A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

  Danny had decided not to tell Ms Bennett how he would be spending the rest of his afternoon, as he had no doubt that she would dismiss the very idea as frivolous. However, she did appear pleased to learn how he’d fared in the essay competition.

  Molly had already served Monsieur Segat with a second cup of tea by the time Danny arrived back from his meeting with Ms Bennett. The Swiss banker rose from his place as Danny entered the room. He apologized for being a few minutes late, without offering an explanation.

  Segat gave a slight nod before sitting back down. ‘You are now the owner of both sites which are in serious contention for the Olympic velodrome,’ he said. ‘Although you can no longer expect to make quite such a large profit, you should still show a more than satisfactory return on your original investment.’

  ‘Has Payne called back?’ was all Danny wanted to know.

  ‘Yes. He phoned again this morning, and made a bid of four million pounds for the site most likely to be selected. I presume you want me to turn the offer down?’

  ‘Yes. But tell him that you would accept six million, on the understanding that the contract is signed before the minister announces her decision.’

  ‘But that site will be worth at least twelve million if everything goes to plan.’

  ‘Be assured, everything is going to plan,’ said Danny. ‘Has Payne shown any interest in the other site?’

  ‘No. Why should he,’ said Segat, ‘when everyone seems to know which site is going to be selected?’

  Having gained all the information he needed, Danny switched subjects. ‘Who came up with the highest offer for our site on Mile End Road?’

  ‘The highest bidder turned out to be Fairfax Homes, a first-class company which the council has worked with in the past. I’ve studied their proposal,’ said Segat, handing Danny a glossy brochure, ‘and have no doubt that subject to a few modifications from the planning committee, the scheme should get the green light within the next few weeks.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Danny, trying not to sound impatient.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Segat, checking his figures, ‘remembering that your outlay was a little over a million pounds, I think you can be well satisfied that Fairfax Homes came in at £1,801,156, giving you a profit of over half a million pounds. Not a bad return on your capital, remembering that the money’s been in play for less than a year.’

  ‘How do you explain the figure of £1,801,156?’ asked Danny.

  ‘I would guess that Mr Fairfax expected that there would be several bids around the one point eight million mark and just stuck his date of birth on the end.’

  Danny laughed as he began to study Fairfax’s plans for a magnificent new block of luxury flats called City Reach on the site where he had once worked as a garage mechanic.

  ‘Do I have your authority to call Mr Fairfax and let him know his was the successful bid?’

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Danny. ‘And once you’ve spoken to him, I’d like a word.’

  While Segat made the call, Danny continued to study Fairfax Homes’ impressive plans for the new apartment block. He only had one query.

  ‘I’ll just pass you over to Sir Nicholas, Mr Fairfax,’ said Segat. ‘He would like to have a word with you.’

  ‘I’ve just been studying your plans, Mr Fairfax,’ said Danny, ‘and I see you have a penthouse on the top floor.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Fairfax. ‘Four beds, four baths, all ensuite, just over three thousand square feet.’

  ‘Overlooking a garage on the other side of Mile End Road.’

  ‘Less than a mile from the City,’ retorted Fairfax. Both of them laughed.

  ‘And you’re putting the penthouse on the market at six hundred and fifty thousand, Mr Fairfax?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the asking price,’ Fairfax confirmed.

  ‘I’ll close the deal at a million three,’ said Danny, ‘if you’ll throw in the penthouse.’

  ‘A million two and you’ve got yourself a deal,’ said Fairfax.

  ‘On one condition.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  Danny told Mr Fairfax the one change he wanted, and the developer agreed without hesitation.

  Danny had chosen the hour carefully: 11 a.m. Big Al drove around Redcliffe Square twice before stopping outside number 25.

