A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘Bring her along next time,’ said Sarah. ‘I’d like to meet her. Goodnight, Nick, and thanks again for your advice.’ She kissed him on the cheek and drifted off to join her brother.

  Danny only just stopped himself from warning her not to invest a penny in Payne’s Olympic venture, but he knew that with a girl that bright it might be one risk too many.

  He joined the silent throng as they disgorged themselves from the theatre as quickly as they could, but he still couldn’t avoid a downcast Charlie Duncan who had stationed himself by the exit. He gave Danny a weak smile.

  ‘Well, at least I won’t have to spend any money on a closing-night party.’

  65

  DANNY MET Gerald Payne outside the St Stephen’s entrance of the Palace of Westminster. It was his first visit to the House of Commons, and he was planning that it would be Payne’s last.

  ‘I have two tickets for the public gallery,’ Payne announced in a loud voice to the policeman stationed at the entrance. It still took them a long time to pass through security.

  Once they had emptied their pockets and passed through the metal detector, Payne guided Danny down a long marble corridor to the Central Lobby.

  ‘They don’t have tickets,’ Payne explained as he marched past a row of visitors sitting on the green benches waiting patiently to be admitted to the public gallery. ‘They won’t get in until late this evening, if at all.’

  Danny took in the atmosphere of the Central Lobby while Payne reported to the policeman on the desk and presented his tickets. Members were chatting to visiting constituents, tourists were staring up at the ornate mosaic ceiling, while others for whom it had all become commonplace strode purposefully across the lobby as they went about their business.

  Payne seemed interested in only one thing: making sure he secured a good seat before the minister rose to make her statement from the dispatch box. Danny also wanted him to have the best possible view of proceedings.

  The policeman pointed to a corridor on his right. Payne marched off, and Danny had to hurry to catch him up. Payne strode down the green-carpeted corridor and up a flight of steps to the first floor as if he were already a Member. He and Danny were met at the top of the stairs by an usher, who checked their tickets before escorting them into the Strangers’ Gallery. The first thing that struck Danny was how small the gallery was, and how few places there were for visitors, which explained the number of people having to wait on the ground floor. The usher found them two seats in the fourth row and handed them both an order paper. Danny leant forward and looked down into the Chamber, surprised to see how few Members were present despite its being the middle of the day. It was clear that not many MPs were that interested in where the Olympic velodrome would be sited, even though some people’s whole future rested on the minister’s decision. One of them was sitting next to Danny.

  ‘Mostly London Members,’ Payne whispered as he turned to the relevant page on the Order Paper. His hand was shaking as he drew Danny’s attention to the top of the page: 12.30 p.m., Statement by the Minister of Sport.

  Danny tried to follow what was happening in the chamber below. Payne explained that it was a day allocated for questions to the Minister of Health, but that these would end promptly at 12.30. Danny was delighted to see just how impatient Payne was to swap his place in the gallery for a seat on the green benches below.

  As the clock above the Speaker’s chair edged ever nearer to 12.30, Payne began fidgeting with his order paper, his right leg twitching. Danny remained calm, but then he already knew what the minister was going to tell the House.

  When the Speaker rose at 12.30 and bellowed, ‘Statement by the Minister of Sport,’ Payne leant forward to get a better view as the minister rose from the front bench and placed a red file on the dispatch box.

  ‘Mr Speaker, with your permission I will make a statement concerning which site I have selected for the building of a prospective Olympic velodrome. Members will recall that I informed the House earlier this month that I had shortlisted two locations for consideration but would not make my final decision until I had received detailed surveyors’ reports on both sites.’ Danny glanced round at Payne; a bead of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Danny tried to look concerned too. ‘Those reports were handed into my office yesterday, and copies were also sent to the Olympic Sites Committee, to the two honourable Members in whose constituencies the sites are located, and to the president of the British Cycling Federation. Members can obtain copies from the Order Office immediately following this statement.

