Authors: Roy Lewis
Eric was surprised by the change of tack. ‘Far from it. I believe they hardly know each other. They’ve been in dispute over trust funds, but as far as I’m aware they’ve never even met.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘I’m merely saying what I believe to be the case, what I’ve been told,’ Eric replied stiffly. He was getting the feeling that this dinner invitation had not really been dictated by a desire to offer the hand of friendship. Linwood Forster had an agenda: Eric should have realized the fact sooner. ‘What’s this all about?’ he asked bluntly.
Linwood Forster sighed. ‘I think you’re probably right when you say the two young women in question are not … friends. But in the course of my long career I’ve always been taught that one should never go by mere appearances. Subterfuge exists, often when one becomes too relaxed to see it. I have no desire to go further into this matter, other than to say that I trust you are correct in suggesting these ladies barely know of each other’s existence. A legal dispute only has drawn them into touch. On the other hand, perhaps I should also stress to you, remind you once again, that some of the issues that arise in the immigration briefs which we send to you contain, shall I say, certain delicate information?’
Eric sat very still, holding Linwood Forster’s glance. ‘Yes, I’m fully aware that I’m sometimes dealing with sensitive issues.’
‘Which is why,’ Linwood Forster said softly, ‘we at the Home Office would be happy if you were to agree to use Miss Owen less often. As far as our briefs are concerned.’
Eric was puzzled. He thought the matter over for a moment. ‘I still don’t understand. Are you saying you regard Sharon Owen as some sort of security risk?’ he
demanded at last.
Linwood Forster waved a hand dismissively, as though surprised at the suggestion. ‘Oh, no, certainly not, I had no intention of leaving you with that impression. But, for the time being, my suggestion would be that you should use her sparingly as far as our briefs are concerned. Perhaps if we marked certain of them in a manner that informed you we would prefer she should not have access to their contents?’
Stiffly, Eric replied, ‘As my client, that would certainly be your prerogative. But I’m still curious: is Sharon seen as a security risk or not?’
Linwood Forster sighed, as though disappointed in his guest’s insistence. ‘No, we have no evidence of her … Let me be frank. We cannot be sure she has no close links to Miss Chivers. They are cousins, after all. Blood and water and all that. It is better, therefore, we follow the course I suggest.’
Eric would not be put off by the civil servant’s prevarication. ‘I repeat … are you saying you have suspicions regarding Coleen Chivers?’
Linwood Forster bared his teeth in a grimace. ‘Ward, I really don’t want to pursue this discussion. But let me say just this: Coleen Chivers is a hard businesswoman, but in her personal life she has made some unfortunate choices. It is this that gives us disquiet. Now, if you can assure me that our briefs – the ones marked, at least – will not land in the hands of Coleen Chivers’ cousin, that’s all I require. Alternatively, of course, if you cannot give me that assurance, we could simply send the relevant files to some other office.’
There was a short silence. Slowly, Eric said, ‘That won’t be necessary. I can give you the assurance. A client always has the right to ask for particular individuals to represent him.’ He hesitated. ‘All this … it will have nothing to do with the
trust set up by George Chivers?’
Linwood Forster seemed relieved to be released from a slightly embarrassing discussion; he almost beamed. ‘The Chivers Trust? Dear me, no. We would never have had any qualms about Miss Owen’s grandfather.’
Eric tried a shot in the dark. ‘Is that because George Chivers used to undertake work for the government?’
Linwood Forster raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, well, you do surprise me, Ward! What makes you think that?’
Eric shrugged, not put off by Linwood Forster’s dismissive tone. ‘I’ve read the trust files. There’s a considerable amount of information about the family. But some mystery regarding what George Chivers was actually doing in Scotland in the sixties and seventies. And some correspondence has clearly been removed from the Chivers Trust files. I simply wondered whether it might have been as a result of secret, sensitive work George Chivers was carrying out. In addition to the businesses he was conducting in Scotland.’
