Design for Murder (18 page)

‘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 cigarette. 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.

‘Omigod! Omigod! Omigod!’

Tam Riley switched off his radio. He looked about him, the dark, stark walls of the castle above, and he thought about the car that had been driven off, up towards Cullercoats, as the squad car had made its way slowly down Front Street. It could have been the driver of that car who had thrown the body down the steps into the moat. They had possibly been only a matter of yards from apprehending the killer. Too late to even think about following the vehicle: it could be anywhere by now.

Now it was just a matter of waiting until other officers arrived.

Eric took the late train from King’s Cross that evening and did not reach his flat until the early hours of the morning. He slept badly, woke early and turned up at his office by 8.30. Inevitably, Susie Cartwright was already there: she seemed to regard it as a matter of pride to be at her desk before he arrived. As soon as he had settled in behind his desk, she tapped on the door and entered the room.

‘Have you seen the
Journal
this morning, Mr Ward?’

Eric shook his head, and then took from her the proffered newspaper. The lurid headlines leapt out at him from the front page.

Eric looked up at Susie: she pulled a face at him, expressing sympathy and helplessness, and he knew what was on her mind. Many of the public would be seeking to blame the lawyers for the collapse of the Conroy trial. He folded the newspaper and settled down to read the leading article, as
Susie quietly went back to her room.

Eric leaned back in his chair and stared thoughtfully out of the window. After a little while he rose and went out to the reception area. Susie looked up from her desk, where she was assembling some documents into file covers. ‘Yes, Mr Ward?’

‘I’ve no doubt,’ he said slowly, ‘that during the next few hours there’ll be more than a few calls from journalists, wanting to seek comments from me.’

‘I’m afraid it’s already started,’ Susie murmured regretfully. ‘Even this early in the morning. I’ve told them you’re not available at the moment.’

‘Right. I don’t want to talk to them. Just tell them I’m busy, and have no comment to make on the matter. In the meantime, can you ring Miss Owen’s chambers? I’d like to have a word with her.’

He returned to his desk and continued to stare moodily out of the window to the Quayside, until at last the phone
rang. It was Sharon. He went straight to the point.

‘Sharon, have you seen the newspaper this morning?’

Her tone was subdued. ‘The
Journal
. I’ve got it in front of me right now.’

‘The journalists will be hounding us very soon: in fact, they’ve already started on me. I’m placing myself incommunicado. You’d be well advised to do the same. I think it would be a good idea if we got together this evening.’

She was in agreement. ‘Your place?’

‘I’ll be there by six.’

He found it difficult to concentrate for the rest of the day. His thoughts wandered; he went over the details of Raymond Conroy’s defence, and the presentation made by Sharon. He told himself they had merely been doing their job, acting as representatives of the accused, making no personal judgments on whether he was guilty or not. And the collapse of the prosecution case, that had been down to Mr Justice Abernethy, who had held there was no case to answer. He wondered how the judge would be taking the news this morning. He shook his head. Like Eric and Sharon, the judge had merely done his job. His conscience would be clear.

Even so, another woman had died, and this time in the north-east. Eric frowned. If the killing had been committed by Raymond Conroy, what maniacal confidence had led him to commit such a crime again, when he was known to be in the area? The newspapers would have a field day, of course, and would be quick to point the finger, albeit carefully in view of the laws of libel. But he had no doubt that attention would also be focused on the part he and Sharon had played in the release of Raymond Conroy.

About three in the afternoon there was a light tap on the
door. Susie stepped into the room, in best mothering mood. ‘I thought you might like a cup of coffee, Mr Ward.’

As she placed the cup on his desk he grimaced. ‘I’ll probably need something a damn sight stronger than coffee before the day is out.’ He realized she was carrying another newspaper in her hand. ‘What’ve you got there?’

‘It’s the early edition of the
Evening Chronicle
,’ she said in a quiet tone.

‘Same kind of headline?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded, then hesitated. ‘But there’s something else … an article inside.’

Eric groaned mentally. ‘Is it worth reading?’ he demanded.

Susie shrugged. ‘Depends on your point of view. It’s by Mr Fraser.’

Eric frowned, making no immediate connection and then, thinking back, he said, surprised, ‘The guy who made an appointment with me? Wanted to talk to me about Conroy?’

‘That’s right, sir.’ Susie placed the newspaper on the desk. ‘I’ll let you read it in peace.’

After she had gone, Eric reluctantly picked up the paper. The bold front-page headline read
TERROR ON TYNESIDE
. He did not bother reading the regurgitation of facts concerning the discovery of the body at Tynemouth Priory: there would be little difference from that contained in the
Journal
. He had no doubt that the nationals would be offering the same fare, and there would be similar screaming headlines in the Midlands newspapers. He opened the
Evening Chronicle
and looked inside. The article Susie had referred to was on the third page.

Eric read on with a growing feeling of surprise. The Fraser article went on to describe in some detail the life story of Raymond Conroy: an accountant father, the early death of his mother, a privileged education at a well-known public school and by the time he was twenty relatively well-off financially after his father’s death in a car accident and a legacy from a maiden aunt. It gave some details of Conroy’s work in a legal office before his decision to attempt to make a living in the art world, his attendance at an art college, his occasional sales of minor works.

Eric was thoughtful when he finally laid the newspaper
aside. Tony Fraser was running close to the wind. A new killing had taken place, and on the same day it had been announced Fraser’s article had appeared. The article itself contained little that was not already in the public domain and was by and large an
apologia
for Raymond Conroy, with an attack upon the people who had taken the decision to prosecute him.