  Danny walked up a path that hadn’t seen a trowel recently. When he reached the front door he rang the bell and waited for some time, but there was no reply. He banged the brass knocker twice, and could hear the sound echoing inside, but still no one answered the door. He rang the bell one more time before finally giving up, and deciding to try again in the afternoon. He had almost reached the gate when the door suddenly swung open and a voice demanded, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Nick Moncrieff,’ said Danny, turning round and walking back up the path. ‘You asked me to give you a call, but you’re ex-directory, and as I just happened to be passing . . .’

  Davenport was wearing a silk dressing gown and slippers. He clearly hadn’t shaved for several days and began blinking in the morning sunlight like an animal that had come out of hibernation on the first day of spring. ‘You told me you had an investment you thought I might be interested in,’ Danny reminded him.

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember now,’ said Lawrence Davenport, sounding a little more receptive. ‘Yes, come in.’

  Danny entered an unlit corridor that brought back memories of what the house in The Boltons had been like before Molly had taken charge.

  ‘Do have a seat while I get changed,’ said Davenport. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’

  Danny didn’t sit. He strolled around the room admiring the paintings and fine furniture, even if they were covered in a layer of dust. He peered through the back window to see a large but unkempt garden.

  The anonymous voice had called from Geneva that morning to say that houses in the square were currently changing hands at around three million pounds. Mr Davenport had purchased number 25 in 1995, when eight million viewers were tuning in to The Prescription every Saturday evening to find out which nurse Dr Beresford would be sleeping with that week. ‘He has a mortgage of one million pounds with Norwich Union,’ said the voice, ‘and for the last three months he’s fallen behind with his payments.’

  Danny turned away from the window when Davenport walked back into the room. He was wearing an open-neck shirt, jeans and sneakers. Danny had seen better-dressed men in prison.

  ‘Can I fix you a drink?’ asked Davenport.

  ‘It’s a little early for me,’ said Danny.

  ‘It’s never too early,’ said Davenport as he poured himself a large whisky. He took a gulp and smiled. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, because I know you’re a busy chap. It’s just that I’m a little strapped for cash at the moment – only temporary, you understand – just until someone signs me up for another series. In fact, my agent was on the phone this morning with one or two ideas.’

  ‘You need a loan?’ said Danny.

  ‘Yes, that’s the long and the short of it.’

  ‘And what can you put up as collateral?’

  ‘Well, my paintings for a start,’ said Davenport. ‘I paid over a million for them.’

  ‘I’ll give you three hundred thousand for the entire collection,’ said Danny.

  ‘But I paid over . . .’ spluttered Davenport, pouring himself another whisky.

  ‘That’s assuming you can provide evidence that the total you paid does amount to over a million.’ Davenport stared at him, as he tried to recall where they had last met. ‘I’ll instruct my lawyer to draw up a contract, and you’ll receive the money the day you sign it.’

  Davenport took another gulp of whisky. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  ‘You do that,’ said Danny. ‘And if you repay the full amount within twelve months, I’ll return the paintings at no extra charge.’

  ‘So what’s the catch?’ asked Davenport.

  ‘No catch, but if you fail to pay the money back within
twelve months, the paintings will be mine.’

  ‘I can’t lose,’ said Davenport, a broad grin spread across his face.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ said Danny, who stood up to join him as Davenport began walking towards the door.

  ‘I’ll send a contract round along with a cheque for three hundred thousand pounds,’ said Danny as he followed him into the hall.

  ‘That’s good of you,’ said Davenport.

  ‘Let’s hope your agent comes up with something that suits your particular talents,’ said Danny as Davenport opened the front door.

  ‘You don’t have to concern yourself about that,’ said Davenport. ‘My bet is that you’ll have your money back within a few weeks.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ said Danny. ‘Oh, and should you ever decide to sell this house . . .’

  ‘My home?’ said Davenport. ‘No, never. Out of the question, don’t even think about it.’

  He closed the front door as if he’d been dealing with a tradesman.

  60

  DANNY READ THE REPORT in The Times as Molly poured him a black coffee.

