A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

  Danny frowned, suddenly aware that he might have only wounded Payne, although he didn’t expect Davenport or Craig to recover quite so easily. ‘I have another job for you,’ he said, opening his briefcase and extracting a bundle of papers. ‘I need you to dispose of a property in Redcliffe Square; number twenty-five. The previous owner—’

  ‘Hi, Nick,’ said a voice.

  Danny looked up. A tall, heavily built man he’d never seen before was towering over him. He was wearing a kilt, had a shock of brown wavy hair and a ruddy complexion, and must have been around the same age as Danny. Think like Danny, behave like Nick. Be Nick. Danny had realized that this situation was bound to arise at some time, but lately he had become so relaxed in his new persona that he didn’t think it was still possible for him to be taken by surprise. He was wrong. First, he needed to find out if the man had been at school or in the army with Nick, because it certainly wasn’t prison. He stood up.

  ‘Hello,’ said Danny, giving the stranger a warm smile and shaking him by the hand. ‘Can I introduce you to a business associate of mine, Gary Hall.’

  The man bent down and shook hands with Hall, saying, ‘Pleased to meet you, Gary. I’m Sandy, Sandy Dawson,’ he added in a strong Scottish accent.

  ‘Sandy and I go back a long way,’ said Danny, hoping to find out just how long.

  ‘Sure do,’ said Dawson. ‘But I haven’t seen Nick since we left school.’

  ‘We were at Loretto together,’ Danny said, smiling at Hall. ‘So what have you been up to, Sandy?’ he asked, desperately searching for another clue.

  ‘Like my father, still in the meat business,’ said Dawson. ‘And ever thankful that Highland beef remains the most popular meat in the kingdom. What about you, Nick?’

  ‘I’ve been taking it pretty easy since . . .’ said Danny, attempting to discover if Dawson knew that Nick had been to prison.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Sandy. ‘Terrible business, most unfair. But I’m delighted to see you’ve come through the whole experience unscathed.’ A puzzled look appeared on Hall’s face. Danny couldn’t think of a suitable reply. ‘I hope you’re still finding time to play the occasional game of cricket,’ said Dawson. ‘Best fast bowler of our generation at school,’ he said, turning to Hall. ‘I should know – I was the wicketkeeper.’

  ‘And a damn good one,’ said Danny, slapping him on the back.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you,’ said Dawson, ‘but I couldn’t just walk by without saying hello.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Danny. ‘It was good to see you, Sandy, after all this time.’

  ‘You too,’ said Dawson as he turned to leave. Danny sat back down, and hoped that Hall didn’t hear the sigh of relief that followed Dawson’s departure. He began taking some more papers out of his briefcase, when Dawson turned back. ‘I don’t suppose anyone has told you, Nick, that Squiffy Humphries died?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Danny.

  ‘Had a heart attack on the golf course while playing a round with the headmaster. The fifteen has never been the same since Squiffy retired.’

  ‘Yes, poor old Squiffy. Great coach.’

  ‘I’ll leave you in peace,’ said Dawson. ‘I thought you’d want to know. The whole of Musselburgh turned out for his funeral.’

  ‘No more than he deserved,’ said Danny. Dawson nodded and walked away.

  This time Danny didn’t take his eyes off the man until he saw him leave the room.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.

  ‘Always embarrassing to meet up with old school chums years later,’ said Hall. ‘Half the time I can’t even remember their names. Mind you, it would be difficult to forget that one. Quite a character.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danny, quickly passing over the deeds of the house in Redcliffe Square.

  Hall studied the document for some time before he asked, ‘What sort of price are you expecting the property to fetch?’

  ‘Around three million,’ said Danny. ‘There’s a mortgage of just over a million, and I’ve put up another million, so anything above two point two, two point three should show me a profit.’

  ‘The first thing I’ll have to do is arrange for a survey.’

  ‘Pity Payne didn’t carry out a survey on the Stratford site.’

  ‘He claims he did,’ said Hall. ‘My bet is the surveyor had never heard of Japanese knotweed. To be fair, neither had anyone else in the office.’

  ‘I certainly hadn’t,’ said Danny. ‘Well, not until quite recently.’

