by Roy Lewis
By Friday another two men had been forced to take days off with the virus, and Charlie’s schedules were struggling. He tried discussing the matter with ACC Charteris but was met with no sympathy. Charteris snarled at him. ‘They’re nothing but big girl’s blouses, this crew! When I was on the streets there was no way officers would back off duty with a head cold! You have to carry on, Spate, with what you’ve got. Even if it means getting your own backside out into the cold, hey?’
Charlie scowled, kept his mouth shut, and got on with the job.
At least the routine changed little. Raymond Conroy left his rented accommodation according to his standard schedule: breakfast, lunch in the Bigg Market or The Gate, an evening visit to the Northumberland Arms, the Steam Shovel, the Prince of Wales or the Victoria and Albert. He was clearly aware of the manner in which he was being shadowed, even though unmarked police cars were used as often as not. He had probably developed a sixth sense as far as a police presence was concerned. Once or twice he had actually stopped and spoken to the officers, asked them for a light for his cigarette, obviously completely contemptuous of their dogging his footsteps. But Charlie guessed he would be edgy, nevertheless, resentful of the attention he was getting, irritated by the constant police harassment.
Charteris reiterated his words regularly. ‘I want that bastard off our patch!’
The officers in the cars kept in touch with Charlie on their mobiles. He found it a wearisome task, monitoring their calls. When he hadn’t heard from the patrol for a few hours he would call them; occasionally he would visit the site himself, just to check what was going on. It was what he found himself forced to do on the Friday evening.
He hadn’t seen much of DS Start during the last few days. She had her own workload to deal with, enhanced as a result of the virus that had swept through the building. And she hadn’t bothered telling him where she would be going for her hen party. Fridays, of course, he often ended up at her place, but that would not be the situation this week. She would take the hen party seriously as she did everything: she would be well smashed, and would be unlikely to appreciate his company. So when the patrol car hadn’t called in for an hour beyond the scheduled time, exasperated, Charlie phoned the officer concerned, DC Donovan, on his mobile.
The phone rang for a considerable time before Donovan answered.
‘Where the hell are you?’ Charlie demanded. ‘Why haven’t you rung in?’
There was a spluttering sound, a sneeze. The reply was thick: Donovan clearly had a problem in speaking. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m parked down at Whitley Bay, outside Club 95.’
‘Changed his routine, has he?’ Charlie grunted. ‘Conroy inside?’
There was another spluttering sound. ‘Went in an hour ago, sir. There’s only me on duty so I couldn’t go in to keep an eye on him. So I’m waiting in the car.’ There was a short pause. ‘Lot of birds gone in tonight, sir.’
That no doubt would be it. Raymond Conroy, Zodiac Killer, on the prowl. Charlie grunted, reflected on the matter. As Charteris had stated, maybe it was time he stirred himself. ‘Right, just hang on there. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’
Fifteen minutes later he was driving down the coast road, coming off the roundabout to Whitley Bay. Club 95 lay just off the promenade: summer evenings drunken habitués were known to stagger out of the front entrance and disport themselves on the long sands of the beach. Maybe even tonight, Charlie thought, but guessed not as the stiff sea breeze buffeted his car along the length of the promenade.
He caught sight of Donovan’s car parked on a piece of wasteground near the front entrance of the nightclub. Charlie pulled his car in behind him. He switched off the lights, cut the engine, got out and walked to the driver’s door. DC Donovan wound down the window. ‘No sign of him coming out yet, sir.’
‘Bit early for that,’ Charlie grunted. He stared at the police officer seated in the car. ‘You all right?’
Donovan grimaced, grey-faced, handkerchief held to his mouth. ‘Not really, sir. Got the bug, I guess. Feeling rotten. I’ve been sick as well … over there behind those bins. Feel good for nothing.’
Charlie Spate was not a charitable man given to generous impulses. But as he stared at Donovan it was clear he was in no fit state to be sitting in a car late at night. He needed to be home in bed.
