Design for Murder (3 page)

Sharon glanced at Eric, took a deep breath, leaned back in her chair, and said to the man facing her, ‘You seem unusually relaxed about all this, given the nature of the accusations.’

Raymond Conroy raised an interrogative eyebrow as
though he considered the comment quaintly obtuse. ‘I believe in the English legal system. The prosecution have to prove my guilt. And I’m an innocent man. Should I display anxiety? Should I be demonstrably unnerved?’ He smiled. ‘Who knows? When this is all over, I might find a wider clientele for my work. My painting, that is. Not the handiwork the prosecution is attempting to thrust upon me. Zodiac designs carved on human flesh. Art? Really!’

Eric could sense Sharon’s anger at the man’s cold insouciance. She was silent for a little while, then she shuffled among the papers Eric had supplied her. ‘There seems to be little in the prosecution case that clearly links you with the first two killings: Dorothy Chance and Jean Capaldi. The prosecution is proceeding on the basis that there are considerable similarities in the
modus operandi
of the three murders. Their main effort will be devoted to an attempt to establish your guilt in relation to the death of the third woman.’

‘So it would seem.’

Sharon stared at him curiously. ‘There is some forensic evidence which would seem to implicate you in the murder of that third victim, quite clearly. DNA samples on a scalpel, for instance. The scalpel was found at your flat, I believe?’

‘
A
scalpel was found there,’ Conroy corrected her, with a twisted, dismissive smile.

‘You’re not a doctor.’

‘I’m a painter,’ Conroy asserted. ‘I use oils. At various stages during the work on my canvases I use a scalpel to remove, or add, layers of paint. It’s hardly a criminal offence, using such a tool, and of itself it can hardly support a charge of murder.’

‘Even if the scalpel in question carries DNA evidence?’

‘It’s inevitable it would carry my DNA if I was in the habit
of using it regularly.’

‘The evidence is of DNA from the murdered prostitute, Irene Dixon. Traces of her blood.’

‘Minute, I understand.’

‘Her blood, nevertheless,’ Sharon persisted. ‘The amount is hardly important. The fact of its existence is enough!’

‘Then it’s not my scalpel. Or if it is, the DNA was planted on the scalpel
after
it was taken from my flat.’

Sharon’s mouth twisted; Eric was aware that she was constrained by her dislike of the cold, arrogant tones of the man she was to defend in court. She turned over a sheet of the notes Eric had provided. ‘You were seen in the area where Irene Dixon’s body was found.’

Raymond Conroy pinched his elegant nostrils with his index finger and thumb. He shrugged. ‘A derelict quayside area frequented by drop-outs and drug addicts, cheek by jowl with a newly built office area, and some pubs not merely frequented by working men but becoming fashionable among professional people tired of drinking in modern music-tainted, run-of-the-mill brewery
monstrosities
. A considerable number of people attend the area in the evenings. That’s hardly a crime.’

Eric knew what he was talking about. He preferred pubs with a certain amount of character himself.

‘So what were you doing there?’

‘Doing? My dear lady, what does one normally do in such places? Relaxing, of course. In the pubs, having a drink. Otherwise … there had been some publicity about the area. Derelict, about to be redeveloped. I went there for inspiration. Visual experiences. Dying industry. Deserted canal. End of an industrial era. Have you seen any of my canvases?’

Sharon held his glance and nodded. ‘They’re very dark.’

Conroy smiled cynically. ‘Does that denote a criminal mind? I paint what I see. And what I feel.’

‘Do you use inks?’

‘No. The occasional watercolour, after preliminary sketches. Then oils. The murderer, I understand from what I’ve read in the papers and from what was stated in the magistrates hearing, used inks both to outline his … designs, so-called, and then to colour certain areas thereafter. After the carving of the flesh. Interesting technique.’

There was a sudden tension in the room. ‘I presume you’ve been shown some of these … designs. What do you think of them?’ Sharon asked.

