by Roy Lewis
Charlie’s mouth was dry. ‘We weren’t certain how to act. I originally thought maybe Conroy had driven home, then gone out again that morning. Finding the abandoned car threw us off track. I thought maybe we should still check his usual haunts. That’s what we did most of Sunday. Then, finally—’
‘You thought fit to report in.’ Assistant Chief Constable Charteris seemed on the point of exploding; his mouth was hard set, colour rising in his cheeks. He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. ‘You’ve made a complete balls-up of this, Spate. We had Conroy in our sights – I’d issued specific orders that he was to be kept under surveillance at all times – and now, just as we seemed to have made a breakthrough with the discovery of the murder site, your incompetence has let the bastard slip through our hands. It’s perfectly clear to me what’s happened. Conroy went to that club. When he came out he realized there was no surveillance. That’s the bloody truth, isn’t it? You weren’t there! The thing is, why?’
Charlie hesitated, not knowing what to say. If he explained about Elaine, both of them would be in trouble. He set his jaw. ‘He went home, sir,’ he lied. ‘I saw him.’
Charteris couldn’t dispute it, but he clearly didn’t believe Charlie. ‘So how come we find his car at St Mary’s? He drove back there, to jump off the cliff, maybe? I wish! The fact is Conroy dumped his car, and vanished. We’ve no bloody idea where he’s got to!’ Charteris clenched his fists in frustration. ‘I can tell you, Rawlins is hopping mad, Spate, and I’m in the same mood. You’ve put us in the situation where we’ve failed in our responsibilities. You, nobody else. So you’d better get things right. Within the week, Rawlins assures me, they’ll have the first reports in from the forensic labs on the range of DNA found from samples taken in that hellhole. If, as they suppose, there’ll be incriminating evidence relating to Raymond Conroy, you’d better be in a position where we can produce the man himself. In custody. You understand what I’m saying?’
Charlie understood perfectly. He had to get tabs on Conroy immediately: he had only a few days to find the man and put him in a holding cell until proceedings could start again.
That meant he had to pull out all the stops. He needed to seek help from all the people who might have had contact with the man during his stay in Newcastle.
Even the lawyers who had brought about Conroy’s release from prison.
Susie Cartwright caught Eric as he was leaving the office. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘DCI Spate has been on the phone. He wants you to call out to see him at Ponteland: he wants to talk to you.’
‘Not today,’ Eric said briskly. ‘Or the next couple of days for that matter. I have to get these papers signed to close down the Chivers Trust and then I’m off to catch the train to London immediately afterwards. And I expect to be there a couple of days.’
‘Mr Spate made it sound like it was urgent.’
‘Urgent for him, maybe, not for me,’ Eric replied. ‘You’ll have to put him off. It’ll be Friday at least before I can see him.’
Susie smiled in satisfaction. She would, Eric knew, take considerable pleasure in frustrating the detective chief inspector. She had never liked the man, and this was a petty triumph she would enjoy. ‘I’ll see to it at once, Mr Ward.’
Eric left the office with his briefcase tucked under his arm and walked to the car park. The drive to Chivers Properties Limited, which lay just off the A1, took only ten minutes since traffic was fairly light. There was an electronically gated car park outside the modern office building at the edge of the Town Moor: Eric spoke into the phone at the gate, giving his name and announcing his appointment with the chief executive. A few moments later the gate slid back smoothly to allow him entry.
The uniformed guard at the desk in the hallway informed him that Coleen Chivers maintained an office on the second floor, overlooking the Town Moor. He gestured towards the lift after Eric signed into the appointments book. Coleen Chivers did not keep him waiting long in the elegantly furnished, thick-carpeted reception room outside her office: the secretary made a quick call and then nodded, replaced the phone, rose and led Eric to the panelled, polished walnut door.
