case of Raymond Conroy. The man would have invested a considerable amount of his time to the affair. When Rawlins spoke there was a furred edge to his voice, a chronic smoker’s hoarseness, but his tone also was scarred with disappointment.
‘Yes, thank you, Jim. Gary Lawson … he’s known to us. He’s no angel, bit of a tearaway, has a few convictions for minor offences, and is known to be quick to use his fists or boots. Conroy was lucky Lawson got pulled away in time by bystanders, but it might not be the last time he’ll come across Lawson. The man is bitter about the killing of Irene Dixon, whom he considered as a girlfriend, though there’s little evidence she held him in high regard. But chances are, Lawson’s not given up. He’s displayed a certain obsessiveness about the death of Irene Dixon. He may well want to bring harm to the man he believes is the Zodiac Killer again. But, of course, he’s not alone in making threats.’
Rawlins paused and flicked a glance around the room of silent officers. ‘There’s also the family of the Capaldi woman. The father, Jack Capaldi, was in court when Conroy was released from custody. He also turned up at preliminary hearings. He’s issued a number of threats, and he means what he says. Another thing you need to know: Jack Capaldi also has form. Some years ago he was involved in a long-running turf war in the West Midlands over ice-cream concessions and off-course bookie shops. He won the battle. Only after a certain amount of blood was spilled.’ His mouth twisted cynically. ‘Not that the victims appealed to us for help. That side of the business has since been handed over to his nephew, Nick, who’s another hard case. Jack Capaldi now concentrates on running small pizza businesses. Legit, as far as we know. But the family is close knit, and not afraid to stick up for what they see as due to them. In short, we’re aware the Capaldi family has access to a considerable amount of muscle. The guy who murdered Capaldi’s daughter was dealing with the wrong kind of family. Jack Capaldi will want revenge. And he’ll go for it. Raymond Conroy needs to be careful.’
There was a short silence. Charlie broke it with a question. ‘You seem pretty convinced that this Conroy character really was the Zodiac Killer.’
‘Is,’ Rawlins insisted with a grunt. He glanced at ACC Charteris. ‘The team that has been pursuing this case in the Midlands, we’re all convinced we got our hands on the right man. But … Jim here will know what it’s like, the kind of political pressure that gets put on senior officers to get a result, quickly, when the public starts screaming about keeping the streets safe for women. Over a period of six months, three women were horribly tortured and murdered. The nature of the torture, well, it fascinated the media. The killer had carved a sign of the Zodiac on the breasts of each victim. In the view of the press, at least, that means he intends killing at least nine more women if he gets the chance.’
Rawlins leaned back in his chair, glowering at his memories. ‘In our patch the heat was on. Local and national press; the Home Secretary; questions in parliament. Television appeals. We got it all. We put extra men and women in the field. And we found our man. But, naturally, we had to build a cast-iron case against him, and that’s where we got hustled by the politicians into acting before we had it all sewn up.’
‘But you must have felt you had enough evidence to bring him to trial,’ Charlie said.
‘And the CPS agreed,’ Rawlins countered. ‘But in the end…. Look, the facts were like this. We trawled the area for weeks, even before the third murder. We’d worked out the killer’s likely stamping ground, with the help of forensic psychologists and good police work. And we placed several officers, DS Paula Gray included, under cover. It worked. Conroy struck up an acquaintance with her. She fed him the right questions. And she got incriminating answers. The trouble was, the CPS advised us that there was too much of the honey trap in the situation and we were restricted in the evidence she was permitted to give. And … well, maybe she went too far.’
‘Sleeping with the guy?’ someone called out.
