‘A copy of The Times and a hot chocolate,’ said Danny.
‘Of course, Sir Nicholas.’
‘And your name is?’ asked Danny.
‘Mario, sir.’
George, Walter and Mario had unwittingly become members of his team, at a cost of thirty pounds. Danny turned to the business section of The Times to check on his investments while he waited for the innocent Mr Hall to appear. At two minutes to twelve, Mario was standing by his side. ‘Sir Nicholas, your guest has arrived.’
‘Thank you, Mario,’ Danny said as if he were a regular customer.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Nicholas,’ said Hall as he took the seat opposite Danny.
‘What would you like to drink, Mr Hall?’ said Danny.
‘Just a coffee, thank you.’
‘A coffee and my usual, please, Mario.’
‘Of course, Sir Nicholas.’
The young man who had joined Danny was dressed in a beige suit, green shirt and a yellow tie. Gary Hall would never have been offered a position at the Banque de Coubertin. He opened his briefcase and took out a file. ‘I think I have all the information you require, Sir Nicholas,’ said Hall, flicking open the cover. ‘Number 143 Mile End Road – used to be a garage, owned by a Mr George Wilson, who died recently.’ The blood drained from Danny’s face as he realized just how far the ramifications of Bernie’s death had extended: a single incident that had changed so many lives.
‘Are you feeling all right, Sir Nicholas?’ asked Hall, looking genuinely concerned.
‘Yes, I’m fine, just fine,’ said Danny, quickly recovering. ‘You were saying?’ he added as a waiter placed a hot chocolate in front of him.
‘After Mr Wilson retired, the business was carried on for a couple of years under a man called . . .’ Hall referred to his file, though Danny could have told him. ‘Trevor Sutton. But during that time the company ran up considerable debts, so the owner decided to cut her losses and put it up for sale.’
‘Her losses?’
‘Yes, the site is now owned – ’ he once again checked his file – ‘by a Miss Elizabeth Wilson, the daughter of the previous owner.’
‘What’s the asking price?’ said Danny.
‘The site is approximately five thousand square feet, but if you are considering making an offer, I could do a survey and confirm the exact measurements.’ 4,789 square feet, Danny could have told him. ‘There’s a pawn shop on one side, and a Turkish carpet warehouse on the other.’
‘What’s the asking price?’ repeated Danny.
‘Oh yes, sorry. Two hundred thousand, including fixtures and fittings, but I’m fairly confident you could pick it up for a hundred and fifty. There hasn’t been much interest shown in the property, and there’s a far more successful garage trading on the other side of the road.’
‘I can’t afford to waste any time haggling,’ said Danny, ‘so listen carefully. I’m prepared to pay the asking price, and I also want you to approach the owners of the pawn shop and the carpet warehouse, as I intend to make an offer for their properties.’
‘Yes, of course, Sir Nicholas,’ said Hall, writing down his every word. He hesitated for a moment. ‘I’ll need a deposit of twenty thousand pounds before we can proceed.’
‘By the time you get back to your office, Mr Hall, two hundred thousand pounds will have been deposited in your client account.’ Hall didn’t look convinced, but managed a thin smile. ‘As soon as you know about the other two properties, call me.’
‘Yes, Sir Nicholas.’
‘And I must make one thing clear,’ said Danny. ‘The owner must never find out who she is dealing with.’
‘You can rely on my discretion, Sir Nicholas.’
‘I hope so,’ said Danny, ‘because I found I couldn’t rely on the discretion of the last company I dealt with, and that’s how they lost my business.’
‘I understand,’ said Hall. ‘How do I get in touch with you?’ Danny took out his wallet and handed him a freshly minted embossed card. ‘And finally, may I ask, Sir Nicholas, which solicitors will be representing you in this transaction?’
This was the first question Danny hadn’t anticipated. He smiled. ‘Munro, Munro and Carmichael. You should only deal with Mr Fraser Munro, the senior partner, who handles all my personal affairs.’
