by Roy Lewis
‘What did Conroy want?’ Jackie Parton asked urgently.
‘I don’t know.’ Susie seemed a little flustered by the stridency in the ex-jockey’s tones. ‘I just passed on the message that Conroy wanted to speak to him. I presume Mr Ward will have rung him back. Is there anything I need to know? Or do?’
Jackie Parton bared his teeth in a grimace, thinking about it for a few moments. ‘I think … I think you’d better place a call to DCI Spate, and tell him…’ The words died away, the instruction unfinished. Susie understood: she was aware that the ex-jockey disliked dealing with the police. He shook his head. ‘No … no, never mind. Forget it.’
He turned away briskly, heading for the door.
‘Are you sure?’ Susie asked nervously.
‘No. It’s all right. I’ll see to things myself.’
CHAPTER SIX
1
Eric drove deep into the higher reaches of the Upper Coquet Valley in a reflective mood. He could not escape the niggling, persistent feeling at the back of his mind that in following Conroy’s instructions he was doing the wrong thing. He had represented the man at his trial, engaged Sharon as counsel, and together they had successfully exposed the weakness of the prosecution case. But neither he nor Sharon had obtained a deal of satisfaction from the outcome: Raymond Conroy had come across to them as arrogant, sneering and contemptuous. And what was worse, Eric had all along suspected that they had been acting for a cold-hearted killer.
Now, of course, with the whole of the north-east hunting Conroy, the situation was even more sensitive. Coleen Chivers had been strangled and scarred in a manner similar to the women in the Midlands. So what the hell was Eric doing driving to meet the man?
Curiosity.
He could put it down only to curiosity. Over the phone Conroy had suggested he had revelations to make, things he had not disclosed to his solicitor and barrister previously, and perhaps it was this that had finally drawn Eric to agree to meet the man again. But in addition, Eric needed to assuage the essential guilt that had troubled him ever since the acquittal of Raymond Conroy: the possibility that he had had a hand in effecting the release of a homicidal maniac. The guilt, thrust aside and largely unacknowledged, was there constantly at the back of his mind: possibly it had been the reason why he had walked away from Conroy immediately after the aborted trial. In going to meet the man now, talk to him, hear what he had to say and perhaps persuade him to give himself up to the police, Eric would perhaps be able to clear his conscience.
He wished he could have been able to speak to Sharon. She was a clear-headed woman. She had been as deeply involved with the release of Raymond Conroy as he; she might have dissuaded him from taking this step. She may well have persuaded him to simply contact the police. Now, he was committed. It was still possible to turn back, of course, but as he crossed the warm, sun-dappled hills and dropped down to the curling, glinting river he knew he had come too far to back away.
He had left the ancient town of Warkworth with its historic castle and twelfth-century bridge behind him. He followed the swinging meander of the river and caught a glimpse of a solitary, unmoved heron on the riverbank before he turned off as directed by Conroy onto a side road, a broad rutted track that began to climb up to the steep side of the fell, giving glimpses of the Cheviot hills on the skyline. A young fox crossed the track in front of him, flashing a sharp glance in his direction before slipping into the long grass; a buzzard swept high from the skyline. Raymond Conroy had chosen a suitably deserted area in which to hide himself, Eric considered grimly. The road narrowed, ran deeply between screening hawthorn hedges that had been planted centuries ago, and then he slowed, looking for the ancient drover track to the left that Conroy had warned him about.
The stony way was narrow, rutted and unkempt, and the ditch to one side was rank with long grass and sedge and strangling weeds. The surface was potholed, gravelly and uneven: the Toyota lurched from side to side, clanking and scraping metalled complaints as he slowed to avoid the worst of the holes. He followed the track for half a mile and finally made out the narrow, dilapidated stone bridge he had been advised to negotiate. It was now little more than a cart track, an ancient drover’s run, he guessed, leading to Rowland’s Farm, and probably continuing thereafter high into the Northumberland fells.
