by Roy Lewis
Eric Ward stiffened. He held Charlie’s eyes. He shook his head doubtfully. ‘Jackie Parton wouldn’t work for you. He dislikes involvement with the police.’
‘Probably got good reason to avoid us,’ Charlie sneered. ‘But that’s not the point. I know he wouldn’t work for me. But he would for you.’
‘I’m not certain—’
‘Listen to me, Ward. Whether you like me saying this or not, you helped put that sick bastard Conroy back on the street. Whatever you think or know about that man, I’m certain, personally, that there’s a very strong probability that he really is the Zodiac Killer. Now he’s free, lost to sight, wandering the north-east as far as we know.’ Charlie thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, brought out several photographs, previously handed to him by ACC Charteris. ‘Take a look at these.’
Eric Ward looked at them silently. He frowned. ‘This is—’
‘The location where three women were tortured and murdered. Forensics are working on what’s been found there: blood samples, hairs, prints … you name it. We’re all damn sure that in a matter of days they’ll come up with the matches we need. The trouble is, we’ll have the proof, but we won’t have Conroy.’
He realized from the glaze in Ward’s eyes that the solicitor was shaken; disturbed enough to agree to Charlie’s request. He handed the photographs back to Charlie. He was silent for a while, thinking, then he took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can. And I keep in touch with you?’
‘Personally,’ Charlie replied, and rose to his feet.
For the rest of late afternoon, Charlie felt aimless. He drifted through the city, visiting various pubs, staying for a short period only in each of them, wandering, sipping mineral water, keeping his eyes open, expecting little but hoping for a great deal. He called in at a McDonald’s, bought himself a burger and coffee, then took to the streets again. Elaine Start would be back home probably, but though he was tempted to give her a call he resisted it: he had the feeling it was best if he stayed away from her for a while, gave her time to come to terms with what had happened. They had not discussed it, but she was aware he had put his own career in jeopardy to save hers, and that the result had been the disappearance of Raymond Conroy. Somehow he got the feeling that she resented the situation they had been put into.
At 6.30 he found himself in the King’s Head, down a cobbled side street off the Bigg Market. There were a few regulars there, drinking at the bar; two men were playing a desultory game of darts, and the wall-mounted television set was showing an afternoon Premier League match. Charlie moved away and found himself a seat in the corner near the door, a position from which he could keep an eye on the whole bar. He knew it would be frustrating, but at least he’d given up on the mineral water now the evening had commenced and was clutching a pint of Newcastle Brown Ale.
One of the things he approved of, at least, in the north-east.
He was halfway through the pint when two men entered the bar. He recognized one of them immediately. It was Gary Lawson, the man who had attacked Raymond Conroy in Gosforth but had escaped with a warning and the strong suggestion that he leave the north east and return to his usual stamping ground in Evesham. Charlie watched him as he went up to the bar.
His companion was looking around; he finally took a bench seat at the other end of the bar, leaning forward, elbows on the table in front of him. His face was round, yet craggy; piggy eyes were narrowed under heavy eyebrows. His skull was shaven, like Lawson’s, bluish, and his mouth was sullen. He was probably about the same age as Lawson. Charlie watched him while Lawson bought the drinks. Lawson sat down, spoke briefly to his companion then leaned back, looked around the bar. It was a little while before he saw and recognized Charlie. His glance hardened; he said something to the man beside him and a few moments later both men rose, drinks in hand, and walked the length of the bar to stand in front of Charlie.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Spate,’ Gary Lawson said in a sneering tone.
‘Mr Lawson.’ Charlie flicked a casual glance towards Lawson’s companion. ‘Come back north with reinforcements, have you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘As I recall you were advised to get back south, and stay there.’ Charlie said quietly.
‘Did that. Till things changed. ‘Lawson’s lips twisted in a grimace. ‘But the way things have turned out I thought it would be a good idea to come back. Help you bastards do what you’re supposed to do.’
‘I think that was probably a mistake,’ Charlie replied, his tone hardening.
