Calling Down the Storm

by Peter Murphy

  ‘I see,’ Conrad said. ‘And what are your friends’ terms for lending a few bob?’

  ‘That depends on how much you want,’ Cleary replied.

  ‘So I assumed.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘What if I wanted £20,000?’

  Cleary looked at him.

  ‘Twenty grand? That’s a fair chunk of cash, that is,’ he said, his eyes never leaving Conrad’s face. ‘Usually, people want five hundred, or a thousand or two. It’s not often we go very much more than that.’

  ‘If it’s not possible, I quite understand,’ Conrad said.

  Cleary did not reply at once.

  ‘I didn’t say it wasn’t possible, did I? It might be. But I’d need to know a bit more.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Such as what you’re going to do with it. I mean, that’s enough for someone to disappear, innit? If you run off to Brazil or wherever, taking their twenty grand with you, and you’re never seen again, my friends are going to be very unhappy with me, and I don’t want them to be unhappy with me, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Conrad’s not going to disappear anywhere,’ Greta said.

  ‘Darling, why don’t you disappear somewhere?’ Cleary replied, without turning to her. ‘Why don’t you go and powder your nose, or whatever?’

  Greta shook her head in frustration, but retreated silently into the bedroom.

  Cleary laughed.

  ‘She’s a very pretty girl, but pretty girls get in the way of business, don’t they, Mr Rainer? I’m sure you’ve noticed yourself. Now, where were we?’

  ‘You were suggesting that I might disappear,’ Conrad replied.

  ‘No offence, Mr Rainer, but it’s my job to think of these things. My friends depend on me to think of these things. See, twenty grand buys you a lot. Look, truthfully, I don’t care what you do with it, as long as my friends are going to see their money at the end of the day. That would be a lot of money to them. It might be their retirement money, or the money they were going to use for the villa in Spain, or the diamonds for the wife for their silver wedding, or whatever. So, they just need to make sure you’re good for it. They don’t want you doing a runner. As long as you’re good for it, you can spend it all on the nags, or the latest fashions for your good lady wife, for all they care.’

  ‘They’ll get their money back,’ Conrad said.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ Cleary replied, ‘you being a gentleman of the law, and everything. But what they’re going to ask me is: what you’re willing to do to show good faith.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  Cleary shrugged.

  ‘Well, they can’t leave a loan of twenty grand out there for too long. We’re not talking about a long time for repayment. They’re going to insist on a substantial rate of return, and they’re going to insist on regular cash payments on an agreed schedule.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I’d have to verify this with them, but I would think we’re talking about half the amount in interest, so that’s ten grand, and a monthly payment of two and a half, representing a payment of capital and interest, first payment in four weeks.’

  Conrad almost choked on his cigarette.

  ‘You’re asking for £2,500 a month? You can’t be serious.’

  ‘I said I’d have to verify it. That’s just my first impression. They have the last word, obviously.’

  ‘That’s outrageous.’

  ‘Well, I could be a bit off, Mr Rainer, but honestly, I don’t think so. I know these people, and I know how they think, and I’m usually pretty close. Look, on that schedule, the loan’s outstanding for half a year, and that’s much longer than they usually allow. They’d be doing you a big favour.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘We’re not a bank, Mr Rainer. I know you could go to the Midland and get a much better deal, but I’m thinking you have reasons for not wanting to go to the Midland. Am I right?’

  Conrad did not reply.

  ‘See, the thing is: this is what’s known technically as an unsecured loan.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Conrad said testily. ‘I know what an unsecured loan is.’

  ‘Yes, but I did say “technically”,’ Cleary said, ‘meaning that we don’t have any paperwork – we don’t have a mortgage or a promissory note, or such like. But, just so there’s no misunderstanding, that doesn’t mean it’s entirely unsecured.’

  Conrad nodded.

