Calling Down the Storm

by Peter Murphy

  He paused to finish his tea.

  ‘Conrad, I’m sure there are no skeletons in your closet, but the Lord Chancellor insists on my asking now, in all cases. I have to advise you that if there is anything that might embarrass the Lord Chancellor at some future time, you must let me know now. Speak now, or forever hold your peace, as the saying goes.’

  Conrad felt Sawyer’s eyes on him. For a moment he went hot and cold as images of Greta and the Clermont Club went through his mind. There was nothing illegal in any of that, and if the Lord Chancellor had taken soundings from judges who knew him, then the Lord Chancellor already knew that he had a reputation for liking a night out on the town. But he had never been arrested, or even stopped by the police. Martin Hardcastle might have been stupid enough to walk home after a dinner like that, but that was his problem. Conrad took taxis, and always would. Then he remembered his thoughts of the previous night about the house and Deborah’s – the future Lady Rainer’s – trust fund. The Lord Chancellor wouldn’t like that, not one little bit. But the chances of him finding out about that were negligible.

  ‘No; no skeletons,’ he replied.

  ‘Splendid,’ Jeremy Sawyer said. ‘Then we’ll put the wheels in motion. The only other thing I have to tell you is that your appointment has to be confidential until it’s announced publicly, which won’t happen until the Queen has agreed to sign off on it. At that stage, and not before, we’ll let you know, and we’ll announce it in The Times. Until then, I’m afraid, the convention is that you can tell your wife, your clerk, and your accountant; no one else; and you have to swear them to secrecy.’

  ‘Understood,’ Conrad said. ‘Thank you.’

  29

  April 1971

  It had always been an article of faith with Conrad that his luck would eventually change. It had not been consistently bad. There had been some ebb and flow, and there had been nights when he had come out ahead. But the one or two spectacular wins he had enjoyed in the early days had remained elusive, like lightning reluctant to strike in the same place again.

  His luck was not the whole story; he knew that. The ability to watch and track the energy around the table had left him, too. He sensed that this was not random. In the beginning he had been focused on the game and the players, concentrating on the table, and nothing but the table. He could go for hours without being aware of anything else. But then, he had not been worrying about the money. He had been free to focus on the game. Now he was worrying about the money a great deal.

  His visits to the Clermont Club were no longer a game; they had become a battle for survival. His losses were no longer simply the cost of a night’s entertainment; they represented serious damage to family assets that should never have been at risk, that Deborah did not know to be at risk; and the circumstances in which they had been exposed to risk had his fingerprints all over them. He was smoking at the table now, too – another distraction he had never imposed on himself before. Things were critical. He was due to be appointed a High Court judge in a matter of weeks. The Queen’s decision had been made, and was about to be made public. He couldn’t afford skeletons in the closet, as Jeremy Sawyer had put it. If his luck didn’t change soon, there was every chance that things would start to fall apart.

  With so much to worry him, he was concentrating on the result instead of the game, the money instead of the energy; and when you focused on the money, the energy became invisible to you. If anyone was seeing the energy now, it was Ian Maxwell-Scott, who in recent weeks had played with such insight and precision that even Lucan and Goldsmith were nervous of him. He had asked Susie one night how such a transformation had come about. ‘He has nothing left to lose,’ she replied. ‘He’s way beyond worrying. He communes with death – in the gaming sense, you understand – every night, and he has no more fear of it.’ Well, I’m very afraid of it, Conrad reflected, and I still have a lot to lose; which explained his state of mind, but offered no way out.

  He had calculated as precisely as he could the amount of money he needed from his two sources of funding. He needed a prolonged winning streak to make good his losses, and a prolonged winning streak did not, could not, involve winning every hand. It involved having enough resources to allow his luck time to work; to let it materialise, hand by hand, night after night, with the wins outstripping the losses gradually and consistently over a period of time. For that purpose, in the high-stakes world of the Clermont Club, he estimated the minimum funding required at £30,000. If he could have put all the distractions out of his mind, kept his focus on the game; if he could have lost the fear of death, he might even have done it. When the table caught fire and the wagers escalated steadily up to half the house limit, a player who could see the energy clearly might walk away with most of what he needed to recoup his losses in a single night. Even if there was still some shortfall, he might be able to walk away happy.

  But the fear had robbed him of the ability to see clearly; it had robbed him of his confidence; and he had begun to make mistakes. His worst mistake was to raid his two sources separately. He raised £20,000 from his first source, Deborah’s trust fund, hoping – against his own calculations – that it might be enough; and putting himself under more pressure worrying that it might not be enough; leaving himself uncertain and vulnerable as his losses mounted. By the time he was forced to raise £10,000 from the second source, the house, by means of a mortgage, his fear had more or less wiped out his ability to play a table.