‘Whisky,’ Charlie said. ‘Whisky, hot water, lemon. Bed. And a hot woman, if you can manage it. Get off home, son. You’re doing no good here. I’ll take over your shift, see our friend Conroy home safe and sound.’
Donovan was surprised but grateful and relieved also. He stuttered his thanks, sneezed, and a few moments later was edging out into the road, turning his vehicle towards Cullercoats as Charlie went back to his own car, hunched in his seat, swore, and resigned himself to a lengthy wait.
Just to satisfy bloody Assistant Chief Constable Charteris.
A number of women and a few men entered the club during the next hour, but no one emerged. Charlie was chilled; he rubbed the back of his neck and stared out of the window sourly. He was half minded to pack it in, and to hell with Charteris’s instructions. But at that moment a small group of women came out of the club. They were drunk, as far as he could tell, shrill-voiced, giggly, falling about. They stood there in a tight group, talking loudly amongst themselves, their incoherent voices carrying down to the windswept promenade. A taxi drew up, then a second. The group had fallen to two women. Charlie saw them put their heads together, reaching some kind of agreement, and then they hugged each other, their affection causing them to lurch and stagger about on their high heels while they burst into hysterical laughter. Then they separated.
Charlie sat up and peered through the windscreen. What if Raymond Conroy came out now? A single, drunken woman going off in one direction, probably to her car; a second heading down towards the promenade. Maybe this was how Conroy selected his victims; maybe this was why he had deviated from his routine, leaving the city pubs to come out to a club in Whitley Bay. Charlie stared fixedly at the club entrance. No one emerged.
He glanced around. One of the women had disappeared. The other, lurching towards the promenade staggered, then seemed to slip, teetering on stiletto heels. She fell on her backside and waved her arms, laughing. Something cold touched Charlie’s spine. The woman sitting in the gutter – he recognized her.
Detective Sergeant Elaine Start.
He sat there, stunned, for several seconds. She was drunk, incapable, smashed out of her mind, giggling in the gutter outside a nightclub. If she was found like that, if it got back to Ponteland, it would be the end of her career in the police. A career she loved. Cursing to himself, Charlie got out of his car and moved quickly across the road towards her, sitting in the gutter, waving one of her high-heeled shoes in the air. The heel was broken. It had probably caused her to stagger and fall.
She was giggling, crooning to herself.
So she sat down in the gutter
And a pig came up and lay down by her side.
Charlie reached her, got one hand under her left arm and tried to heave her to her feet. She smiled at him vaguely for a moment, then recognized him in delight. ‘Charlie!’ She waved her arms and continued with her singing.
So we talked about the weather
And we sang old songs together
Till a lady passing by was heard to say
‘Yes, I know the old song,’ Charlie snapped. ‘Come on, get to your feet. We need to get you home.’
You can tell a girl who boozes by the company she chooses …
‘And the pig got up and slowly walked away,’ Charlie finished for her. ‘Yes, we know all about that. Now pull yourself together. Where’s your car?’
Elaine waved her heelless shoe vaguely in the direction of the promenade. ‘Down there somewhere, down there. You’re my pig, ain’t you, Charlie? My real piggy-pig. But you wouldn’t walk away from me, would you?’
She was certainly in no condition to drive. She had the next day off. She woul
d have to come back and retrieve her car then if she had recovered from the inevitable hangover. He half led, half carried her towards his own vehicle. He opened the passenger door and bundled her into the seat. He had to lift her left leg and push it in as she dangled it outside the vehicle. He closed the door on her, put his hands on his hips, stared around at the silent street. From the promenade he could hear the crashing of sea on the rocks. There was no other person around. He had been alone in witnessing Elaine’s drunken collapse. He bit his lip and stared at the entrance to the nightclub. Raymond Conroy. Still in there.
But Charlie felt he had no real choice. He hurried around to the driving seat, climbed in and started the car. He had to get Elaine home. He knew what the result would be if she was caught like this. A flow of obscenities came from his lips as he headed back into town on the coast road.
