Calling Down the Storm

by Peter Murphy

  He had sat down on the sofa. She came to sit by his side.

  ‘Conrad, do you know who Danny Cleary is? Do you know anything about him?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘Yes, I know about Cleary. His name has come up in the trial I’m doing. He’s a small-time drug dealer who thinks he’s big enough to be a loan shark, a big bad man who will shake people down if they don’t pay.’

  ‘He is a loan shark,’ she replied. ‘He’s not at the top of the syndicate, but believe me, he has some very unpleasant associates, and he has some even more unpleasant people he has to report to. He can get very nasty if his clients don’t pay.’

  ‘He’d better not try to mess with me,’ he said, with a burst of bravado which surprised both of them. ‘I’m a High Court judge. There are security arrangements in place for people like me. Cleary doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. He’s out of his depth.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate him, Conrad,’ she replied. ‘He knows some serious people.’

  ‘I know some serious people,’ he said.

  She was on the verge of replying, but she checked herself.

  ‘I will deal with it,’ he said. ‘I will deal with Cleary.’

  ‘Oh? How will you do that? He’s not the kind of man who waits for people to make arrangements, Conrad. He’s going to come calling for his money today or tomorrow, or if not tomorrow, very soon, and believe me, there are no security arrangements that can protect you from him.’

  ‘We’ll see about that. It’s going to be difficult for him to break my door down if he doesn’t know where I live, and I’m very careful not to give out that information. He will have to find me first.’

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t take him long,’ she replied.

  ‘What…?’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but he came round to my flat last night, late, after I got home from the Clermont. He said there were rumours that you weren’t going to have the money. I said I didn’t know, I hadn’t seen you; but he didn’t believe me. And he was right, wasn’t he? Aspinall told me he thought you weren’t good for your debts any more, and if he told me, he’s told everybody; the word is out on the street. Danny wanted to know your address. I tried to convince him that I didn’t know, but he didn’t believe me about that either, and he had a hunting knife with him… I’m really sorry, Conrad.’

  ‘You gave him this address?’

  ‘Not the number of the flat. I didn’t know the number before tonight. I told him what I knew – which was that you lived in the Barbican. That was all. But that’s more than enough information for Cleary, with the contacts he has.’

  Conrad paced around the living room for some time. She never took her eyes off him.

  ‘You told him where I lived?’

  ‘Yes. It was that or get my face carved up. I’m sorry, Conrad, but that’s the way it was.’

  ‘How do you come to know someone like Cleary anyway?’ he asked, after a silence. ‘When you introduced him to me, you told me nothing about him, except that he was a friend.’

  ‘You didn’t ask any questions,’ she pointed out. ‘The man was telling you he represented a syndicate that made loans, and you didn’t ask him a single question. What did you think was going on?’

  ‘I needed the money,’ he replied weakly, ‘to stop you beating me up all the time.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘For a judge, Conrad, you are a very naïve man. Were you really just thinking about sex games like some frustrated 16-year-old? Didn’t you even ask yourself why I would know a man like Cleary? How do you think I know him?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘You seem to move in some exotic circles. I know there are people with criminal connections who like to spend their money in Mayfair. I assumed –’

  ‘I buy from him,’ she interrupted. ‘He’s my dealer, for God’s sake.’

  His jaw dropped.

  ‘Your dealer? But I’ve never seen you –’

  ‘Snort a line? In front of you?’ She laughed. ‘Conrad, give me some credit, please.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Look, you want to know the truth? OK. I’ll tell you the truth. I do cocaine, and Danny supplies me. I know who he is and what he does. I’ve always known. Shall I tell you how I know? Because I’ve been there. I’ve been where you are. I’ve been desperate for cocaine when I had no money to pay for what I’d already had. I know what it is to have Danny Ice threaten me, to lie in bed at night with the door locked, wondering whether he and his friends are outside waiting to break it down.’

  She closed her eyes briefly and shook her head.

  ‘So one night, I made a deal with him – because I had to; I had no choice.’

  ‘A deal?’

  ‘Yes. One night – after I’d let him into my flat before he could break the door down, as he was holding his hunting knife to my face, and explaining to me in great detail what was going to happen if I didn’t have his money in 24 hours – I made a deal with him.’

  ‘What kind of deal?’

  ‘The only kind I could make. I offered him the only thing I had to offer to a man like Cleary.’

  ‘Which would be what, exactly?’

  ‘I know men, Conrad – rich men, men with money to spend and expensive habits to spend it on. Some spend it on cocaine, and some spend it on chemin de fer, but they all have one thing in common. They all want to take me to bed, because I give them something they don’t get from their wives – excitement, adventure, real no-holds-barred sex. They all like their special treat, Conrad, and they all like to be punished severely if they let me down in my quest for excitement. So they spend their money with me, and at some point, they need a bridging loan; and as it happens, I know exactly where they can go to get it.’

  He put his glass down on the side table by the sofa.

  ‘You set Cleary up with clients?’

  ‘I make introductions; and in return, my supply is secure, and I don’t get my face carved up.’

  He stood slowly.