When he caught his first glimpse of the farm it was clear to him that it had been disused for years as a working concern: the adjoining fields were rank and overgrown, the farm buildings had a seedy, uncared-for appearance, the cobbles in the yard were weedy and grass-ridden, and the first two outbuildings he passed beyond the bridge, stonebuilt barns, gaped roofless at the sky. The long afternoon shadows gave them a mournful, unhappy appearance, and the yard was empty of animals: no scratching chickens, no sheep in the field beyond the farmhouse, no sign of cattle. No sign of life.
A disused farm way off the beaten track. No wonder Raymond Conroy had managed to avoid the police searches to date. After the attack outside the hotel he had moved to a rented house but must have still felt insecure. No doubt he would have rented this place in the back of beyond under an assumed name. From the state of the place its owner would have been only too grateful to get it off his hands for a while, he thought.
Eric parked the car near what once would have served as a small kitchen garden. It was covered in couch grass and thistles. He looked about him. The farmhouse itself was typical of the area: stone-roofed, square-built, solid, unpretentious, fit for purpose. But now dilapidated. There were gaps in the end gable of the roof, and no twist of smoke curled from the chimneys; faded curtains hung at the windows, the gate before him hung drunkenly on rusted hinges. The building was flanked by another stone barn, its wooden doors firmly closed, though unbolted, and a low-roofed cow house was located to one side. Both buildings were in similar stages of desuetude.
Eric looked about him at the land rising behind the farm buildings. Beyond the farmhouse itself the bank rose steeply, a gate leading to a field shadowed by tall oak and sycamore trees that would have been planted a century earlier to serve as a windbreak against the winter storms that would come regularly sweeping down from the Cheviots. Even now the sky was darkening, heavy clouds forming on the Cheviot itself, presaging rain. Eric walked forward towards the gate, realizing there was yet another low, stone-roofed building towards the rear of the farmhouse, beyond a crumbling stone wall succumbing to invasive ivy. He saw that there were in fact some signs of recent use: the marks of car tyres scarred the weedy grass leading to the back of the farmhouse. He started to walk towards the wall to look into the yard behind the farmhouse, then changed his mind, turned back, pushed aside the creaking iron-hinged gate and made his way over the broken, weed-strewn path to the front door of the house.
He called out. His voice echoed, sharpened in the empty yard. There was no reply. He called Conroy’s name again, and when he got no response he put his hand on the wooden door, lifted the sneck of the latch and pushed the door. It swung open under his hand to expose a dark, narrow, stone-flagged passageway. Eric stood uncertainly in the doorway, not sure whether he should enter. He called again but no reply came. He felt cold at the back of his neck. He glanced back to the empty yard but nothing moved, apart from weeds swaying in a brief breeze rustling across the cobbles. Conroy had said he would meet Eric here: perhaps he had been delayed. Or perhaps he was outside somewhere, hidden, untrusting, watching, making sure that Eric was alone. He had insisted on that over the phone. Just Eric. No police. Only when Eric had agreed did he tell him how to get to Rowland’s Farm.
Eric moved forward into the passageway. His steps rang hollowly on the stone flags. The passageway led towards the back of the farmhouse, a dusty staircase leading upstairs to his right. At the end there was a door. It swung open to his touch and he found himself in what would have once served as the kitchen. It was sparsely furnished: a scarred wooden table, two chairs, an ancient rusty fireplace. The fire had not been lit but there were some signs of recen
t habitation: some dirty plates and cutlery in the stone sink under a dripping tap, a torn blanket lying beside a badly stuffed easy chair with rumpled cushions. The hairs on the back of Eric’s neck rose as he heard a faint sound. There was a sudden movement in the far corner, and a scruffy-coated, feral-eyed cat arched its back at him, hissing in fear. When he moved it suddenly shot past him, and it was only then that he became really aware of the fetid atmosphere, the dust-laden smell of decay and disrepair. The grubby, whitewashed walls were peeling with damp but there was something else in his nostrils, a hint of putrefaction. There was something indescribable in a tin bowl under the table: it had been holding the cat’s attention before Eric had entered the room.