  He had become easy prey. Even Dominick Elwes was able to keep pace with him. As banker, his betting was erratic. Instead of starting small and encouraging others to cover, upping the stakes gradually as they did so, he bid high and low without any pattern, and frightened the other players off until they saw the chance to pounce. As a player he offered the mirror image, alternating between recklessly covering the bank and offering only minimum stakes against a banker whose run was obviously coming to an end. He was rudderless in the midst of a chartless sea. He tried to look to Ian for inspiration, but Ian the Fearless was on another level now, on a planet of his own, with a manic Susie cheering him on, and Conrad could no longer read him. Periodically, he made a real effort to see the energy, and sometimes he thought he did, but he could not keep his mind from leaping in excitement at the thought of a win, and once his mind went there, the energy vanished as quickly as it had appeared. When the table was on fire, he was losing instead of winning; the amount of his resources merely postponing the inevitable, and making the inevitable worse when it came.

  As the last remnants of his resources dwindled away, he tried to confide in Greta, but hers was a world in which there was always more money, and she seemed to have no understanding of his plight. He contemplated raiding his resources again, but if he did that, the amount he would have to chase would need luck of a different order, and his bankers would ask questions they had not asked so far. He started to float away into a melancholy fog in which the endless round of losses was all that remained visible to the human eye.

  Then one day, by appointment, he went into his chambers for almost the last time, to make the necessary arrangements for his departure for the Bench. As chance would have it, he found himself alone in the clerk’s room for some minutes, and looking serendipitously around, he suddenly saw a third source, an opportunity to fund one last despairing chase of his brutal losses. Putting his judgement aside, he seized this final opportunity with both hands, and tonight, he had brought it to the Clermont Club. But now, he no longer had time to wait for a prolonged, gradual run of luck. The third source was one he could not conceal for long. He was holding a hand grenade, and the pin was halfway out. He needed to win now.

  30

  Lucan and Goldsmith were ready for him. By arrangement or chance – Conrad never knew – Lucan had been placed to his left, Goldsmith to his right. He had to deal with a Lucan bank and with a Goldsmith right of banco prime. John Aspinall, who had a nose for the big occasio
n, was on hand to watch.

  Conrad had brought £14,000 with him, leaving the remaining £2,000 from the unexpected proceeds of the third source at home, as insurance. It was not enough. When he took over the bank, Lucan gradually increased his bids. Conrad bided his time, never covering the bank. In this way, he managed to break even after several hands, but as Lucan had calculated, breaking even was not on Conrad’s agenda for the evening. His need, his transparent haste and anxiety, made him vulnerable. Abruptly, Lucan tempted him with a bid of £2,500. Conrad covered and lost. Without even thinking about it, Lucan upped his wager to £5,000. Conrad covered and lost again. On the following hand, he abstained. Lucan lost, and Conrad had the bank. It felt like a poisoned chalice.

  Goldsmith called banco prime to cover Conrad’s first wager. He had started modestly with a bid of £250, and had won two hands at that amount. But then, instead of proceeding incrementally, starting to ride his luck, he jumped nervously to £2,500, and lost. Greta was looking on impassively. Once Goldsmith had the bank, Ian Maxwell-Scott, who at times had seemed almost asleep at the table and had played no real part in the action, suddenly woke up and, with Susie standing behind him and willing him on, engaged Goldsmith in a short, fierce duel. Ian lost two hands, but then won on a £1,000 wager, and seized control of the bank.

  Ian’s recent run of form meant that most of those around the table were reluctant to match him. Apparently oblivious to his surroundings, Ian started high, at £1,000. Conrad watched for a hand or two, venturing only £200, and lost both times. The third time, he covered, and lost again.

  After the fourth time, John Aspinall called for a break in the action, and took Conrad aside as the other players took advantage of the lull to go downstairs for a quick drink.

  ‘I think that might be enough for this evening, Conrad, don’t you agree?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Greta protested. She was standing a few feet away, behind them. ‘Let him be.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ Aspinall replied tartly. ‘Why don’t you go and get yourself another drink? Tell them it’s on the house.’

  Furious, she turned and left the room.

  ‘I’m concerned, Conrad. I think you’re out of your depth at this table. Why don’t you try the Holland Room? There’s a lower-stakes game going on. You might feel more comfortable.’

  Conrad bit his lip. He had not come to the Clermont to feel comfortable. But it would do no good to tell Aspinall what his goal for the night was, or what was riding on his achieving that goal. If he gave any hint of that, Aspinall would slam the door in his face and put the word out to every gaming club in London.

  ‘I know what I’m doing, John,’ he replied.

  ‘Do you? I’m a very hands-on kind of man, Conrad, as you know. In this business, I have to be. Word gets back to me. I know how much you’ve been losing, and frankly with some people – Lucky or Jimmy, for example – I would turn a blind eye. I might have a quick word, a quick check that everything’s all right, but I’d let it go. I know they’re good for it, you see? Jimmy makes money just by waving his hands in the air, and Lucky has bankers who think it’s a privilege to give his Lordship as much credit as he asks for. But with you… Conrad, I don’t think I can. You’re a successful QC, so I know you’re not a poor man, but you’ve acquired an expensive habit. I’ve always thought you were a bit out of your depth in the Blue Room – financially, I mean. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for the Club.’

  Conrad did not reply immediately.

  ‘As a successful QC, I think I might be trusted to know when I’m in over my head,’ he said eventually.

  Aspinall smiled.

