She took her time paying the cab driver before she climbed out and followed her quarry into the casino. She filled in a temporary membership form, as she didn’t want anyone to realize that she was on duty.
DS Seaton strolled onto the floor and glanced around the gaming tables. It only took her a few moments before she spotted her man seated next to one of the roulette wheels. She took a step closer and joined a group of onlookers who formed a horseshoe around the table. The detective sergeant made sure that she remained some distance away from her quarry because, dressed in a long blue silk gown more appropriate for a ball, he might spot her and even wonder if she had followed him from Bebbington Hall.
For the next hour she watched the man remove wads of cash from his bag at regular intervals, then exchange them for chips. An hour later the bag was clearly empty because he left the table with a glum look on his face, and made his way toward the bar.
DS Seaton had cracked it. The anonymous man was siphoning off money from the evening events in order to finance his gambling habit, but she still couldn’t be sure if Angela was involved.
The detective slipped behind a marble pillar as the man climbed onto a stool next to a lady in a blue suit with a short skirt.
Did he have enough money over to pay for a prostitute? The detective stepped out from behind the pillar to take a closer look, and nearly bumped into Henry as he began walking back toward the exit. Later, much later, DS Seaton thought it strange that he had left the bar without having a drink. Perhaps the woman on the stool had rejected him.
Henry stepped out onto the pavement and hailed a taxi. The detective grabbed the next one. She followed his cab as it made its way across Putney Bridge and continued its journey along the south side of the river. The taxi finally came to a halt outside a block of flats in Wandsworth. DS Seaton made a note of the address and decided that she had earned a taxi ride home.
The following morning, DS Seaton placed her report on the chief inspector’s desk. He read it, smiled, left his office and walked down the corridor to brief the chief superintendent, who in turn phoned the chief constable. The chief decided not to mention it to the chairman of the watch committee until after an arrest had been made, as he wanted to present Sir David with an open-and-shut case, one that a jury could not fail to convict on.
Henry deposited the cash from the Butterfly Ball in the overnight vault of Lloyds TSB just a couple of hundred yards away from the hotel where the Masons were holding their annual dinner. He must have walked about another thirty yards before a police car drew up beside him. There wouldn’t have been much point in making a dash for it, as Henry wasn’t built for a change of gear. And in any case he had already planned for this moment, right down to the last detail. Henry was arrested and charged two days before the watch committee was due to meet.
Henry selected Mr. Clifton-Smyth to represent him, a solicitor whose accounts he had handled for the past twenty years.
Mr. Clifton-Smyth listened carefully to his client’s defense, making copious notes, but when Henry finally came to the end of his tale, the lawyer only had one piece of advice to offer him: plead guilty.
“I will of course,” added the lawyer, “brief counsel of any mitigating circumstances.”
Henry accepted his solicitor’s advice; after all, Mr. Clifton-Smyth had never once, in the past two decades, questioned his judgment.
Henry made no attempt to contact Angela during the run-up to the trial, and although the police felt fairly confident that she was playing Bonnie to his Clyde, they quickly worked out that they shouldn’t have arrested him until he’d gone to the casino a second time. Who was the woman seated at the bar? Had she been waiting for him? The Special Crime Unit spent weeks collecting bank stubs from casinos right across London, but they couldn’t find a single check made out to a Ms. Angela Forster, and even more puzzling, they didn’t come up with one for a Mr. Henry Preston. Did he always lose?
When they checked Angela’s events book, they discovered that Henry had always taken responsibility for counting the cash, and signed the receipt. Her bank account was then picked over by a bunch of treasury vultures, and found to be only £11,318 in credit, a sum that had showed very little movement either way for the past five years. When DS Seaton reported back to Miss Blenkinsopp, she seemed quite content to believe that the right man had been apprehended. After all, she told the detective, a St. Catherine’s gal couldn’t possibly be involved in that sort of thing.