Raymond Conroy had certainly not hidden himself in luxurious surroundings. Eric turned around slowly; called again. The house made no response other than a creaking, shuffling sound, as though it was gathering into itself defensively, old walls sighing in protest at the newcomer’s intrusive presence.
He walked away from the kitchen and back into the passageway. The door to his right again yielded to his touch with a light groan. For a moment he could make out little in the dark interior but there was a sour smell in his nostrils. Again, Eric felt it had been recently occupied: there were two dilapidated easy chairs huddled together in front of an open fireplace, and an ancient, sagging settee. A television set stood in one corner, leaning drunkenly. It had been smashed; there was a litter of plastic and glass on the floor. Eric stepped into the room. The carpet beneath his feet was threadbare. An electric heater stood against the wall. His attention was drawn to the untidy pile of clothing on the settee. He moved towards it, puzzled. He leaned forward and touched soft cloth, picked up the first item under his hand.
It was silk.
For a few moments his mind was blank. Then he realized the clothing had been worn by a woman. A silken dress, stiff in parts, stained. He dropped it, his fingers straying to other items: wispy, expensive underclothing, stockings, panties, also stiff and dry.
Blood. It was dried blood.
Eric took a deep breath. He looked about him once more, his pulse rate rising. The clothing had been thrown down on the settee carelessly, items jumbled together, and lying on the floor he caught sight of a small bag. When he picked it up he realized it was expensively tooled, a crested clasp, a fashionable evening purse. Even before he opened it, Eric could guess what it might contain. He knew he should not touch it, should leave it because it could end up as evidence, but he was drawn to it, almost persuaded to open it.
Inside there were items he could have guessed at: the normal paraphernalia of a woman’s evening purse. Lipstick, some loose change, eyeliner … and a small leather wallet. Eric dropped the purse and opened the wallet. There were two credit cards inside, along with a car park pass card, and some keys. With a churning, cold gut, Eric raised one of the credit cards. In the dim, dirty-curtained light of the room he was able to read the name on the card only with difficulty.
Coleen Chivers.
The blood in his veins was chilled. When Raymond Conroy had rung, asking Eric to meet him here, he had insisted he came alone: no police. Now Eric knew why. Conroy had killed Coleen Chivers. And after he had dumped her body at Tynemouth Priory, he had kept items of her clothing. Trophies. It would have been part of the pattern he had probably employed in the other killings. The women had all been found naked. Their clothing had never been recovered. A shiver ran down his back. He took a deep breath, stood still for several moments then replaced the cards in the purse, put the purse down on the heap of blood-stained clothes and stepped away, back towards the door. He felt the certainty flood over him; it was all so clear now. Raymond Conroy had escaped from his trial at Newcastle Crown Court, had slipped away from the police surveillance, and had coldly planned the recommencement of his career of bestiality. He had found this dilapidated farmhouse as a sanctuary, a safe house, and he had gone back to the coast, prowled the headlands, somehow persuaded Coleen Chivers to come to his car and then he had strangled her, scarred her in the fashion that appealed to his disordered mind. But he must have been disturbed, forced to dump her on the headland at Tynemouth before he could bring her out here to Rowland’s Farm as he must have intended.
But he had retained her clothing. Trophies, blood-stained from his attack with his scalpel, his preferred tool of cruelty. He had brought them back here, to the farmhouse, perhaps to gloat over them.
And he had called his former legal representative.
Why? What could Conroy want with Eric Ward? By bringing him here to the farmhouse, Conroy was exposing himself, would be admitting his culpability in the murder of Coleen Chivers. But why would he do that? And where the hell was the man now? A sudden realization struck Eric: how had Conroy got here? There was no sign of a car in the yard outside the farmhouse. The car tracks….
Suddenly, panic struck in Eric’s chest. He stepped back into the passageway. There was another door leading off on his left. With a shaking hand, fearful now of what he suspected he might discover, Eric opened the door.
Like the other room, it was a dimly lit interior. But it contained no chairs. Apart from an old oak wardrobe, the only item of furniture in the room was a large bed, pushed close up against the window. It would have been used by Conroy, no doubt, but now there was another form lying still on the bed, half-covered by a disarray of covers. It was a woman. Eric knew that it would be a woman.