  ‘Any problems with the present owner?’ asked Hall as he turned the last page of the deeds. Then he added before Danny could reply, ‘Is that who I think it is?’

  ‘Yes, Lawrence Davenport, the actor,’ said Danny.

  ‘Did you know he’s a friend of Gerald’s?’

  ‘Yur on the front page of the Evening Standard, boss,’ said Big Al as he pulled out of the Dorchester forecourt and joined the traffic heading towards Hyde Park Corner.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Danny, fearing the worst.

  Big Al passed the paper back to Danny. He stared at the banner headline: Royal pardon for Cartwright?

  He skimmed through the article before reading it more carefully a second time.

  ‘I don’t know whit yur gonnae dae, boss, if they ask Sir Nicholas Moncrieff tae appear in front of a tribunal an gie evidence in defence of Danny Cartwright.’

  ‘If all goes to plan,’ said Danny, looking at a photo of Beth surrounded by hundreds of campaigners from Bow, ‘it won’t be me who’s the defendant.’

  67

  CRAIG HAD SENT OUT for four pizzas, and there would be no waitresses to serve chilled wine for this particular gathering of the Musketeers.

  Since leaving the Lord Chancellor’s office, he had spent every spare moment trying to find out everything he could about Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. He had been able to confirm that Moncrieff had shared a cell with Danny Cartwright and Albert Crann while they were inmates at Belmarsh. He also discovered that Moncrieff had been released from prison six weeks after Cartwright’s death.

  What Craig couldn’t work out was why anyone would be willing to devote his entire existence, as Moncrieff had clearly done, to tracking down and then attempting to destroy three men he had never met. Unless . . . It was when he placed the two photographs of Moncrieff and Cartwright next to each other that he first began to consider the possibility. It didn’t take him too long to come up with a plan to discover if the possibility could in fact be a reality.

  There was a knock on the front door. Craig opened it, to be greeted by the forlorn figure of Gerald Payne, clutching on to a cheap bottle of wine. All the self-assurance of their previous meeting had evaporated.

  ‘Is Larry coming?’ he asked, not bothering to shake hands with Craig.

  ‘I’m expecting him at any minute,’ said Craig as he led his old friend through to the drawing room. ‘So where have you been hiding yourself ?’

  ‘I’m staying in Sussex with my mother until this all blows over,’ Payne replied, sinking into a comfortable chair.

  ‘Any trouble in the constituency?’ Craig asked as he poured him a glass of wine.

  ‘Could be worse,’ said Payne. ‘The Liberals are spreading rumours, but fortunately they do it so often no one takes much notice. When the editor of the local rag rang, I told him I’d resigned as a partner of Baker, Tremlett and Smythe because I wanted to devote more time to my constituency work in the run-up to the general election. He even wrote a supportive leader the following day.’

  ‘I have no doubt you’ll survive,’ said Craig. ‘Frankly, I’m far more worried about Larry. He not only failed to land the part in Holby City, but he’s telling everyone that you texted him about the minister’s statement just as he was about to take the screen test.’

  ‘But that just isn’t true,’ said Payne. ‘I was in such a state of shock I didn’t get in touch with anyone, not even you.’

  ‘Someone did,’ said Craig. ‘
And I now realize if it wasn’t you who sent us both a text, it had to be someone who knew about Larry’s screen test as well as my meeting with the Lord Chancellor.’

  ‘The same person who had access to my phone at that time.’

  ‘The ubiquitous Sir Nicholas Moncrieff.’

  ‘The bastard. I’ll kill him,’ said Payne, without thinking what he was saying.

  ‘That’s what we should have done when we had the chance,’ said Craig.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll find out all in good time,’ said Craig as the doorbell rang. ‘That must be Larry.’

  While Craig answered the door, Payne sat thinking about the text messages that Moncrieff must have sent to Larry and Spencer while he was out of action in the Commons washroom, but he was still no nearer to understanding why when the two of them joined him. Payne couldn’t believe the change in Larry in such a short time. He was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a crumpled shirt. He clearly hadn’t shaved since he’d heard about the announcement. He slumped down in the nearest chair.

  ‘Why, why, why?’ were his opening words.

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ said Craig, handing him a glass of wine.

