by Peter Murphy
‘It’s better than talking about reaching the end and finding a way out, for God’s sake,’ Aubrey said. He had raised his voice without intending to, and he looked anxiously around him, but most of the members were at dinner, and the few left in the lounge seemed to be absorbed in their newspapers or books.
‘Conrad, the answer is staring you in the face. Break it off with Greta now, stay away from the Clermont, and make a clean breast of it to Deborah. You’ve got your judicial salary. You have fees still coming in from your practice. You will get back on an even keel. It may take a while, but time is one thing you have on your side. And it will all remain a private matter.’
‘Will it? I don’t think so, Aubrey. You don’t know Deborah. She would divorce me in the blink of an eye, and take me for what little I have left. She might even tell the police I forged her signature on the mortgage deed. And that would be a very public matter.’
Aubrey smiled thinly. ‘I thought Baptists were supposed to believe in forgiveness.’
‘They believe that God will forgive you,’ Conrad replied. ‘That doesn’t mean they have to.’
He smiled grimly for a second or two.
‘Besides,’ Conrad said, ‘I’m afraid the mortgage wasn’t quite the end of the story.’
Aubrey felt his stomach begin to twist.
‘I was sick with worry about the mortgage,’ Conrad said. ‘I had all the correspondence sent to chambers, of course, not to the house; but even so, it would have been easy for Deborah to find out about it if she suddenly began to take even the slightest interest in our bank accounts. It was about the time the Lord Chancellor was making overtures to me about going on the bench, and obviously anything like that coming out would have scuppered my chances completely. I needed to find a way to pay off the mortgage. I couldn’t try winning at the Clermont again – I had nothing left to play with. Even I could see that. But Greta was on my case all the time. So eventually, I told her the truth.’
Aubrey gasped.
‘About everything?’
‘About everything – the trust fund, the mortgage, the whole nine yards. I knew it was unwise –’
‘Unwise?’ Aubrey had raised his voice again. He lowered it anxiously. ‘That wasn’t unwise, Conrad, it was insane. What were you thinking?’
‘I wasn’t thinking – well, certainly not clearly. I was desperate, Aubrey. I was clutching at straws. I thought, if I told Greta the truth, she could hardly blame me for not wanting to chase the money I’d lost. I hoped she might even have some sympathy for me.’
‘And did she?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking, I suppose she did. But she didn’t show it in quite the way I’d hoped. She laughed. She was almost offhand about it. It was as if I’d told her I wanted to borrow a tenner. She asked me how much I needed to chase my losses. I told her £20,000. She said she could arrange it for me.’
‘Arrange it for you? What did she mean by that?’
‘Well, she wasn’t talking about going to the bank, Aubrey. And she wasn’t talking about lending it to me herself. What do you think she meant?’
Aubrey sat back in his chair.
‘Oh, my God. You didn’t…’
‘Two days later she introduced me to a gentleman who said he represented what he called a syndicate. In view of my well-known success at the Bar, and their confidence in my ability to repay them, the syndicate was prepared to lend me up to £20,000, unsecured, to be repaid in monthly instalments, the money to be provided in cash, and the payments to be made in cash, no questions asked on either side.’
‘You idiot,’ Aubrey breathed.
‘His name was Cleary,’ Conrad said. ‘Pleasant enough fellow if you like that charming South London brogue. He didn’t say it in so many words, but let’s just say he left me in no doubt that it wouldn’t be a good idea to be late with the payments.’
Aubrey felt his blood run cold.
‘Did you say “Cleary”?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not… not Daniel Cleary, by any chance, also known as “Danny Ice”?’
Conrad paused in the act of lighting a cigarette, and looked up sharply.
‘That’s the fellow. How on earth do you know him? Aubrey, don’t tell me…’
‘Don’t play games with me, Conrad, please. Daniel Cleary’s name came up in your trial today, as you well know.’
Conrad inhaled deeply from his cigarette and watched the smoke thin out as it rose towards the room’s high, ornate ceiling.
‘How would you know that?’
‘Because Harriet Fisk was in court this morning, and she told me. Besides, criminal proceedings are a matter of public record. Why shouldn’t I know?’
Conrad laughed.
‘And I suppose now you’re going to tell me that I should withdraw from the case because of a conflict of interest, and let it start all over again in front of another judge? I can just picture that scene, can’t you? “I regret to inform counsel that I am unable to continue as your judge because I’m on the hook to the same villain who was threatening Henry Lang, over a small matter of £20,000 I borrowed from him to cover my gambling debts.” What would the Lord Chancellor think of that, I wonder? I might as well throw myself straight under a train and have done with it.’
Aubrey was silent for some time.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you this,’ he said, ‘and you didn’t hear it from me, but you might as well know. You haven’t heard the last of Cleary. You will probably have to rule on an application to admit some evidence involving him.’
Conrad nodded.
‘I’m sure I can manage that – just as long as they don’t want to call him as a witness.’
‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that. But what happened? Did you borrow the whole £20,000?’
‘Yes.’
‘The rate of interest?’
‘You don’t want to know. It would make your eyes water. Usury’s not a strong enough word.’
