When Hugo came across an earlier will in which Angus had bequeathed the bulk of the estate to his only son Nicholas, he shredded it, and tried not to show the relief he felt when his brother died just a few months before Nick was due to be released. A reunion and reconciliation between father and son hadn’t formed any part of his plans. However, Galbraith had failed to prise out of Mr Munro the original copy of Sir Alexander’s earlier will, as the old solicitor had correctly pointed out that he now represented the main beneficiary, Sir Nicholas Moncrieff.
Once he had finished off his first egg, Hugo reread the paragraph of Galbraith’s letter that had made him frown. He cursed, which caused his wife to look up from her paper, surprised by this break in their well-ordered routine.
‘Nick is claiming that he knows nothing about the key his grandfather left him. How can that be when we’ve all seen him wearing the damn thing round his neck?’
‘He didn’t wear it at the funeral,’ said Margaret. ‘I looked most carefully when he knelt down to pray.’
‘Do you think he knows what that key unlocks?’ said Hugo.
‘He may well do,’ Margaret replied, ‘but that doesn’t mean he knows where to look for it.’
‘Father should have told us where he had hidden his collection in the first place.’
‘You and your father were hardly on speaking terms towards the end,’ Margaret reminded him. ‘And he considered Angus to be weak, and far too fond of the bottle.’
‘True, but that doesn’t solve the problem of the key.’
‘Perhaps the time has come for us to resort to more robust tactics.’
‘What do you have in mind, old gal?’
‘I think the vulgar expression is “putting a tail on him”. Once Nick is released, we can have him followed. If he does know where the collection is, he’ll lead us straight to it.’
‘But I wouldn’t know how to . . .’ said Hugo.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Margaret. ‘Leave it all to me.’
‘Whatever you say, old gal,’ said Hugo as he attacked his second egg.
37
DANNY LAY AWAKE on the lower bunk and thought about everything that had taken place since Nick’s death. He couldn’t sleep, despite the fact that Big Al wasn’t snoring. He knew his last night at Belmarsh would be as long as the first – another night he would never forget.
During the past twenty-four hours, several officers and inmates had dropped in to say goodbye and to wish him luck, confirming just how popular and respected Nick had been.
The reason Big Al wasn’t snoring was that he’d been shipped out of Belmarsh the previous morning and transferred to Wayland prison in Norfolk, while Danny had been revising for his A levels in Nick’s name. Danny still had the maths papers to look forward to, but was disappointed to have to forgo the English exams as Nick was not taking them. By the time Danny returned to his cell that afternoon, there was no sign of Big Al. It was almost as if he had never existed. Danny hadn’t even been given the chance to say goodbye.
By now Big Al would have worked out why Danny had been to see the governor, and he’d be fuming. But Danny knew that he’d calm down once he settled into his C cat, with a television in every cell, food that was almost edible, an opportunity to visit a gym that wasn’t overcrowded and, most important of all, being allowed out of his cell fourteen hours a day. Leach had also disappeared, but no one knew where, and few cared enough to ask a second time.
During the past few weeks Danny had begun to form a plan in his mind, but in his mind it had remained, because he couldn’t risk committing anything to paper. If he was discovered, it would condemn him to another twenty years in hell. He slept.
He woke. His first thought was of Bernie, who had been robbed of his life by Craig and the misnamed Musketeers. His second was of Nick, who had made it possible for him to be given another chance. His final thoughts were of Beth, when he was reminded once again that the decision had made it impossible for him ever to see her again.
He began to think about tomorrow. Once he’d had his meeting with Fraser Munro and tried to sort out Nick’s immediate problems in Scotland, he would return to London and put into motion the plans he’d been working on for the past six weeks. He’d become realistic about the chances of clearing his name, but that wouldn’t stop him seeking justice of a different kind – what the Bible called retribution, and what Edmond Dantès described less subtly as revenge. Whatever. He slept.
