The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘I would lose so much more than that,’ said Lynn, squeezing his hand.

  Grove smiled as the maid opened the door for him. ‘Goodbye, honey,’ he whispered.

  ‘Goodbye, Dr Grove,’ Lynn said, for the last time.

  She ran back up the stairs and into the bedroom to find Arthur, cigar in one hand and an empty glass in the other, watching The Johnny Carson Show. Once she’d poured him a second whisky, Lynn sat down by his side. Arthur had almost fallen asleep when Carson bade goodnight to his thirty million viewers with the familiar words, ‘See you all at the same time tomorrow.’ Lynn turned off the TV, deftly removed the half-smoked cigar from Arthur’s fingers and placed it in an ashtray on the side table, then switched off the light by his bed.

  ‘I’m still awake,’ said Arthur.

  ‘I know you are,’ said Lynn. She bent down and kissed him on the forehead before slipping an arm under the sheet. She didn’t comment when a stray hand moved slowly up the inside of her leg. She stopped when she heard the familiar sigh, that moments later was followed by steady breathing. She removed her hand from under the sheet and strolled into the bathroom, wondering how many more times she would have to . . .

  Sadly, the children arrived home just a few hours after Arthur passed away peacefully in his sleep.

  Mr Haskins removed the half-moon spectacles from the end of his nose, put down the will and looked across his desk at his two clients.

  ‘So all I get,’ said Chester Sommerfield, not attempting to hide his anger, ‘is a silver-handled cane, while Joni ends up with just a picture of Dad taken when he was a freshman at Princeton?’

  ‘While all his other worldly goods,’ confirmed Mr Haskins, ‘are bequeathed to a Miss Lynn Beattie.’

  ‘And what the hell has she done to deserve that?’ demanded Joni.

  ‘To quote the will,’ said Haskins, looking back down at it, ‘she has acted as “my devoted nurse and close companion”.’

  ‘Are there no loopholes for us to exploit?’ asked Chester.

  ‘That’s most unlikely,’ said Haskins, ‘because, with the exception of one paragraph, I drew up the will myself.’

  ‘But that one paragraph changes the whole outcome of the will,’ said Joni. ‘Surely we should take this woman to court. Any jury will see that she is nothing more than a fraudster who tricked my father into signing a new will only days after you had amended the old one for him.’

  ‘You may well be right,’ said Haskins, ‘but, given the circumstances, I couldn’t advise you to contest the validity of the will.’

  ‘But your firm’s investigators have come up with irrefutable evidence that Ms Beattie was nothing more than a common prostitute,’ said Chester, ‘and her nursing qualifications were almost certainly exaggerated. Once the court learns the truth, surely our claim will be upheld.’

  ‘In normal circumstances I would agree with you, Chester, but these are not normal circumstances. As I have said, I could not advise you to take her on.’

  ‘But why not?’ came back Joni. ‘At the very least we could show that my father wasn’t in his right mind when he signed the will.’

  ‘I’m afraid we’d be laughed out of court,’ said Haskins, ‘when the other side points out that the will was witnessed by a highly respected doctor who was at your father’s bedside right up until the day he died.’

  ‘I’d still be willing to risk it,’ said Chester. ‘Just look at it from her perspective. She’s a penniless whore who has recently been dismissed from her job without a reference, and she sure won’t want her past activities aired in court and then reported on the early evening news followed by the front page of every morning paper.’

  ‘You may well be right,’ said Haskins. ‘But it’s still my duty as a lawyer to inform my clients when I believe their case cannot be won.’

  ‘But you can’t be worried about taking on Kullick in court,’ said Chester. ‘After all, you didn’t even think he was good enough to be a partner in your firm.’

  Haskins raised an eyebrow. ‘That may well be the case, but it wouldn’t be Mr Kullick I would be up against.’ He replaced his half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and once again picked up the will, then turned over several pages before identifying the relevant clause. He looked solemnly at his clients before he began to read.

