Calling Down the Storm

by Peter Murphy

  CALLING DOWN THE STORM

  Calling Down the Storm is the story of two separate but strangely parallel lives: the life of a defendant on trial for murder, and the life of the judge who presides over his trial.

  April 1971. When DI Webb and DS Raymond arrive at Harpur Mews in Bloomsbury in response to a 999 call, a horrific scene awaits them. Susan Lang is lying on the ground, bleeding to death. Her husband Henry is sitting nearby, holding a large, blood-stained knife. In shock, Henry claims to have no memory of the events that led to his wife’s death, leaving his barrister, Ben Schroeder, little with which to defend a potential charge of murder.

  Unknown to his strict Baptist wife, Deborah, who lives in the family home in Guildford, Mr Justice Conrad Rainer has a secret life in his London flat, a life as a high-stakes gambler. In his desperation for money to fund his gaming, he has already raided his own and Deborah’s resources, and now he has crossed another line – one from which there is no return.

  To his horror, as the trial of Henry Lang starts, Conrad discovers a sinister connection between the trial and his gambling debts, a connection that could cause his world to unravel. And then, there’s the other terrible secret he is hiding in his flat. In a rare case in which the judge is in greater peril than the defendant on trial in his court, both Henry and Conrad have called down the storm on to their heads. Their lives are on the line, and time is running out.

  About the author

  Peter Murphy graduated from Cambridge University and spent a career in the law, as an advocate, teacher, and judge. He has worked both in England and the United States, and seved for several years as counsel at the Yugoslavian War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague. He has written six novels: two political thrillers about the US presidency, Removal and Test of Resolve; four legal thrillers featuring Ben Schroeder set in Sixties London, A Higher Duty, A Matter for the Jury, And is There Honey Still for Tea? and The Heirs of Owain Glyndŵr. His collection of court room dramas Walden of Bermondsey will be published later this year. He lives with his wife Chris, in Cambridgeshire.

  CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR PETER MURPHY

  REMOVAL

  ‘Weighty and impressive’ – Crime Time

  ‘A brilliant thriller by a striking new talent. Murphy cracks open the US Constitution like a walnut. This is Seven Days in May for the 21st Century’ – Clem Chambers, author of the Jim Evans thrillers

  ‘Peter Murphy’s debut Removal introduces an exciting talent in the thriller genre. Murphy skilfully builds tension in sharp prose. When murder threatens the security of the most powerful nation in the world, the stakes are high!’ – Leigh Russell, author of the Geraldine Steel mysteries

  A HIGHER DUTY

  ‘An absorbing read’ – Mystery People

  ‘A very satisfying read’ – Fiction is Stranger than Fact

  ‘A gripping page-turner. A compelling and disturbing tale of English law courts, lawyers, and their clients, told with the authenticity that only an insider like Murphy can deliver. The best read I’ve come across in a long time’ – David Ambrose

  ‘His racy legal thrillers lift the lid on sex and racial prejudice at the bar’ – Guardian

  ‘If anyone’s looking for the next big courtroom drama… look no further. Murphy is your man’ – ICLR

  ‘Peter Murphy’s novel is an excellent read from start to finish and highly recommended’ – Historical Novel Review

  ‘This beautifully written book had me captivated from start to finish’ – Old Dogs – New Tricks

  A MATTER FOR THE JURY

  ‘An utterly compelling and harrowing tale of life and death’ – David Ambrose

  ‘One of the subplots … delivers a huge and unexpected twist towards the end of the novel, for which I was totally unprepared’ – Fiction is Stranger than Fact

  AND IS THERE HONEY STILL FOR TEA?

  ‘An intelligent amalgam of spy story and legal drama’ – Times

  ‘A story that captures the zeitgeist of a turbulent time in British history’ – Publishers Weekly

  ‘A gripping, enjoyable and informative read…Promoting Crime Fiction loves Peter Murphy’s And Is There Honey Still for Tea?’ – Promoting Crime Fiction

  ‘Murphy’s clever legal thriller revels in the chicanery of the English law courts of the period’ – The Independent

  ‘The ability of an author to create living characters is always dependent on his knowledge of what they would do and say in any given circumstances – a talent that Peter Murphy possesses in abundance…Arnold Taylor loves And Is There Honey Still for Tea?’ – Crime Review UK

  ‘There’s tradecraft of the John le Carré kind, but also a steely authenticity in the legal scenes… gripping’ – ICLR

  ‘Digby, the real protagonist, will keep you guessing until the very end’ – Kirkus Reviews

  THE HEIRS OF OWAIN GLYNDŴR

  ‘A thought-provoking, intriguing unmasking of courtroom sparring and Welsh nationalism’ – Lovereading

  ‘After swapping his gavel for a pen, a former Crown court judge has published the fourth book in his popular legal saga’ – The Hunts Post

  ‘All the details of barristerial life, the rules of ethics and evidence, the social attitudes and the courtroom procedure appropriate for the late 1960s period setting are pitch perfect… the book raises very contemporary questions about the roots of radicalism, the motivations for terrorism and the conduct of the security services in combatting it’ – Paul Magrath

  ‘The story illustrates and discusses effectively questions of nationalism and national identity, particularly the Welsh language with what is seen by the would-be bombers as English interference in Welsh affairs and culture. As a featured character Schroeder is low-key, clever and determined, but it is Arianwen and the others who hold most interest in this case. It is to the author’s credit that this fiction sometimes reads and feels like a dramatic re-telling of a real event’ – Crime Review

  You’ve got to know when to hold ’em,

  Know when to fold ’em,

  Know when to walk away,

  And know when to run,

  You never count your money

  When you’re sittin’ at the table,

  There’ll be time enough for countin’

  When the dealin’s done.