  An exchange which had taken place on the floor of the House between the Minister of Sport and Billy Cormack, the Member for Stratford South, was tucked in at the end of the paper’s parliamentary report.

  Cormack (Lab, Stratford South): ‘Can the minister confirm that she has shortlisted two sites for the proposed Olympic velodrome?’

  Minister: ‘Yes I can, and I’m sure my honourable friend will be delighted to learn that the site in his constituency is one of the two still under consideration.’

  Cormack: ‘I thank the minister for her reply. Is she aware that the president of the British Cycling Federation has written to me pointing out that his committee voted unanimously in favour of the site in my constituency?’

  Minister: ‘Yes I am, partly because my honourable friend kindly sent me a copy of that letter (laughter). Let me assure him that I shall take the views of the British Cycling Federation very seriously before I make my final decision.’

  Andrew Crawford (Con, Stratford West): ‘Does the minister realize that this news will not be welcomed in my constituency, where the other shortlisted site is located, as we have plans to build a new leisure centre on that land, and never wanted the velodrome in the first place.’

  Minister: ‘I will take the honourable member’s views into consideration before I make my final decision.’

  Molly placed two boiled eggs in front of Danny just as his mobile phone rang. He wasn’t surprised to see Payne’s name flash up on the little screen, although he hadn’t expected him to call quite so early. He flicked open the mobile and said, ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Morning, Nick. Sorry to ring at this hour, but I wondered if you’d read the parliamentary report in the Telegraph?’

  ‘I don’t take the Telegraph,’ said Danny, ‘but I have read the ministerial exchange in The Times. What’s your paper saying?’

  ‘That the president of the British Cycling Federation has been invited to address the Olympic Sites Committee next week, four days before the minister makes her final decision. Apparently it’s no more than a formality – an inside source has told the Telegraph that the minister is only waiting for the surveyor’s report before she confirms her decision.’

  ‘The Times has roughly the same story,’ said Danny.

  ‘But that isn’t why I phoned,’ said Payne. ‘I wanted you to know that I’ve already had a call from the Swiss this morning and they’ve turned down your offer of four million.’

  ‘Hardly surprising, given the circumstances,’ said Danny.

  ‘But,’ said Payne, ‘they made it clear that they would accept six mill, as long as the full amount is paid before the minister announces her final decision in ten days’ time.’

  ‘That’s still a no-brainer,’ said Danny. ‘But I’ve got some news too, and I’m afraid mine is not so good. My bank’s not willing to advance me the full amount right now.’

  ‘But why not?’ said Payne. ‘Surely they can see what an opportunity this is?’

  ‘Yes, they can, but they still consider it’s a risk. Perhaps I should have warned you that I’m a little overstretched at the moment, with one or two other projects that aren’t going quite as well as I’d hoped.’

  ‘But I thought you made a killing on the Mile End Road site?’

  ‘It didn’t turn out quite as well as I anticipated,’ said Danny. ‘I ended up with a profit of just over three hundred thousand. And as I told Gary Hall some time ago, my last agent let me down rather badly, and I’m now having to pay the price for his lack of judgement.’

  ‘So how much can you put up?’ asked Payne.

  ‘A million,’ said Danny. ‘Which means that we’ll be five million short, so I fear the deal is off.’

  A long silence followed, during which Danny sipped his coffee and removed the tops of his two eggs.

  ‘Nick, I don’t suppose you’d allow me to offer this deal to some of my other clients?’

  ‘Why not,’ said Danny, ‘remembering all the work you’ve put in. I’m just livid that I can’t put up all the capital for the best deal I’ve come across for years.’

  ‘That’s very magnanimous of you,’ said Payne. ‘I won’t forget it. I owe you one.’

  ‘You sure do,’ said Danny as he snapped his mobile closed.

  He was just about to attack his egg when the phone rang again. He checked the screen to see if he could ask whoever was calling to ring back later, but realized he couldn’t when the word voice flashed up. He opened the phone and listened.