  ‘Having read the two reports, all the parties concerned agreed that only one site could possibly be considered for this important project.’ A flicker of a smile appeared on Payne’s lips. ‘The surveyor’s report revealed that one of the sites is unfortunately infested with a noxious and invasive plant known as Japanese knotweed (laughter). I can sense that honourable Members, like myself, have not come across this problem before, so I will spend a moment explaining its consequences. Japanese knotweed is an extraordinarily aggressive and destructive plant, which, once it takes hold, quickly spreads and renders the land on which it is growing unsuitable for any building project. Before making my final decision, I sought advice as to whether there was a simple solution to this problem. I was assured by experts in the field that Japanese knotweed can in fact be eradicated by chemical treatment.’ Payne looked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘However, past experience has shown that first attempts are not always successful. The average time before land owned by councils in Birmingham, Liverpool and Dundee was cleared of the weed and passed fit to build on was just over a year.

  ‘Honourable Members will appreciate that it would be irresponsible for my department to risk waiting another twelve months, or possibly even longer, before work can commence on the infested site. I have been left with no choice but to select the excellent alternative site for this project.’ Payne’s skin turned chalk white when he heard the word ‘alternative’. ‘I am therefore able to announce that my department, with the backing of the British Olympic Committee and the British Cycling Federation, has selected the site in Stratford South for the building of the new velodrome.’ The minister resumed her place and waited for questions from the floor.

  Danny looked at Payne, whose head was resting in his hands.

  An usher came running down the steps. ‘Is your friend feeling all right?’ he asked, looking concerned.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Danny, looking unconcerned. ‘Can we get him to a lavatory? I have a feeling he’s going to be sick.’

  Danny took Payne by the arm and helped him to his feet, while the usher guided them both up the steps and out of the gallery. He ran ahead and opened the door to allow Payne to stagger into the washroom. Payne began to be sick long before he’d reached a washbasin.

  He pulled his tie loose and undid the top button of his shirt, then began to retch again. As he bowed his head and clung on to the side of the basin, breathing heavily, Danny helped him off with his jacket. He deftly removed Payne’s mobile from an inside pocket of his jacket and pressed a button that revealed a long list of names. He scrolled through them until he reached ‘Lawrence’. As Payne stuck his head in the washbasin for the third time, Danny checked his watch. Davenport would be preparing for his screen test, one last look at the script before going off to make-up. He began to tap out a text message as Payne fell on his knees, sobbing, just as Beth had done when she watched her brother die. Minister didn’t select our site. Sorry. Thought you’d want to know. He smiled and touched the ‘send’ button, before returning to the list of contacts. He scrolled on down, stopping when the name ‘Spencer’ appeared.

  Spencer Craig looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He had purchased a new shirt and silk tie especially for the occasion. He’d also booked a car to pick him up from chambers at 11.30 a.m. He couldn’t risk being late for the Lord Chancellor. Everyone seemed to know about his appointment, as he continually received smiles and murmurs of
congratulation – from the head of chambers down to the tea lady.

  Craig sat alone in his office pretending to read through a brief that had landed on his desk that morning. There had been a lot of briefs lately. He waited impatiently for the clock to reach eleven thirty so that he could leave for his appointment at twelve. ‘First he’ll offer you a glass of dry sherry,’ a senior colleague had told him. ‘Then he’ll chat for a few minutes about the dire state of English cricket, which he blames on sledging, and then suddenly without warning he’ll tell you in the strictest confidence that he will be making a recommendation to Her Majesty – he gets very pompous at this point – that your name should be included in the next list of barristers to take silk and be appointed a QC. He then rambles on for a few minutes about the onerous responsibility such an appointment places on any new appointee blah blah.’