  – Don Schlitz, The Gambler

  1

  Wednesday 28 April 1971

  The man was sitting on the ground, his legs drawn up halfway towards his chest, his hands resting on his knees. In his right hand he held a knife, the blade four or five inches long, the brown plastic handle stained to look like wood. The knife was covered in blood.

  The woman was lying directly in front of the man, no more than four feet away from where he sat. She lay on her back, her arms stretched out at her sides, her eyes gazing absently up to the sky. A large pool of blood had formed around her, flowing from her neck and midriff and spreading under her legs. She was dying.

  It had started to rain, but neither noticed.

  DI Johnny Webb and DS Phil Raymond arrived at the scene within five minutes of the call coming in. The killing took place in Dombey Street, a stone’s throw from Holborn Police Station in Lamb’s Conduit Street, where the officers were just starting a break in the canteen. Leaving their cups of tea untouched, they commandeered PC Williams, a young uniformed constable who was making a start on a bacon and egg sandwich at the next table. The three of them ran at full speed across Lamb’s Conduit Street, turning left into Dombey Street less than a minute after leaving the police station.

  One look at the man was enough to tell them that
they had a serious problem. They stopped abruptly and desperately tried to evaluate the situation. It didn’t look promising. They knew that an ambulance had already been dispatched from Great Ormond Street Hospital, which, like the police station, was only a street or two away. Great Ormond Street is a children’s hospital, not a specialist emergency unit; but it was a case of any port in a storm – help was on the way, and that was good. But before the ambulance crew had any chance of helping the woman, something had to be done about the man holding the knife. The woman’s body was lying just off Dombey Street at the entrance to a narrow courtyard called Harpur Mews. The man was sitting in the entrance itself, with his back to the street, taking up most of its width and blocking access to her.

  There was no time to lose. The officers exchanged several urgent hand signals. Webb took the lead. He approached the entrance quietly, and began to feel his way gingerly towards a position in front of the man, making as wide an arc as he could in the limited space around the man’s left side. Raymond, treading as lightly as he could, made a direct approach towards the man’s back until he was within touching distance. Williams waited like a sprinter in the blocks for Webb to advance sufficiently to allow him a clear path, and as soon as he saw daylight he raced through the gap on the man’s left. When he reached the woman, he knelt protectively by her side between her and the man, a last desperate line of defence in case the man attacked her again.

  As Webb approached, he noticed that the man was not responding at all to the activity going on around him. He must have known that the officers were there, but he sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the ground, his breathing barely noticeable. Webb turned his attention to the knife. His eyes focused on it and stayed there. He was approaching the point of no return now. He would have to put his body within range of a strike. There was no other way to disarm the man. If he chose to use the knife, Webb had no way of defending himself except to raise his arms, offer them up to defensive wounds to deflect more deadly blows, and hope that his colleagues would overpower the man before he could do any worse damage. Even that might not work. He would have to bend down to take the knife, which made him mortally vulnerable to a sudden upward swing of the blade. If the woman’s condition had been less serious, he might have waited for back-up, but with things as they were, that was out of the question. There was no choice. He was only a foot away now.

  ‘I’ll take that, sir, if you please,’ he said, as calmly as he could.

  There was no response at all. This was the moment. He was aware that Raymond was at the man’s back, ready to pounce. He extended his right hand towards the man’s right hand. Their hands touched briefly on the handle of the knife. To his amazement, the man did not resist at all. The officer simply lifted the knife from where it lay, on his palm and under his thumb. The man had almost no grip on the knife; it was a wonder he had not dropped it, and it took almost no effort for Webb to make it secure. He gave an audible sigh of relief, and for some moments he stood in the rain, holding the knife down and away to his right, his eyes shifting between the man and the woman, wondering what had brought them to this.

  2

  ‘You don’t happen to have any evidence bags with you, I suppose?’ Webb asked.

  Williams was helping Raymond to lead the man, whose arms were now handcuffed behind his back, to a patrol car which had just screeched to a halt by the entrance to the mews, its blue lights still flashing.

  ‘Sorry, guv,’ Williams called over his shoulder. ‘Didn’t think I’d be needing one up in the canteen.’

  Webb smiled. He had been holding the handle of the knife as delicately as he could under his raincoat. With any luck there would still be a print or two left on the handle, and the rain had not entirely removed the blood from the blade; there would be something left for Forensic to look at.

