by Roy Lewis
Eric frowned. ‘Who was the client?’
Sharon smiled. ‘Who can tell? Maybe it was something started by grandfather George. Or Flora, when she was widowed. I don’t know.’
‘Doesn’t the date tell you anything?’ Eric queried.
‘Oh, this letter was certainly written just after George Chivers died, so it could well be Flora who was the aggrieved client threatening libel action, but on the other hand I would guess the issue had arisen before grandfather George died, so maybe he was the client referred to.’
‘You can’t libel a dead man,’ Eric reminded her.
‘But an action could be possible if the libel involved other people, or suggested nefarious activity on the part of others—’
‘But hardly security issues.’
‘Why not?’ Sharon asked.
‘Slim….’ Eric turned the letter over in his hands. ‘One could always find out the identity of the client by approaching the Glasgow firm.’
‘If one had the energy,’ Sharon admitted. ‘And provided the Glasgow lawyers didn’t feel themselves bound by issues of confidentiality. Anyway, it’s not all that important. I showed the letter to you just to emphasize that there have been several mysteries, a number of skeletons in the family past. What’s certain is grandfather George was a somewhat secretive guy, spent a lot of time in his last years up in Scotland, fell out with his children and probably with Flora as well, could have been involved with government contracts of a security nature … and it all blew up into the setting up of a trust fund, for unborn children, thus finally in favour of two girls who were innocent of involvement in the quarrels, as opposed to passing the whole of his estate to his son and daughter.’ She grinned at him. ‘Voilà! Why should I worry, in the end? I find myself a wealthy woman.’
‘Who could have been wealthier if she had held out against her cousin.’
‘Hey, what does it matter? It’s only money!’
‘It clearly matters to Coleen Chivers,’ Eric reminded her.
‘Who’s running her own life, as I’m running mine. And I can’t ignore the sins of the fathers – that is, the depredations of my father James Owen, in breach of the trust he was handling on our behalf.’ She finished her brandy, leaned her head back on the settee and smiled at him mischievously. ‘So, I’ll sign these agreements you’ve brought for me, and then how about taking a wealthy woman to bed?’
3
Assistant Chief Constable Jim Charteris had been quite clear in the instructions he had issued. There was to be no secrecy involved in the watch to be kept on Raymond Conroy. He wanted Conroy to be fully aware that he was being kept under surveillance. It was simply a matter of increasing the pressure on the man.
‘Let’s be clear about this. I want you people to crawl all over him, closer than bed bugs on a mattress. When he’s at home I want him to see your car parked nearby. When he walks in the street I want you to be at his back. If he goes to a bar for a drink, you’ll get your elbows on the counter within a few feet. If he goes to a restaurant, you’ll be ordering on a table close by. When he goes to bed and twitches a curtain he’ll see you; when he gets up in the morning and looks out, you’ll be there. DCI Spate will organize your rota, and you’ll follow it. You’ll be on Conroy’s tail like dogs sniffing a bitch, and I want him to know it.’
‘You told us he’d left the hotel in Gosforth where he got beaten up,’ one of the detective constables called out. ‘Is he on the move again yet, sir?’
Charteris glanced at Spate and then shook his head. ‘No. Our latest information is that he’s living in rented accommodation we’ve identified. Not a poverty-stricken man, our friend. DCI Spate will give you the details.’
‘Could be Conroy will scream about harassment,’ a detective sergeant suggested.
‘Let him scream,’ Charteris replied grimly. ‘The whole point of this exercise is to make Conroy uncomfortable. So bloody uncomfortable that he gets out of our patch. He’s walked away from the Midlands because things are too hot for him down there; I want to make sure that the heat gets too much for him up here as well. Conroy has skated away from the charges brought against him here in Newcastle, but if he thinks he can rebuild his life up here, let’s change his mind. I want the pressure on, fierce. And I want him out of our area.’
It was one of the most boring assignments Charlie Spate had ever undertaken.
