by Peter Murphy
‘I hope the reason I’m asking you to wait is obvious enough. If Conrad doesn’t pay the syndicate immediately, they will take action. He’s already received threats, and these people are very unpleasant. He will come to harm, probably serious harm. It’s not inconceivable that he may end up dead. In any case, the whole thing will probably become public and, once again, he will be facing bankruptcy and ruin. He can’t pay you all at the same time. The syndicate has to come first: that’s a matter of survival.’
‘How long do you think it will take him to pay off this so-called syndicate?’ Phillips asked.
Aubrey shrugged. ‘I wish I could give you an answer to that, Stephen, but I can’t. I don’t know the precise figures involved. If it’s just a question of making regular payments, perhaps six months. I can’t see it being less than six months, but then again, I don’t know how much time the syndicate will give him. He can’t control that.
‘What I do ask you to accept is that he deeply regrets what he has done, and that he wants to make things right.’
‘He wants to avoid the consequences, more like,’ Reilly said.
‘Those two goals are not incompatible,’ Aubrey replied.
‘We can’t give you an answer now,’ Phillips said, after some time. ‘This is something we will have to discuss and think about carefully. Apart from anything else, it has repercussions for chambers. We will have to tell the solicitors concerned what has happened – hopefully before they find out for themselves – and it could do a good deal of harm to our reputation.’
‘I understand that, Stephen,’ Aubrey said. ‘But the best news you can give the solicitors is that you are on top of the situation and that you are taking steps to bring it under control, to make sure such a thing never happens again.’
‘How does it help Conrad, even if we agree to this?’ Cohn asked. ‘We can’t avoid telling the solicitors who it was that stole from us and, even if we could, they could easily find out for themselves. So it’s all going to become public anyway.’
Weatherall nodded. ‘I agree. It can’t remain a secret.’
‘I disagree,’ Aubrey replied. ‘Any experienced clerk can explain what happened as an accounting error. Members of chambers often write each other cheques, or endorse cheques to each other, for work done on a case, and there’s nothing surprising about Conrad continuing to receive fees for work he did before he became a judge. It can be done. The question is whether you are willing to do it.’
Phillips was nodding.
‘If this becomes public,’ Aubrey added, ‘it won’t be good for your chambers, any more than it will for Conrad.’
‘We will think about it and let you know,’ Phillips said.
‘Thank you,’ Aubrey said. ‘There’s one more thing. I don’t have a lot of time. The syndicate is going to come calling any day now. I don’t know how long Conrad can hold them off. Any delay at all, and it may be too late.’
Phillips sighed deeply.
‘How late will you be in chambers tonight?’ he asked.
‘As late as necessary,’ Aubrey replied.
80
When Aubrey called, just after 9.30, Conrad Rainer was in his kitchen. Nothing had changed. He had not yet brought himself to clean up the blood spatters, and Greta Thiemann’s body was still in his storage area, competing for space with the vacuum cleaner and the brooms. He had once again fortified his front door using his sofa and coffee table. To his relief, he had seen no sign of anyone taking an interest in him on the way home from the Old Bailey, and tonight he had at least made arrangements for food. At lunchtime, when his court reporter had gone out for her sandwich, he had pressed money into her hand and asked her to buy one for him, plus a packet of crisps. He had lunched in the judges’ mess, so a light supper would do him no harm, and he still had a small supply of chocolate biscuits. No one had tried to force their way into his flat, and he felt more composed than he had the previous evening as he sat nursing his glass of whisky.
All the same, something had to be done. He knew that. He had called Gerry Pole and they had had a lengthy conversation. Now, all that remained was to finish the trial of Henry Lang.
‘Conrad,’ Aubrey began, ‘how are you? How are things going?’
‘Oh, bearing up, Aubrey, bearing up.’
‘Has there been any sign of…?’
‘Cleary? No, none at all.’
‘Good, good.’
There was a silence.