With the murder hunt still in progress, and the drugs stash not yet unearthed, the chief superintendent sent down an instruction to close the St. Catherine’s file. They’d made an arrest, and that was all that would matter when they reported their annual crime statistics.
Once the Treasury solicitors had accepted that they couldn’t trace any of the missing money, Henry’s solicitor managed to broker a deal with the CPS. If he pleaded guilty to the theft of £130,000, and was willing to return the full amount to the injured parties concerned, they would recommend a reduced sentence.
“And no doubt there are mitigating circumstances in this case that you wish to bring to my attention, Mr. Cameron?” suggested the judge as he stared down from the bench at Henry’s Silk.
“There most certainly are, m’lord,” replied Mr. Alex Cameron QC as he rose slowly from his place. “My client,” he began, “makes no secret of his unfortunate addiction to gambling, which has been the cause of his tragic downfall. However,” Mr. Cameron continued, “I feel confident that your lordship will take into account that this is my client’s first offense, and until this sad lapse of judgment he had been a pillar of the community with an unblemished reputation. Indeed, my client has given years of selfless service to his local church as its honorary treasurer, to which you will recall, m’lord, the vicar bore witness.”
Mr. Cameron cleared his throat before continuing. “M’lord, you see before you a broken and penniless man, who has nothing to look forward to except long lonely years of retirement. He has even,” added Mr. Cameron, tugging at his lapels, “had to sell his flat in Wandsworth in order to repay his creditors.” He paused. “Perhaps you might feel, in the circumstances, m’lord, that my client has suffered quite enough and should therefore be treated leniently.” Mr. Cameron smiled hopefully at the judge, and resumed his seat.
The judge looked down at Henry’s advocate, and returned his smile. “Not quite enough, Mr. Cameron. Try not to forget that Mr. Preston was a professional man who violated a position of trust. But first let me remind your client,” said the judge, turning his attention to Henry, “that gambling is a sickness, and the defendant should seek some help for his malady the moment he is released from prison.” Henry braced himself as he waited to learn how long his sentence would be.
The judge paused for what seemed an eternity, as he continued to stare at Henry. “I sentence you to three years,” he said, before adding, “take the prisoner down.”
Henry was shipped off to Ford open prison. No one noticed him come and no one noticed him go. He led just as anonymous an existence on the inside as he had outside. He received no mail, made no phone calls and entertained no visitors. When they released him eighteen months later, having completed half his sentence, there was no one waiting at the barrier to greet him.
Henry Preston accepted his £45 discharge pay, and was last seen heading toward the local railway station, carrying a Gladstone bag containing only his personal belongings.
Mr. and Mrs. Graham Richards enjoy a pleasant, if somewhat uneventful retirement on the island of Majorca. They have a small, front-line villa overlooking the Bay of Palma, and both of them are proving to be popular with the local community.
The chairman of the Royal Overseas Club in Palma reported to the AGM that he considered he’d pulled off quite a coup, convincing the former finance director of the Nigerian National Oil Company to become the club’s honorary treasurer. Nods, hear-hears and a sprinkling of applause followed. The chairman went on to suggest that the secretary
should record a note in the minutes, that since Mr. Richards had taken over the responsibility as treasurer, the club’s accounts had been in apple-pie order.
“And by the way,” he added, “his wife Ruth has kindly agreed to organize our annual ball.”
The Alibi
“He got away with murder, didn’t he?” said Mick.
“How did he manage that?” I asked. “Because if two screws say that’s what happened, then that’s what happened,” said Mick, “and no con will be able to tell you any different. Understood?”
“No, I don’t understand,” I admitted.
“Then I’ll have to explain it to you, won’t I?” said Mick. “There’s a golden rule among cons—never have sex with a mate’s tart while he’s banged up. It’s all part of the code.”
“That might be a bit rough on a young girl whose boyfriend has just been given a lengthy sentence because then you’d be sentencing her to the same number of years without sex.”
“That’s not the point,” said Mick, “because Pete made it clear to Karen that he’d wait for her.”