Coleen Chivers was standing behind her desk, arms folded across her bosom, staring out over the Moor. She turned her head as he entered, and stared at him. She remained silent for several seconds and it gave him time to observe her. She was slightly taller than her cousin Sharon, Eric calculated, dark haired, carefully coiffed. Her blue eyes were wide-spaced and challenging; and he gained the impression she would be more than competent in holding her own in a man’s business world. There was a confident directness in her glance, an appraisal in her eyes as she looked at him. She was a handsome woman, somewhat sharp-featured, perhaps, but her figure was good: he guessed that in her late thirties now, she would work out regularly to keep in shape. She was dressed in an Armani suit that had probably been designed to emphasize her competence and her success. ‘Mr Ward,’ she said in a quiet tone. ‘Please take a seat.’
She did not offer a handshake. Perhaps she felt dealing with a lawyer did not permit her to descend to such intimacies.
‘You have the papers?’ she asked.
Eric nodded, fished in his briefcase, and brought them out. He placed them on the desk in front of him. Coleen Chivers sauntered away from the window, picked up the papers and began to read them, wandering almost aimlessly around the room. Eric felt it was something of a performance, an actress dominating the stage of her own making. He heard the rustle as she turned over the pages but he did not look behind him: he waited quietly as she finished her reading of the documents.
‘Everything seems to be in order,’ she said at last, and came around behind her desk, pulled out her leather high-backed chair and sat down. She took a fountain pen from its holder. It was expensive: he caught the glint of gold. She fixed her glance upon him. ‘Mr Ward … you have a practice down at the Quayside, I understand.’
‘That’s right.’
She was silent for a few moments, but the glint in her eyes when she glanced up at him from the papers was still appraising. ‘Do you undertake much business in this line? Trust matters?’
Eric shook his head. ‘Not really. This is being done for a friend.’
‘My cousin,’ Coleen Chivers commented, the smile hardening slightly at the edges. ‘Yes. So what kind of work do you normally do?’
Eric shrugged. ‘It’s a criminal practice mainly. Small stuff. Though I also do a certain amount of work for various government departments.’
‘Hmm. You were formerly married to Anne Morcomb, weren’t you?’ she asked casually as she finished signing the documents in the appropriate places. Without waiting for confirmation, she added, ‘I’ve met her once or twice. Business matters. Attractive. An efficient woman. And wealthy.’ Her glance flicked up to Eric, in deliberate calculation. ‘Anne Morcomb. And now my cousin. Is that the kind of woman that turns you on, Mr Ward? Women well-endowed financially?’
Eric found the question offensive but made no reply. He guessed none was expected. For some reason Coleen Chivers was seeking to taunt him. Perhaps test him. There was a short silence, then the chief executive of Chivers Properties Limited pushed the signed documents across to him, after extracting the few she needed to retain for her own files. ‘So that’s that. End of negotiations. They’ve been somewhat protracted. I’m pleased all is settled, at last.’
Eric gathered up the papers he would need to hand over to Sharon. ‘I think you’ve managed to obtain what you felt was due to you, Miss Chivers.’
She was amused, smiled faintly, leaning back in her chair. ‘I always fight for what I want. And I had right on my side. The depredations of Sharon Owen’s father had to be accounted for. I’m pleased that my cousin also saw it that way.’ She paused, eyeing Eric thoughtfully. ‘So what’s she like, Sharon Owen?’
Eric slipped the documents into his briefcase. ‘She’s a very efficient lawyer. She’s making a good reputation for herself a
t the bar.’
Coleen Chivers nodded. ‘Yes, so I hear. Maybe it’s in the genes. All our family seems to have had a certain … drive. I’ve never actually met Sharon, you know. We’ve never been a close family. My father, and her mother, they didn’t see eye to eye about much, but I suppose that’s the way things go. I’ve heard she’s quite … good-looking, though.’
Once more Eric felt no response was sought and he remained silent.
Coleen Chivers watched him for a little while as he closed his briefcase and placed it on his knees. He looked at her expectantly. He was not aware there was any further business to be concluded. Yet he was also cognizant of a certain tension in the room; when he met her glance he thought he detected a certain challenge in her eyes. She smiled. ‘Do you attend many charity functions, Mr Ward?’
