by Peter Murphy
It was 11 o’clock at night before Geoffrey, somehow managing to look pristine in his gown, dark suit and white shirt despite the lateness of the hour, made the rounds and told everyone that the jury was ready to return a verdict.
Ben glanced round as Henry was brought into the dock by the prison officers, and offered a smile, but Henry was looking down, as ever, and did not respond. When Mr Justice Rainer had taken his seat, the jury were brought in. They looked exhausted, the men with ties hanging loosely around their necks, their faces suggesting that the verdict had not been agreed without a hard-fought, if not angry, debate. Juror number ten, a woman, looked displeased. The clerk, without undue haste, picked up the indictment and turned to the judge.
‘My Lord, 11 hours and 20 minutes have elapsed since the jury retired.’
The judge nodded. The clerk turned towards the dock.
‘Will the defendant please stand?’
Henry complied slowly.
The foreman turned to the jury.
‘Members of the jury, who shall speak as your foreman?’
The foreman sat nearest to the bench in the front row. He was a short rotund man, his shirt crumpled and his hair out of place. He stood. He was holding a folded sheet of paper in his hand.
‘Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?’
‘Yes,’ the foreman replied, with a nervous look around him.
‘On this indictment, charging the defendant Henry Lang with the wilful murder of Susan Lang, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of murder?’
The foreman raised his sheet of paper to eye level, unfolded it, and having glanced around him again, read aloud from it.
‘We find the defendant Henry Lang not guilty of murder, but guilty of manslaughter by reason of provocation,’ he said.
‘Well done,’ Ben heard Andrew whisper. He nodded in return.
‘You find the defendant not guilty of murder, but guilty of manslaughter by reason of provocation; and is that the verdict of you all?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you, members of the jury,’ Mr Justice Rainer said. ‘It’s obvious from the length of time for which you have been out that you have given this case the greatest possible care, and I wish to say that I agree entirely with the verdict you have returned.’
He looked down at Ben.
‘Mr Schroeder, it appears to me that the usual sentence in a case of this kind is of the order of four years imprisonment. In this particular case, with its unusual circumstances, it is my view that a sentence of two and a half years would amply meet the justice of the case. Would you wish to address me?’
Ben gasped. This would be an extraordinarily light sentence for taking a life under any circumstances.
‘No, my Lord,’ he replied quietly.
‘Very well.’
The judge looked towards the dock, where Henry remained standing, expressionless, still looking down.
‘Mr Lang, the jury have found by their verdict that you killed your wife, Susan Lang, when you had temporarily lost your self-control because of a remark she made questioning the paternity of your children. I cannot and do not condone what you did, but I do understand it. I am also convinced, even though I have no means of knowing what view the jury took, that Daniel Cleary played a crucial role in your decision to carry a knife with you on that fateful day. Again, I cannot and do not condone what you did, but I understand it.
‘You are a man of previous excellent character, and I do not think for a moment that you will ever trouble the courts again. In the circumstances, I think it right to impose a sentence which some may think to be lenient, but I do so because it seems to me to meet the justice of this tragic case. You will go to prison for two and a half years. The time you have spent in custody awaiting trial will be deducted from the sentence, and you will be eligible for release when you have served two thirds of the sentence. You may go down.’
Andrew turned to DI Webb who was sitting behind him, and they both shook their heads.
As the prison officers led Henry from the court, the judge turned back towards the jury.
‘Members of the jury, I’m sure that this must have been a very distressing case for you. But you should understand that unless men and women such as yourselves give us your time for this vital work, the criminal courts could not function. In recognition of your service, I will discharge you from further jury service for a period of ten years.’
He suddenly looked down to counsel’s row.
‘I have the power to do that, don’t I, Mr Pilkington?’
Andrew could not help smiling.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘I see Detective Inspector Webb in court. Inspector Webb, would you stand, please? The jury and I heard the evidence of the conduct of the police officers who attended the scene under your command, and it is my opinion that you all showed bravery of a high order. I shall be writing to the Commissioner of Metropolitan Police with my recommendation that each of you should be highly commended for your courage. You also have the thanks of the court.’
Webb bowed his head. ‘Thank you, my Lord.’
As the judge rose and the courtroom began to clear, Barratt leaned forward and slapped Ben on the shoulder.
‘Brilliant result,’ he said. ‘Absolutely bloody brilliant.’
Ben smiled and took Jess’s hand. She squeezed hard.
‘I suppose we should go down to see Henry,’ Barratt said, ‘late though it is. What are you two going to do when you get home? Do you have plans for the weekend?’
‘Sleep until Monday morning,’ Jess replied, smiling. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh, Suzie and I will have our usual late-night verdict session.’
‘I’m not sure I dare ask,’ Ben laughed.
‘Soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, with a bottle of Beaujolais,’ Barratt replied. ‘A long-standing tradition.’
Outside court, DI Webb shook hands with Andrew, who took his leave. DS Phil Raymond was waiting for Webb, wearing a suit and tie, and looking none too pleased about it.