  Craig smiled. It had been a good year, and he intended to celebrate the appointment in style. He pulled open a drawer, took out his chequebook and wrote out a cheque for two hundred thousand pounds payable to Baker, Tremlett and Smythe. It was the largest cheque he had ever written in his life, and he’d already asked his bank for a short-term overdraft facility. But then, he had never known Gerald to be so confident about anything before. He leant back in his chair and savoured the moment as he thought about what he would spend the profits on: a new Porsche, a few days in Venice. Even Sarah might fancy a trip on the Orient Express.

  The phone on his desk rang.

  ‘Your car has arrived, Mr Craig.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll be right down.’ He put the cheque in an envelope, addressed it to Gerald Payne at Baker, Tremlett and Smythe, left it on his blotting pad and strolled downstairs. He would be a few minutes early, but he had no intention of keeping the Lord Chancellor waiting. He didn’t speak to the driver during the short journey down the Strand, along Whitehall and into Parliament Square. The car stopped outside the entrance to the House of Lords. An officer on the gate checked his name on a clipboard and waved the car through. The driver turned left under a gothic archway and came to a halt outside the Lord Chancellor’s office.

  Craig remained seated and waited for the driver to open the door for him, savouring every moment. He walked through the little archway to be greeted by a badge messenger carrying another clipboard. His name was checked once again before the messenger accompanied him slowly up a red-carpeted staircase to the Lord Chancellor’s office.

  The messenger tapped on the heavy oak door, and a voice said, ‘Come in.’ He opened the door and stood aside to allow Craig to enter. A young woman was seated at a desk on the far side of the room. She looked up and smiled. ‘Mr Craig?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  ‘You’re a little early, but I’ll just check and see if the Lord Chancellor is free.’

  Craig was about to tell her that he was happy to wait, but she had already picked up the phone. ‘Mr Craig is here, Lord Chancellor.’

  ‘Please send him in,’ came back a stentorian voice.

  The secretary rose from behind her desk, crossed the room, opened another heavy oak door and ushered Mr Craig into the Lord Chancellor’s office.

  Craig could feel the sweat on the palms of his hands as he walked into the magnificent oak-panelled room that overlooked the River Thames. Portraits of former Lord Chancellors were liberally displayed on every wall, and the ornate red and gold Pugin wallpaper left him in no doubt that he was in the presence of the most senior law officer in the land.

  ‘Please have a seat, Mr Craig,’ said the Lord Chancellor, opening a thick red folder that lay on the centre of his desk. There was no suggestion of a glass of dry sherry as he browsed through some papers. Craig stared at the old man with his high forehead and bushy grey eyebrows which had proved many a cartoonist’s joy. The Lord Chancellor slowly raised his head and stared across the large, ornate desk at his visitor.

  ‘I thought, given the circumstances, Mr Craig, I should have a word in private rather than your becoming aware of the details in the press.’

  No mention of the state of English cricket.

  ‘We have received an application,’ he continued in a dry, even tone, ‘for a royal pardon in the case of Daniel Arthur Cartwright.’ He paused to allow Craig to take in the full implication of what he was about to say. ‘Three law lords, led by Lord Beloff, have advised me that having reviewed all the evidence, it is their unanimous recommendation that I should advise Her Majesty to allow a full judicial review of the case.’ He paused again, clearly not wishing to hurry his words. ‘As you were a prosecution witness in the original trial, I felt I should warn you that their lordships are minded to call you to appear before them, along with – ’ he looked back down and checked his folder – ‘a Mr Gerald Payne and Mr Lawrence Davenport, in order to question the three of you concerning your evidence at the original hearing.’

  Before he could continue, Craig jumped in. ‘But I thought that before their lordships would even consider overturning an appeal, it was necessary for new evidence to be presented for their consideration?’

  ‘New evidence has been forthcoming.’

  ‘The tape?’

  ‘There is nothing in Lord Beloff’s report that mentions a tape. There is, however, a claim from Cartwright’s former cellmate – ’ once again the Lord Chancellor peered down at the folder – ‘a Mr Albert Crann, who states that he was present when Mr Toby Mortimer, whom I believe was known to you, stated that he had witnessed the murder of Mr Bernard Wilson.’