‘Mistake!’ Lawson laughed in derision. ‘You talk of mistakes! The bloody police and the lawyers let Conroy go free, and then they lose him! What the hell’s been going on up here? You know the bastard is a killer, and you let him run to start killing all over again. It seems to us we can do the job you obviously can’t. And that’s why we’re here.’
‘We?’
Lawson glared at him, then glanced at his companion. ‘This is my friend Nick Capaldi. You might say we have interests in common.’
The Capaldi family. Charlie stared at the man; took in the stooped, powerful shoulders, the hard eyes. He stretched his legs casually under the table, leaned back, folded his arms. His contemptuous glance swept over both men. ‘The advice I gave you, Lawson, still stands. Get back to the Midlands. There’s nothing you can do up here.’
‘We could find that murdering bastard,’ Capaldi flashed in an ugly tone, ‘before he knifes anyone else.’
Charlie let his eyes dwell on the heavy-shouldered man for several seconds before he replied. ‘Let me put it like this, Mr Capaldi. I know you have reason to be angry about the death of your sister – or whatever the relationship was. But don’t think you can come up here and muscle your way around, in the way, I gather, your family has built a reputation in the Midlands. You’re not welcome here, neither you nor Lawson. Get back to where you came from.’
‘Or else?’ Capaldi growled menacingly.
Charlie’s laugh came out as a short barking sound. ‘Don’t make out tough with me, son. I’ve seen it all, done it all, in the Met. I’m not impressed by so-called hard men. If you choose not to take my advice, that’s your problem. And I mean … problem!’
There was a short silence. Lawson glared at Charlie, his mouth working bitterly. ‘You let Conroy vanish. He’s roaming free. Cops, lawyers, judges, you’re all the same. Bloody incompetent. Well, we’re not inclined to leave things up to you. We’ve got our own ways of finding out things; our own way of dealing with things. If you can’t find Conroy, we will. And if you can’t deal with him in the way he deserves, we can!’
Charlie slowly finished his pint. He rose to his feet, placed his knuckles on the table top and leaned forward, glaring at the men facing him. ‘Let’s get one thing clear, gentlemen. We’re out looking for Conroy, but that’s all we’re doing. When we find him, we won’t be arresting him. Unless we get information that gives us grounds for arrest.’ He paused, thinking about the photographs ACC Charteris had shown him. He had no intention of mentioning it to these thugs. ‘But in any case, Conroy is our responsibility. Not yours. If you’re even thinking of vigilante justice, forget it. If I get one whisper that you’re stepping out of line, poking your nose in where it’s not wanted, doing anything to impede our activities, I’ll have you bundled into the slammer before you raise a scream.’
Lawson straightened; at his side, reinforcing him, Capaldi glowered. ‘You got nothing against us, Spate. We’re free to stay in the Midlands or come up here. It’s a free society. You can’t threaten us. But I’ll tell you this for nothing. We won’t be idle while we’re here. There’s people we know up here; people who owe us favours. And we’re calling in them favours. So if you’re still really looking out for Conroy, better get your skates on. Because if we find him before you do….’
His words died away, but the meaning was clear. Charlie slid his way from behind the table. He and Lawson were of a height; they stood glaring at
each other. Charlie’s tone was hard. ‘I’ve given you good advice, Lawson … and you, Capaldi. Get back to the Midlands. Stay out of this business, or you’ll regret it.’
‘I’m shivering in my shoes!’ Capaldi growled.
Charlie nodded. There was nothing more to be said. He shouldered his way past the two men, his upper arm striking Lawson, forcing the man to step aside. A small triumph for Charlie, as he saw the anger rise in the man’s eyes, but little more than that.
‘I just hope,’ Charlie said as he made his way towards the door, ‘that we won’t be seeing too much of each other in the near future.’
3
That same evening, in the Bull and Bucket, located in the West End of the city, Jackie Parton shook his head doubtfully. ‘I don’t know, Mr Ward. It’s pushing things a bit. You know I don’t like using my contacts for this kind of business. Seeking out stuff for you and your clients is one thing. Working for the police is another.’