  ‘“I also bequeath ten million dollars to my alma mater, Princeton University; five million dollars to the Veterans Association of America; five million dollars to the Conference of Presidents, to assist their work in Israel; five million dollars to the Republican Party, which I have supported all my life; and finally five million dollars to the National Rifle Association, the aims of which I approve, and which I have always supported.”’

  The old lawyer looked up. ‘I should point out to you both that none of these bequests was in your father’s original will,’ he said, before adding, ‘and although I am in no doubt that we could beat Mr Kullick if he was our only opponent, I can assure you that we would have little chance of defeating five of the largest and most prestigious law firms in the land. Between them they would have bled you dry long before the case came to court. I fear I can only recommend that you settle for a cane with a silver handle and a photograph of your father at Princeton.’

  ‘While she walks away with a cool seventy million dollars,’ said Joni.

  ‘Having sacrificed thirty million to ensure she would never have to appear in court,’ said Haskins as he placed the will back on his desk. ‘Clever woman, Ms Lynn Beattie, and that wasn’t even her real name.’

  DOUBLE-CROSS*

  6

  THE JUDGE LOOKED DOWN at the defendant and frowned.

  ‘Kevin Bryant, you have been found guilty of armed robbery. A crime you clearly planned with considerable skill and ingenuity. During your trial it has become clear that you knew exactly when to carry out the attack upon your chosen victim, Mr Neville Abbott, a respected diamond merchant from Hatton Garden. You held up the security guard at his workshop with a shotgun, and forced him to open the strongroom where Mr Abbott was showing a dealer from Holland a consignment of uncut diamonds he had recently purchased from South Africa for just over ten million pounds.

  ‘Thanks to outstanding police work, you were arrested within days, although the diamonds have never been found. During the seven months you have spent in custody you have been given every opportunity to reveal the whereabouts of the diamonds, but you have chosen not to do so.

  ‘Taking that fact, as well as your past record, into consideration, I am left with no choice but to sentence you to twelve years in prison. However, Mr Bryant, I would consider a reduction to your sentence if at any time you should change your mind and decide to inform the police where the diamonds are. Take the prisoner down.’

  Detective Inspector Matthews frowned as he watched Bryant being led down to the cells before being shipped off to Belmarsh prison. As a policeman, you’re meant to feel a certain professional pride, almost pleasure, when you’ve been responsible for banging up a career criminal, but this time Matthews felt no such pride, and wouldn’t until he got his hands on those diamonds. He was convinced Bryant hadn’t had enough time to sell them on and must have hidden them somewhere.

  Detective Inspector Matthews had attempted to make a deal with Bryant on more than one occasion. He even offered to downgrade his charge to aggravated burglary, which carries a far shorter sentence, but only if he pleaded guilty and told him where the diamonds were. But Bryant always gave the same reply: ‘I’ll do my bird, guv.’

  If Bryant wasn’t willing to make a deal with him, Matthews knew someone doing time in the same prison who was.

  Benny Friedman, known to his fellow inmates as Benny the Fence, was serving a six-year sentence for handling stolen goods. A burglar would bring him the gear and Benny would pay him 20 per cent of its value in cash, then sell it on to a middle man for about 50 per cent, walking away with a handsome profit.

  From time to time Benny got caught and had to spe
nd some time in the nick. But as he didn’t pay a penny in tax, was rarely out of work and had no fears of being made redundant, he considered the occasional spell in prison no more than part of the job description. But if the police ever offered him an alternative to going back inside, Benny was always willing to listen. After all, why would you want to spend more time behind bars than was necessary?

  ‘Drugs check,’ bellowed the wing officer as he pulled open the heavy door of Benny’s cell.

  ‘I don’t do drugs, Mr Chapman,’ said Benny, not stirring from his bunk.

  ‘Get your arse upstairs, Friedman, and sharpish. Once they’ve checked your piss you can come back down and enjoy a well-earned rest. Now move it.’

  Benny folded his copy of the Sun, lowered himself slowly off the bottom bunk, strolled out of his cell into the corridor and made his way up to the medical wing. No officer ever bothered to accompany him while he was out of his cell, as he never caused any trouble. You can have a reputation, even in prison.

