A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

  ‘Now, members of the jury, you may well ask how it could be possible for Cartwright, who was serving a twenty-two-year sentence for—’

  Alex was on his feet and about to protest when the judge said, ‘Don’t go any further down that road, Mr Pearson, unless you wish to try my patience.’

  ‘I do apologize, my lord,’ said Pearson, well aware that any member of the jury who hadn’t followed the extensive press coverage of the case over the past six months would now be in little doubt what crime Cartwright had originally been sentenced for.

  ‘As I was saying, you may wonder how Cartwright, who was serving a twenty-two-year sentence, was able to change identity with another prisoner who had only been sentenced to eight years, and who, more importantly, was due to be released in six weeks’ time. Surely their DNA wouldn’t match up, their blood groups were likely to be different, their dental records dissimilar. That’s when the second piece of luck fell into place,’ said Pearson, ‘because none of this would have been possible if Cartwright hadn’t had an accomplice who worked as an orderly in the prison hospital. That accomplice was Albert Crann, the third man who shared a cell with Moncrieff and Cartwright. When he heard about the hanging in the shower, he switched the names on the files in the hospital’s medical records, so that when the doctor checked the body, he would remain under the illusion that it was Cartwright who had committed suicide, and not Moncrieff.

  ‘A few days later the funeral took place at St Mary’s church in Bow, where even the defendant’s closest family, including the mother of his child, were convinced that the body being lowered into the grave was that of Daniel Cartwright.

  ‘What kind of man, you might ask, would be willing to deceive his own family? I’ll tell you what kind of man. This man,’ he said, pointing at Danny. ‘He even had the nerve to turn up to the funeral posing as Nicholas Moncrieff so that he could witness his own burial and be certain he’d got away with it.’

  Once again Pearson leant back so that the significance of his words could sink into the jury’s minds. ‘From the day of Moncrieff’s death,’ he continued, ‘Cartwright always wore Moncrieff’s watch, his signet ring and the silver chain and key, in order to deceive the prison staff and his fellow inmates into believing that he was in fact Nicholas Moncrieff, who only had six weeks of his sentence left to serve.’

  ‘On July seventeenth 2002, Daniel Cartwright walked out of the front gate of Belmarsh prison a free man, despite having another twenty years of his sentence left to serve. Was it enough for him to have escaped? It was not. He immediately took the first train to Scotland so that he could lay claim to the Moncrieff family estate, and then returned to London to take up residence in Sir Nicholas Moncrieff ’s town house in The Boltons.

  ‘But it didn’t even end there, members of the jury. Cartwright then had the audacity to start drawing cash from Sir Nicholas Moncrieff ’s bank account at Coutts in The Strand. You might have felt that was enough, but no. He then flew to Geneva for an appointment with the chairman of Coubertin and Company, a leading Swiss bank, to whom he presented the silver key along with Moncrieff ’s passport. That gave him access to a vault which contained the fabled stamp collection of Nicholas Moncrieff ’s late grandfather, Sir Alexander Moncrieff. What did Cartwright do when he got his hands on this family heirloom that had taken Sir Alexander Moncrieff over seventy years to assemble? He sold it the following day to the first bidder who arrived on the scene, netting himself a cool twenty-five million pounds.’

  Sir Matthew raised an eyebrow. How unlike Arnold Pearson to do cool.

  ‘So now that Cartwright is a multimillionaire,’ continued Pearson, ‘you may well ask yourselves what he could possibly do next. I will tell you. He flew back to London, bought himself a top-of-the-range BMW, employed a chauffeur and a housekeeper, settled down in The Boltons and carried on the myth that he was Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. And, members of the jury, he would still be living that myth today if it were not for the sheer professionalism of Chief Inspector Fuller, the man who arrested Cartwright for his original offence in 1999, and who now single-handed’ – Sir Matthew wrote down those words – ‘tracked him down, arrested him and finally brought him to justice. That, members of the jury, is the case for the prosecution. But later I will produce a witness who will leave you in no doubt that the defendant, Daniel Cartwright, is guilty of all five charges on the indictment.’

  As Pearson resumed his seat, Sir Matthew looked across at his old adversary and touched his forehead as if he was raising an invisible hat. ‘Chapeau,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Matthew,’ Pearson replied.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said the judge, looking at his watch, ‘I think this might be a suitable moment to break for lunch.’