  ‘It’s strange what the table can do to people,’ he said. ‘It creates all kinds of illusions, including a certain blindness to being in over one’s head.’

  ‘Perhaps the illusions affect club owners as well,’ Conrad suggested.

  ‘They do,’ Aspinall agreed, ‘more than anyone else, actually. But club owners end up carrying the can when things go wrong. I’ll allow you £2,000, Conrad. If you lose any more than that tonight, I’ll have to ask you to deposit at least £20,000 to continue in the Blue Room.’

  He walked away before Conrad could say another word.

  Later, in the Knightsbridge flat, while they were smoking, naked, on the bed, he told her what Aspinall had said.

  ‘What does Aspinall know?’ she demanded.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he knows. It’s his club. He makes the rules. If I don’t come up with £20,000 I’m finished.’

  ‘Then come up with £20,000.’

  ‘It’s not that easy, Greta.’

  ‘You have assets, Conrad. Use them.’

  ‘I can’t – not without my wife finding out. I’m in enough trouble with what I’ve done already. If I try for more, I’d be putting my head in the lion’s mouth.’

  She allowed her hand to wander down between his legs.

  ‘I like men who are willing to do that.’

  He moved her hand away gently.

  ‘I know you do. But this is reality now. I’m in a lot of trouble, Greta, and I don’t see any way back except winning, and winning quickly. But to do that I need money, and I can’t go back to the same assets.’

  ‘Can’t you ask your bank for credit?’

  ‘To fund my gambling? In addition to my raids on my assets, which the bank knows all about?’

  She reached over to put out her cigarette.

  ‘What if I could arrange for you to have some money?’ she asked.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ He looked at her for some time. ‘Greta, are you…? Look, if you mean that you want to give me money – no. I appreciate the offer but –’

  She smiled.

  ‘No, Conrad. I’m not offering to give you money. I like you, but not that much.’

  ‘Well, what are you saying, then?’

  ‘I know people: people who could make money available to you.’

  He settled on to his back, and looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Well, it’s true, these people are not bankers, but what is it you say in English? Any port in a storm? It all depends how much you want the money, doesn’t it? You don’t have to. You could walk away now, and perhaps your wife and your bankers would never know, and over time, you will replace the losses and you will live happily ever after.’

  Perhaps, he reflected silently – if he got very lucky over a long period of time; if no one asked questions; if Deborah took no interest at all in their financial affairs. But even if that were possible, there was the third source. He hadn’t told Greta about that, and there was no way back from the third source.

  ‘What would I have to do?’ he asked.

  ‘I would call a man,’ she replied, ‘and you would meet him here, and talk terms.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Give me a couple of days,’ she said.

  31

  Conrad knew the man was trouble as soon as he walked into Greta’s living room. They must have had some history together – she kissed him as he entered – but that did not reassure Conrad at all. She didn’t look enthusiastic about it. In fact, she seemed nervous, and he had never seen Greta nervous, had never associated her with nervousness. The man’s appearance was unpromising. He was wearing a suit, but it was a tasteless parody of a suit, dark blue, a little too short in the sleeve and in the leg, the three buttons of the jacket fastened and making it look too tight. He was wearing a parody of a tie, too, some kind of pattern of red and black, knotted too tightly and veering to the right, against a frayed blue shirt. Then, there was the cheap plastic briefcase. But it was the man’s face that put the matter beyond doubt. It was a hard face, sporting a heavy black stubble, and scarred on the left side from just below the eye to the midd
le of the nose. The eyes were as hard as granite, dark and impenetrable.

  ‘I’m Danny Cleary, Mr Rainer,’ he said, offering his hand with an obviously false attempt at pleasantry. ‘Greta’s told me all about you. Very impressive. I understand you’re interested in obtaining some cash?’

  The accent was South London. Conrad’s every instinct was to put a stop to it there and then. Nothing was looking right about this. He could still walk away. Whatever his problems, there was no point in making them worse. But then again, he had to find a solution somewhere. There could be no harm in learning more. Perhaps some ideas would come to him as a result.

  ‘I’m interested in hearing what you have to say, Mr Cleary,’ he replied.

  Cleary smiled. ‘Good. Well, no need to stand on ceremony, is there? Why don’t we all have a seat, nice and friendly?’

  ‘Do you want a drink, Danny?’ Greta asked. She still sounded nervous.

  ‘No thanks, darling. Not when I’m working. Got to keep a clear head, don’t you, Mr Rainer? I’m sure you know that, in your line of work.’

  Conrad lit a cigarette.

  ‘So, you might want to borrow some cash?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Fair enough. I might be able to help. The thing is, Mr Rainer, I represent what you might call a syndicate.’

  ‘A syndicate?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, it’s just a group of friends really, friends who have a few bob to lend, and don’t mind lending it in a good cause.’

  ‘A group of friends? So, it’s not a company?’

  Cleary laughed.

  ‘A company? No, definitely not. More like a rabble, if you ask me, more like a mob. But they’re good lads, you know. I can vouch for them. If they say they’ll come up with the money, they will. I don’t put up any cash myself. I only wish I could, but I’m not that fortunate. So I just represent them.’