‘Conrad, I need to talk to you. I saw the three members of your chambers this afternoon, and we need to talk about it.’
Conrad felt his stomach muscles tighten and tried to relax.
‘How did it go?’ he asked.
‘Not over the phone, Conrad. I need to see you in person.’
He closed his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to leave the sanctuary of his flat at night, to expose himself in the darkness, without a rush-hour crowd to provide him with cover.
‘Does it have to be tonight?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s just that I hadn’t planned on going out again tonight, Aubrey. I’m not properly dressed and…’
‘I can come to you if you prefer,’ Aubrey suggested.
His heart skipped a beat.
‘No. No.’
‘It’s no problem.’
‘No. I’ll meet you somewhere… let’s go to… to the Club.’
‘Yes. Yes, all right, if you prefer the Club.’
‘I’ll get a taxi; say about 40 to 45 minutes?’
‘See you then,’ Aubrey replied.
Conrad dressed hurriedly, and wrapped himself in a raincoat with a silk scarf over his mouth. He added an old trilby hat, pulled down over his eyes. He was nervous about standing still on the kerb, making an easy target of himself, but if he was to flag down a taxi he had no choice. Mercifully, he was able to hail one almost immediately. He looked around him as the driver sped away from his building. He saw nothing suspicious, but that did little to calm his nerves.
Dinner had ended and the Club was quiet. Luke was prowling around an empty lounge, and seemed relieved to have something to do when he brought their drinks, fussing unnecessarily about cleaning their table, and making sure they had mats and a clean ashtray. Aubrey had to encourage him gently to leave them alone.
‘As I said, Conrad, I spoke to Frank, Jonathan and Martin this afternoon,’ he said. ‘Stephen was there as head of chambers. There was nothing I could do about that, but I doubt it made any difference. I gave them details of the cheques, and explained the situation you were in with Daniel Cleary – I didn’t use names, of course, but I painted the picture – and I explained why you had to deal with Cleary before you could pay them back. They listened politely, and they told me that they would have to discuss it and get back to me. I waited in chambers, and they called just after 9.15.’
He paused.
‘And…?’
Aubrey shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Conrad. In a nutshell: it’s too much money; it’s too great a breach of trust; and most of all, it’s too much of a gamble with the reputation of chambers if they’re seen to condone serious criminal offences to get their money back. They’re not going for it. It was a reasonable strategy, but it didn’t work. I’m sorry.’
Conrad nodded. He felt winded. He lit another cigarette and took a drink of his whisky.
‘Not your fault, old boy. You tried, and I’m grateful to you.’
He was silent, smoking and inhaling deeply, for some time.
‘So, what now?’
‘It’s likely that they will go to the police first thing tomorrow,’ Aubrey replied. ‘They have no reason to delay, especially as they’re so worried about their reputation.’
He paused awkwardly.
‘Conrad, as I said before, there are some things I can’t know�
��’
‘Understood.’
‘But if you were, unbeknownst to me, contemplating any evasive action, you would have to do it tomorrow. If you leave it any longer, you may be too late. Stephen will give the police more than enough evidence to arrest you – certainly more than enough to take you in for questioning – and once that happens, everything falls apart.’
Conrad nodded.
‘I can’t do anything tomorrow.’
Aubrey stared at him. ‘Why on earth not? Don’t you understand what I’m saying to you?’
‘Yes, I understand perfectly well. But I have a trial to finish, the trial of Henry Lang.’
Aubrey laughed out loud.
‘Conrad, I hardly think the trial of Henry Lang is the most important thing here…’
‘We’ve already had the prosecution speech. It will finish some time tomorrow.’
‘It’s still too much of a risk.’
‘It’s a risk I have to take.’
Aubrey stared again.