Aubrey refilled his wine glass.
‘Why didn’t you use it to repay the mortgage, or put a few thousand back into the trust fund?’
‘I told you. I needed it to chase my losses.’
‘Conrad –’
‘I had to, Aubrey. I needed some seed money to get back in at the Clermont. In any case, Greta would have beaten me within an inch of my life if I’d got all that money and not taken her to the Clermont again. That’s why she set me up with Cleary. She didn’t give a damn about my mortgage. She wanted to make sure I could still play – and besides, I still believed that my luck was bound to change. I’d had a bad run. I was due for a break.’
‘Of course you were. Did you get one?’
‘No.’
Aubrey drank deeply from his glass.
‘How long ago was this?’
‘February, not long before I was appointed to the bench.’
‘So, by February you still had something owing on the mortgage, and you had to start making payments to Cleary?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much?’
‘Two and a half a month.’
‘How did you plan to do that?’
Conrad was lighting another cigarette.
‘The original plan was to pay from my winnings once my luck changed. When it didn’t change, I used my salary, and I dipped into the trust fund again.’
‘Have you kept up with the payments?’
‘More or less. I missed once. Cleary sent me a message suggesting that I should make every effort not to miss again.’
Aubrey nodded.
‘Well, I understand why you’re feeling desperate,’ he said.
‘That’s not quite all,’ Conrad said.
Aubrey swallowed hard.
‘After I lost the £30,000 from the trust fund and the mort
gage, Cleary wasn’t my only source of money,’ Conrad said. ‘Some other money became available, unexpectedly. But I’m afraid it meant crossing the line.’
‘What line?’ Aubrey asked.
47
‘Just before I left chambers to take up my appointment, I stole some money from three members of chambers.’
‘Stole? How? What in God’s name are you talking about?’
‘I needed money.’ Conrad said. ‘I was still in a deep hole, but I still had this idea that all I needed was one good night at the table. If I could just keep myself going until my luck changed, I could win enough to turn things around. Obviously, that didn’t make any rational sense, but when you’re in that kind of spiral you don’t think rationally.’
‘You seemed quite normal at the time,’ Aubrey said. ‘I would never have guessed there was anything wrong, much less something like this.’
‘My professional life was my only refuge,’ Conrad replied. ‘It was the only thing I had left to cling on to. At least that part of my life was still working. As long as I could pretend to myself that all was well, I could keep up a façade in front of other people. All wasn’t well, obviously. I was living in fear that I would run out of money and the whole house of cards would collapse – sorry, bad choice of imagery in the circumstances.’
Aubrey smiled thinly.
‘One day I found myself alone in the clerk’s room; it must have been a week or so before I left chambers. Jeffrey was away from his desk somewhere, and I was looking at the pigeon-holes where he put our briefs and letters – and, of course, the cheques for our fees. You could tell when it was a cheque because Jeffrey always put them in the same small brown envelopes. There was nothing in my pigeon-hole. I was still owed quite a lot, but it was still the same old story – bloody solicitors taking forever to pay, no way of making them. But there were three small brown envelopes in other pigeon-holes: one for Frank Reilly, one for Jonathan Weatherall, and one for Martin Cohn. I took the envelopes and got out of chambers before anyone saw me. I endorsed the cheques to myself and paid them into my account.’
‘You forged their signatures?’
‘Yes. I didn’t think of it as stealing at the time. It was just a loan. I was going to take the money, and –’
‘Repay them when your luck changed,’ Aubrey said. ‘Except that it didn’t.’
‘Exactly. So at the end of it all, I’ve compromised every aspect of my life and I haven’t solved any of my problems. In addition to owing a lot of money to Daniel Cleary, and still having a second mortgage Deborah knows nothing about, I’m not even sure how I can stay afloat, let alone pay my clerk’s fees and put something aside for the tax man. And any day now, it’s all going to come crashing down on my head in a very public way.’
‘How much?’ Aubrey asked.
Conrad seemed flustered.
‘What?’
‘How much did you steal from chambers?’
‘I don’t know: £8,000, £10,000, something like that.’
He paused.
‘So I hope you see now why there’s nothing left for me, except to find the way out. It’s over, Aubrey.’
The lounge was almost deserted now. Voices could be heard in the corridors, as members finished dinner and made their way to the main bar for port and coffee. Luke was leaning against a wall, wondering whether it was the right moment to clean up their table again.
‘And yet, you came to me,’ Aubrey said. ‘You asked to talk to me. Why?’
Conrad shrugged.
‘I’m not sure. Perhaps I hoped that if I just talked it over with you, some ray of light might emerge. But it hasn’t.’
‘Or perhaps you were going to ask for my help in some other way?’
‘I don’t think there’s any way for you to help.’
‘I can’t begin to bail you out financially, Conrad. I’m sure you understand that; and even if I could… frankly…’
‘Why would you? I don’t have a great track record, do I?’
‘I couldn’t trust you. Not at the moment.’
‘I understand. I wouldn’t trust myself.’
Aubrey shook his head. They were silent for some time.