Raymond Conroy frowned. He seemed lost in thought for a little while. His heavy-lidded eyes flickered to the window and he pursed his lips. ‘Signs of the Zodiac. They display a certain … ability, I suppose. Carved in outline, coloured in different inks, concentrated on the breast area. They have what one might describe as a kind of precision. The prosecution says they’re the product of a warped imagination. And I suppose that may be so; they appear to me to have been driven by some kind of compulsion. Or maybe it’s just a game, a psychologically driven attempt to reach out to some neurotic link with the stars, or antiquity, or whatever … I’m not a psychoanalyst, of course. And I’m really only commenting upon some of the theories already put forward by the so-called psychiatric experts for the prosecution. But all artists of any calibre proceed under some kind of compulsion. However, as to the designs themselves … I have to say, they’re not quite my style.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Nor were they executed on the sort of canvas I prefer.’

Eric recalled the shudder he had felt run through Sharon
when he escorted her from the room. After the interview they came out of the prison, and she took a deep breath of fresh air. They left their papers in Eric’s car and then walked along the street leading down the hill to the river. They strolled along the shaded banks for half an hour, saying little, before climbing up to the eleventh-century cathedral that had grown on the site of the ancient White Church of the Lindisfarne monks. They wandered through the College Green and the cloisters of the Benedictine monastery to the Norman castle given to William the Conqueror by Bishop Walcher, high on the bluff above the loop of the river. They had little to say to each other until Eric suggested they cross to the Market Place and take a coffee in Saddler Street. She sat huddled in a corner of a café, near the window, staring out at people passing by in front of them. Ordinary people. He joined her with two cups of coffee.

‘So, what do you think?’

She glanced at him and shrugged. ‘Does it matter? I’m committed to defending him. And there’s no doubt we can attack the forensic evidence, from what he’s told us. If it’s true. But he’s a cold bastard.’

‘Even cold bastards deserve a good defence submission.’

She sighed, and nodded. ‘That’s right. And from the points raised in your brief, I think we’ll have something to work on.’

And now she was just about to do that.

‘Detective Constable Paula Gray.’

‘That is correct.’

Her dark hair was brushed back neatly, close to her head.
Her brown eyes were serious and intense as they held Sharon Owen’s gaze. There was a certain determination in her features, but her mouth was wide and generous, and she held her head up proudly as though aware of the importance of her situation, anxious to present herself as well as possible, and withstand with commitment the
cross-examination
Sharon was about to commence.

‘How long have you been a detective, Miss Gray?’ Sharon asked.

Paula Gray squared her shoulders. ‘Three weeks.’

‘So you’ve been assigned to the plain clothes division only recently, since your work on this case.’

‘That is correct.’

Sharon inclined her head slightly, and nodded. ‘So congratulations are due. This will have been an ambition of yours, to get out of uniform?’

Paula Gray shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

‘And no doubt you will now be looking forward to extend your career in the force, obtain promotion, move on to better things.’

Stiffly, Paula Gray replied, ‘We all hope for promotion in due course, when it is worked for and deserved.’

Sharon smiled at her. ‘Quite so. But you were still in uniform during the progress of this case. We have heard from senior officers involved in this investigation and I fear I remain somewhat puzzled by the part you seem to have played in it. As I understand your own evidence, you were a junior member of a team of some thirty officers investigating the so-called Zodiac murders.’

‘That is correct.’

Sharon nodded, stood erect, folded her arms as she held the gaze of the woman in the witness box. ‘Just exactly what was your role in the group?’

DC Gray shrugged. ‘I was just one of the team. I undertook such tasks as I was allocated from time to time. A lot of it was routine. House-to-house enquiries, collating information, checking data, interviewing particular leads.’

‘I suppose you received a great deal of help from the public?’

‘There was a considerable interest in the killings. Many local people came forward with information, suggestions, possible leads. It all had to be pulled together, checked out, information sifted …’

‘And I suppose there was a fair number of suspects?’

DC Gray scratched her cheek and grimaced. ‘There were people in the files we had to check out. We used HOLMES, of course, the central computerized system for possible suspects. No obvious leads. A few with known form. But we were able to eliminate them. In fact, we’d sort of come to a dead end at one point.’ She stopped, as though unwilling to go further with the thought and embarrassingly aware of the unconscious pun.

‘So at what point of time did the investigation concentrate on the accused?’