  ‘So I wasn’t the only man you were seeing?’

  She did not reply.

  ‘And that was all I was to you? Another client for Daniel Cleary?’

  She smiled.

  ‘No. Actually, that’s not all you were. I like you.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, really. Unlike most of the men I know, I can have an intelligent conversation with you. You are an interesting man to have dinner with. That’s more than I can say for most of them. Most gamblers are very boring people, Conrad. Haven’t you noticed? You’re different.’

  ‘That didn’t stop you setting me up.’

  ‘I didn’t set you up, Conrad. You did that all on your own. You’re not a child. You knew exactly what you were getting yourself into, you chose to get into it, and now you have to deal with it.’

  He nodded vigorously. His anger was rising.

  ‘You set me up. I’m just another of the men you sent Cleary’s way. Well, you had me fooled, Greta. I have to hand it to you. I thought there was something real between us.’

  His tone alarmed her. It was intense, menacing, and his face had turned a bright red. But how was any of this her fault? He was the one who had borrowed £20,000 from a loan shark.

  ‘There was… there is…’

  ‘Instead of which, you set me up with Cleary, and when it came time for me to pay up, you told him where to find me.’

  She felt her anger rising to meet his.

  ‘Don’t put this on me, Conrad,’ she replied defiantly. ‘You’re the one who screwed up. How much did you win tonight? Twenty? You had enough to pay Cleary off, didn’t you? You had it in the palm of your hand. Why didn’t you walk away?’

  ‘Why didn’t I…?’

  Why hadn’t he�
��? The mist began to descend again.

  ‘You could have had everything you needed. All you had to do was get up like a man, pass the bank to Dominick Elwes, and you were home free.’

  ‘With you sitting there?’

  She laughed scornfully.

  ‘Oh, so that’s my fault too? It’s my fault that you couldn’t walk away? What did you think I was going to do? Take a ping-pong bat to you right there in front of everyone in the Blue Room? Grow up, Conrad. You’re pathetic.’

  Even with the mist in his eyes, Conrad had some insight, some awareness of what he was doing. This is what it must have been like for Henry Lang, he thought: knowing that he was about to do something terrible, something beyond recall; knowing also that there was in a sense a choice about it, that in a different universe it would have been possible to step back, to take time to reflect; but knowing also that the choice was not humanly possible in the face of the tide of anger rushing to the surface and engulfing him. It was certain that he would act; just as it was certain, as soon as he had struck the blow and she had instantly crashed to the floor, that she was dead. The bust of Mozart he used to kill her had stood on the coffee table, within easy reach. It was an unusual piece, made of cast iron, which he and Deborah had found in some back-street antique shop during a visit to Vienna, years ago. It was heavy, and the single blow was always going to be enough. He could tell that from the sound it made when it struck her skull, and from the expression on her face when she fell.

  61

  He sat on the sofa for some time, staring blankly at her body, and found himself wondering to what extent the man who had just killed Greta Thiemann –could it be Henry Lang? – had had control of his actions, and to what extent his actions had been the result of the irresistible, engulfing power of the mist. He was watching the scene and the man, as a neutral, uninvolved observer: an outsider trying to penetrate the secrets of someone else’s free will; trying to analyse the problem presented; trying to follow a chain of reasoning – but losing track before he could arrive at a solution.

  Then he became aware, dimly, that he was losing each line of thought as soon as it came to him; he wondered whether there was something wrong with him. He tried to go back over it. Something was wrong, felt wrong. Was he tired? Did he need to sleep? Yes, he felt as though he could sleep forever, and for a moment that thought pleased him and he tried to give way to it. But there was another physical sensation, one that seemed familiar, not from recent experience, but from something he had heard at some time. But when, and where? He couldn’t quite place it, but forcing himself to concentrate with a massive effort as the shivers began to wrack his body, he remembered some words.

  Dr Moynihan also noted a severe reduction in body temperature. All of those symptoms are consistent with a diagnosis of trauma-induced shock. I should add that Sergeant Miller had also observed the low body temperature, and his reaction in dealing with it using blankets and then calling for medical help was highly commendable.

  That case he was trying. Henry Lang. The medical expert. What was his name? He couldn’t remember, but that wasn’t important. Blankets. Highly commendable. Just as his body began to shut down, he dragged himself desperately towards the bedroom, his legs feeling as though they were made of lead, every step like wading through mud. There were two thick blankets, one on the bed, one on a chair. He seized both and, struggling to make his hands cooperate with him, he wrapped them as tightly as he could around him. The warmth of the wool comforted him, and the walk back to the living room was slightly easier. His glass of whisky was still on the side table where he had left it. He picked up the bottle as he passed the fireplace on the way back to the sofa, and once he was seated, with shaking hands, he methodically poured and drank three glasses one after the other without pausing. The shock to his body felt massive. For several moments, his breathing almost gave way and he felt that his heart was about to explode. He sat still and waited, and gradually the feeling subsided, and some warmth began to return to his body.