  ‘Meaning, if I don’t pay, I will be in trouble, whether there’s paperwork or not.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Cleary said. ‘But let me put it this way: it wouldn’t be advisable to default, which I believe is the correct legal term. So, what you have to decide is: how much you need the money, whether you really need twenty grand, and whether you are prepared to agree to the syndicate’s terms now that you understand what would be involved if you were to default?’

  He stood.

  ‘Why don’t you think it over? If you want to go ahead, Greta knows how to get in touch with me. Tell her to call me, and I’ll have the cash for you in 48 hours.’

  32

  Friday 1 October 1971

  ‘Ben, come in. How are you?’

  Andrew Pilkington lifted himself out of his chair and walked to the door to welcome his visitor. It was now almost 5 o’clock, and his case, a serious grievous bodily harm with intent – a Saturday night pub brawl that got out of hand – had ended with a satisfying verdict of guilty. He had returned to his chambers to find a message that Ben Schroeder wanted to see him urgently. That could only mean one thing. It was time to forget about the grievous bodily harm and turn his attention to the murder trial he was to start on Monday, the case of Henry Lang. He contemplated the message for some time, before asking his clerk to call Ben’s chambers and invite him to come for a cup of tea.

  On the face of it, the prosecution case he was about to present to a jury was rock solid. His police officers were competent and reliable, and he had an eye witness. But the defendant’s claim of amnesia bothered him. In some ways, it would be the icing on the cake for the prosecution to have a defendant with such an obviously convenient gap in an otherwise excellent memory. But the medical evidence did not entirely support that sceptical view of the case; and Henry Lang was represented by solicitors and counsel he knew well and trusted implicitly – if there was anything suspicious about the defendant’s claimed amnesia, it would not be at their instigation. In addition, he had a victim who, although she in no way deserved the violent death her husband had inflicted on her, was hardly the model wife and mother. DI Webb had unearthed enough evidence to implicate her in dealing hard drugs. Admittedly, it was at a low level, but she had clearly been associating with some unsavoury characters since walking out on her husband – characters who were dealing at a much higher level and using her as one of their street runners. That evidence had been disclosed to the defence, and it was inevitable that it would be dragged up repeatedly during the trial. There was nothing Andrew could do about that. In a perfect world, such considerations would not affect the outcome of a murder trial in which she was the victim, but Andrew had enough experience to know that juries were unpredictable, and in an imperfect world they sometimes seized on evidence of that kind to manufacture some undeserved sympathy for a defendant.

  ‘Very well, Andrew, thank you. You?’

  ‘Yes, well, thanks. Just finished a GBH, Saturday night glassing. Nasty little case; he ran self-defence, but they potted him in the end, thank goodness.’

  They sat down next to each other in two armchairs, while Andrew’s junior clerk served tea.

  ‘I keep meaning to ask you,’ Andrew said. ‘Your Welsh lady, Mrs Finch, how is she doing? Has she got her son back?’

  ‘I still haven’t thanked you enough for what you did for her.’
>
  Ben had represented Arianwen Finch the year before. She had been accused of being involved in a conspiracy to plant a bomb in Caernarfon Castle on the occasion of the Investiture of Prince Charles as Prince of Wales, a plot which had been foiled by her husband Trevor, who, unbeknownst to Arianwen, was an undercover police officer. Arianwen had been arrested with the bomb in the boot of her car, on her way, the prosecution said, to rendezvous with her brother Caradog, who was to carry it into the castle. But she had insisted throughout that she had not known about the bomb, and that she would never have agreed to carry it if she had known – especially with her four-year-old son Harri strapped in his seat in the back of the car. The case against her was strong. But the prosecution had misled the court and the jury by concealing the vital fact that Trevor was an undercover officer, and by painting him as a conspirator who had escaped arrest. When Andrew was brought into the case on appeal after Arianwen’s conviction, he saw at once that her right to present her defence had been hopelessly compromised by the deceitful way in which the case had been presented. He threw his hand in, invited the court to allow her appeal; and Arianwen Finch walked from the Royal Courts of Justice a free woman – a result that Ben had always believed to be the right and just one.