  When Benny arrived at the medical wing, he was surprised to find that none of the usual reprobates was waiting in line to be checked for drugs. In fact, he seemed to be the only inmate in sight.

  ‘This way, Friedman,’ said an officer he didn’t recognize. Moments after he had entered the hospital, he heard a key being turned in the lock behind him. He looked around and saw his old friend Detective Inspector Matthews, who had arrested him many times in the past, sitting on the end of one of the beds.

  ‘To what do I owe this honour, Mr Matthews?’ Benny asked without missing a beat.

  ‘I need your help, Benny,’ said the detective inspector, not suggesting that the old lag should sit down.

  ‘That’s a relief, Mr Matthews. For a minute I thought you were being tested for drugs.’

  ‘Don’t get lippy with me, Benny,’ said Matthews sharply. ‘Not when I’ve come to offer you a deal.’

  ‘And what are you proposing this time, Mr Matthews? A packet of fags in exchange for a serial killer?’

  Matthews ignored the question. ‘You’re coming up for appeal in a few months’ time,’ he said, lighting a cigarette but not offering Benny one. ‘I might be able to arrange for a couple of years to be knocked off your sentence.’ He took a deep drag and blew out a cloud of smoke before adding, ‘Which would mean you could be out of this hell hole in six months’ time.’

  ‘How very thoughtful of you, Mr Matthews,’ said Benny. ‘What are you expecting me to do in return for such munificence?’

  ‘There’s a con on his way to Belmarsh from the Old Bailey. He should be checking in any moment now. His name’s Bryant, Kevin Bryant, and I’ve arranged for him to be your new cellmate.’

  When the cell door was pulled open, Benny looked up from his copy of the Sun and watched as Bryant swaggered into the cell. The man didn’t say a word, just flung his kit bag on the top bunk. New prisoners always start off on the top bunk.

  Benny went back to his paper while Bryant placed a thin bar of white soap, a green flannel, a rough green towel and a Bic razor on the ledge above the washbasin. Benny put his paper down and studied the new arrival more closely. Bryant was every inch the armed robber. He was about five foot five, stockily built, with a shaved head. He unbuttoned his blue-and-white striped prison shirt to reveal a massive tattoo of a red devil. Not much doubt which football team Bryant supported. On the fingers of one hand were tattooed the letters HATE, and on the other, LOVE.

  Bryant finally glanced across at Benny. ‘My name’s Kev.’

  ‘Mine’s Benny. Welcome to Belmarsh.’

  ‘It’s not my first time in the slammer,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ve been here before.’ He chuckled. ‘Several times, actually. And you?’ he asked once he’d climbed up on to the top bunk and settled down.

  ‘Fourth time,’ said Benny. ‘But then, I don’t like to hang around for too long.’

  Bryant laughed for the first time. ‘So what are you in for?’ he asked.

  Benny was surprised that Bryant had broken one of prison’s golden rules: never ask a fellow con what he’s in for. Wait for him to volunteer the information. ‘I’m a fence,’ he replied.

  ‘What do you fence?’

  ‘Almost anything. But I draw the line at drugs, and that includes marijuana, and I won’t handle porn, hard or soft. You’ve got to have some standards.’

  Bryant was silent for some time. Benny wondered if he’d fallen asleep, which would be unusual on your first day inside, even for a regular. ‘You haven’t asked me what I’m in for,’ said Bryant eventually.

  ‘No need to, is there?’ said Benny. ‘Your mugshot’s been on the front page of the tabloids every day for the past week. Everyone at Belmarsh knows what you’re in for.’

  Bryant didn’t speak again that night, but Benny was in no hurry. The one thing you’ve got plenty of in prison is time. As long as you’re patient, everything will eventually come out, however secretive an inmate imagines he is.

  Benny didn’t much like being in jail, but most of all he dreaded the weekends, when you could be banged up for eighteen hours at a stretch, with only a short break to collect an oily meal of spam fritters and chips from the hotplate.