‘You do know it’s almost midnight on a Friday night, sir, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘Not to mention that I’ve been here since 2 o’clock?’
‘Yes, I know, Phil,’ Webb replied. ‘I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t my idea, believe me. Mr Assistant bloody Commissioner Lawton said he wanted Rainer interviewed as soon as possible, so I thought I’d better have you here. No one thought the jury would be out as long as they were. I mean, it was Friday afternoon and they all have homes to go to, don’t they? I was expecting to have Rainer all to ourselves by 5 o’clock at the latest.’
Raymond nodded.
‘So, what do you want to do, sir? Go into his chambers and nab him now, before he goes home?’
‘No,’ Webb replied. ‘He looks absolutely exhausted. If we interview him now, whatever he says won’t be much use in court. The defence would have a field day slagging us off for interviewing a man who looks like he’s about to drop dead from fatigue. To be honest, I’m not much better myself. My brain’s about to shut down for the day.’
‘Mr Assistant Commissioner Lawton’s not going to like it, sir.’
‘Mr Assistant Commissioner Lawton isn’t here, is he? He’s probably fast asleep in bed, sleeping the sleep of the righteous. And he’s not going to be the one having his head kicked in by defence counsel if Rainer is charged and it comes to trial, is he?’
He pondered for a few moments.
‘All right, this is what we do. Meet me at Rainer’s building at 8 o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll contact the management there and tell them about the warrant, so we can make sure of getting access. Bring uniform with you to help with the search. We’ll have it all wrapped up in time for lunch.’
86
Saturday 9 October 1971
&
nbsp; Mr Ensley, the managing director of the property management company responsible for the building containing Conrad Rainer’s flat, met DI Webb and DS Raymond, and the two uniformed constables they had brought with them, at the front door just before 8 o’clock. Webb showed him the search warrant. He admitted them reluctantly, shaking his head and muttering to himself, but escorted them to the lift. He continued to talk to himself under his breath as they rode, otherwise in silence, up to the fourth floor.
‘I don’t know about this, Inspector,’ he said as they arrived at the flat. ‘I don’t know about this at all. This is the Barbican, you know. We don’t expect this sort of thing – not with the class of tenant we have here.’
Webb and Raymond exchanged tired smiles.
‘We’ll behave ourselves, sir,’ Webb promised. ‘We’ll be nice and quiet. We just need to have a chat with Sir Conrad about one or two things; shouldn’t take long.’
‘Police! Open up, Sir Conrad, please!’ Raymond called out, banging loudly several times on the door.
There was no response. He tried again, with the same result. Suddenly, he bent down and put his head against the door. He pulled away and turned to Webb.
‘There’s a bit of a funny smell, sir.’
Webb swore under his breath.
‘Open the door,’ he ordered Ensley brusquely. ‘Now.’ His tone of voice made clear that he expected to be obeyed, without any further references to this sort of thing not happening in the Barbican.
Ensley complied and stepped back. Raymond entered first. The source of the smell was immediately obvious. Gingerly he opened the door of the storage area. He recoiled violently.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he spluttered hoarsely. He turned away abruptly, pulled out a handkerchief to hold over his mouth, and leaned against the wall by the door, fighting for breath.
Webb gestured to the two constables with a nod of his head. They entered the flat. Raymond had left the door of the storage area open, and they had a clear view of what was inside. The younger of the two constables turned pale and walked slowly back out into the corridor. Ensley was hovering by the door, trying his best to catch a glimpse of what they had found. Webb pushed him away.
‘Please go back downstairs, Mr Ensley, and keep the front door unlocked. Some colleagues will be joining us.’
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘Please do as I say, sir.’
Ensley walked away towards the lift, shaking his head.
Webb looked around him. He took in the haphazard arrangement of the furniture, a sofa and a table obviously out of place and at unnatural angles to the other furniture. He registered the blood stains on the floor, the sofa, and on the bust of Mozart.
‘You all right, Phil?’
Raymond turned back from the wall and put the handkerchief back in his pocket. He nodded.
‘I’ll be fine, sir.’
The younger constable had not returned. Webb turned to the older officer.
‘Take a quick walk through the flat, just to make sure there’s no one here. Keep your eyes open for evidence, and stay away from the area in the middle there, where the blood stains are. Call me if you find anything.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Phil, you’d better borrow the phone and get the pathologist and the scenes of crime officers here.’
‘I thought this was supposed to be a theft case,’ Raymond complained.
‘So did I,’ Webb replied.
Treading as lightly as he could, doing his utmost not to step on anything that might interest the scenes of crime officers, Raymond made his way to the small circular table on which Conrad Rainer kept his phone, and dialled a number. He began to talk quietly. Webb forced himself to look more closely at the body of Greta Thiemann and noted the wound on her head. He looked again at the bust of Mozart.
‘Interesting choice of weapon,’ he mused to himself. ‘He couldn’t do it with a candlestick or a bottle, could he? Couldn’t have that kind of vulgarity, could we, Mr Ensley? Not in the Barbican.’
The older constable returned, shaking his head.