He organized the rotas for the seven officers assigned to the business; he made sure Elaine Start was not one of them. She showed her appreciation in bed at the end of the first week. After two weeks she repeated the performance. When he lay back finally, exhausted, bathed in sweat, he threw back the sheets from his body and told her about it. ‘The guy just pays no attention to us at all. He follows the same routine, day after day. He leaves the house in the morning and drives down to the shopping centre. He buys a newspaper; he goes to a café – the same café each day – and lingers over a coffee. Sometimes he buys a second cup. By midday he’s on his way to Newcastle. He parks in a side street up near St James’s football ground. He takes lunch at one of the restaurants in The Gate centre. By five he’s back home in his rented house.’
‘Does he go out in the evenings?’ Elaine asked in a tone notable for its lack of real interest. ‘Does he hit the town?’
‘Well, as far as we can see he has a snack at home most evenings, probably watches television, but there’s been seven occasions when he’s gone out to a pub. He takes three drinks: two halves of lager, followed by a brandy and soda. Then he goes home.’
‘So what does our revered assistant chief constable make of the reports that are handed in?’
Charlie sighed, turned over onto his side, slipped an arm across her naked breasts. ‘He’s said nothing. But he must be as bored reading them as we are in keeping tabs on this character Conroy.’
‘At least there have been no more reports of the Zodiac Killer returning to his unpleasant games.’
‘I think that’s one of the things that Charteris has at the back of his mind. He wants Conroy off our patch. The last thing he wants is to have a killing in the area that could be laid at the door of Raymond Conroy.’
The boring routine continued for another twelve days. Meanwhile, unknown to Charlie, in the Midlands new developments had changed the picture completely.
They had been watching the clubs for weeks, undercover officers merging into the background, half-screened by strobe lights, half-deafened by pulsating, throbbing dance music. They had moved among the gyrating dancers, kept watch on the suspects they were pretty sure had been moving the drug scene on, until finally they felt they had enough evidence to crack down.
But the orders from above were to wait a little longer, until the shipment arrived.
It came in on a freighter which docked at Liverpool. The packages left the Mersey in a lorry ostensibly carrying machine tools and spare parts for the car industry. The distribution was due to take place in a deserted warehouse scheduled for demolition near the canal, and several of the pushers were in attendance. Contact was maintained by wireless between the customs officers, who had been tracking the shipment, and the local police. The operation had been rehearsed, finely scheduled, and in the event it worked like clockwork. As the packs of cocaine were unloaded from the lorry a police Land Rover smashed into the decrepit wooden doors of the warehouse. It was followed by two other vehicles: they skidded through the debris of the doors and blocked the entrance, while men in riot gear poured out of the rear doors.
Shouts rang out and the panicked dealers scurried like rats in a cellar, running in all directions but only three managed to escape the cordon, smashing their way out of one of the dirty, stained windows on the floor above, and dropping to the alleyway at the back of the warehouse.
Detective Sergeant Parsons recognized one of the men, who was running down towards the darkness of the canal towpath. His name was Dawkins: he was a skinny twenty-year-old with a history of violent crime going back over seven years. He h
ad escaped time and again, first at the instigation of weak judges who thought he could be rehabilitated, later by pure luck, lack of evidence and pusillanimous solicitors in the Crime Prosecution Service. But this time young Dawkins was caught bang to rights. And DS Parsons had no intention of letting the young thug escape again.
In spite of the darkness he was able to follow his quarry easily enough. Parsons had been brought up in this area and knew every alleyway and narrow street on the patch. He soon guessed that Dawkins was heading for a maze of decrepit streets where he hoped to vanish, perhaps into a pub, perhaps into some dark corner where he would huddle until the pursuer lost him, gave up the chase, was exhausted by the hunt. Then he would emerge, find a safe house.
Except there would be no safe house, because DS Parsons knew the identity of the man he pursued, and if not tonight, there would be another time to take him into custody.
