by Roy Lewis
‘Let’s just say Sharon and I enjoy each other’s company,’ Eric had insisted to Anne. ‘And leave it there.’
She had had the good sense to do so.
The present brief, of course, had not come from the official sources that had been developing ever since his involvement with the Anubis affair: Guardian of the Dead, he thought grimly, an apposite name, given the circumstances of the case that had led to several deaths. But one of the results of that affair had been a flow of briefs for prosecutions: he had reached a certain tacit agreement with the Home Office. His discretion and silence were assured by their becoming a client of his.
This case had come out of the blue. On this occasion he was acting for the defence, and he had had no hesitation in briefing Sharon Owen to act on behalf of Raymond Conroy.
He and Sharon had discussed the matter at some length over dinner at a restaurant overlooking the Tyne. From where they sat they were able to see the gleaming outline of The Sage Centre and the Millennium Bridge. The floating nightclub located on board the Tuxedo Princess had now left the river, the boat having sailed to a new home in Greece, but lights still gleamed along the quayside, gaudily lit pleasure boats sliding downriver to the mouth of the Tyne. The river had swirled blackly below them, glittering balefully in the full moon, as he and Sharon had talked.
‘I have to admit, I have reservations about taking this defence brief,’ Sharon had said quietly. He could detect the anxiety in her tone and see it in her eyes.
‘The nature of the case, you mean. I understand. But we’re officers of the court,’ Eric had reminded her. ‘In situations like this we … or you at least … have little choice but to agree to act.’
She shook her golden head. ‘I know we barristers have an obligation to act for a client whether we like it or not, but I have to admit this one leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I’m not exactly looking forward to meeting this individual.’ She grimaced, glancing doubtfully at Eric. ‘I would have expected this case to have been heard in the Midlands. It was a surprise when it was scheduled for Newcastle.’
Eric shrugged. ‘You can see the reasons for it.’
‘Too much local publicity? Prejudice?’ She grimaced. ‘It’s usually the defence who raise that as an issue and ask that the trial be moved to a court outside the immediate area.’
Eric nodded. ‘That’s right. Usually on the grounds that local feeling is running too high and it would be difficult to empanel a jury who would not be biased.’
‘Precisely. But in this case it’s the prosecution who made the request to the Lord Chancellor. It’s unusual.’
Eric picked up his wine glass, stared into the twinkling red of the liquid and grimaced thoughtfully. ‘Yes … I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve got this suspicion that they’re worried. Fine, they’ve got the CPS go ahead to agree that the prosecution could be brought but I wonder whether they really believe the case against Conroy is all that strong. It’s circumstantial, of course—’
‘Nothing wrong with that.’
‘I agree. But I’ve spoken at length with Conroy, and he’s raised some doubts about motives, and actions, and the evidence they’re going to bring, well … if you agree to take the case you’ll see it raises certain problems for the prosecution. I think they’ve acted precipitately.’
‘You might be right. Anyway, you want me at least to talk to Conroy,’ Sharon said soberly.
‘If you’re going to take the case, you’ll need to see him.’
She sighed. ‘As you say, I don’t have much choice since I’ve no excuse to offer by way of pressure of work. And the seniors in my chambers are more than happy to leave it to me. In fact, I have the distinct impression most of them don’t want to touch this particular piece of business. I have to admit I’m reluctant because of the details that have already emerged in the press, after the preliminary hearing. As far as I’ve already read in the newspapers, the facts are pretty grisly, and if this is the guy who committed these horrific murders—’
‘The prosecution have yet to persuade a jury of that,’ Eric reminded her.
She glanced out of the window at the dark river and nodded in resignation. ‘I know. Well, better fix it up, Eric.’ She shook herself and smiled at him. ‘Now … I think we ought to concentrate on enjoying our dinner.’
Raymond Conroy.