Linwood Forster was smiling slightly. He was silent for a little while. Then he nodded slowly. ‘Scotland…. Well, there’s really no reason why I shouldn’t tell you. It’s all a rather long time ago. You’re right, to some extent. George Chivers did indeed hold a commission from the government of the day to carry out certain … sensitive enquiries. Undercover, of course, because he had his own business activities to continue. It was in the days of the Cold War, you understand, the paranoia regarding Holy Loch infiltration, the whole Polaris business, demonstrations from left-wing groups, anti-nuclear committees, anarchists, free thinkers, woolly-scarved students and grubby tree-hugging females, anoraked subversive elements seeking to disturb our nuclear submarine arrangements with the American
government. All old hat, days gone by.’
‘And that’s why there’s correspondence missing from the file?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘The only letter in the trust files regarding what might have gone on in Scotland draws a firm line under the business,’ Eric explained. ‘I have the impression it was in regard to some secret matters that George Chivers was conducting.’
Linwood Forster thought for a little while, then smiled again; it had a somewhat vulpine character. ‘Oh, my dear chap, I don’t think so. I don’t believe you’re on the right track at all. If it’s in the family file, I think you’ll discover it has nothing to do with the work Chivers did for us. At least, not directly.’
‘What do you mean?’ Eric asked, puzzled.
‘
Cherchez la femme
, dear boy,’ Linwood Forster replied, leaning back easily in his chair. He raised an amused eyebrow. He lifted a hand, called to the wine waiter to bring another bottle of Bourgueil, then smiled again at Eric. ‘You must
cherchez la femme
.’
Detective Sergeant Elaine Start remained in a subdued mood during the rest of the week and Charlie gained the impression that she was avoiding him. There was no invitation issued to him to share her bed and Charlie felt bitter about it. He had stuck out his neck to save her career but it seemed to have embarrassed her. Meanwhile, his own career could be on the line after the bawling out he had received from ACC Charteris, and the deadline he had been
given worried him. He was galvanized into action, of course, and that at least kept his mind to some extent off his sexual troubles.
He laid down the riot act to the officers working with him. All favours had to be called in with informants; there had to be a trawl of hotels, boarding houses and recently rented premises. Every door had to be opened to discover what had happened to the man they sought.
‘I need hardly warn you of what will happen if we find a dead woman on our patch,’ he asserted grimly. ‘Heads will roll.’
He pored over the photographs Charteris had passed on to him: when he took in the details of the cellar, the implements, the chain-rings, he became more and more convinced the sick bastard they were seeking could be on the prowl again. He organized a check of deserted premises along the extensive waterfront of the Tyne, from Newcastle to Tynemouth, particularly where former shipyards had closed down at Wallsend, and where redevelopments had been scheduled but delayed as a result of the credit crisis. Considerable overtime was approved – Charteris pulled his own finger out over that matter – but after four days the squad had come up with nothing.
Charlie Spate had not been in the north long enough to develop an extensive range of contacts with the underworld; he regretted now that he had been forced to leave the Met, where his acquaintance with the pimps, whores, duckers and divers had been as extensive as anyone’s. It could take years to build up knowledge of that kind, but he did the foot slogging necessary, taking advice from experienced officers, picking up information where he could.
It was what, finally, drew him to Eric Ward’s office on the Quayside. He knew the solicitor’s history: he had been a
copper on the Tyneside beat years ago, before he had qualified as a lawyer and married a rich woman from Northumberland. That marriage had given Ward an entry into Northumberland high society but the man had not cut himself away from the roots of his former experiences. Over the years he had maintained a certain connection with the underbelly of Newcastle crime, mainly in respect of his legal practice. And Charlie knew that Ward made use from time to time of informants along the river.
He was not happy about going to see Eric Ward. They had a certain history, did not like each other, though they had been forced to work hand in glove on several occasions. This looked like being another such occasion. And the issue was an important one. Reluctantly, DCI Charlie Spate decided he would have to try to enlist Ward’s help.
The reception he got from Ward’s secretary was, as usual, frosty, but Charlie paid little attention to that: he didn’t fancy her anyway. She was a little too old and far too bossy for his tastes. She had a glacial look on her face when she showed him into Ward’s office, and she made no offer to provide him with a coffee.