‘Have you at least told me the whole story?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Then at least we know where we stand, don’t we? Now, I want you to promise me that you won’t do anything drastic. I want you to give me a day or two to think things over, to see if I can come up with something – anything – to start things moving in the right direction.’
‘It’s good of you Aubrey, but…’
Aubrey leaned forward in his chair.
‘Conrad, listen to me. We go back a long way. We’ve known each other since prep school. You are my oldest friend – well, you and Gerry Pole – the Gang of Three as we used to call ourselves.’
Conrad laughed quietly.
‘The Gang of Three. Yes. My God, we got up to a few tricks when we were younger, didn’t we?’
‘Yes, we did, and we will again. I’m not giving up on you, Conrad. I’m in no state to come up with anything tonight. My head’s spinning. I need to sleep on it and kick my brain into gear tomorrow morning, and you have a trial to finish. So let’s call it a night. But I’m not leaving until you promise me you won’t do anything drastic.’
Conrad took a deep breath and released it slowly.
‘I won’t do anything until we’ve spoken again,’ he replied.
‘Thank you,’ Aubrey said.
It was after 11 o’clock by the time the taxi dropped Aubrey off at his flat. He called Sandra to say goodnight and asked her to kiss their two girls for him. She said she would, but she was already in bed, and her voice was sleepy. A minute or two later, and he would have woken her up. He suddenly wished he could be there with her. He wished he had gone home that evening as they had planned; he wished that he had never set foot in the Club; that he had not had to hear and come to terms with the story he had listened to for what seemed like an eternity. The experience had drained him. He had drunk far more than he was used to. When he had left the Club, he had expected the fresh air to hit him; he had expected to feel the full effects of the Campari and the wine. Indeed, he had longed to feel it. He had hoped to be drunk; if the alcohol would anaesthetise him, if it would numb his distress, if only long enough for him to fall asleep. But there was to be no such relief; he felt as coldly and relentlessly sober as he ever had in his life.
Slowly, he removed his jacket and his collar and tie, and threw them on the bed. Rummaging through his briefcase, he found his address book and flipped through the pages until he found the number he wanted. Checking the time by his watch, he dialled the number apologetically.
‘Hello?’ It was a woman’s voice. Aubrey cursed silently to himself.
‘Rosemary, I’m sorry to call so late. Is Gerry still awake? Could I speak to him?’
‘Aubrey, is that you? How are you? It seems ages since we spoke. How are Sandra and the girls?’
‘They’re fine, Rosie, thanks. They send their love.’
‘Is Sandy asleep? Can I have a quick word?’
‘I’m not down in Sussex, Rosie. I’m at the flat in town. Work, you know. But I’ll tell her we’ve spoken, and I’m sure she’ll call.’
‘Please do, Aubrey. Here’s Gerry. He’s coming to see what all the fuss is about. Take care, darling, see you soon.’
‘You take care too, Rosie.’
There was a moment and whispers as the phone changed hands.
‘Aubrey, good to hear from you, old boy. What brings you to the phone at this hour?’
Aubrey hesitated.
‘I may need your help,’ he said, ‘or rather, Conrad may need your help. I had rather a long session with him this eveni
ng.’
Gerry laughed. ‘How is his Lordship? Is he becoming insufferable on the bench? It wouldn’t surprise me at all. It was bad enough when he got Silk.’
‘Actually, Gerry,’ Aubrey said, ‘he’s not doing well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What seems to be the problem?’
‘I’d prefer not to go into it on the phone,’ Aubrey replied. ‘Are you in town tomorrow? Is there any chance we could get together for lunch?’
‘Yes, I don’t see why not. I’ve got a meeting at 11 o’clock, but it shouldn’t last more than an hour or so. Shall I come to chambers, or do you want to venture into the City?’
‘I’ll come to your office. Would 12.30 be all right?’
‘Perfect. I’ll book us somewhere decent.’
‘Somewhere discreet, please, Gerry,’ Aubrey said.
‘Yes, all right. 12.30, then. Are you sure you don’t want to give me some clue…?’
‘No. Not tonight.’ Aubrey paused. ‘Gerry, you still have your holiday home on the Isle of Wight, don’t you?’
‘Our place on the Island? Yes, of course. Why?’
‘Thanks, Gerry; again, sorry for the late call. See you tomorrow.’
He hung up.
Albert saw him coming from a distance. Berkeley Square was quiet at that hour on a weekday evening. The figure approaching from the direction of Piccadilly was a familiar one. Albert prided himself on his talent for recognising members, and putting names to faces, welcoming each one by name. It was one of the personal touches Mr Aspinall liked and expected from his staff. A small group of young men and women, laughing and jostling each other, emerged from Annabel’s and made their haphazard way towards the man. He ignored them, passing straight through the middle of the group, and continued his fast-paced, determined walk towards number 44. Albert opened the door of the Clermont Club with perfect timing, so that the man could enter almost without breaking stride.
‘Good evening, Sir Conrad,’ he said. ‘Not a bad night for the time of year, is it?’
48
Tuesday 5 October 1971
‘I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. John Alan Webb, Detective Inspector, attached to Holborn Police Station, my Lord.’