‘Of course, Sir Nicholas,’ said Hall, rising from his place once he had written the name down. ‘I’d better get straight back to the office and talk to the vendor’s agents.’
Danny watched Hall as he scuttled away, his coffee untouched. He was confident that within the hour the whole office would have heard about the eccentric Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, who clearly had more money than sense. They would undoubtedly tease young Hall about his wasted morning, until they discovered the £200,000 in the client account.
Danny flicked open his mobile phone and dialled the number. ‘Yes,’ said a voice.
‘I want two hundred thousand pounds to be transferred to the client account of Baker, Tremlett and Smythe in London.’
‘Understood.’
Danny closed the phone and thought about Gary Hall. How quickly would he discover that Mrs Isaacs had wanted her husband to sell the pawn shop for years, and that the carpet warehouse only just about broke even, and Mr and Mrs Kamal hoped to retire to Ankara so that they could spend more time with their daughter and grandchildren?
Mario placed the bill discreetly on the table by his side. Danny left a large tip. He needed to be remembered. As he passed through reception, he paused to thank the head concierge.
‘My pleasure, Sir Nicholas. Do let me know if I can be of any service in the future.’
‘Thank you, Walter. I may well be in touch.’
Danny pushed his way through the swing doors and walked out on to the terrace. George rushed across to the waiting car and opened the back door. Danny extracted another ten-pound note.
‘Thank you, George.’
George, Walter and Mario were now all paid-up members of his cast, although the curtain had only fallen on the first act.
54
DANNY TOOK the file marked Davenport off the shelf and placed it on his desk. He turned to the first page.
Davenport, Lawrence, actor – pages 2–11
Davenport, Sarah, sister, solicitor – pages 12–16
Duncan, Charlie, producer – pages 17–20
He turned to page 17. Another bit-part player was about to become involved in Lawrence Davenport’s next production. Danny dialled his number.
‘Charles Duncan Productions.’
‘Mr Duncan, please.’
‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Nick Moncrieff.’
‘I’ll put you through, Mr Moncrieff.’
‘I’m trying to remember where we met,’ said the next voice on the line.
‘At the Dorchester, for The Importance of Being Earnest closing-night party.’
‘Oh, yes, now I remember. So what can I do for you?’ asked a suspicious-sounding voice.
‘I’m thinking of investing in your next production,’ said Danny. ‘A friend of mine put a few thousand in Earnest and he tells me he made a handsome profit, so I thought this might be the right time for me to—’
‘You couldn’t have called at a better time,’ said Duncan. ‘I’ve got the very thing for you, old boy. Why don’t you join me at the Ivy for a spot of lunch some time so we can discuss it?’
Could anyone really fall for that line, thought Danny. If they could, this was going to be easier than he had imagined. ‘No, let me take you to lunch, old boy,’ said Danny. ‘You must be extremely busy, so perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me a call when you’re next available.’
‘Well, funnily enough,’ said Duncan, ‘I’ve just had a cancellation for tomorrow, so if you happened to be free.’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Danny, before baiting the trap. ‘Why don’t you join me at my local pub?’
‘Your local pub?’ said Duncan, not sounding quit
e so enthusiastic.
‘Yes, the Palm Court Room at the Dorchester. Shall we say one o’clock?’
‘Ah, yes, of course. I’ll see you there, one o’clock,’ said Duncan. ‘It’s Sir Nicholas, isn’t it?’
‘Nick’s just fine,’ said Danny, before putting the phone down and making an entry in his diary.
Professor Amirkhan Mori smiled benevolently as he peered into the packed auditorium. His lectures were always well attended, and not just because he imparted so much wisdom and knowledge, but he also managed to do it with humour. It had taken Danny some time to realize that the professor enjoyed provoking discussion and argument by offering up outrageous statements to see what reaction he would arouse from his students.
‘It would have been better for the economic stability of our nation if John Maynard Keynes had never been born. I cannot think of one worthwhile thing that he achieved in his lifetime.’ Twenty hands shot into the air.