  By the time his body and mind had recovered sufficiently to work together, and he had realised that he was not a neutral, uninvolved observer, and that he – not Henry Lang – had killed his lover, Greta Thiemann, it was almost 5 o’clock in the morning. At about the same time, he remembered that he was a judge, and that within a few hours, he was expected at the Old Bailey to continue the murder trial over which he was presiding; and he realised that he had recovered his capacity for abstract thought sufficiently to appreciate the irony of his situation. His body was exhausted. He wasn’t sure he could even stand, but when he tried, it worked, and though his movements were slow and painful, he was able to walk the few steps to where her body lay. She was definitely dead, and her expression remained just as it had been when she had crashed to the floor. The bust of Mozart was lying beside her. He picked him up and replaced him on the coffee table.

  Finally, approaching 6 o’clock, he felt strong enough to review his situation. Thoughts were coming to him thick and fast now: thoughts of having had almost £20,000 in his hands; thoughts of Greta being still alive. He fought to repress them. He had to concentrate on the matter in hand. He sat down and tried to force his brain to work.

  Who knew that Greta was here? No one. He didn’t remember bumping into any other residents when they entered the building and made their way up to his flat in the lift. Any number of people had seen them together at the Clermont Club, of course. Albert would have seen them leave together by taxi. But Albert wouldn’t know where the taxi had taken them: probably wouldn’t know, unless Greta (or he?) had told the driver the address as Albert was holding the taxi door open for them. He didn’t know whether that had happened or not; he had no recollection of anything after losing the final hand until they were almost at the flat. What time had it been when they left the Club? At least 12.30 to 1 o’clock: had to be; so they must have arrived somewhere between 1 and 1.30. The taxi driver could identify the building, but he didn’t know the flat number, and he couldn’t possibly know where Greta might have gone later, after he had dropped them off. So no one really knew anything, not for certain, which was good. He could easily come up with a scenario that had her leaving his flat in the early hours after they’d had a drink. So, the main problem was that her body was still there, lying on his floor, and there was a lot of blood. By the time he had forced these thoughts into an orderly sequence, it was after 7 o’clock. He stood to look at the body again.

  Looking more closely, he suddenly realised that she had collapsed on to a large rug, and that, although there was a lot of blood, it seemed to be confined to the rug, apart from a few splatters on a chair and the coffee table, and on Mozart, of course. He had no way of removing her body from the flat, and in any case, this wasn’t the time to try something like that, with the residents up and about, leaving for work, with cleaners and handymen arriving to service the building. But if he could keep her on the rug, he could put the body somewhere out of the way for now, until he could think of what to do with her; and if he wiped away the blood spatters, there would be nothing to show that anything had happened. In any case, he had no intention of letting anyone into the flat, and as long as he let no one come in, he should be able to control the situation long enough to find a way out. Because now, of course, that was the only realistic goal. He had to find a way out. Not even Aubrey could argue with that now.

  Just to the left of the front door there was a storage space where he kept his vacuum cleaner, his brooms, brushes and cleaning materials, two suitcases, and other odds and ends. He carefully lifted the coffee table and a chair off the rug to free it, and pulled it tentatively to see whether the body would remain in place when it was moved. To his relief, it did, although its weight was almost more than his exhausted frame could cope with. He opened the door of the storage space, pushed the cleaning materials and suitcases tightly against the walls, out of the way, and made sure there were no obstacles in his path. With luck, ther
e should be just enough room if he could arrange the body diagonally. Bending his knees slightly to ease the pain in his back, he began to pull the rug, inch by inch, towards the door. When he was about halfway there, the phone rang.

  He dropped the rug as his stomach tied itself in knots. It was 7.30. Surely no one had missed Greta yet? It wasn’t possible. But if somehow…? What could he say? What was his story? They had come back to the flat together from the Clermont Club; no point in trying to deny that. They had had a drink, then she had left. Why had she left? Why wouldn’t she stay? They had quarrelled; no, not that. She had said she had something to do early in the morning; but if so, why had she come all the way to the Barbican for a drink? The phone continued to ring. He had to answer. It would look suspicious if he didn’t. If he wasn’t at home at this time of the morning, someone might draw all kinds of conclusions. He dropped the end of the rug and walked to the telephone. He picked up the receiver.

  ‘Conrad?’ she asked.

  He had to test his voice to see if it still worked.

  ‘Yes… good morning, Deborah.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘It took you long enough to answer the phone. Are you all right? You sound a bit strange. Are you getting a cold?’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine. I was in the bathroom. I had to rush out when the phone rang. I’m a bit out of breath, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t want to keep you. I know you have to get ready for work,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got the builder coming round this morning to show me the plans for the new conservatory.’

  ‘Oh, yes… is that today? I’d…’

  ‘You don’t remember, do you? Of course you don’t. You never do. At times, it’s as though we’re living in different worlds.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Deborah, I’ve got this case, this trial…’

  ‘You’ve always got a case, Conrad. Anyway, look, I didn’t call just to argue with you. The point is, if I like the plans and we agree to go ahead, I’m going to have to give the man a deposit. I don’t know whether I can do that out of the bank account, or whether you want me to withdraw a couple of thousand from the trust fund.’