‘Nothing, sir, except a big pile of clothes on the bed, and all the drawers open. It looks as if he may have packed and left in a hurry.’
‘He killed her and ran,’ Raymond said. He had finished on the phone. ‘But who is she, and what’s she got to do with stealing cheques from barristers?’
Webb shook his head.
‘He didn’t kill her last night, Phil. We don’t need the pathologist to tell us that, do we? Just look at her. She’s been dead for some time.’
He looked around him again.
‘Get on the phone again and put out an alert to all ports and airports. Rainer is to be apprehended on sight on suspicion of murder.’
Raymond nodded.
‘I can’t help thinking… you know, sir, last night… if we’d.’
Webb pointed a finger at him.
‘Don’t say a word,’ he ordered. ‘Not a bloody word.’
87
Monday 11 October 1971
Aubrey Smith-Gurney passed the clerk’s room with no more than a quick wave to Merlin, and made his way hurriedly to his room. It was not yet 9 o’clock. He took off his coat and hung it up on the stand by his door. He sat down behind his desk and took his copy of The Times from his briefcase. The headlines in all the morning newspapers dealt with the same sensational story, and they had grabbed his attention like a slap in the face when he emerged from Temple underground station and approached the nearby news stand. He had almost torn The Times from the vendor’s hand, flinging the coins into the man’s palm, before virtually running to chambers and racing up the staircase. His heart was pounding. He forced himself to breathe more slowly and tried to make his mind focus on the article on the paper’s front page.
TOP JUDGE MISSING AS WOMAN’S BODY IS FOUND IN HIS FLAT
Police make gruesome discovery in the Barbican
One of the country’s leading judges is believed to have disappeared in mysterious circumstances, leaving the body of a woman in his expensive Barbican flat. High Court Judge Sir Conrad Rainer has not been seen since Friday night, and was not at his flat when police visited it on Saturday morning and discovered the body of a woman. The woman appeared to have been dead for several days. A police spokeswoman told The Times that the body has not yet been formally identified, but is believed to be that of Greta Thiemann, 35, a citizen of the German Democratic Republic who had lived in London for more than seven years, and was a West End socialite with no known employment. The cause of her death has not yet been established, but the spokeswoman said that the case is being treated as one of murder.
Sir Conrad was last seen by court staff leaving the Old Bailey after 11 o’clock on Friday night, after a jury had returned a verdict in the murder case he had tried during the week. Staff said that the judge appeared to be behaving normally when he left the court, apparently to return to his flat in the Barbican. Sir Conrad, who is 55, was a highly respected QC with an extensive commercial practice before being appointed a High Court judge in May of this year. He was knighted on his appointment to the bench.
Police believe that the judge may be able to help them with their inquiries, and are anxious to talk to him, but despite extensive investigation over the weekend, their efforts to find him have so far been unsuccessful. The judge’s wife, Lady Rainer, told police that she had expected him to return to their home in Guildford on Friday night, but that he never arrived. Lady Rainer has not heard from her husband, and has not seen him for more than a week. According to the police spokeswoman, Lady Rainer confirmed that Sir Conrad had a supply of clothing and personal effects at his Barbican flat, and that he had his passport and driving licence in his possession.
At a hastily-convened press conference on Sunday morning, the officer in charge of the investigation, Detective Inspector
John Webb, appealed to the judge to report to the nearest police station. ‘We are concerned for Sir Conrad’s safety,’ Inspector Webb told reporters, ‘as is his wife. Lady Rainer is particularly distressed and anxious for any news of her husband. We are asking Sir Conrad to contact us immediately, and we are asking any members of the public who may have any knowledge of his whereabouts to contact their nearest police station without delay. In particular, we believe that Sir Conrad had a few close friends in the legal fraternity in London, and we would be very pleased to hear from them.’
Answering a question from the Times correspondent, Inspector Webb said that the police visit to the judge’s Barbican flat on Saturday morning was in connection with other matters, and that there is presently no evidence that those matters have any connection with the murder of Greta Thiemann. ‘The discovery of her body was a complete surprise,’ Inspector Webb said. ‘We don’t know of any link to the other matters we are investigating, but obviously, that may change as the investigation continues.’
Aubrey threw the newspaper down on his desk and stared at the far wall. He could not even begin to sort out the flood of different emotions flowing through him, but they certainly included fear, anger, and a sense of betrayal. He knew too much. He had allowed Conrad to tell him too much, believing that he had appealed for his help. He knew, even if the police didn’t, who Greta Thiemann was, and what part she had played in Conrad Rainer’s life. He also knew – or thought he knew – all about the ‘other matters’ into which the police were inquiring, and he knew that it would not take them long to identify him as one of the close friends Conrad had in the ‘legal fraternity’ in London.
He didn’t know how or why Greta Thiemann had died, and he didn’t know where Conrad Rainer had gone: although that was only a partial truth. The way out that Conrad had chosen was, as they had agreed, something he couldn’t know. But he had every reason to believe that Conrad’s route would have included the Isle of Wight. If he was honest with himself, he had helped to set it up; and now it had linked him to a murder.