Paula Gray’s eyes flickered briefly towards the sharply suited, indifferent figure of Raymond Conroy. His eyes held hers and a faint smile touched his lips. She looked away and in a tightly controlled tone she replied, ‘It was relatively late in the investigation.’

‘And what was it that caused suspicion to fall upon the accused?’

DC Gray took a deep breath. ‘We had followed several lines of enquiry but finally we felt that we were able to isolate a particular area around the Midland Canal where it was likely the killer was operating.’

‘From the location of the three bodies.’

‘Among other pointers. As has already been explained, we enlisted the aid of forensic pathologists and forensic psychiatrists. From their suggestions we were able to build up a picture, a profile of the person likely to be responsible for the killings. Age, ethnicity, educational standard, marital status, professional ability, that sort of thing. And we were also able to identify the likely residential and operational areas of the killer. These were only pointers, of course, but it helped us concentrate, focus our attentions, so to speak.’

‘So am I right in suggesting that you finally fixed on Raymond Conroy because he appeared in the area regularly, even though he did not live there, and was known to be a single man with artistic leanings?’

DC Gray hesitated. ‘They were matters that we found of interest. We received background information from a number of people who knew him by sight, had seen him around. There was a feeling that he sort of stood out, if you know what I mean. Didn’t quite fit in, that sort of thing. An outsider. But on the other hand, he fitted the profile that we had been given.’

‘Forensic profile. Geographical locations.’ Sharon consulted her notes, and changed the direction of her questions. ‘Interesting…. Now it is clear from the forensic evidence obtained from the victims that the women in question were not murdered in the locations in which they were found. The first woman, Dorothy Chance, was discovered half-hidden in a ditch close to a country park not far from the canal; the second, Jean Capaldi, in a stream near a disused viaduct. The final corpse was found near a salvage scrapyard, dumped perhaps hurriedly, with no attempt to hide the body.’

Paula Gray pursed her lips. ‘We think the killer had been disturbed while he was getting rid of his victim. She was
probably destined for the canal.’

‘Though you’ve turned up no witnesses to the dumping of the bodies. And am I right in saying that in spite of the extensive investigations you carried out in the area you never succeeded in identifying the actual location where the murders had been committed?’

‘As I’ve explained, the bodies were found in various locations around and near the Midland Canal,’ Paula Gray confirmed, ‘but no, we never managed to locate the actual place where the murders were committed.’ She hesitated briefly. ‘There can be little doubt that the atrocities were carried out over a period of time in a location which would have been isolated, under the control of the accused, not overlooked. No one seems to have seen the initial abductions; no screams have been reported, so we assume that the crimes were carried out in some secure location. The women would seem to have been kept by the killer for several days. He had a safe house. Still as yet unknown to us.’

‘Of course,’ Sharon murmured almost casually, ‘if you
had
found this location, a dungeon, a cellar, a room in a house or apartment under the control of the accused, it would have been of considerable assistance to your investigation. I mean, you would have almost inevitably discovered traces of blood, clothing, artefacts such as the ropes or chains used to restrain the victims, along with, possibly, a considerable array of DNA samples on which your forensic team could have worked. Evidence which would have clearly linked the accused to the crimes.’

‘That is correct.’

‘But you have not, up to this time, ever found the hidden location …’ Sharon nodded thoughtfully. ‘In fact, am I right in stating that there is no forensic evidence to connect the
accused to the murders of the first two women, and the only piece of evidence, as far as DNA is concerned, which connects Raymond Conroy to the third victim, Irene Dixon, amounts to traces of dried blood on a scalpel, possibly used to carve designs on the breasts of the dead woman?’

‘That is so,’ the detective constable agreed, a certain reluctance staining her tone.

Sharon shuffled the papers in front of her, and glanced across to the dock. Raymond Conroy smiled at her, nodding slightly. Sharon’s eyes returned to the woman in the witness box. ‘So let me get this clear. Your team came to the conclusion that they would be likely to find the killer operating in a deserted factory and dilapidated quayside area near the Midland Canal, and that the person in question would have artistic leanings. On the basis of the careful,
artistic
Zodiac designs carved on these unfortunate women?’