When they reached her bungalow he had to rummage through her handbag to get her keys. She had always refused to let him have a set. She was barely awake as he half-carried her indoors. She collapsed onto the bed, lying on her back, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling, and her giggles had started again. ‘My little pig…. That’s you, Charlie. And you’d never walk away from me….’
He got her undressed with difficulty, pushed her under the sheets and stood looking down at her. He glanced at his watch. Raymond Conroy could still be at the club. More likely he’d have gone home by this late hour. It was pointless driving back to Whitley Bay now: he would have had to go into the club, anyway, to find out if Conroy had left or not. It had been a hell of a day; a worse evening. He heaved a sigh, shook his head, then undressed and slipped into bed beside Elaine. She was on her back, snoring. Charlie lay beside her, angry with her, angry with himself.
Finally, he drifted off to sleep.
It was a broken slumber as Elaine tossed and turned beside him. At seven in the morning he was wide awake. He swung his legs out of the bed, rose, walked through to the bathroom and showered. When he returned and started dressing, Elaine woke up. She opened one eye, watching him with a frown. Her head was probably thumping with pain. He knew the feeling.
When he was dressed, he stood beside the bed. ‘I’ll be going. I’d better report in. Make sure everything is all right.’
She swallowed; ran her tongue around her dry mouth. ‘Charlie …’
‘Yes?’
‘You brought me home?’
‘You were far gone,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to collect your car this afternoon. Get out to Whitley Bay on the Metro – but leave it for a while. You’ve still got too much alcohol in your blood.’
She nodded, winced, turned over and buried her face in the pillow. She muttered something.
‘What?’ Charlie asked, on his way out to the bedroom door.
‘I said I’m going to have to give it up,’ she repeated.
‘Booze?’ he queried.
She turned her head to glare at him in weary contempt. ‘Booze? No! Wearing stiletto heels!’
Charlie closed the door quietly behind him.
At Ponteland he checked in, went to the canteen and got himself some breakfast. He looked through the surveillance rotas and noted the name of the officer due at Conroy’s rented house. He chatted with the duty sergeant, but no comment was made about Conroy and the breakdown of surveillance the previous evening. Charlie felt relieved. He went home at lunchtime: Newcastle United were playing Chelsea on television. His money was on the London side.
It wasn’t until Monday lunchtime that Charlie, along with other officers involved in his team, learned the unpleasant truth.
Raymond Conroy had put in no appearance at his house, and his car was missing. They had lost track of the man they believed to be the Zodiac Killer. It was as though he had vanished into thin air.
On Charlie’s watch.
CHAPTER FOUR
1
Assistant Chief Constable Jim Charteris shouldered his way into the room. His face was grim, his lips drawn in a thin line of displeasure. He sat down behind his desk then waved Charlie Spate to a seat facing him, without looking at him. There was no welcome in the gesture. He sat there for several seconds, then raised his head, staring at Charlie with hostile eyes, before he pushed a file across the desk. His tone was harsh. ‘You’d better take a look at this. It came in last night, by email, from ACC Rawlins in the Midlands.’
Charlie took the file and opened it. There were several sheets inside, colour photographs that had been brightly lit by arc lamps. He looked at each of them in turn, slowly.
The first consisted of a photograph of a room. It was long and narrow; at the far end there seemed to be some kind of stonebuilt sink, while along one wall was a long narrow table. In the centre of the room was a second table, littered with implements. Charlie turned to the second photograph. It had concentrated on the stained sink, the dripping tap, the dark chips in the surface. The third photograph was of the table along the wall: it was scattered with knives, scalpels, scissors, and he could make out small, dark bottles of what were probably inks. Charlie looked up, caught Charteris’s cold, lidded gaze. He turned to the next photograph in the folder.
It showed the concrete floor of the room. It was possible to make out iron rings that had been cemented into the concrete. Beside them at intervals were small metal eyelets. The floor was covered in dark stains. Charlie guessed the stains had been caused by blood.