It was skating on thin ice, Sharon suggested, when he showed her the article shortly after she arrived at his flat that evening. ‘He could well be sued for libel,’ she suggested, ‘particularly if Conroy takes offence.’

Eric wasn’t so sure. ‘I’m not sure Conroy would feel that way. Fraser is pretty careful what he writes. It’s mainly supportive of the result we achieved in the hearing. It’s critical of the flimsiness of the prosecution case.’

‘Yes, but although it sort of claims to exonerate Conroy, the fact is it’s appeared on the same day as the headlines are yelling about this new murder! It just draws even greater attention to the whole business. It’s a flagrant piece of opportunism, cashing in on Conroy’s notoriety.’

Eric poured her a stiff whisky, splashed some soda water into the glass and handed it to her where she sat on the settee, indignant, poring over Fraser’s newspaper article. ‘Don’t assume too much from the coincidence of the timing,’ Eric suggested. ‘Fraser’s article would have been written some time ago, I’d guess: it would have had to be submitted, and cleared by the editorial staff, some days before it was printed. Certainly before the killing at Tynemouth. So the timing is coincidental.’

Sharon shook her head in doubt. ‘I wonder where he got all his personal details about Conroy.’

Eric grimaced, and sat down beside her, putting his arm along the back of the settee. ‘A lot of it would have come
from information gleaned from the trial itself, I think. Then, as I recall, there was a great deal of stuff written about Conroy’s background in the newspapers, before the trial was ever moved up here to the Newcastle Crown Court. This article, it’s just a scissors and paste job, Sharon. He’s patched it together, using published information and larded it with a review of forensic profiling in sensational cases in the States.’

‘It says at the end that there will be further articles to follow.’

‘I don’t think we should concern ourselves about it. Anyway, the best thing we can do is to keep our heads down, make no comments and wait to see what comes out of all this business. Remember, we’re no longer involved. Our relationship with Raymond Conroy, and the murders of these unfortunate women, is over.’

She shook her head in doubt. ‘We’ve consoled ourselves with that thought several times. I hope you’re right.’

‘I am. Now then, how about beef stroganoff this evening? I’m cooking.’

‘And I’m paying, I suppose.’ She smiled.

He kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘We can talk about that a little later.’

She relaxed while he prepared the meal. After a second whisky she seemed to be at ease, and put on some music in the background while they chatted inconsequentially about the day’s events, staying away from further discussion of Raymond Conroy. To the background of Rodrigo and guitar adagios he opened a bottle of Bordeaux and then, over dinner, she asked him, ‘So did you have a successful few days in London?’

He hadn’t quite decided what to tell her about his meeting with Linwood Forster, but when she gave him the opening
he thought it best to tell her the truth. Not least because it would have a certain impact upon their future professional relationship, since he had agreed to send her fewer briefs for opinions.

‘I met the guy who’s responsible for putting the immigration cases my way,’ he explained. ‘It was OK. I mean, the Home Office is more than happy about the work we’ve been doing for them. But there was one thing came up in my discussion with Linwood Forster, the civil servant who is responsible for sending us the briefs.’ Eric paused, delaying the moment. ‘You know, when I met Coleen Chivers to get her signature on the trust documents, signing things off and closing the whole business on your behalf, she mentioned to me she’d never met you, in spite of the fact you’re cousins.’

Sharon nodded, sipped her wine. ‘Yes, that’s right. Our parents were, as I told you, somewhat distant, the one from the other. My mother Anne never seemed interested in family reunions with her brother Peter so there were no
get-togethers
. As for me and Coleen later, well, there never seemed opportunity, or need, for us to meet. We didn’t socialize as children, so why change the situation? But why do you ask?’

Eric hesitated. It was best to come clean. ‘It sort of ties in with what was said to me at the Home Office. Linwood Forster suggested … in fact, laid it on strongly, that he thought it would be a good idea if I passed fewer immigration briefs to you.’

Sharon raised puzzled eyebrows, staring at him in surprise. ‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re related to Coleen Chivers.’

There was a brief, stunned silence. ‘But that’s absurd! What the hell has that got to do with anything?’ Sharon
flared, staring at him in indignation. ‘I can understand if this man has problems with my professional performance, or found some fault with my legal opinions—’

‘No, nothing like that,’ Eric assured her.

‘Because I come from the same family background as Miss Chivers? What the hell is that all about?’

Eric pushed his plate aside. He leaned over and topped up Sharon’s wine glass. He could see the glint of anger in her eyes. ‘It’s all a bit stupid, in my view, especially since there’s been no real contact between you and your cousin over the years, other than the dispute over the trust funds. But, like the typical civil servant he is, cautious to the point of folly, he’s asked me to make sure that certain marked files should not be handled by you, when I need to seek an opinion.’

She was not mollified. ‘I still don’t see what this is all about!’

Eric sighed. ‘In reality, it’s not about you. It seems that Coleen Chivers, apart from being the chief executive of Chivers Properties Limited, is on the board of various other subsidiary companies, as well as being a non-executive director of some companies in which she has no financial interest.’

‘So?’

Eric glanced at her. ‘Have you heard any rumours about her personal life?’

Sharon grimaced. ‘I don’t listen to gossip.’

Eric guessed she had in fact come across rumours. ‘Well, according to Linwood Forster, it seems your cousin has led a somewhat rackety sexual life over the last few years. She’s never married, but there have been several relationships, varying in length and intensity. One of them has caused concern to our friend and benefactor at the Home Office.’