‘Occasionally.’ Rather less frequently since he had left the Northumberland landed society circuit that he’d been obliged to be involved with when married to Anne.
‘I feel obliged to make an appearance at many of them, for form’s sake. And for the sake of business, I suppose. There’s one next week, just down the road from here,’ she said softly, ‘at Gosforth Park Hotel.’
Eric made no reply.
‘Are you likely to be there?’
He would have described her tone as almost predatory. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve not been invited.’
‘I could arrange an invitation.’
‘I’m not certain I’d be free.’
‘Pity.’ She let the word draw out sensually. Eric rose to his feet.
‘You’ll excuse me then, Miss Chivers. I have a train to catch.’
She made a slight grimace, displaying an affected disappointment he was sure she could hardly feel. ‘Well, if you change your mind,’ she replied, rising, ‘you’ll just let me know. I’m sure I could arrange something. It would give us the opportunity to get to know each other a little better.’
This time, she held out her hand. He hesitated, then took it. Her handshake was warm, and hard, but when he released her grip her slim fingers glided over his wrist in a sensual manner.
In the car park Eric took a deep breath. He guessed Coleen Chivers was not the kind of woman who would give up easily if she found a man who caught her fancy. He had no intention of falling into that category.
He drove back into the city, left his car in the car park near the Quayside office and walked to the central station. Normally, when he was called to a London meeting he took a flight from the airport at Ponteland, but on this occasion he was looking forward to the opportunity to travel at a little more leisure, and work on some of the files that were calling for his presence at the Home Office.
His two assistants had been working on the latest immigration files that had been sent to the Quayside. He was fully aware that the work sent to him from London had been in part the result of his activity in relation to the Anubis affair. The senior civil servant, Linwood Forster, had bought his discretion and silence during his involvement in that affair by becoming a client of Eric’s, and Eric would be the first to admit that the arrangement had certainly been to the advantage of the Quayside practice. It kept Susie happy also: more work, and a better kind of client, Eric smiled to himself.
The assistants had done a good job. Two of the files related to individuals with suspect backgrounds; they had taken up residence in Newcastle and Sunderland, and it seemed there were hints of activity with terrorist organizations in the past. The Home Office had asked for further information regarding the two immigrants, and had now called Eric to London to discuss the results. He spent the train journey boning up on the details.
He arrived at King’s Cross on time, took a cab and checked into a small hotel in Kensington, then after a shower made his way to Upper Brook Street to dine at Le Gavroche. He chose a simple Merlot with his meal, and while he lingered over it he thought back to the predatory Miss Chivers. A woman who indulged her desires, he guessed, and one used to getting her way, in personal relationships as well as business. They might be cousins, from the same family stock, but she certainly was different from Sharon Owen, even though both women displayed strong personal characteristics.
Eric was still not quite certain about the depth of his feelings towards Sharon. He respected her professionalism and enjoyed working with her; although she was considerably younger than he, they had a great deal in common, and they enjoyed a successful sex life. Though she had hinted at the possibility of a more permanent relationship, Eric was still wary of too early a commitment. Moreover, she was now a wealthy woman. And he had already been married to a wealthy woman: it brought certain problems in its wake. He was aware of his own failings: he was set in his ways, stubborn in his clinging to a small legal practice, unwilling to seek the corporate clients that his ex-wife had tried to push in his direction. It had led to conflict and it was not a situation he would wish to create again.
The following morning he took a black cab to the Home Office. The driver kept glancing in his mirror at Eric, perhaps wondering if he was someone important. He asked no questions, however. At the Home Office, after the usual security checks, Eric was escorted up the broad, sweeping staircase to Linwood Forster’s office.
The senior civil servant was waiting for him. His smile was welcoming though a little distracted. It was typical of the man: he always seemed to have much on his mind, other issues of importance, riffling through possible strategies unconnected to the matter immediately before him. Charles Linwood Forster was about fifty years of age, beak-nosed and slight of build. His hooded eyes were patient, careful in their appraisals, betraying only the feeling that he had seen every foible of human nature and was beyond surprise at the indiscretions of man. He was dressed, as always, in a dark grey, pin-striped suit of elegant but slightly dated cut.