Eric Ward was seated behind his desk. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window behind him, motes of dust dancing like silver in the air. Charlie caught a glimpse of the river, darkly ruffled behind Ward’s shoulders. Ward made no attempt to rise, or offer Charlie a seat, but Charlie pulled a hardback chair up towards the desk, and sat down anyway. ‘I suppose you can guess why I’ve come,’ he grunted.
Eric Ward raised an interrogative eyebrow. He shrugged. ‘I could guess, but that would be a pointless exercise,’ he replied coldly. ‘It would be simpler if you just told me what you wanted.’
‘You let Raymond Conroy back on the street.’
‘No. Mr Justice Abernethy did that. Because your colleagues made a balls-up of the case against him.’
‘You know the bastard was guilty.’
‘I know nothing of the sort,’ Ward averred. ‘But my feelings, or beliefs, are of no significance in the matter.’
Charlie took a deep breath. This kind of conversation would get him nowhere: it would only antagonize the solicitor facing him. ‘OK, you didn’t put Conroy back on the street, but you damn well assisted the process,’ he snapped, still unable to contain his anger.
‘And now you’ve lost him.’ When he saw the anger rising in Charlie’s eyes, he added, ‘I read the newspapers.’
Charlie nodded, forcing himself to cool down. He glanced around the office.
‘No,’ Ward said calmly, ‘I’m not hiding him here.’
‘But you might have some idea where Conroy is.’
‘Now what makes you think that?’
Charlie’s hands were bunched into fists. He hated
smart-alec
lawyers. ‘You acted for him. You spent time with him. You worked on his story. You got to know the man. You know what makes him tick. And my guess is you’ll know why he ducked out of sight.’
Eric Ward shrugged. ‘To avoid the media witch hunt, I imagine.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, DCI Spate, let’s cut this short. I agree that after the case was thrown out I made arrangements for Conroy to avoid the press and lie low. I got him a room in a quiet hotel in Gosforth under an assumed name. But his identity surfaced quickly enough and he decided to move on.’
‘He saw you about that?’ Charlie asked swiftly.
‘Not exactly. After that beating he took, he did hint that I might be able to help him find some other place to live,
because he had decided to lie low here in the north-east rather than return to his old stamping ground in the Midlands, but I made it clear to him that my involvement with him had ended with the collapse of the case before Justice Abernethy. I had no desire to represent him further.’
‘But you knew that he then found a place in rented accommodation?’
Eric Ward hesitated. ‘Not directly. I’d picked up rumours that he had rented a house somewhere near Gosforth. As it happens, not far from your headquarters, I believe … which must have been a certain irritation. But I had no hand in that relocation. And when I got back from London on business I read that Conroy had moved on again.’
‘Disappeared, you mean.’
Eric Ward stared at him calmly. ‘I’d also heard it rumoured that the police were keeping Conroy under close observation.’
Charlie Spate did not want to go down that track. ‘I called to see you today to find out if … if you can offer any assistance.’ The words were sand in his mouth.
‘Assistance. In finding Raymond Conroy?’ There was a short silence. The solicitor picked up a pen from his desk and began to roll it between his fingers. ‘I’m an officer of the court. I’m obliged to give any aid I can … unless the person concerned is a client.’
‘Conroy is no longer your client.’
‘That’s true, though I am unable to let you have any information arising out of my previous relationship with him. But as to helping you finding him, I fear I can’t help. I’ve no idea where he’s gone, or even if he’s still in the area.’
Charlie wet his dry lips. ‘So he gave neither you, nor Miss Owen, any hints that he was about to up sticks?’
‘Our relationship had ended. I don’t see how I can help,
DCI Spate. Nor how Sharon Owen can assist.’
‘But if you can’t personally, maybe you know others who can.’
Eric Ward was silent for a little while, contemplating the pen in his fingers. He grimaced thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure what you’re suggesting.’
‘This is your patch, Ward,’ Charlie blurted out. ‘Not mine. I know I’m seen as an outsider, up from the Smoke. I had plenty of contacts down there, I know how things work. You’ll have been the same up here: people you met on the beat, people you’ve kept in touch with, even used in your own line of work here on the Quayside. I’d like to tap into that kind of knowledge.’ Charlie hesitated, watching the solicitor carefully. ‘For instance, there’s that character Jackie Parton. The ex-jockey.’