  A few feet away from him the ambulance crew was still working feverishly on the woman, huge wads of gauze applied to her wounds in an attempt to stem the tide of blood, an impromptu intravenous drip inserted into an arm, the bag of fluids held high by one of the crew. All in vain: hopeless. Their leader had told him as much when they arrived, with a single shake of the head. It would not be long before they admitted defeat and removed her body to the ambulance.

  Very gently, Webb slid his handkerchief from his trouser pocket, wrapped the knife in it, and walked over to the patrol car. The man was now sitting in the back seat, motionless, staring down at the floor. Webb opened the boot, removed a wheel jack from its cloth cover, and converted the cover into a makeshift evidence bag for the knife. He closed the boot and leaned against the side of the car with Raymond and Williams, watching the ambulance crew begin their disengagement.

  The street was busy now. Two more patrol cars had arrived, the officers standing by uncertainly. There was nothing obvious for them to do. Scenes of crime officers would soon arrive to take control of the site. But they would not leave until Webb, the senior CID officer present, dismissed them. Next to one of the cars, the ambulance waited, its back doors open. On the other side of Dombey Street, a few people had opened doors and windows to see what was going on. One or two had ventured out into the street. A single officer stood in the middle of the street to make sure they did not encroach on the scene, though no one was showing even the slightest interest in coming any closer. The neighbours seemed calm and incredulous. It was a Wednesday afternoon, not long after lunch: not the time when you would expect something like this. But then again, when would you expect something like this?

  ‘Did he say anything?’ Webb asked.

  ‘Not a word, sir.’ Raymond replied. ‘He didn’t resist when we put the cuffs on him, either. He went completely limp. I thought we were going to have to drag him to the car, but he did manage to walk on his own.’

  Webb shook his head.

  ‘Well, I hope he has something to say for himself. It looks like he’s made a real mess of her. Do we know who he is?’

  Raymond made a tent of a fold in his raincoat and took two items from his jacket pocket, keeping them dry while allowing Webb a quick look.

  ‘Driving licence and cheque book in the name of Henry Lang, with an address in Alwyne Road, N1. Where’s that?’

  Webb shrugged.

  ‘It’s off Canonbury Road, sir,’ Williams offered. ‘Bit of a posh residential area. You wouldn’t expect to find people carrying knives up there.’

  ‘I’m not surprised by anything very much any more,’ Webb replied.

  ‘There’s a business card in the name of Mercury Mechanics, with an address in King Henry’s Walk, N1,’ Raymond added.

  ‘Not far from Alwyne Road,’ Williams ventured, ‘a few minutes’ walk at most.’

  ‘He didn’t have any car keys with him,’ Raymond said. ‘Strange for a mechanic, wouldn’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps he liked to walk, or take the bus now and then,’ Williams suggested. ‘Just a thought, sir,’ he added in due course, having received no reply.

  ‘Perhaps someone here knows him,’ Webb continued, after a silence. He looked across the street. The neighbours were still looking on, but no one seemed to be in a rush to volunteer information. The houses on both sides of the street were four storeys tall and all had windows overlooking the narrow street. Surely to God, someone must have seen something? He pushed himself up from his leaning position against the car.

  ‘Did she have anything with her?’

  ‘A handbag, sir,’ Williams replied. ‘It’s in the car.’

  ‘All right. This patrol car can take Mr Lang to the nick and get him booked in. We will talk to him when we get back. Tell them to leave her handbag on the desk in my office. Start talking to those people over there and see if anyone saw or heard anything. If they did, make sure you get statements.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And when you’ve done that, knock on the other doors up and down the street, and see if there’s anyon
e who’s a bit shy about coming outside, but may have been peering through the lace curtains. If you need more help, call in and tell them I authorised it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The ambulance crew had lifted the woman on to a stretcher and removed the IV. They were carrying her slowly the short distance out of Harpur Mews towards the ambulance. Only the pool of blood, which seemed barely diminished despite the rain, remained to suggest that anything untoward had occurred to interrupt a peaceful Wednesday afternoon. Three scenes of crime officers had arrived. Webb knew them; he had worked with them before and they were thorough. If there was anything to find, they would find it. He saw them conferring with one of the uniformed officers. If they were lucky, the rain would have left them something to work with, some trace of evidence to seize and analyse. If not, they would have to gather evidence wherever they could.

  Webb allowed his gaze to rest on the houses in front of him. As he watched, the front door of the house immediately across the street from the mews opened, and the figure of a woman appeared slowly and hesitantly. She stood for some time with the door slightly ajar before emerging fully into view. She was slightly built, with dark brown hair, dressed in a long, flowing white cotton skirt and a beige blouse, around her neck a thick silver-coloured necklace, rigid and unadorned, her feet in brown sandals with a slight wedge. Webb’s first impression of her age was vague, somewhere between 30 and 40, but difficult to pin down more precisely. He could see little of her face, which was almost covered by the large white handkerchief she was holding up to her eyes. Her distress was obvious. He nudged Raymond, and they made their way across the street to her.

  ‘Are you the police?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, madam. We are from Holborn Police Station. I am Detective Inspector Webb, and this is Detective Sergeant Raymond. And you are…?’

  ‘Wendy Cameron.’