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘I know how ridiculous this is going to sound, Aubrey, after all I’ve told you about myself recently. But the fact is: I haven’t lost all my professional pride. I’m a judge. I want to do what I took an oath to do. I want to do justice to Henry Lang, to make sure he gets a fair trial. Amid all the wreckage my life has been reduced to – entirely through my own fault – that’s the one thing I still have left to cling on to. If I can prevent any injustice to Henry Lang, at least I will have done something useful in the short time I have left as a judge.’
‘There will be no injustice, Conrad,’ Aubrey insisted. ‘Lang will be tried again before another judge, that’s all. It happens all the time.’
‘A retrial is not the same animal as a first trial, Aubrey. You know that as well as I do; and another judge won’t understand the case in the same way I understand it.’
‘Why does that matter? You’re not deciding Lang’s guilt or innocence. He is being tried by a jury.’
‘A jury directed by a judge. In this case, the judge’s summing-up will make a difference.’
Aubrey was shaking his head, frustrated. Conrad smiled.
‘Aubrey, Henry Lang and I have a lot in common.’
‘I seriously doubt that.’
‘No, really, we do. For one thing, we’ve both been victims of Daniel Cleary, and in a strange way our lives have been running on parallel lines, both of us lurching from crisis to crisis. We have both called down the storm on to our heads, and now it has arrived, and it’s about to obliterate us both. But there is one difference, one chance of salvation: I’m lost; no one can give me any shelter from the storm – not now – but I may just be able to shelter Lang and pull him to safety.’
Aubrey did not speak for some time.
‘You won’t be able to do that if they arrest you tomorrow morning,’ he said, in due course.
Conrad smiled again.
‘The police don’t arrest people just because someone makes a complaint: especially in my case. One of the advantages of being a High Court judge is that I enjoy a heightened presumption of innocence. They will think very carefully before they come after me. They won’t make a move without consulting the Director of Public Prosecutions, and the Director won’t make a move without an opinion from Treasury Counsel, and they are going to dot all the Is and cross all the Ts. That’s not going to happen overnight, is it? I don’t think I will have any problem finishing the trial.’
He took a deep drink.
‘And after that…’
‘And after that…?’ Aubrey asked.
‘You can’t know what happens after that.’
81
As Conrad walked down the stairs leading from the entrance to the Club, a taxi approached. He hailed it. He climbed into the back seat, and sat silently for several seconds.
‘Where to, guv?’ the driver asked cheerfully.
He looked at his watch. It was nearing midnight. He was on the brink of calling out his home address, when he stopped himself.
‘The Clermont Club, 44 Berkeley Square.’
‘Right you are, guv,’ the driver replied, checking his side mirror as he pulled away from the kerb.
The drive was a short one, and within a few minutes, Conrad was walking hurriedly, compulsively, upstairs, to the cash desk. Vicente greeted him politely, but Conrad noticed a hesitation in his manner. He produced all he had left –£250 in crumpled notes – and laid them on the desk. Vicente looked at the notes, but did not pick them up.
‘Could you give me one moment, Sir Conrad?’ Vicente asked. ‘I’ll be right back.’
He left the cash desk and disappeared to Conrad’s right into the Holland Room. A moment or two later, John Aspinall appeared from the same room.
‘Conrad,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘They told me you were here. How are you?’
‘I’m well, John, thank you. I’ve been at my Club. I’m not quite ready to go home, and I thought I’d call in and play a few hands.’
Aspinall nodded.
‘Actually, Conrad, there’s a bit of a problem with that.’
‘A problem? What do you mean…?’
Aspinall took him by the arm.
‘Not here. Come to my office.’
Together they climbed the short, but steep staircase behind the cash desk, which led to the top floor of the Club.
‘Only exercise I get these days,’ Aspinall smiled. ‘Still, better than nothing, I suppose.’
He opened the door to the office, and ushered Conrad inside. The place was a mess, with papers lying haphazardly on the desk, chairs, the floor and every other available space, and a glossy calendar from a Soho Chinese Restaurant hanging crookedly from a hook on the wall. A croupier Conrad did not recognise was seated at the desk. Aspinall dismissed him with a single shake of the head. He wished Conrad good evening, and left the room. Aspinall waved Conrad into a chair.