Eric glanced at the man in the dock. Conroy had dressed as he had been advised by his lawyers, in a well-cut, sober, dark grey business suit, white shirt, neat tie. His short black hair had been recently trimmed, black curls thinning at the crown of the head. He had grey eyes, heavy lidded under arched, clearly defined eyebrows, and a soft-lipped, sensuous mouth. His features were lean, slightly hollow-cheeked, his nose thin and straight, his cheekbones prominent. Overall it was a handsome face and yet there was something unmade about it. Eric was left with the impression that something was missing in the man’s appearance. It was difficult to be precise but perhaps it was in some strange way a lack of humanity: there was a coldness about his appearance, an arrogant detachment as though he was divorced from his surroundings, watching what was happening around him with a cool distancing, an indifference not only to what was happening in the courtroom but to life in general. He was an unmoved, uninvolved observer – or at least gave the impression of being so.
There had been the same kind of cold indifference on Conroy’s part when Eric had interviewed him with Sharon Owen in the holding room at Durham Prison.
The two lawyers had sat facing the accused man for almost two minutes, saying nothing. Conroy had sat there in his standard prison uniform, arms folded over his lean chest, his breathing apparently well under control, a vagueness about his glance as he waited for Sharon Owen to speak. She had stared at him, watching him, studying him, weighing him up. He seemed unmoved. Eric felt the unease in her, aware that she was trying hard to control her tone, so that her own personal prejudices were not displayed. At last, she murmured, ‘Mr Conroy.’
It was as though she had flicked a switch: he blinked, he smiled, he leaned forward. ‘You can call me Raymond.’ His voice was well modulated, quiet, reserved but friendly in a surreal way. ‘Please do.’
‘Mr Conroy,’ Sharon repeated firmly, ‘you are accused of the murder of three women in the Birmingham and King’s Heath area: Jean Capaldi, Dorothy Chance and Irene Dixon.’
Raymond Conroy smiled lazily. ‘Charges to which I pleaded not guilty when arraigned at the magistrates court.’
Conroy’s eyes seemed carelessly unfocused, but his tone was deep, lacked strain, and underlined the confidence he displayed in his bearing.
‘The details of these crimes are of a particularly horrifying nature,’ Sharon went on coldly. ‘They involve torture, mutilation and strangulation. You are aware of these details?’
Raymond Conroy twitched his nostrils in distaste and raised his head. He shrugged indifferently. ‘Isn’t everyone? We all read the newspapers, watch television. The gutter press have had a field day. What do they call the man who did these things? The Zodiac Killer. A cheap sensationalism. Even the more respectable newspapers have run leading articles. Oh, yes, I’ve read the details … at least those which have been stated in the media. Torture, the carving of what the newspapers have described as esoteric designs on the breasts of these unfortunate women, final strangulation.’
‘No rape,’ Sharon said quietly.
‘As you say.’ In the short silence that followed he held her gaze, his grey eyes betraying nothing. ‘Not what one might call a normal sexual motive, then. If rape can be regarded as a normal activity in the human male. The curious thing is, so many women have written to me since I was arrested. Offering sympathy. And other things. Even marriage. Odd, isn’t it? I wonder what motivates them to wish to form a relationship with me.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Rather ghoulish, don’t you think? But apparently not unusual. The fact that I might be the killer, or not, seems to make little difference.’
Sharon shuffled uneasily on her cha
ir. ‘What are your personal views about these killings?’
Raymond Conroy’s eyes were glazed and icy. He lifted one shoulder in a deprecating gesture. ‘Do I need to have any? I have no particular feelings about them. They don’t affect me. I never made the acquaintance of any of these unfortunate women.’
‘But you’re charged with the murders.’