He woke. He would stalk his prey like an animal, observing them at a distance while they relaxed in their natural habitat: Spencer Craig in the courtroom, Gerald Payne in his Mayfair offices, and Lawrence Davenport on stage. Toby Mortimer, the last of the four Musketeers, had suffered a death even more dreadful than any he could have devised. But first Danny must travel to Scotland, meet up with Fraser Munro and find out if he could pass his initiation test. If he fell at the first hurdle, he would be back in Belmarsh by the end of the week. He slept.
He woke. The early morning sun was producing a feeble square of light on his cell floor, but it could not disguise the fact that he was in prison, for the bars were clearly reflected on the cold grey stones. A lark attempted a cheerful tune to greet the dawn, but quickly flew away.
Danny pulled aside the green nylon sheet and placed his bare feet on the ground. He walked across to the tiny steel washbasin, filled it with luke-warm water and shaved carefully. Then, with the assistance of a sliver of soap, he washed, wondering how long the smell of prison would remain in the pores of his skin.
He studied himself in the small steel mirror above the basin. The bits he could see appeared to be clean. He put on his prison clothes for the last time: a pair of boxer shorts, a blue and white striped shirt, jeans, grey socks and Nick’s trainers. He sat on the end of the bed and waited for Pascoe to appear, jangling keys and with his usual morning greeting, ‘Let’s be having you, lad. It’s time to go to work.’ Not today. He waited.
When the key eventually turned in the lock and the door opened, Pascoe had a broad grin on his face. ‘Morning, Moncrieff,’ he said. ‘Look lively, and follow me. It’s time for you to pick up your personal belongings from the stores, be on your way and leave us all in peace.’
As they walked down the corridor at a prison pace, Pascoe ventured, ‘The weather’s on the turn. You should have a nice day for it,’ as if Danny was off on a day trip to the seaside.
‘How do I get from here to King’s Cross?’ Danny asked. Something Nick wouldn’t have known.
‘Take the train from Plumstead station to Cannon Street, then the tube to King’s Cross,’ said Pascoe as they reached the store room. He banged on the double doors, and a moment later they were pulled open by the stores manager.
‘Morning, Moncrieff,’ said Webster. ‘You must have been looking forward to today for the past four years.’ Danny didn’t comment. ‘I’ve got everything ready for you,’ continued Webster, taking two full plastic bags from the shelf behind him and placing them on the counter. He then disappeared into the back, returning a moment later with a large leather suitcase that was covered in dust and bore the initials N.A.M. in black. ‘Nice piece of kit, that,’ he said. ‘What does the A stand for?’
Danny couldn’t remember if it was Angus, after Nick’s father, or Alexander, after his grandfather.
‘Get on with it, Moncrieff,’ said Pascoe. ‘I don’t have all day to stand around chatting.’
Danny tried manfully to pick up both the plastic bags in one hand and the large leather suitcase with the other, but found that he had to stop and change hands every few paces.
‘I’d like to help you, Moncrieff,’ whispered Pascoe, ‘but if I did, I’d never hear the end of it.’
Eventually they ended up back outside Danny’s cell. Pascoe unlocked the door. ‘I’ll return in about an hour to fetch you. I have to get some of the lads off to the Old Bailey before we can think about releasing you.’ The cell door slammed in Danny’s face for the last time.
Danny Cartwright stood in front of the mirror and stared at Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, officer and gentleman. He felt like a fraud.
He folded up his prison gear and placed it on the end of Nick’s bed. He still thought of it as Nick’s bed. Then he packed the rest of the clothes neatly in the suitcase before retrieving Nick’s diary from under the bed, along with a file of correspondence marked Fraser Munro – twenty-eight letters that Danny knew almost off by heart. Once he’d finished packing, all that remained were a few of Nick’s personal belongings, which Danny had put on the table, and the photo of Beth taped to the wall. He carefully peeled off the sellotape before putting the photo in a side pocket of the suitcase, which he then snapped closed and placed by the cell door.