  ‘We’ve already had several calls this morning with offers for your site, including one of eight million. What do you want me to do about Mr Payne?’

  ‘You’ll be getting a call from him making an offer of six million. You will accept his offer,’ Danny said before the voice could comment, ‘on two conditions.’

  ‘Two conditions,’ repeated the voice.

  ‘He must deposit six hundred thousand with the bank before close of business today and he must also pay the full amount before the minister makes her announcement in ten days’ time.’

  ‘I’ll call you back once he’s been in touch,’ said the voice.

  Danny looked down at a prison yolk. ‘Molly, could you boil me another couple of eggs?’

  61

  SPENCER CRAIG left chambers at five o’clock, as it was his turn to host the quarterly Musketeers’ dinner. They still got together four times a year despite the fact that Toby Mortimer was no longer with them. The fourth dinner had become known as the Memorial Dinner.

  Craig always used outside caterers so that he didn’t have to worry about preparing the meal or the clearing up afterwards, although he did like to select the wine himself, and to sample the food before the first guest arrived. Gerald had rung him earlier in the day to say that he had some exciting news to share with the team that could change their whole lives.

  Craig would never forget the previous occasion when a meeting of the Musketeers had changed their whole lives, but since Danny Cartwright had hanged himself, no one had ever referred to the subject again. Craig thought about his fellow Musketeers as he drove home. Gerald Payne had gone from strength to strength in his firm, and now that he had been selected for a safe Conservative seat in Sussex, he looked certain to be a Member of Parliament whenever the Prime Minister called the next election. Larry Davenport appeared more relaxed recently, and had even paid back the ten thousand pounds Craig had lent him a couple of years ago, which he hadn’t expected to see again; perhaps Larry also had something to tell the team. Craig had his own piece of news to share with the Musketeers this evening, and although it was no more than he had expected, it was nevertheless gratifying.

  The briefs had picked up again as he continued to win cases, and his appearance at the Danny Cartwright trial was becoming a hazy memory that most of his colleagues could hardly recall – with one exception. His private life remained patchy, to say
the least: the occasional one-night stand, but other than Larry’s sister, there was no one he wanted to see a second time. However, Sarah Davenport had made it all too clear that she wasn’t interested, but he hadn’t given up hope.

  When Craig arrived back at his home in Hambledon Terrace, he checked the wine racks to find he had nothing worthy of a Musketeers’ dinner. He strolled to his local on the corner of the King’s Road and selected three bottles of Merlot, three of a vintage Australian Sauvignon and a magnum of Laurent Perrier. After all, he had something to celebrate.

  As he walked back to the house carrying two bags full of bottles, he heard a siren in the distance, which brought back memories of that night. They didn’t seem to fade with time, like other memories. He had called Detective Sergeant Fuller, then run home, stripped off his clothes, had a quick shower without allowing his hair to get wet, dressed in an almost identical suit, shirt and tie, and been back sitting at the bar seventeen minutes later.

  If Redmayne had checked the distance between the Dunlop Arms and Craig’s home before the opening of the trial, he might have been able to plant even more doubt in the jurors’ minds. Thank God it was only his second case as a leader, because if he’d been up against Arnold Pearson he would have checked every paving stone on the route back to his home with a stopwatch in his hand.

  Craig had not been surprised by how long it had taken DS Fuller before he walked into the pub, as he knew he would have far more important problems to deal with in the alley: a dying man, and an obvious suspect covered in blood. He would also have no reason to suspect that a complete stranger could have been involved, especially when three other witnesses corroborated his story. The barman had kept his mouth shut, but then he’d been in trouble with the police before, and would have made an unreliable witness, whichever side he appeared for. Craig had continued to purchase all his wine from the Dunlop Arms and when the bills were sent at the end of each month and didn’t always add up, he made no comment.