  ‘Court will rise,’ shouted the usher, and all the officials immediately stood up and bowed low. Mr Justice Hackett returned their bow and left the courtroom.

  ‘Not bad,’ admitted Alex to his father.

  ‘I agree, though dear old Arnold did make one mistake which he may live to regret.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Alex.

  Sir Matthew passed his son the piece of paper on which he had written the word, single-handed.

  74

  ‘THERE’S ONLY one thing you have to get this witness to admit,’ said Sir Matthew. ‘But at the same time, we don’t need the judge or Arnold Pearson to realize what you’re up to.’

  ‘No pressure,’ said Alex with a grin as Mr Justice Hackett reentered the courtroom and everyone rose.

  The judge bowed low before resuming his place in the high-backed red leather chair. He opened his notebook to the end of his analysis of Pearson’s opening, turned to a fresh page and wrote the words, first witness. He then nodded in the direction of Mr Pearson, who rose from his place and said, ‘I call Chief Inspector Fuller.’

  Alex hadn’t seen Fuller since the first trial four years ago, and he was unlikely to forget that occasion, as the Chief Inspector had run circles around him. If anything, he looked even more confident than he had done then. Fuller took the oath without even glancing at the card.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Fuller,’ said Pearson, ‘would you please begin by confirming your identity to the court.’

  ‘My name is Rodney Fuller. I’m a serving officer with the Metropolitan Police stationed at Palace Green, Chelsea.’

  ‘Can I also place on the record that you were the arresting officer when Daniel Cartwright committed his previous offence for which he received a prison sentence?’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘How did you come to learn that Cartwright might possibly have escaped from Belmarsh prison and was passing himself off as Sir Nicholas Moncrieff ?’

  ‘On October twenty-third last year I received a telephone call from a reliable source who told me that he needed to see me on an urgent matter.’

  ‘Did he go into any detail at that time?’

  ‘No, sir. He’s not the sort of gentleman who would commit himself over the telephone.’

  Sir Matthew wrote down the word gentleman, not a word a policeman would normally use when referring to a snitch. His second catch in the slips on the opening morning. He wasn’t expecting many of those while Arnold Pearson was on his feet bowling the Chief Inspector gentle off-breaks.

  ‘So a meeting was arranged,’ said Pearson.

  ‘Yes, we agreed to meet the following day at a time and place of his choosing.’

  ‘And when you met the next day he informed you that he had some information concerning Daniel Cartwright.’

  ‘Yes. Which came as a bit of a surprise,’ said Fuller, ‘because I was under the misapprehension that Cartwright had hanged himself. Indeed, one of my officers attended his funeral.’

  ‘So how did you respond to this revelation?’

  ‘I took it seriously, because the gentleman had proved reliable in the past.’

  Sir Matthew underlined the word gentleman.

  ‘So what did you do next?’


  ‘I placed a twenty-four-hour surveillance team on number twelve The Boltons, and quickly discovered that the resident who was claiming to be Sir Nicholas Moncrieff did bear a striking resemblance to Cartwright.’

  ‘But surely that would not have been enough for you to move in and arrest him.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied the Chief Inspector. ‘I needed more tangible proof than that.’

  ‘And what form did this tangible proof take?’

  ‘On the third day of surveillance, the suspect received a visit from a Miss Elizabeth Wilson, and she stayed the night.’

  ‘Miss Elizabeth Wilson?’

  ‘Yes. She is the mother of Cartwright’s daughter, and she visited him regularly while he was in prison. This made me confident that the information I had been given was accurate.’

  ‘And that was when you decided to arrest him?’

  ‘Yes, but as I knew we were dealing with a dangerous criminal who had a record of violence, I requested back-up from the riot squad. I was unwilling to take any risks when it came to the safety of the public.’

  ‘Quite understandable,’ purred Pearson. ‘Would you describe to the court how you went about apprehending this violent criminal?’

  ‘At two o’clock the following morning, we surrounded the house in The Boltons and carried out a raid. On apprehending Cartwright, I cautioned and arrested him for unlawfully escaping from one of Her Majesty’s Prisons. I also charged Elizabeth Wilson with aiding and abetting a criminal. Another section of my team arrested Albert Crann, who was also living on the premises, as we had reason to believe he was an accomplice of Cartwright’s.’