‘Moncrieff,’ he said. ‘What example do you have to offer of a legacy that Keynes could be proud of?’
‘He founded the Cambridge Arts Theatre,’ said Danny, hoping to play the professor at his own game.
‘He also played Orsino in Twelfth Night when he was a student at King’s College,’ said Mori. ‘But that was before he went on to prove to the world that it made economic sense for wealthy countries to invest in and encourage developing nations.’ The clock on the wall behind him struck one. ‘I’ve had enough of you lot,’ said the professor, and marched off the platform and disappeared out of the swing doors to laughter and applause.
Danny knew he wouldn’t have time even to grab a quick lunch in the canteen if he wasn’t going to be late for the meeting with his probation officer, but as he dashed out of the lecture theatre he found Professor Mori waiting in the corridor.
‘I wonder if we might have a word, Moncrieff,’ said Mori, and without waiting for a reply, charged off down the corridor. Danny followed him into his office, prepared to defend his views of Milton Friedman, as he knew his latest essay was not in line with the professor’s oft-expressed opinions on the subject.
‘Have a seat, dear boy,’ Mori said. ‘I’d offer you a drink, but frankly I don’t have anything worth drinking. But to more important matters. I wanted to know if you had considered entering your name for the Jennie Lee Memorial Prize essay competition.’
‘I hadn’t given it a thought,’ admitted Danny.
‘Then you should,’ said Professor Mori. ‘You’re by far the brightest student of your intake, which isn’t saying a lot, but I still think you could win the prize. If you have the time, you ought to give it your serious consideration.’
‘What sort of commitment would it require?’ asked Danny, whose studies were still only the second priority in his life.
The professor picked up a booklet that was lying on his desk, turned to the first page and began reading out loud. ‘The essay should be no less than ten thousand words and no more than twenty, on a subject of the entrant’s choice, and it must be handed in by the end of Michaelmas Term.’
‘I’m flattered that you think I’m up to it,’ said Danny.
‘I’m only surprised that your masters at Loretto didn’t advise you to go to Edinburgh or Oxford, rather than join the army.’
Danny would like to have told the professor that no one from Clement Attlee comprehensive had ever been to Oxford, including the head teacher.
‘Perhaps you’d like to think it over,’ said the professor. ‘Let me know when you’ve come to a decision.’
‘I certainly will,’ said Danny as he rose to leave. ‘Thank you, professor.’
Once he was back in the corridor, Danny began running towards the entrance. As he charged through the front doors, he was relieved to see Big Al waiting by the car.
Danny mulled over Professor Mori’s words as Big Al drove along the Strand and through The Mall on his way to Notting Hill Gate. He continually broke the speed limit as he didn’t want the boss to be late for his appointment. Danny made it clear that he’d rather pay a speeding fine than spend another four years in Belmarsh. It was unfortunate that Big Al drew up outside the probation office just as Ms Bennett stepped off her bus. She stared through the car window as Danny tried to conceal himself behind Big Al’s hulking frame.
‘She probably thinks ye huv robbed a bank,’ said Big Al, ‘an I’m the getaway driver.’
‘I did rob a bank,’ Danny reminded him.
Danny was made to wait in reception for longer than usual before Ms Bennett reappeared and beckoned him into her office. Once he was seated on his plastic chair on the opposite side of the formica table, she said, ‘Before I begin, Nicholas, perhaps you can explain whose car you arrived in this afternoon?’
‘It’s mine,’ replied Danny.
‘And who was the driver?’ asked Ms Bennett.
‘He’s my chauffeur.’
‘How can you afford to own a BMW and have a chauffeur when your only declared source of income is a student grant?’ she asked.
‘My grandfather set up a trust fund for me which pays out a monthly income of a hundred thousand pounds and—’
‘Nicholas,’ said Ms Bennett sharply, ‘these meetings are meant to be an opportunity for you to be open and frank about any problems you are facing so that I can offer you advice and assistance. I am going to allow you one more chance to answer my questions honestly. If you continue to act in this frivolous manner, I will have no choice but to mention it in my next report to the Home Office, and we both know what the consequences of that will be. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, Ms Bennett,’ said Danny, recalling what Big Al had told him when he had faced the same problem with his probation officer. ‘Tell them what they want tae hear, boss. It makes life so much easier.’