Danny sat back down at the table and looked at his friend’s personal belongings. He strapped on Nick’s slim Longines watch with 11.7.91 stamped on the back – a gift from his grandfather on his twenty-first birthday – then he slipped on a gold ring which bore the Moncrieff family crest. He stared at a black leather wallet and felt even more like a thief. Inside it he found seventy pounds in cash and a Coutts chequebook with an address in The Strand printed on the cover. He put the wallet in an inside pocket, turned the plastic chair round to face the cell door, sat down and waited for Pascoe to reappear. He was ready to escape. As he sat there, he recalled one of Nick’s favourite misquotes: In prison, time and tide wait for every man.
He reached inside his shirt and touched the small key that was hanging from the chain around his neck. He was no nearer to discovering what it unlocked – it unlocked the prison gate. He had searched through the diaries for the slightest clue, over a thousand pages, but had come up with nothing. If Nick had known, he had taken the secret to his grave.
Now a very different key was turning in the lock of his cell door. It opened to reveal Pascoe standing alone. Danny quite expected him to say, ‘Good try, Cartwright, but you didn’t really expect to get away with it, did you?’ But all he said was, ‘It’s time to go, Moncrieff, look sharp about it.’
Danny rose, picked up Nick’s suitcase and walked out on to the landing. He didn’t look back at the room that had been his home for the past two years. He followed Pascoe along the landing and down the spiral staircase. As he left the block he was greeted with cheers and jeers from those who were soon to be released and those who would never see the light of day again.
They continued down the blue corridor. He’d forgotten how many sets of double-barred gates there were between B block and reception, where Jenkins was seated behind his desk waiting for him.
‘Good morning, Moncrieff,’ he announced cheerfully; he had one voice for those coming in, quite another for those who were leaving. He checked the open ledger in front of him. ‘I see that over the past four years you have saved two hundred and eleven pounds, and as you are also entitled to forty-five pounds discharge allowance, that makes in all two hundred and fifty-six pounds.’ He counted out the money slowly and carefully, before passing it over to Danny. ‘Sign here,’ he said. Danny wrote Nick’s signature for the second time that morning before putting the money in his wallet. ‘You are also entitled to a rail warrant to any part of the country you decide on. It’s one way, of course, as we don’t want to see you back here again.’ Prison humour.
Jenkins handed him a rail warrant to Dunbroath in Scotland, but not before Danny had falsely signed another document. It wasn’t surprising that his handwriting resembled Nick’s – after all, it was Nick who had taught him to write.
‘Mr Pascoe will accompany you to the gate,’ said Jenkins once he’d checked the signature. ‘I’ll say goodbye, as I have a feeling we’ll never meet again, which sadly I’m not able to say all that often.’
Danny shook his hand, picked up the suitcase and followed Pascoe out of reception, down the steps and into the yard.
Together they walked slowly across a bleak concrete square which acted as a car park for the prison vans and private vehicles that made their legal entrance and exit every day. In the gatehouse sat an officer Danny had never seen before.
‘Name?’ he demanded without looking up from the list of discharges on his clipboard.
‘Moncrieff,’ Danny replied.
‘Number?’
‘CK4802,’ said Danny without thinking.
The officer ran a finger slowly down his list. A puzzled look appeared on his face.
‘CK1079,’ whispered Pascoe.
‘CK1079,’ repeated Danny, shaking.
‘Ah, yes,’ said the officer, his finger coming to rest on Moncrieff. ‘Sign here.’
Danny’s hand was shaking as he scribbled Nick’s signature in the little rectangular box. The officer checked the name against the prison number and the photograph, before looking up at Danny. He hesitated for a moment.
‘Don’t hang around, Moncrieff,’ said Pascoe firmly. ‘Some of us have got a day’s work to do, haven’t we, Mr Tomkins?’
‘Yes, Mr Pascoe,’ replied the gate officer, and quickly pressed the red button beneath his desk. The first of the massive electric gates slowly began to open.