He nodded, a mock-serious frown appearing on his brow. ‘Yes, I have been charged, but it’s clear I’ve been set up – framed as our American cousins would say – to hide what can only be described as police incompetence. The police have to find someone, don’t they? It’s been over a year since the first murder was perpetrated. They’ve been under considerable pressure. The media have been on their backs. There have been questions asked in parliament. A chief constable has been forced to resign after one botched operation, when the man they arrested turned out to be innocent. Demands for action have been made. Public demonstrations, slogan chanting, banner waving, the kind of public hysteria one associates normally with the French. Over there, they are so addicted to their manifestations, aren’t they? But among the sober citizens of towns in the Midlands? Perhaps it’s a result of so much immigration from excitable foreigners gathering in hysterical communities. Not realizing we don’t do things that way in this country. Till now, at least. However, a deal of pressure. So the police had finally to take action. But they’ve brought trumped-up charges against an innocent man. Me. They won’t get away with it. At least,’ he added with a wintry smile, ‘not as long as you do your job properly.’
Sharon glanced at Eric, took a deep breath, leaned back in her chair, and said to the man facing her, ‘You seem unusually relaxed about all this, given the nature of the accusations.’
Raymond Conroy raised an interrogative eyebrow as though he considered the comment quaintly obtuse. ‘I believe in the English legal system. The prosecution have to prove my guilt. And I’m an innocent man. Should I display anxiety? Should I be demonstrably unnerved?’ He smiled. ‘Who knows? When this is all over, I might find a wider clientele for my work. My painting, that is. Not the handiwork the prosecution is attempting to thrust upon me. Zodiac designs carved on human flesh. Art? Really!’
Eric could sense Sharon’s anger at the man’s cold insouciance. She was silent for a little while, then she shuffled among the papers Eric had supplied her. ‘There seems to be little in the prosecution case that clearly links you with the first two killings: Dorothy Chance and Jean Capaldi. The prosecution is proceeding on the basis that there are considerable similarities in the modus operandi of the three murders. Their main effort will be devoted to an attempt to establish your guilt in relation to the death of the third woman.’
‘So it would seem.’
Sharon stared at him curiously. ‘There is some forensic evidence which would seem to implicate you in the murder of that third victim, quite clearly. DNA samples on a scalpel, for instance. The scalpel was found at your flat, I believe?’
‘A scalpel was found there,’ Conroy corrected her, with a twisted, dismissive smile.
‘You’re not a doctor.’
‘I’m a painter,’ Conroy asserted. ‘I use oils. At various stages during the work on my canvases I use a scalpel to remove, or add, layers of paint. It’s hardly a criminal offence, using such a tool, and of itself it can hardly support a charge of murder.’
‘Even if the scalpel in question carries DNA evidence?’
‘It’s inevitable it would carry my DNA if I was in the habit of using it regularly.’
‘The evidence is of DNA from the murdered prostitute, Irene Dixon. Traces of her blood.’
‘Minute, I understand.’
‘Her blood, nevertheless,’ Sharon persisted. ‘The amount is hardly important. The fact of its existence is enough!’
‘Then it’s not my scalpel. Or if it is, the DNA was planted on the scalpel after it was taken from my flat.’
Sharon’s mouth twisted; Eric was aware that she was constrained by her dislike of the cold, arrogant tones of the man she was to defend in court. She turned over a sheet of the notes Eric had provided. ‘You were seen in the area where Irene Dixon’s body was found.’
Raymond Conroy pinched his elegant nostrils with his index finger and thumb. He shrugged. ‘A derelict quayside area frequented by drop-outs and drug addicts, cheek by jowl with a newly built office area, and some pubs not merely frequented by working men but becoming fashionable among professional people tired of drinking in modern music-tainted, run-of-the-mill brewery monstrosities. A considerable number of people attend the area in the evenings. That’s hardly a crime.’
Eric knew what he was talking about. He preferred pubs with a certain amount of character himself.
‘So what were you doing there?’
‘Doing? My dear lady, what does one normally do in such places? Relaxing, of course. In the pubs, having a drink. Otherwise … there had been some publicity about the area. Derelict, about to be redeveloped. I went there for inspiration. Visual experiences. Dying industry. Deserted canal. End of an industrial era. Have you seen any of my canvases?’
Sharon held his glance and nodded. ‘They’re very dark.’
Conroy smiled cynically. ‘Does that denote a criminal mind? I paint what I see. And what I feel.’