  The screws allowed the prisoners out for a forty-five-minute break in the afternoon. Benny could choose between watching football on television or taking a stroll around the yard, whatever the weather. He had no interest in football, but as Bryant always went straight to the yard, he settled for watching television. He was grateful for any break he could get in this hastily arranged marriage, and if Bryant was ever going to say anything about where the diamonds were, it was more likely to be in the privacy of their cell than in the bustling, noisy, overcrowded yard where other prisoners could eavesdrop.

  Benny was reading an article about how the Italian Prime Minister spent his weekends when Bryant broke into his thoughts. ‘Why don’t you ever ask me about the diamonds?’

  ‘None of my business,’ said Benny, not looking up from his paper.

  ‘But you must be curious about what I’ve done with them?’

  ‘According to the Sun’s crime correspondent,’ said Benny, ‘you sold them to a middle man for half a million.’

  ‘Half a million?’ said Bryant. ‘Do I look that fuckin’ stupid?’

  ‘So how much did you sell ’em for?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘Nothin’?’ repeated Benny.

  ‘Because I’ve still got ’em, haven’t I?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yeah. And I can tell you one thing. The fuzz ain’t never gonna find out where I stashed ’em, however hard they look.’

  Benny pretended to go on reading his paper. He’d reached the sports pages by the time Bryant spoke again.

  ‘It’s all part of my retirement plan, innit? Most of the muppets in this place will walk out with nothin’, while I’ve got myself a guaranteed income for life, haven’t I?’

  Benny waited patiently, but Bryant didn’t utter another word before lights out, four hours later. Benny would have liked to ask Bryant just one more question, but he knew he couldn’t risk it.

  ‘What do you think about this guy Berlusconi?’ he asked finally.

  ‘What’s he in for?’ asked Bryant.

  Benny always attended the Sunday morning service held in the prison chapel, not because he believed in God, but because it got him out of his cell for a whole hour. The long walk to the chapel on the other side of the prison, the body search for drugs – by a female officer if you got lucky – the chance for a gossip with some old lags, a sing-song, followed by a saunter back to your cell in time for lunch, were a welcome break from the endless hours of being banged up.

  Benny settled down in his usual place in the third row, opened his hymn sheet and, when the organ struck up, joined in lustily with ‘Fight the good fight’.

  Once the prison chaplain had delivered his regular sermon on repentance and forgiveness, followed by the final blessing, the cons began to make their wa
y slowly out of the chapel and back to their cells.

  ‘Can you spare me a moment, Friedman?’ asked the chaplain after Benny had handed in his hymn sheet.

  ‘Of course, Father,’ said Benny, feeling a moment of apprehension that the chaplain might ask him to sign up for his confirmation class. If he did, Benny would have to come clean and admit he was Jewish. The only reason he’d ticked the little box marked C of E was so he could escape from his cell for an hour every Sunday morning. If he’d admitted he was a Jew, a Rabbi would have visited him in his cell once a month, because not enough Jews end up in prison to hold a service for them.

  The chaplain asked Benny to join him in the vestry. ‘A friend has asked to see you, Benny. I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.’ He closed the vestry door and returned to those repenting souls who did want to sign up for his confirmation class.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Matthews,’ said Benny, taking an unoffered seat opposite the detective inspector. ‘I had no idea you’d taken up holy orders.’

  ‘Cut the crap, Friedman, or I may have to let your wing officer know that you’re really a Jew.’

  ‘If you did, Inspector, I’d have to explain to him how I’d seen the light on the way to Belmarsh.’

  ‘And you’ll see my boot up your backside if you waste any more of my time.’

  ‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ asked Benny innocently.

  ‘Has he sold the diamonds?’ asked Matthews, not wasting another word.

  ‘No, Inspector, he hasn’t. In fact, he claims they’re still in his possession. The story about selling them for half a million was just a smokescreen.’

  ‘I knew it,’ said Matthews. ‘He would never have sold them for so little. Not after all the trouble he went to.’ Benny didn’t comment. ‘Have you managed to find out where he’s stashed them?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Benny. ‘I’ve got a feeling that might take a little longer, unless you want me to—’

  ‘Don’t press him,’ interrupted Matthews. ‘It’ll only make him suspicious. Bide your time and wait for him to tell you himself.’