‘Throw the papers on the floor,’ he said. ‘God knows, it won’t make any difference. How anyone ever gets any work done here, I’ll never know.’
Once seated, Aspinall drew himself up and folded his arms in front of him.
‘We’re concerned, Conrad,’ he said. ‘You lost a lot of money the other night.’
Seeing that Conrad was about to reply, he held up a hand.
‘No, let me finish. I have to tell you, we’ve had doubts for some time. I’ve never asked you for a deposit, Conrad. It’s something I don’t like to do. But as you know, we don’t extend credit. The Club depends on members being good for their losses. Our reputation depends on it, as does our own solvency, for that matter. I’m afraid we’re not convinced that you would be able to cover any further losses.’
‘John, look –’
‘I’m sorry, Conrad. It wouldn’t be fair to us, or the other members. I’m afraid I’ve decided that you can’t play here again unless you make a substantial cash deposit as a reserve. Shall we say £30,000? And you wouldn’t be allowed to place wagers that would take you below that limit if you lose. If that’s not a problem, then we will always be glad to see you. But otherwise, I must draw the line. I’m sorry, Conrad.’
Conrad stared at him for some time. He nodded.
‘All right, John,’ he replied quietly. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway.’
Aspinall stood.
‘Look, take a taxi home on us. Vicente will give you enough.’
‘No, thank you, John,’ Conrad replied. ‘I can find my own way.’
82
Friday 8 October 1971
‘Members of the jury,’ Ben began, ‘my learned friend Mr Pilkington gave you four reasons for returning a verdict of guilty of murder. I want to give you four reasons for returning a verdict of guilty of manslaughter by reason of provocation. And unlike Mr Pilkington, I don’t have to
prove my side of the case. The prosecution has the burden of proof, and unless you are sure they have proved that Henry Lang is guilty of murder, you must return a verdict of manslaughter. The learned judge will explain that to you when he sums up.
‘My four reasons are these. First, Henry Lang had no reason to kill his wife. Second, Henry Lang certainly had no reason to kill his wife outside Mrs Cameron’s house on 28 April. Third, Henry Lang’s explanation for taking the knife with him to Mrs Cameron’s house is not only credible, but is supported by independent evidence. Fourth and last, Henry Lang’s account of what happened at Harpur Mews on 28 April is also credible, and is supported by independent evidence.
‘First, he had no reason to kill Susan Lang. The very fact that he was the one who began divorce proceedings and made an application for custody of the children speaks for itself. If he intended to kill her, why would he do that? Why not just get on with it and kill her? Yes, Mr Justice Wesley had given interim custody to Susan, but it was interim custody, and the judge had made it clear that things could change at the final hearing. They would have changed, wouldn’t they, almost certainly, you may think? Since the first hearing, Henry had built up a convincing case that Susan was drinking too much, taking drugs, and associating with criminals like Daniel Cleary. Her own friend, Louise, told Henry as much, didn’t she? Henry had every reason to think that he would be awarded custody once word of that reached Mr Justice Wesley, or even Mrs Cameron. And if he did try to kill her, what if something went wrong? What if he was arrested for it? Members of the jury, trying to kill Susan might have been the only way he could actually lose custody of his children.
‘Second, he certainly had no reason to kill Susan Lang at Harpur Mews on 28 April. Let’s assume for a moment that Henry had decided to kill Susan. Would he do it on a public street, outside the house of the court welfare officer, just after a meeting with her, just around the corner from a police station? If anything went wrong, if she screamed, or escaped, or survived the attempt, it would have been over for him, wouldn’t it? Surely, members of the jury, a man who, according to the prosecution, was so intent on killing his wife would choose a better time and place. He knew where she lived, didn’t he? He knew she came home late at night. You may think she would have been easy prey for anyone really determined to kill her.