‘Do you use inks?’
‘No. The occasional watercolour, after preliminary sketches. Then oils. The murderer, I understand from what I’ve read in the papers and from what was stated in the magistrates hearing, used inks both to outline his … designs, so-called, and then to colour certain areas thereafter. After the carving of the flesh. Interesting technique.’
There was a sudden tension in the room. ‘I presume you’ve been shown some of these … designs. What do you think of them?’ Sharon asked.
Raymond Conroy frowned. He seemed lost in thought for a little while. His heavy-lidded eyes flickered to the window and he pursed his lips. ‘Signs of the Zodiac. They display a certain … ability, I suppose. Carved in outline, coloured in different inks, concentrated on the breast area. They have what one might describe as a kind of precision. The prosecution says they’re the product of a warped imagination. And I suppose that may be so; they appear to me to have been driven by some kind of compulsion. Or maybe it’s just a game, a psychologically driven attempt to reach out to some neurotic link with the stars, or antiquity, or whatever … I’m not a psychoanalyst, of course. And I’m really only commenting upon some of the theories already put forward by the so-called psychiatric experts for the prosecution. But all artists of any calibre proceed under some kind of compulsion. However, as to the designs themselves … I have to say, they’re not quite my style.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Nor were they executed on the sort of canvas I prefer.’
Eric recalled the shudder he had felt run through Sharon when he escorted her from the room. After the interview they came out of the prison, and she took a deep breath of fresh air. They left their papers in Eric’s car and then walked along the street leading down the hill to the river. They strolled along the shaded banks for half an hour, saying little, before climbing up to the eleventh-century cathedral that had grown on the site of the ancient White Church of the Lindisfarne monks. They wandered through the College Green and the cloisters of the Benedictine monastery to the Norman castle given to William the Conqueror by Bishop Walcher, high on the bluff above the loop of the river. They had little to say to each other until Eric suggested they cross to the Market Place and take a coffee in Saddler Street. She sat huddled in a corner of a café, near the window, staring out at people passing by in front of them. Ordinary people. He joined her with two cups of coffee.
‘So, what do you think?’
She glanced at him and shrugged. ‘Does it matter? I’m committed to defending him. And there’s no doubt we can attack the forensic evidence, from what he’s told us. If it’s true. But he’s a cold bastard.’
‘Even cold bastards deserve a good defence submission.’
She sighed, and nodded. ‘That’s right. And from the points raised in your brief, I think we’ll have something to work on.’
And now she was just about to do that.
2
‘Detective Constable Paula Gray.’
‘That is correct.’
Her dark hair was brushed back neatly, close to her head. Her brown eyes were serious and intense as they held Sharon Owen’s gaze. There was a certain determination in her features, but her mouth was wide and generous, and she held her head up proudly as though aware of the importance of her situation, anxious to present herself as well as possible, and withstand with commitment the cross-examination Sharon was about to commence.
‘How long have you been a detective, Miss Gray?’ Sharon asked.
Paula Gray squared her shoulders. ‘Three weeks.’
‘So you’ve been assigned to the plain clothes division only recently, since your work on this case.’
‘That is correct.’
Sharon inclined her head slightly, and nodded. ‘So congratulations are due. This will have been an ambition of yours, to get out of uniform?’
Paula Gray shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And no doubt you will now be looking forward to extend your career in the force, obtain promotion, move on to better things.’
Stiffly, Paula Gray replied, ‘We all hope for promotion in due course, when it is worked for and deserved.’
Sharon smiled at her. ‘Quite so. But you were still in uniform during the progress of this case. We have heard from senior officers involved in this investigation and I fear I remain somewhat puzzled by the part you seem to have played in it. As I understand your own evidence, you were a junior member of a team of some thirty officers investigating the so-called Zodiac murders.’
‘That is correct.’
Sharon nodded, stood erect, folded her arms as she held the gaze of the woman in the witness box. ‘Just exactly what was your role in the group?’