And with a sickening sense of dread he could guess who it would be.
Raymond Conroy had drawn him to this farmhouse, the lawyer who had acted for him. And he would have done it for some unknown perverted reason, perhaps merely to get back at the system that had almost incarcerated him. He had drawn Eric Ward here, and he would have drawn Sharon Owen also. Eric had tried to speak to her at her chambers but was informed she had already left. To come here.
Where she had been attacked. Eric stood above the prostrate form of the young woman, numb, unable to move immediately. She was lying on her back, her eyes closed, one arm thrown wide. There was a dark mark on her cheek, a dribble of blood from her nose. He moved closer to her, leaned over her, touched her face, whispered her name.
He suddenly realized there was a movement of her mouth; a sound like a sigh came from her. Her breasts were rising and falling regularly. She was alive! He bent over her, lifted her gently in his arms, called her name but her body lolled helplessly against his. As his face came close to hers he suddenly became aware of an unfamiliar odour. His nose touched her cheek. She had been sedated, roughly; she had struggled, but now she would be unconscious, he guessed, for a little while.
Eric hesitated, uncertain what to do. He glanced wildly around him. Somewhere, he knew, Raymond Conroy would now be waiting, watching, with some unpleasant purpose in mind. Eric could not guess at it. He could not wait to even try. He knew he had to get Sharon out of this death house. He slipped an arm under her body, draped her bare arm around his neck and lifted her, cradling her limp frame against his body. He stepped towards the door, stumbling slightly, lurching against the damp wall.
It was at that moment, as he straightened, that he caught the dim flash of light as the front door was thrown open. He heard movement, steps, as someone came into the stone-flagged passageway.
2
Eric held his breath. It had to be Conroy and the killer would know exactly where Eric was. He would have been watching, waiting. From his hiding place in one of the barns, perhaps, he had seen Eric’s car arrive. He would have waited a little while, making sure that no one else was with him. Now he had come for the confrontation he had arranged. Eric gritted his teeth, his heart hammering in his chest as a surge of anger drove through him. He turned, carefully laid Sharon’s inert form back on the bed and stepped quietly behind the door. He stood in the shadows of the room, and waited as the steps in the passageway echoed on the stone floor. They stopped outside the room that held Eric and the unconscious Sharon. They stopped, waited, and Eric could hear hars
h breathing.
Then the door slowly opened.
The man stood framed in the dimly lit doorway. Eric edged out from the darkness. With a lurch of relief in his chest, he realized the man standing there was not Raymond Conroy: this man was shorter, but even in the dim light, somehow familiar. For a few moments, as they stared at each other, Eric was unable to put a name to the face. Then suddenly he knew who it was.
‘Fraser! What are you doing here?’
The man waved a vague hand behind him, half-turned his head. ‘I’d arrived a few minutes before you. Then I heard your car. I didn’t know who it might be. Thought it might be Conroy. So I got out, put my car under cover. Watched until I saw it was you.’
‘I didn’t see your car.’
‘Parked it around the back, out of sight. Couldn’t take any chances.’
Eric was relieved, but puzzled. ‘So where’s Conroy? Have you seen him?’
Fraser ignored the question. He looked past Eric, then moved into the room towards the bed. He leaned over Sharon’s crumpled form. ‘Is she all right?’
‘She’s unconscious. I think she’s been drugged. We need to get her out of here.’
Fraser turned his head to stare at Eric. He was silent for a few moments, thinking, calculating. ‘Have you forgotten about Conroy?’ He glanced about the room as though searching for something. ‘What will happen if he comes back as we’re leaving? What if he’s out there waiting?’
Something in Fraser’s attitude was puzzling Eric. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Everything seemed out of kilter somehow. He put his hand on Fraser’s arm. ‘How did you get here? How did you know Conroy was hiding out here at the farm?’
‘Did you see the female clothing in the other room?’ Fraser asked, ignoring the question, stepping away from Eric’s restraining hand. ‘Trophies. From Coleen Chivers.’