  ‘But this is nothing more than hearsay, coming from the lips of a convicted criminal. It wouldn’t stand up in any court in the land.’

  ‘In normal circumstances I would have to agree with that judgement, Mr Craig, and would have dismissed the application had not another fresh piece of evidence been presented to their lordships.’

  ‘Another fresh piece of evidence?’ repeated Craig, suddenly feeling a knot in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Lord Chancellor. ‘It appears that Cartwright shared a cell not only with Albert Crann, but also with another prisoner who kept a daily diary in which he meticulously recorded everything that he witnessed in prison, including verbatim accounts of conversations in which he took part.’

  ‘So the sole source of these accusations is a diary which a convicted criminal claims he wrote while he was in prison.’

  ‘No one is accusing you of anything, Mr Craig,’ said the Lord Chancellor quietly. ‘However, it is my intention to invite the witness to appear before their lordships. Of course, you will be given every opportunity to present your side of the case.’

  ‘Who is this man?’ demanded Craig.

  The Lord Chancellor turned a page of his folder and double-checked the name, before he looked up and said, ‘Sir Nicholas Moncrieff.’

  66

  DANNY SAT IN his usual alcove seat at the Dorchester reading The Times. The cycling correspondent reported the Minister of Sport’s surprise choice for the velodrome site. It managed a few column inches, tucked in between canoeing and basketball.

  Danny had checked through the sports pages of most of the national newspapers earlier that morning and those which bothered to report the minister’s statement agreed that she had been left with little choice. None of them, not even the Independent, had had enough space to inform its readers what Japanese knotweed was.

  Danny checked his watch. Gary Hall was running a few minutes late and Danny could only imagine the recriminations which must be going on in the offices of Baker, Tremlett and Smythe. He turned to the front page, and was reading about the latest twist in the North Korea nuclear threat, when an out-of-breath Hall appeared by his side.

  ‘Sorry to be late,’ he gasped, ‘but the senior partner called me in just as I was about to leave the office. Quite a bit of flack flying around following the minister’s statement. Everyone is blaming everyone else.’ He took a seat opposite Danny and tried to compose himself.

  ‘Just relax and let me order you a coffee,’
said Danny as Mario walked across.

  ‘And another hot chocolate for you, Sir Nicholas?’ Danny nodded, put down his paper and smiled at Hall. ‘Well, at least no one can blame you, Gary,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no one thinks I was even involved,’ said Hall. ‘Which is why I’ve been promoted.’

  ‘Promoted?’ said Danny. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you, but it wouldn’t have happened if Gerald Payne hadn’t been sacked.’ Danny somehow managed to stifle a smile. ‘He was summoned to the senior partner’s office first thing this morning and told to clear his desk and be off the premises within an hour. One or two of us found ourselves promoted in the fallout.’

  ‘But didn’t they realize that it was you and me who took the idea to Payne in the first place?’

  ‘No. Once it turned out that you couldn’t raise the full amount, it suddenly became Payne’s idea. In fact, you’re regarded as someone who’s lost his investment, and may even have a claim against the company.’ Something Danny hadn’t even considered – until then.

  ‘I wonder what Payne will do now?’ said Danny, probing.

  ‘He’ll never get another job in our business,’ said Hall. ‘Or at least not if the senior partner has anything to do with it.’

  ‘So what will the poor fellow do?’ asked Danny, still fishing.

  ‘His secretary tells me he’s gone down to Sussex to stay with his mother for a few days. She’s chairman of the local constituency that he’s still hoping to represent at the next election.’

  ‘I can’t see why that should be a problem,’ said Danny, hoping to be contradicted. ‘Unless of course he advised any of his constituents to invest in Japanese knotweed.’

  Hall laughed. ‘That man’s a survivor,’ he said. ‘My bet is that he’ll be a Member of Parliament in a couple of years’ time and by then no one will even remember what all the fuss was about.’