“But he wasn’t going anywhere for the next six years,” I suggested.
“You’re missing the point, Jeff. It’s the code and, to be fair to the tart, by all accounts Karen was as good as gold for the first six months and then she came off the rails. Truth is,” said Mick, “Pete’s best mate Brian had already had sex with Karen, but that was before she became Pete’s girl, on account of the fact that they’d all been at secondary modern together. But that didn’t count because Karen stopped whoring around once she’d moved in with Pete. Understood?”
“I think so,” I said.
“Mind you, the rule doesn’t apply to Pete on account of the fact that he’s a man. It’s only logic, isn’t it, because men are different. We’re lions, they’re lambs.” Lionesses would have seemed more appropriate. However, I confess I didn’t voice my opinion at the time. “Still,” Mick continued, “the code is clear. You don’t have sex with a mate’s tart while he’s banged up.”
I put my pen down and continued to listen to the Gospel according to St. Mick—another burglar who was in and out of prison as if the building had revolving doors. I decided to abandon any attempt to write my daily diary. It was clear Mick was on a roll and nothing was going to stop him—certainly not me. And as the door was locked and I couldn’t escape, I decided to take down his words. But first a little background.
Mick Boyle was my cell mate at Lincoln, and serving his ninth sentence during the past seventeen years, all for burglary. “I may be a tea-leaf,” he proclaimed, “but I can’t be doing with violence. Don’t approve,” he added, clearly attempting to capture the moral high ground. He told me that he had six children that he knew of, by five different women, but had had little or no contact with any of them since. I must have looked surprised, because he added, “Don’t worry yourself, Jeff, they’re all taken care of by the Social.”
“If you want pussy,” Mick continued, “there’s quite enough going spare without having sex with your best mate’s tart; after all, most of us are in and out, in and out,” he repeated, laughing at his own joke.
Mick’s friend Pete Bailey—the hero or the villain in this tale, according to your viewpoint—had been charged with aggravated robbery, which covers a multitude of sins, especially if you ask the court—after you’ve been found guilty—to take into consideration one hundred and twelve similar offenses.
“Result? Pete gets six years in the slammer.” Mick paused to draw breath. “Mind you, he still killed his best mate while he was inside and got away with it, didn’t he?”
“Did he?” I asked, showing a little more interest.
“Yeah, he sure did. Mind you, he knew he’d only have to serve three years on account of the fact that he was always on his best behavior, whenever he was inside,” said Mick. “Logic, isn’t it? So after fifteen months in Wakefield—awful nick—they sent him off to Hollesley Bay open prison in Suffolk, didn’t they, to finish off his sentence. Bloody holiday camp. See, the theory is,” continued Mick, “an open prison is meant to prepare you for returning to society. Some hope. All Pete did was spend his time in the prison library reading through back copies of Country Life, supplied by some do-gooder, so he could work out in advance which houses he was going to rob the moment he got out. Now another rule in an open prison,” continued Mick, “is that you’re entitled to a visit once a week, not like the once a month you get in closed conditions; that is as long as you’re enhanced, and not been put on report for at least a month.”
“Enhanced?” I ventured.
“That’s when a con’s been on good behavior for at least three months. When he’s enhanced he gets all sorts of privileges, like more time out of his cell, better job, even more pay in some nicks.”
“And how do you get put on report?”
“That’s easy enough. Swear at a screw, turn up late for work, fail a drugs test. I was once put on report for nicking an orange from the kitchen. Diabolical liberty.”
“So was your friend Pete ever put on report?” I asked.
“Never,” Mick replied. “Good as gold, wasn’t he, because he wanted a visit from his tart. Well, he does his three months, works in the stores, keeps his nose clean, and bob’s your uncle, he’s enhanced. Following Saturday his tart turns up at the nick to pay him a visit.