‘Good to see you, Ward.’ He sounded almost sincere, but not enough to demonstrate commitment.
The coffee arrived almost immediately and he settled back as Eric briefly discussed the details of the immigration appeals that he had been working on. There had been no preliminary conversation. When Eric had finished outlining the briefs, Linwood Forster nodded in quiet appreciation and suggested that later that afternoon Eric should carry on with his briefings, drawing some Home Office colleagues into the discussions. Eric returned to Linwood Forster’s office after slipping out for a snack at lunchtime: the afternoon sessions proceeded satisfactorily and from the satisfied expressions around the table Eric gained the impression that his stock had risen significantly. There would be more work coming to his Quayside practice in future.
As Eric was gathering up his papers and preparing to leave, Linwood Forster detained him. ‘I wonder whether you would like to join me for dinner this evening, Ward.’
Surprised, Eric accepted, and at eight that evening presented himself at Linwood Forster’s club.
He gave his coat to the stiffly uniformed elderly porter at reception and was advised Linwood Forster would be waiting for him in the Gladstone Room. Still dark-suited, he nevertheless appeared to be rather more relaxed. The two men enjoyed an aperitif in the high-ceilinged lounge overlooking the Horse Guards Parade. Most of the other men in the room seemed to be cut from the same cloth as Linwood Forster: career civil servants, a scattering of politicians and businessmen, soberly dressed, speaking in hushed, controlled tones, confident, at ease, and yet curiously watchful. Forster himself seemed in an expansive mood. He gestured towards Eric with his glass of gin and tonic. ‘I am happy to tell you that my colleagues were suitably impressed by the work you’ve put in on the immigration files we sent you.’ There was a slightly mocking look in his eyes. ‘I didn’t explain to them how it all started, of course.’
The Anubis affair, and the price Linwood Forster was prepared to pay for Eric Ward’s silence. ‘I wonder what happened eventually to that statuette,’ Eric said.
Linwood Forster grimaced. ‘The Anubis? Who knows? Certainly, it hasn’t emerged, and its importance
now is much less anyway. However, if you ever do get a hint concerning its reappearance we’d like to know, of course.’ He sipped his gin and tonic, paused, and eyed him reflectively. ‘It was all very exciting at the time, was it not? And now I see you’ve got yourself involved in another fascinating piece of business. I was interested to read in the newspapers that you were asked to act in the prosecution of Raymond Conroy.’
‘For the defence, yes,’ Eric agreed.
‘And you got him off. Do you have views about that?’ There was an open curiosity in the man’s tone. ‘I mean, there’s been a lot of public feeling bruited abroad, the thought that a killer has got away with it on a technicality. Not least because of your efforts.’
‘Hardly that,’ Eric insisted. ‘The prosecution case was flawed.’
‘Quite so, quite so.’ Linwood Forster finished his drink and gestured towards the dining room. ‘Shall we go in? I think you’ll find the repasts provided here are among the best to be found in any of the London clubs.’
After they had ordered their meals from the extensive menu presented to them, the civil servant returned to the subject of the Conroy case. ‘I read in the accounts of the trial that you had briefed Miss Owen.’
‘Sharon Owen … yes. We put quite a bit of work her way these days. She’s the youngest barrister in her chambers but she’s probably also the most efficient.’
Linwood Forster nodded thoughtfully. ‘Mmm. It’s come to my attention that some of her opinions appear in the briefs we’ve sent you on the immigration appeals.’
Eric nodded. ‘That’s right. I’ve used her several times. Her opinions are well researched, and they’ve assisted us greatly in reaching the desired results. As was noted by your colleagues this afternoon.’
Linwood Forster poured himself a little more red wine. ‘One of my favourites, this Bourgueil. Not an expensive wine, but good body. Yes, I was aware that she writes sound opinions for you. However, if I may say so, perhaps you rely a little too much upon her.’