  ‘It was obviously a well-organized campaign,’ said Payne once Craig had refilled his glass.

  ‘And there’s no reason to believe that he’s finished with us yet,’ said Craig.

  ‘But why?’ repeated Davenport. ‘Why lend me a million pounds of his own money if he knew I was going to lose every penny of it?’

  ‘Because he had the security of your home to cover the loan,’ said Payne. ‘He couldn’t lose.’

  ‘And what do you think he did the next day?’ said Davenport. ‘He appointed your old firm to dispose of my house. They’ve already put a for-sale sign in the front garden and started showing potential buyers around.’

  ‘He did what?’ said Payne.

  ‘And this morning I received a solicitor’s letter telling me that if I didn’t vacate the premises by the end of the month, they would have no choice but to . . .’

  ‘Where will you live?’ asked Craig, hoping Davenport wouldn’t ask to move in with him.

  ‘Sarah’s agreed to put me up until this mess gets sorted out.’

  ‘You’ve not told her anything?’ asked Craig anxiously.

  ‘No, not a thing,’ said Davenport. ‘Although she obviously knows something’s wrong. And she keeps asking me when I first met Moncrieff.’

  ‘You can’t afford to tell her that,’ said Craig, ‘or we’ll all end up in even more trouble.’

  ‘How can we possibly be in any more trouble?’ asked Davenport.

  ‘We will be if Moncrieff is allowed to continue waging his vendetta,’ said Craig. Payne and Davenport made no attempt to contradict him. ‘We know that Moncrieff has handed over his diaries to the Lord Chancellor, and no doubt he’ll be called on to give evidence before the law lords when they consider Cartwright’s pardon.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Davenport, a look of sheer desperation on his face.

  ‘No need to panic,’ said Craig. ‘I think I’ve come up with a way of finishing off Moncrieff once and for all.’ Davenport didn’t look convinced. ‘And what’s more, there’s a possibility that we can still all get our money back, which would include your house, Larry, as well as your paintings.’

  ‘But how can that be possible?’ asked Davenport.

  ‘Patience, Larry, patience, and all will be revealed.’

  ‘I understand his tactics with Larry,’ said Payne, ‘because he had nothing to lose. But why put up a million of his own money when he knew it was a bum deal?’

  ‘That was a stroke of sheer genius,’ admitted Craig.

  ‘No doubt you’re going to enlighten us,’ said Davenport.

  ‘Because by investing that million,’ said Craig, ignoring his sarcasm, ‘you were both convinced, as I was, that we must be on to a winner.’

  ‘But he was still bound to lose his million,’ said Payne, ‘if he knew that the first site was doomed.’

  ‘Not if he already owned the site in the first place,’ said Craig.

  Neither of his two guests spoke for some time, as they tried to work out the significance of his words.

  ‘Are you suggesting that we were paying him to buy his own property?’ said Payne eventually.

  ‘Worse than that,’ said Craig, ‘because I think a piece of advice you gave him, Gerald, meant that he couldn’t lose either way. So he ended up not only killing us, but making a killing himself.’

  The doorbell rang.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Davenport, nearly jumping out of his chair.

  ‘Only our supper,’ said Craig. ‘Why don’t you two go through to the kitchen? I’ll let you know over our pizzas exactly what I have planned for Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, because the time has come for us to fight back.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want another confrontation with that man,’ Davenport admitted as he and Payne walked through to the kitchen.

  ‘We may not have much choice,’ said Payne.

  ‘Any idea who’s joining us?’ asked Davenport, when he saw the table had been laid for four.

  Payne shook his head. ‘Haven’t a clue. But I think it’s unlikely to be Moncrieff.’

  ‘You’re right, although it could just be one of his old school chums,’ said Craig as he joined them in the kitchen. He took the pizzas out of their boxes and placed them in the microwave.

  ‘Are you going to explain what the hell you’ve been hinting at all evening?’ asked Payne.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Craig, checking his watch. ‘But you’ll only have to wait a few more minutes to find out.’

  ‘At least tell me what you meant when you said that Moncrieff may have made a killing because of some advice I gave him,’ demanded Payne.

  ‘Wasn’t it you who told him to buy the second site so that it would be impossible for him to lose out either way?’