  Andrew shook his head.

  ‘There was nothing else I could have done. Her conviction was unsafe. I can’t believe they let that man Evan Roberts prosecute her. He has no idea what goes on in a criminal court. And when it was all over, they bumped him up to the High Court, didn’t they? Talk about the inmates running the asylum.’

  Ben laughed.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it. At first I thought it was part of some massive cover-up, to protect him from any inquiry into what had happened, but Gareth said I was being too cynical about it.’

  ‘Understandable, after what you had been through, I would say.’

  ‘Anyway, Arianwen is doing well, so I hear. Barratt keeps in touch with her through her Welsh solicitor, Eifion Morris. She had to move away from Caernarfon because of all the publicity; but she’s doing well, teaching music again, and Jess persuaded the local County Court judge to return Harri to her just before Christmas.’

  ‘Good for her,’ Andrew said. ‘Well, let’s talk about Henry Lang. I hear we’ve been assigned a new High Court judge called Conrad Rainer. He doesn’t ring a bell with me. Do you know him?’

  ‘Only by name. He was a commercial Silk, apparently.’

  Andrew shook his head.

  ‘Oh, that’s perfect. Another one who won’t know his way around a criminal courtroom. I suppose we will have to hold his hand while he learns how we do things at the Bailey. Why in God’s name they can’t appoint one or two High Court judges who have actually done some crime, I will never understand.’

  ‘I don’t think the Lord Chancellor entirely trusts those of us who do crime, Andrew,’ Ben smiled. ‘Too close to the sharp end, might have sullied our hands.’

  Andrew laughed. ‘What about those of us on the side of truth and justice?’

  ‘Which side is that?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Good question. So, how does it all look for Monday?’

  ‘His memory has come back,’ Ben replied.

  Andrew stared at him in silence for some time.

  ‘His memory has come back? Just like that? On the eve of trial?’

  ‘Yes. Well, yesterday evening, so he told us when we saw him today.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘I wanted to see you as soon as I could. We’re not trying to ambush you, Andrew. This has come as just as big a surprise to us as it has to you, believe me.’

  Andrew nodded.

  ‘I accept that, of course, Ben. But it’s still a remarkable coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘I can’t argue with that.’

  Andrew was silent again for a minute or so.

  ‘Well, can you give me a clue? What is the case going to be about? What’s his defence? Does he have a defence?’

  ‘I believe so,’ Ben replied. ‘I have instructions to offer you a plea of guilty to manslaughter on the basis of provocation. If the plea is not acceptable, that’s the defence we will run at trial. If you need an adjournment to give you time to think about it, I can hardly object, but I’m hoping we can deal with it on Monday.’

  Andrew shook his head.

  ‘I can guess where you’re coming from with the provocation. I’d half expected something like that. I don’t need an adjournment. We might as well get on with it.’

  He paused for some time.

  ‘As to the plea, I will have to think about that over the weekend. I may have to consult with the Director’s office before I can give you an answer.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘But to be perfectly honest with you, Ben, I’m not sure I can recommend it to the Director.’

  ‘Think about it a bit more. Sit with it over the weekend.’

  ‘I will. But I see two problems. First, it’s a bit too convenient that he suddenly remembers being provoked just before we start trial on Monday –’

  ‘That’s a point you can make to the jury,’ Ben nodded, ‘but I don’t think they’re going to hang a verdict on it.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Andrew agreed, ‘but they will on my second point.’

  ‘Which is…?

  ‘A man doesn’t take a large knife with him from home to a meeting with a court welfare officer, does he? Not unless he’s already decided to kill his wife, before he even leaves his house.’