There was another photograph of a section of the wall. Hanging from the stained wall were leather straps, heavily buckled. Charlie could guess at the purpose for their use: women had been held there, spread-eagled, arms wide, breasts straining, while the attacker who used the dungeon had concentrated on his grisly work. Charlie glanced back at the earlier photograph of the floor: there were several pieces of dirty rag lying there. They could have been used to mop up blood, or ink. He took a deep breath and looked up again at the assistant chief constable.
‘Conroy?’
ACC Charteris frowned and folded his arms, his mouth twisted in distaste. ‘It’s a little early to be certain,’ he said slowly. ‘The dungeon was discovered by chance, a cellar underneath a deserted warehouse. But the officers who’ve visited it are pretty sure that it was the cellar used by the Zodiac Killer. They’re cock-a-hoop now, because although they haven’t yet received a report from the forensic labs, they’re certain that there’ll be more than enough DNA samples to link the murdered women with the killer. And they’re pretty certain they’ll soon have the evidence to fix on Raymond Conroy. Incontrovertible proof. There’ll be no repeat performance, no collapse of the trial against Conroy next time. Assuming, of course, there will be a trial.’
Charlie made no reply. He could guess what was coming.
Charteris was silent for a while, his eyes fixed disdainfully on Charlie. At last, he said slowly, ‘ACC Rawlins was on the phone to me this morning. He was excited, relieved, at what they had discovered. That is, until I told him that we weren’t able to put our hands immediately on Raymond Conroy. I had to tell him we no longer had the bastard under surveillance. Rawlins was not pleased, I can tell you, DCI Spate. And neither am I. So what the hell happened?’
Charlie shrugged, laid down the file of photographs and spread his hands. ‘Well …’
‘From the beginning,’ Charteris ground out.
Charlie hesitated, aware of the sluggish ache in his chest. ‘We’ve had Conroy under regular watch, sir. As you ordered. The rota got a bit disturbed because of the bug that’s been going around—’
‘Don’t give me bloody excuses! You knew the priority I put on this,’ Charteris snapped. ‘To hell with bugs!’
‘We were thinly spread on the rota,’ Charlie replied stubbornly. ‘But we kept an eye on him and he knew we were watching him. It would have been better, maybe, if we could have kept a lower profile, if we could have kept our presence less obvious….’
He paused as he saw the cold anger in Charteris’s eyes.
‘Anyway, we kept watch on him,’ Charlie continued. �
��Then on Friday evening last he changed his routine. Didn’t go to the usual pubs he frequented. Drove out to Whitley Bay.’ Charlie hesitated. ‘That’s why, when the report came in, I went out to Club 95 myself. I told the duty officer he could go home: he wasn’t well. The bug again. So I finished the shift in his place.’
‘And you saw Conroy go home?’ Charteris asked.
Charlie was slow to answer. He thought back desperately to the events of that night. There was no way he could tell Charteris that he had left the scene to protect DS Start. In any case, Conroy could have gone home some time after Charlie had left – but must have left again because when the surveillance had recommenced on Saturday morning Conroy’s car had not been in the drive. He avoided the question.
‘The next shift started at seven in the morning,’ he continued hurriedly. ‘The unmarked car stationed itself outside the house; Conroy’s car wasn’t in the drive. As you’ll have seen from the report I submitted this morning, the officer stayed on watch, uncertain what to do, thinking maybe Conroy had got drunk, taken a taxi home, so he thought little of the fact that Conroy didn’t emerge from the house for his usual breakfast in the town centre. After all, it was known Conroy had been at Club 95, and it was reasonable to think that the guy was taking a rest, having a lie-in after maybe drinking too much at the club.’
‘Go on,’ the assistant chief constable said ominously as Charlie hesitated.
Charlie pushed the folder of photographs back across the desk to Charteris. ‘From that point onwards, there was some uncertainty. There was no sign of Conroy, and though a search was made around the Whitley Bay area, there was no sign of the car initially. It was finally located up near St Mary’s lighthouse. Only when I got that report did I authorize the lads to approach the house. The officer knocked, checked doors and windows, but there was no sign of life.’
‘And no report in to me,’ the assistant chief constable remarked bitterly.