  ‘Yes, I did. But if you remember, he didn’t have enough money to buy the first site.’

  ‘Or that’s what he told you,’ said Craig. ‘According to the Evening Standard, the other site is now expected to fetch twelve million.’

  ‘But why put up a million of his own money for the first site,’ asked Davenport, ‘if he already knew he was going to make a killing on the second?’

  ‘Because he always intended to make a killing on both sites,’ said Craig. ‘Except on the first one we were to be the victims, while he didn’t lose a penny. If you’d told us that it was Moncrieff who was lending you the money in the first place,’ he said to Davenport, ‘we could have worked it out.’

  Davenport looked sheepish, but made no attempt to defend himself.

  ‘But what I still don’t understand,’ said Payne, ‘is why he put us through all this. It can’t just be because he shared a cell with Cartwright.’

  ‘I agree, there has to be more to it than that,’ said Davenport.

  ‘There is,’ said Craig. ‘And if it’s what I think it is, Moncrieff won’t be bothering us for much longer.’

  Payne and Davenport didn’t look convinced.

  ‘At least tell us,’ said Payne, ‘how you happened to come across one of Moncrieff’s old school friends.’

  ‘Ever heard of Old School Chums dot com?’

  ‘So who have you been trying to get in touch with?’ asked Payne.

  ‘Anyone who knew Nicholas Moncrieff when he was at school or in the army.’

  ‘Did anybody get in touch with you?’ asked Davenport as the doorbell rang again.

  ‘Seven, but only one had all the necessary qualifications,’ said Craig as he left the kitchen to answer the door.

  Davenport and Payne looked at each other, but didn’t speak.

  When Craig reappeared moments later, he was accompanied by a tall, heavily built man who had to lower his head as he passed through the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Sandy Dawson,’ said Craig. ‘Sandy
was in the same house at Loretto school as Nicholas Moncrieff.’

  ‘For five years,’ said Dawson, shaking hands with Payne and Davenport. Craig poured him a glass of wine before ushering him towards the vacant seat at the table.

  ‘But why do we need someone who knew Moncrieff at school?’ asked Davenport.

  ‘Why don’t you tell them, Sandy?’ said Craig.

  ‘I contacted Spencer under the impression that he was my old friend Nick Moncrieff, who I haven’t seen since leaving school.’

  ‘When Sandy got in touch,’ interrupted Craig, ‘I told him my reservations about the man claiming to be Moncrieff, and he agreed to put him to the test. It was Gerald who let me know that Moncrieff had an appointment with one of his colleagues, Gary Hall, at the Dorchester that morning. So Sandy turned up there a few minutes later.’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult to find him,’ said Dawson. ‘Everyone from the hall porter to the hotel manager seemed to know Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. He was sitting in an alcove, exactly where the concierge said I would find him. When I first spotted him I felt certain it was Nick, but as it was almost fifteen years since I’d last seen him, I thought I’d better double-check. But when I walked over to have a word with him, he didn’t show the slightest sign of recognition, and it’s not as if I’m that easy to forget.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons I selected you,’ said Craig. ‘But it still doesn’t constitute proof, not after all this time.’

  ‘Which is why I decided to interrupt his meeting,’ said Dawson, ‘to see whether it really was Nick.’

  ‘And?’ asked Payne.

  ‘Very impressive. Same look, same voice, even the same mannerisms, but I still wasn’t convinced, so decided to put out a couple of feelers. When Nick was at Loretto he was captain of cricket, and a damn good fast bowler. This man knew that, but when I reminded him that I’d been the first eleven wicketkeeper, he didn’t bat an eyelid. That was his first mistake. I never played cricket at school, detested the game. I was in the rugby fifteen, a second row forward – which may not come as a surprise – so I walked away, but I still wondered if he might have forgotten, so I went back to tell him the sad news that Squiffy Humphries had died, and that the whole town had turned out for his funeral. “Great coach,” the man said. That was his second mistake. Squiffy Humphries was our house matron. She ruled the boys with a rod of iron; even I was frightened of her. There was no way he could ever have forgotten Squiffy. I don’t know who that man at the Dorchester was, but I can tell you one thing for certain, he isn’t Nicholas Moncrieff.’