  33

  Monday 4 October 1971

  It was a dark, raw Monday morning. Ben and Jess were glad to escape the biting wind and cold misty drizzle that had hounded them during the walk from Ben’s chambers at Two Wessex Buildings to the Central Criminal Court: up Middle Temple Lane, along Fleet Street, crossing over briefly into Farringdon Road before darting into Seacole Lane, and finally turning into Old Bailey just a few yards from the court; time enough to get thoroughly chilled.

  Having robed, they had a warming cup of coffee in the bar mess. It was 9 o’clock. Their case was listed in court two at 10.30.

  ‘Why don’t you find Barratt, and take him down to the cells to see if Henry’s here?’ Ben suggested. ‘I’ll look for Andrew and find out whether he will take a plea.’

  Jess nodded and they separated just outside the mess. Ben made his way to the office occupied by Prosecuting Counsel to the Crown at the Central Criminal Court, generally referred to as Treasury Counsel. It was a hive of frenzied activity. In addition to the case of Henry Lang, the office had a substantial fraud and a second murder case starting that morning, and it seemed that no one had time to breathe. He found Andrew Pilkington tying his bands while giving instructions to a young, grey-suited assistant. His discarded tie and collar lay on the desk beside him, and his wig and gown were tangled up in an unceremonious heap nearby.

  ‘Come on in, Ben,’ he called out cheerfully, trying to extricate a thumb from the knot he had just tied in the bands. ‘There’s some coffee on the side. I can’t say how warm it is. Take a seat.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ve had some,’ Ben replied, ‘and I don’t want to keep you. I know you’re trying to get ready for court. I just wondered if you had any good news for me to pass on to Henry Lang.’

  Andrew seated himself on the desk and released his grip on the bands.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ben. I spoke to DI Webb, and I ran it by the Deputy Director. Webb was happy to leave it up to me. But the Deputy Director asked for my opinion, and I had to tell him I couldn’t recommend taking the plea. We have no details of the evidence we can expect the defendant to give. We can’t form any view about whether it’s a genuine case of provocation, much less whether it satisfies the reasonableness test. And there’s the knife he brought from home to the meeting with Wendy Cameron. At the moment this looks like a case of premeditated murder to
me.’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘Understood. Is there anything else we need to talk about?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Andrew reached behind him and plunged his hand into a morass of papers. ‘Oh, I can give you this. It’s the scale plan of the scene in Dombey Street. For some reason they only finished it late Friday afternoon. There’s a copy of the maker’s witness statement attached. Let me know if you have any problems with it.’

  Ben scanned the plan quickly. ‘It looks fine to me,’ he replied.

  ‘Good. I think I will call Wendy Cameron first, so that I can get her away today. You won’t need to keep her until tomorrow, will you?’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t,’ Ben replied. ‘Any word from the judge?’

  Andrew laughed.

  ‘No cries for help yet. I have been half expecting an invitation into chambers for a quick consultation. Perhaps he’s having a good read of Archbold. We shall see.’

  ‘I hope he asks us if he’s all at sea,’ Ben said. ‘Provocation is not the easiest thing to sum up to a jury.’

  ‘We’ll put him right if we have to,’ Andrew grinned.

  Henry Lang was dressed in his grey suit and red tie, the same suit and tie in which he had appeared in front of Mr Justice Wesley in the family court. He had shaved, and his hair was tidily combed back, but his face was grey and he looked ill-at-ease. Ben delivered the bad news as gently as he could.

  ‘To be honest, Henry,’ he said, ‘it’s what I’d expected. The prosecutor has no idea of what you’re going to say. You had the knife. The prosecution are bound to think you planned it. We have to face that.’

  ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get through this,’ Henry said.

  ‘You will,’ Barratt reassured him.

  Jess reached out her hand and touched his arm.

  ‘Keep thinking about Marianne and Stephanie,’ she replied. ‘If we can get manslaughter, there’s every chance you will be back in their lives while they’re still young enough for you to make a real difference. You need to be strong and think of them.’