Eric understood the man’s point of view. Jackie Parton was an ex-jockey who had gained a reputation, and respect, on Tyneside. He had an extensive web of contacts along the river, and Eric had used him often as a conduit for information. They had become friends, to a certain extent, though Parton continued to use Eric’s surname as a mark of respect. Eric wasn’t quite certain how Jackie actually made his living, but he was aware that he had a healthy desire to stay well away from the police: it helped him maintain the trust among his contacts that he had enjoyed for years.
‘It’s pretty simple,’ Eric urged, ‘and it’s not really like working for the police. The fact is, Raymond Conroy has disappeared, and there’s a great deal of disquiet around, after the collapse of the trial. All I’m asking you to do is to put your ear to the ground, let me know if you obtain any information about where Conroy might be living.’
‘You’re sure he’s still on Tyneside?’ Jackie Parton asked suspiciously.
Eric shrugged. ‘We can’t be sure. But there’s no report of his surfacing anywhere else. And the last time I saw him, he told me he intended staying in the area.’ He hesitated. ‘If you can do this for me, Jackie, I’d deem it a personal favour.’
Jackie Parton was silent for a little while. Then, finally, he grumbled, ‘This Conroy character … he gives crime a bad name.’
Eric smiled. ‘So you’ll do it?’
The ex-jockey nodded reluctantly. ‘I’ll find out what I can. Might come up with nothing, but I’ll let you know in a couple of days.’
A couple of days put more pressure on Charlie Spate. His team were still out and about, but results were negative. As he saw the end of the week approaching he became even more touchy, and his temper was made even worse by the fact that Elaine Start was still keeping her distance. And he was aware constantly of the menacing, frustrated presence of ACC Charteris in the background. Their paths had crossed once, in the reception area of headquarters. Charteris had glowered at him. ‘I’m still waiting, Spate,’ he had muttered in a threatening tone. ‘I’m under pressure, and I’m still waiting!’
There was little that Charlie could do about it. And as the days slipped by, there was no word from Eric Ward.
The disappearance of Raymond Conroy eventually faded from the newspaper headlines. Charlie Spate’s team continued with their enquiries, but it was clear they would be unable to meet the deadline set by ACC Charteris. Charlie was sweating when he was finally called in to the assistant chief constable’s office. Charteris looked grim; he did not invite Charlie to sit down. In the circumstances Charlie kept himself erect, at attention.
‘We’ve now had the preliminary reports from the forensic labs in the Midlands,’ Charteris muttered coldly. ‘As we’ve all been hoping, they’ve made the breakthrough we were wanting, expecting, hoping for. Trouble is, we’ve still been unable to lay our hands on Conroy.’
Charlie’s throat was dry. ‘The report …’
‘Makes the links. There’s DNA evidence from that damned cellar that ties Raymond Conroy to the killing of two of the women. Maybe even the third, but there’s some doubt about that. Anyway, it’s enough to haul Conroy in and start the process over again. So Rawlins is screaming at me, and as for me … I’m screaming at you, Spate.’
He had not raised his voice, but Charlie knew what he meant.
‘So, let’s be clear,’ Charteris said harshly. ‘This is down to you. The instructions were clear – keep Conroy under surveillance – but you failed. And I’m still not quite sure of the sequence … how we came to lose sight of the bastard.’ His eyes glinted as he stared at Charlie. ‘Just when did Conroy slip the net? He was seen going into the club?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And leaving the club to return home?’
Charlie’s hesitation was slight, but he managed the lie. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘But at some time in the early morning he left the house and drove away into the night. Unobserved. And unseen since.’ Charteris grimaced distastefully. ‘And now I hear on the grapevine that a couple of thugs from the Midlands have arrived up here to resolve our failings. Capaldi and Lawson. The last thing we want. And I hear it on the grapevine. Not from you. And you are in charge of this case, aren’t you?’
Charlie took a deep breath. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Not for much longer,’ Charteris grunted. ‘You’re looking at suspension, Spate, because I’m not happy with what you’ve been telling me. So this is your last chance. Find Conroy. Before he can do any more damage!’