“In open prisons, visits are held in the biggest room available, usually the gym or the canteen. And you have to remember, security isn’t like a closed nick, with sniffer dogs and CCTV cameras following your every move, so you can behave natural when you’re with your tart.” He paused. “Well, within limits. I mean you can’t have sex like they do in Swedish prisons. You know—what do they call it?”
“Conjugal visits?”
“Well, whatever, it’s sex, and we don’t allow it. Mind you, a screw will turn a blind eye—when a con puts his hand up a tart’s skirt, but then I remember in one prison—”
“Pete,” I reminded him.
“Oh, yeah, Pete. Well, Karen came to visit Pete the following Saturday. All’s going well until Pete asks about his best mate, Brian. Karen clams up, doesn’t say a word does she, then turns bright red. Pete susses straight away what she’s been up to: tart, having it off with his best mate while he’s inside. She lit his short fuse, didn’t she? So Pete jumps up and puts one on her. Karen goes arse over tits, and lands up flat on the floor. The alarm goes off and screws come running through every door. They had to pull him off Karen and drag him away to segregation. Ever been to segregation, Jeff?”
“No, can’t say I have.”
“Well, don’t bother. Diabolical liberty. Bare cell, mattress on the floor, steel basin screwed into the wall and a steel bog what don’t flush. Next day Pete’s put on report, and comes up in front of the governor, who, you have to remember, is God Almighty. He don’t need no judge or jury to help him decide if you’re guilty—Home Office regulations are quite enough.”
“So what happened to Pete?”
“Sent back to closed conditions, wasn’t he? Shipped off to Lincoln prison the same day, with another three months added to his sentence. Some cons, when they’re sent back to a closed nick, lose their rag, start breaking the place up, taking drugs, setting their cell on fire, so they never get out. I was banged up with a muppet in Liverpool once. Started off with a three-year sentence and he’s still there—eleven years later. Last time he came up in front of the governor for—”
“Pete,” I said, trying not to sound exasperated.
“Oh, yeah, Pete. Well, Pete goes the other way.”
“The other way?”
“Good as gold all the time he’s banged up at Lincoln. Three months later he’s back enhanced, with all his privileges restored. Gets a job in the kitchen, works like a slave, six months later he puts in a request for a visit and it’s granted, with the exception of one Karen Slater. But he never wanted to see that whore again anyway No, this time Pete applied for a visit from
one of his old mates who was on the out at the time. Now this mate confirms that Brian is not only having it off with Karen, but now that Pete’s safely banged up in Lincoln she’s moved in with him. What a diabolical liberty,” said Mick. “Pete’s mate even asked if he wanted Brian done over. ‘No, don’t go down that road,’ Pete told him. ‘I’ll be taking care of him myself, all in good time.’ He never went into no detail of what he had in mind, on account of the fact that in the end someone always opens their mouth. Must be the same in politics, Jeff.”
“Pete.”
“Well, Pete goes on being as good as gold. Cleanest pad, working all hours, never swearing at no screws, never on report. Result? Twelve months later he’s back at Hollesley Bay open prison, with only nine months left to serve.”
“And once he was back at Hollesley Bay, did he try to contact Karen?”
“No, didn’t put in a request for a visit. In fact, never even mentioned her name.”
“So what was his game?” I asked, slipping into the prison jargon.
“He only had one game all along, Jeff: he wanted to get himself transferred to the enhancement block, on the other side of the prison, didn’t he.”
“I’ve lost you,” I admitted.
“All part of his master plan, wasn’t it? When you first arrive at Hollesley Bay, which, don’t forget, is an open nick, you’re allocated a room in one of the two main blocks.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah, north and south block. But if you get enhanced—another three more months of behaving like a saint—then they move you across to the enhancement block, which gives you even more privileges.”
“Like what?”
“You can have a visit from a mate every Saturday Pete wasn’t interested. You can go home once a month on a Sunday—he’s still not interested. You can apply for a job outside of the prison during the week—still no interest, even though it would of given him a chance to pick up an extra bob or two before he’s released.”
Cat O'Nine Tales (2006) Page 16