But DS Parsons was a stubborn and impatient man. He didn’t like Dawkins. He meant to get him, and lay hands on him tonight. He was still aware of distant shouting as the rest of the gang was rounded up but he was concentrating on Dawkins. All was suddenly silent ahead of him, and Parsons slowed, stopped, listened. The streets were dark. There was a pub not more than 200 yards away where lights shone, but even they seemed muted, dimmed, as though everyone in the area was waiting with bated breath as DS Parsons stalked his prey.
At last he reached the spot where he guessed Dawkins was lying low: it was an entry between two tall, disused buildings. He thought he detected a scuffling sound and he moved forward carefully. He picked up a light creaking at the end of the entry and he flicked his torch: the beam lit up the damply dripping walls of the alleyway and the rickety door at the end wall.
It was slightly open.
DS Parsons grinned. He reached for his radio to summon assistance and then thought better of it. Dawkins was a skinny young thug; Parsons had been middleweight boxing champion in the Midlands two years ago. And he tasted his own saliva at the thought of being able to give Dawkins a good hammering.
Resisting arrest. Yes, he would enjoy that.
He walked quietly down to the doorway, opened it, and the beam of his torch flickered around and over the accumulated rubbish in the old warehouse: rusty iron, discarded boxes, forgotten, disregarded detritus. He moved slowly into the building, flashing his torch beam into dark corners.
‘I know you’re in here, sonny,’ he called out. His voice echoed mournfully against the dark rafters. ‘Come to Daddy. I won’t hurt you. Not much, you young bastard.’
There was no reply, only the soft tread of his feet as he moved deeper into the warehouse. DS Parsons moved on, watchfully. There was another scuffling sound ahead of him. ‘No way out, Sunny Jim,’ he growled. ‘You want to get out of here, you’re going to have to get past me….’
Broken pallets lay against the wall to his left. The beam flickered over them, and he thought he caught the movement. He shouted and ran forward and a moment later realized he had made a mistake. A rat scampered away with a squeal but at the same moment, as Parsons was swinging around, he made out a dark blur to his right, emerging from the old boxes against one of the tall iron pillars supporting the roof. He raised an arm, the flashlight picked out the white, scared face of the man he was chasing and then DS Parsons felt a blinding pain in his forehead. It was only one blow but it sent him to his knees. His senses swam and after a moment he slid slowly to the dusty concrete of the warehouse floor.
He was vaguely aware of the echo of running feet. There was a banging sound, a door clanging, and then he felt his eyelids growing heavy as he slipped into unconsciousness.
When he finally came to, he had no idea how long he had been unconscious. He was on his back; there was a wetness about his face, a thundering in his skull. Groggily he put out a hand and groped for his flashlight, but could not find it immediately. On his hands and knees he scrabbled about on the floor until his fingers encountered the rubber casing. He stayed there for a little while, breathing hard, waiting for the thunder in his head to steady and fade and then slowly he rose to his feet, staggering slightly. He was disoriented; he flicked on the torch and was relieved to find it was still working. Head down, he moved forward, hand held out as he walked towards the door. It was only when he reached it that he realized he was walking in the wrong direction. It was an iron door. It was padlocked. He put his hand on the door, leaning, took a deep breath and stood there for a few moments, waiting for his mind to clear. Then he turned and began to make his way back towards the entrance through which Dawkins had escaped.
The bastard had got away. A sucker punch. The kind he’d avoided in the ring for years. But he’d get him. If not today, tomorrow….
DS Parsons stopped, stood still. Something bothered him. For a little while he stood there thinking, waiting for something to skip back into his mind. An oddity. Something out of place.
Slowly he turned. The beam of his flashlight danced, wavered over the iron door at the end wall, moved to the padlock. A padlock in an empty warehouse. The dull gleam of oil. An empty, disused, deserted building. A newish padlock. DS Parsons walked slowly back to the door, took the padlock in his hand, felt the smear of oil.
Oil? In a warehouse that hadn’t been used in years.