Rawlins reddened. ‘She denies that. Conroy came up with the suggestion to his lawyer and the court went along with it. But it was a lie.’ He paused, then nodded. ‘The fact is we had him. But it was the last few nails in the coffin that we were missing. He fitted the profile: he wandered regularly in the area; he picked up women; he had this artistic bent. We even had the scalpel he used….’ He paused, recollecting the humiliation suffered by the prosecution in the courtroom when the scalpel evidence was thrown out as inadmissible. ‘But what we lacked was a DNA link to the bodies.’ He sighed; shook his head. ‘There had to be a safe house somewhere. The women were tortured and killed some place he had access to, used regularly, that’s what we surmise. But we couldn’t locate it. And after the women were dead he cleaned them up, dumped them in different locations. And he never raped them. He got his kicks from the carving, and the screams, we guess. We hunted for the torture place; we’re still combing the area for it. But so far we’ve not found it. Sure, we know it wasn’t his apartment. We guess he had access to some other place, where he did the business that turned him on. But we still haven’t found it. Believe me, we’ll get there eventually. We should have waited; kept the heat on him till he cracked. But he’s an arrogant, self-confident bastard. He’s not easy to break. And the pressure was on, from the media, from the Home Office, from the politicians. So we went with what we had.’ He shrugged despondently. ‘It wasn’t enough.’
There was a short silence. ACC Charteris leaned forward. He frowned; glanced around the room. ‘And that’s where we are today. Except things have moved on somewhat. ACC Rawlins has handed over a mass of files to me. Because now we’re involved.’
There was a rustle of movement among the officers in the room, a quickly suppressed murmur. Charteris held up an admonitory hand. ‘We’re now being called upon to work hand in hand with the team led by my colleague here. ACC Rawlins and his team will continue to follow up all possible leads in the Midlands to find out exactly where the murders – and the tortures – were carried out. As for us, we’ll be keeping a close eye on Raymond Conroy … who, as far as we’re concerned, is the man still in the frame. In spite of the collapse of the trial.’
Charlie Spate raised his head. ‘I’m not clear about this, sir. What’s going on?’
Rawlins leaned forward again and passed a hand over his tired eyes. ‘It seems Raymond Conroy’s put up his apartment for sale. And the property has been snapped up. There are always ghouls who’ll want to buy a place connected to a celebrity … and Conroy’s got celebrity status, believe me, even if it is of a ghastly kind.’
Charteris nodded grimly in agreement. ‘And from what we hear, Raymond Conroy intends relocating up here. We’ve been keeping tabs on him at his hotel, but he’s now moved out, and is renting a terraced house in Gosforth. But it’s a short-term let. It looks as though he’s consulting estate agents, looking for some place to buy. In other words, the man who we think killed those women, the Zodiac Killer as the press have dubbed him, is going to be living in the north-east. So he’s now becoming our responsibility. And I want that responsibility taken seriously.’
There was a general shifting of bodies, a swelling murmur of conversation. ACC Charteris waited for a little while, then raised his hand for silence. ‘Our colleagues in the West Midlands were working from s
cratch: they had no idea who they were looking for originally. It’s different for us. As a result of the investigations carried out by ACC Rawlins’ team, we’ve got a mass of information about Raymond Conroy now: we know his likes, his habits, his modus operandi. And it’s my intention that we make life hell for him. We put pressure on the bastard. We keep him under strict surveillance. We let him know we’re watching him. At the least we’ll make sure he doesn’t use a scalpel on any women up here. And at best….’ He glanced sideways at the lowered head of ACC Rawlins. ‘At best we’ll make him crack, make a mistake, take one chance too many and we’ll get him.’
Charlie Spate was aware of the tide of approval that washed through the room. He had some doubts himself: putting pressure on Conroy was well enough, but the man had already shown he had an arrogant resistance to such pressure. The surveillance could be a long job.
‘So, from today,’ ACC Charteris was saying, ‘new schedules will be raised. I’m approving extra overtime arrangements. There’ll be round-the-clock surveillance. I want to see DCI Spate in my office after this meeting: he will be acting in a co-ordinating role and will oversee the group.’
His glance flickered briefly in Charlie’s direction. ‘He’ll be able to show us what he learned in the Met before he came to give us the benefit of his experience up here.’
Charlie was aware of the sourness of the jibe: Charteris and he had never got on well together. He sighed. He had the despairing feeling that this was going to be a question of supping with the devil. With a spoon that would be barely long enough.
2
It was several days before Eric was able to arrange a meeting with Sharon Owen: she had been working on yet another case at the Court of Appeal in London and although they had spoken a few times on the phone, he had been unable to obtain her signature to the documents he was holding on her behalf.