‘Let me ask you once again. Who owns the car you arrived in this afternoon?’
‘The man who was driving it,’ said Danny.
‘And is he a friend? Or do you work for him?’
‘I knew him when I was in the army, and because I was running late, he offered me a lift.’
‘And can you tell me if you have any source of income other than your student grant?’
‘No, Ms Bennett.’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Ms Bennett. ‘You see how much more smoothly everything goes when you cooperate? Now, is there anything else you want to discuss with me?’
Danny was tempted to tell her about his meeting with the three Swiss bankers, take her through the property deal he was trying to put together, or let her know what he had in mind for Charlie Duncan. He settled on, ‘My professor wants me to enter for the Jennie Lee Memorial Prize essay competition, and I wondered what your advice would be.’
Ms Bennett smiled. ‘Do you think it will enhance your chances of becoming a teacher?’
‘Yes, I suppose it might,’ said Danny.
‘Then I would advise you to enter the competition.’
‘I am most grateful, Ms Bennett.’
‘Not at all,’ she replied. ‘After all, that’s what I’m here for.’
Danny’s unplanned late-night visit to Mile End Road had rekindled those glowing embers that lifers call their demons. Returning to the Old Bailey in broad daylight would mean that he had to face an even greater challenge.
As Big Al swung the car into St Paul’s Yard, Danny looked up at the statue perched on top of the Central Criminal Court: a woman was attempting to balance a pair of scales. When Danny had flicked through his diary to see if he was free to have lunch with Charlie Duncan, he had been reminded how he had planned to spend that morning. Big Al drove past the public entrance, swung right at the end of the road and made his way round to the back of the building, where he parked outside a door marked Visitors’ Entrance.
Once Danny had been cleared through security he began the long climb up the steep stone steps that led to the galleries that overlook the different courts. When he reached the top floor, a court official wearing a lon
g black schoolmaster’s gown asked him if he knew which court he wished to attend.
‘Number four,’ he told the officer, who pointed down the corridor to the second door on the right. Danny followed his instructions and made his way into the public gallery. A handful of onlookers – family and friends of the accused, and a few of the simply curious – were seated on a bench in the front row peering down into the court. He didn’t join them.
Danny had no interest in the accused man. He had come to watch his adversary performing on his home ground. He slipped into a place in the corner of the back row. Like a skilled assassin, he had a perfect sighting of his quarry as he went about his business, while Spencer Craig would have had to turn round and stare up into the gallery if he were to have any chance of seeing him, and even then Danny would appear as an irrelevant speck on his landscape.
Danny watched every move Craig made, much as a boxer does when sparring with an opponent, looking for flaws, searching for weaknesses. Craig displayed very few to the untrained eye. As the morning progressed, it became clear that he was skilful, cunning and ruthless, all necessary weapons in the armoury of his chosen profession; but he also appeared willing to stretch the elastic of the law to breaking point if it would advance his cause, as Danny had already learnt to his cost. He knew that when the time came to face Craig head on, he would have to be at his sharpest, because this opponent wasn’t going to lie down until the last breath had been knocked out of him.
Danny felt that he now knew almost everything there was to know about Spencer Craig, which only made him more cautious. While Danny had the advantage of preparation and the element of surprise, he also had the disadvantage of having dared to enter an arena that Craig considered to be nothing less than his birthright, whereas Danny had only inhabited the same terrain for a few months. With every day that he played his role it became more of a reality, so that now, no one he came across ever doubted that he was Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. But Danny remembered that Nick had written in his diary that whenever you face a skilful enemy, you must lure him off his own ground, so that he does not feel at ease, because that is when you have the best chance of taking him by surprise.
A Prisoner of Birth Page 35