In the event, the matter was soon taken out of Charlie’s hands.
Police Constable Dickens regarded himself as a history buff. In his leisure hours he watched quiz programmes on television and scoffed at the ineptitude of the contestants. He knew he could become a bit of a bore about it and tried to curb his enthusiasms when he was on patrol with colleagues, but he found it difficult. And on the Friday night of the following week, in the squad car with PC Tam Riley, he found himself cruising along Front Street in Tynemouth. It was late. The Salutation was still open for a scattering of late nighters, but the Percy Arms and the Turk’s Head were closed and the street was generally deserted.
‘The Turk’s Head,’ Dickens observed. ‘Not really the head of a Muslim, you know – it refers to a kind of knot, in fact.’
‘Is that so?’ his bored companion growled dismissively.
There were several cars parked along the centre of the high street and there was one parked near the monument as they crawled towards the headland, where the crumbled ruins of the tenth-century priory were outlined against the dark sky.
The car had been parked near the entrance to the castle ruins: as the squad car slowly moved forward the car headlights flickered up and the vehicle pulled away, accelerating past Percy Gardens, northwards, on the coast road towards Cullercoats and Whitley Bay.
The squad car rolled to a halt at the yawning gates of the ruins. Riley wound down the window. ‘I’m dying for a fag,’ he declared.
Dickens waited while his colleague lit a cigarette; he contented himself with staring out over the stark ruins of the priory. The sky beyond was a deep blue-black, and stars shuddered in the light breeze that came in from the sea beyond the headland. Fancifully, Dickens thought how a wind like this would have blown into the Tyne for thousands of years, bringing in freighters and ferries, battleships and cruisers, and in ancient times rigged timber-built ships, right back to Roman times.
‘It was called Pen bal Crag in ancient times,’ Dickens asserted. ‘The priory was built in the tenth century. The castle was erected to protect the river mouth in about 1075. You know, Tam, the castle is interesting because it’s said to hold the graves of three kings – that’s why there’s three crowns in the Newcastle coat of arms.’
‘Jesus,’ Tam Riley muttered despairingly, and cracked open the car door.
‘Three kings,’ Dickens continued. ‘Oswyn, Osred, and Malcolm the Third of Scotland….’
PC Tam Riley got out of the car and took a long drag on his cigarett
e. He was unwilling to accept another history lesson. He slammed the car door behind him and strolled towards the railings overlooking the moated area in front of the castle ruins. He stood there for a little while, gazing about him vacantly, drawing smoke into his nicotine-starved lungs, then walked towards the low wall that overlooked Prince Edward Bay. The beach was understandably deserted, the tide was well out, and silver foam glinted under the pale light of the half-moon. He finished the cigarette then flicked it into the air, watched the glowing end curve down towards the beach below, then turned to head back to the car, where his colleague was waiting.
The walls of the priory and castle were to his left. As he passed the steps leading down into the grassy moat something caught his attention, a pale blotch at the foot of the steps. He stopped, stared down and realized he could make out the sprawled form of a human being. He hurried back to the car, tapped on the window, and called for PC Dickens to join him. Then he ran back to the railings above the moat.
He started to make his way down, with Dickens close behind. He flicked on his torch: the powerful beam wavered ahead of him and then steadied as he picked out the body form below him.
It was a woman. She was naked. She lay on her back, eyes staring sightlessly at the blue-black sky, arms flung wide, almost as if she had been crucified.
Tam Riley swallowed hard. He stood over the body. Behind him, he heard a gasp from Dickens as the officer saw what he had already seen. The naked torso. The dark bloodied slashes across the breasts of the dead woman. He reached for his mobile connection. Behind him he heard Dickens gasp again.
‘Omigod!’
Tam Riley’s radio crackled into life. Tersely, he reported what he had found, calling for backup and an ambulance. Beside him, Dickens seemed petrified. He was a young officer. Probably his first murder. He simply kept repeating himself, all thoughts of historical surroundings driven from his mind.