Danny stepped out of the gatehouse, still not sure in which direction he would be heading. Pascoe said nothing.
Once the first gate had slipped into the gap in the wall, Pascoe finally offered, ‘Good luck, lad, you’ll need it.’
Danny shook him warmly by the hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Pascoe,’ he said. ‘For everything.’ Danny picked up Nick’s suitcase and stepped into the void between the two different worlds. The first gate slid back into place behind him, and a moment later the second one began to open.
Danny Cartwright walked out of prison a free man. The first inmate ever to escape from Belmarsh.
BOOK THREE
FREEDOM
38
AS NICK MONCRIEFF crossed the road, one or two passers-by glanced at him in mild surprise. It wasn’t that they were unaccustomed to seeing prisoners coming out of that gate, but not someone carrying a leather suitcase and dressed like a country gentleman.
Danny never once looked back as he walked to the nearest station. After he’d bought a ticket – his first handling of cash for over two years – he boarded the train. He stared out of the window, feeling strangely insecure. No walls, no razor wire, no barred gates and no screws – prison officers. Look like Nick, talk like Nick, think like Danny.
At Cannon Street, Danny switched to the tube. The commuters were moving at a different pace from the one he had become accustomed to in prison. Several of them were dressed in smart suits, speaking in smart accents and dealing in smart money, but Nick had shown him that they were no smarter than he was; they had just started life in a different cot.
At King’s Cross, Nick disembarked, lugging his heavy suitcase. He passed a policeman who didn’t even glance at him. He checked the departures board. The next train to Edinburgh was scheduled to leave at eleven, arriving at Waverley station at 3.20 that afternoon. He still had time for breakfast. He grabbed a copy of The Times from a stand outside W.H. Smith. He’d walked a few paces before he realized he hadn’t paid for the paper. Sweating profusely, Danny ran back and quickly joined the queue at the till. He remembered being told about a prisoner who had just been released and while he was on his way home to Bristol had taken a Mars Bar from a display cabinet on Reading station. He was arrested for shoplifting and was back in Belmarsh seven hours later;
he’d ended up serving another three years.
Danny paid for the paper and walked into the nearest café, where he joined another queue. When he reached the hotplate he passed his tray across to the girl behind the counter.
‘What would you like?’ she asked, ignoring the proffered tray.
Danny wasn’t sure how to respond. For over two years he had just taken whatever ended up on his plate. ‘Eggs, bacon, mushrooms and . . .’
‘You may as well have the full English breakfast while you’re at it,’ she suggested.
‘Fine, the full English breakfast,’ said Danny. ‘And, and . . .’
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Yes, coffee would be great,’ he said, aware that it was going to take him a little time to become used to being given whatever he asked for. He found a seat at a table in the corner. He picked up the bottle of HP sauce and shook an amount on to the side of the plate that Nick would have approved of. He then opened his paper and turned to the business pages. Look like Nick, talk like Nick, think like Danny.
Internet companies were still falling by the wayside as their owners discovered that the meek rarely inherit the earth. By the time Danny had reached the front pages, he’d finished his meal and was enjoying a second cup of coffee. Someone had not only walked over to his table and refilled his cup, but also smiled when he said thank you. Danny began to read the lead article on the front page. The leader of the Conservative Party, Iain Duncan Smith, was under attack again. If the Prime Minister called an election, Danny would have voted for Tony Blair. He suspected that Nick would have supported Iain Duncan Smith; after all, he was another old soldier. Perhaps he would abstain. No, he must stay in character if he hoped to fool the voters, let alone remain in office.
Danny finished his coffee, but didn’t move for some time. He needed Mr Pascoe to tell him he could return to his cell. He smiled to himself, rose from his seat and strolled out of the café. He knew the time had come to face his first test. When he spotted a row of phone booths, he took a deep breath. He took out his wallet – Nick’s wallet – extracted a card, and dialled the number embossed in the bottom right-hand corner.
A Prisoner of Birth Page 22