He stepped back, then flashed the light around until he saw the piece of timber that Dawkins had used to hit him. Beyond that he caught the dim gleam of rusted iron: it was as well Dawkins had not seen that, he thought grimly. He walked forward, picked it up, went back to the iron door.
He inserted the iron bar between the padlock and the hasp. He leaned on it, tugged. Something moved. His head was aching, there was a violent pain in his skull, but he remembered some of the ring battles he had been in, flexed his powerful shoulders, took a deep breath and heaved.
There was a grinding noise and then the hasp gave way with a scream. DS Parsons threw the lock aside and dragged open the iron door. It opened silently; no screaming, rusty protest. Oil, again. He shone his torch ahead. A wooden staircase, rickety steps. He walked forward, moving carefully downwards.
And stepped into hell.
4
The attack of influenza started at the front desk but within days it swept through the headquarters building at Ponteland. As always, Elaine Start’s toughness seemed to leave her untouched by the virus; Charlie himself also seemed immune. But as the roll call of officers taking time off for recovery from the bug increased, the schedules were thrown badly out of kilter and Charlie found himself struggling to cope with the surveillance demands placed under his responsibility. It was no longer possible to have two men in a squad car following Raymond Conroy on his little jaunts. Charlie had considered asking Elaine if she could help fill in some of the difficult slots but decided against it: he had to admit she aroused a protective streak in him that he had never before recognized. And in any case, in view of the criminal acts Conroy had been charged with, keeping the man under a watchful eye was, in Charlie’s view, a job for a man.
‘Fascist pig!’ Elaine muttered to him when he mentioned it to her.
‘Who? Conroy?’
‘No! You!’ she smouldered at him, eyes narrowed in resentment. ‘If you had your way women would be kept in the kitchen and the bedroom!’
‘Hey, that’s not fair,’ Charlie expostulated. ‘I treat you right, don’t I? Is looking after you a bad thing?’
‘Protecting me from big bad wolves, you mean?’ she sneered.
Charlie took a deep breath and counted to ten. When he argued with Elaine he usually ended up being defeated. She was exemplary in her attitude towards him professionally; he had no cause for complaint on that score for she kept their professional relationship on an appropriate, respectful keel in view of the disparity in their rank. But privately, it could be a different matter. Particularly when they were in bed, as was the case at the moment. She was not above suggesting he was a racist, sexist, antediluvian throwback to the Middle Ages. And now, a fascist pig, simply b
ecause he had admitted he didn’t really want her involved in the Conroy case.
On the other hand, he was now short of officers he could use on the surveillance. He sighed, placed a hand between her thighs, stroked her soothingly. ‘All right, then, if that’s the way you see things, I could use your help, with so many of the guys off sick. What about Friday night?’
She wriggled, removed his hand from her thighs, turned over on her back, stared abstractedly at the ceiling. ‘Can’t be done,’ she asserted.
‘Why not?’
‘I’ve got a day’s leave coming.’
‘So take it some other time!’ Exasperated, Charlie snapped, ‘Hairdressing appointments aren’t unbreakable, for God’s sake!’
She raised her head and regarded him coldly. ‘Hairdressing my arse! I’m taking a day’s leave to attend a hen party. It’ll be starting lunchtime on Friday, and there’s no doubt we’ll be getting smashed that evening somewhere in the city centre or on the Quayside or whatever. And it’s no good looking at me like that! You get boozed up yourself with your mates whenever you want, and Shirley’s an old friend of mine, went to school together, and there’s no way I’m not taking the day off to give her proper support before she puts on the manacles.’
‘Is that how you see marriage?’ he demanded sourly. ‘Like getting clapped in irons?’
She stared at him for a few seconds then shook her head. ‘You’re not going to start on that tack again, are you Charlie? You and me, we’re all right as we are.’ She reached out and grasped his hand, then slapped it firmly back between her thighs. ‘There! You all right now?’
There seemed little point in continuing an argument thereafter.