  ‘And what has happened to the other two prisoners who were arrested at that time?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Elizabeth Wilson was released on bail that morning, and was later given a six-month suspended jail sentence.’

  ‘And Albert Crann?’

  ‘He was on licence at the time, and was sent back to Belmarsh to complete his original sentence.’

  ‘Thank you, chief inspector. I have no more questions for you at the present time.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Pearson,’ said the judge. ‘Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Mr Redmayne?’

  ‘I most certainly do, m’lord,’ said Alex as he rose from his place.

  ‘Chief inspector, you told the court that it was a member of the public who volunteered the information that made it possible for you to arrest Daniel Cartwright.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct,’ said Fuller, gripping the rail of the witness box.

  ‘So it wasn’t, as my learned friend suggested, a single-handed piece of police ingenuity?’

  ‘No. But as I’m sure you appreciate, Mr Redmayne, the police rely on a network of informers, without whom half the criminals currently in jail would be on the streets committing even more crimes.’

  ‘So this gentleman, as you described your informant, called you at your office?’ The chief inspector nodded. ‘And you arranged to meet him at a mutually convenient place the following day?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Fuller, determined not to give anything away.

  ‘Where did that meeting take place, chief inspector?’

  Fuller turned to the judge. ‘I would prefer, m’lord, not to have to identify the location.’

  ‘Understandably,’ said Mr Justice Hackett. ‘Move on, Mr Redmayne.’

  ‘So there would be no point in my asking you, chief inspector, to name your paid informant?’

  ‘He wasn’t paid,’ said Fuller, regretting the words the moment he said them.

  ‘Well, at least we now know that he was an unpaid professional gentleman.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Alex’s father in a loud stage whisper. The judge frowned.

  ‘Chief inspector, how many officers did you find it necessary to deploy in order to arrest one man and one woman who were in bed at two o’clock in the morning?’ Fuller hesitated. ‘How many, chief inspector?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘Wasn’t it more like twenty?’ said Alex.

  ‘If you count the back-up team, it might have been twenty.’

  ‘Sounds a little excessive for one man and one woman,’ suggested Alex.

  ‘He may have been armed,’ said Fuller. ‘That was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.’

  ‘Was he, in fact, armed?’ asked Alex.

  ‘No he was not . . .’

  ‘Perhaps not for the first time—’ began Alex.

  ‘That’s quite enough, Mr Redmayne,’ said the judge, interrupting before he could finish the sentence.

  ‘Good try,’ said Alex’s father, loud enough for everyone in the courtroom to hear.

  ‘Do you wish to make a contribution, Sir Matthew?’ snapped the judge.

  Alex’s father opened his eyes like a jungle beast that had been woken from a deep sleep. He rose slowly from his place and said, ‘How kind of you to ask, my lord. But no, not at this juncture. Possibly later.’ He slumped back in his place.

  The press benches were suddenly jolted into action as the first boundary was scored. Alex pursed his lips for fear he would burst out laughing. Mr Justice Hackett could barely restrain himself.

  ‘Get on with it, Redmayne,’ said the judge, but before Alex could respond, his father was back on his feet. ‘I do apologize, m’lord,’ he said sweetly, ‘but which Redmayne did you have in mind?’

  This time the jury burst out laughing. The judge made no attempt to reply, and Sir Matthew sank back in his seat, closed his eyes and whispered, ‘Go for the jugular, Alex.’

  ‘Chief inspector, you told the court that it was after you had seen Miss Wilson enter the house that you became convinced that it was Daniel Cartwright and not Sir Nicholas Moncrieff who was living there.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ said Fuller, still gripping the side of the witness box.

  ‘But once you had taken my client into custody, chief inspector, didn’t you have a moment’s anxiety about whether you might have arrested the wrong man?’

  ‘No, Mr Redmayne, not after I’d seen the scar on his . . .’

  ‘Not after you’d seen the scar on his—’

  ‘ – checked his DNA on the police computer,’ said the chief inspector.

  ‘Sit down,’ whispered Alex’s father. ‘You’ve got everything you need, and Hackett won’t have worked out the significance of the scar.’

  ‘Thank you, chief inspector. No more questions, m’lord.’

  ‘Do you wish to re-examine this witness, Mr Pearson?’ asked Mr Justice Hackett.

  ‘No, thank you, m’lord,’ said Pearson, who was writing down the words not after I’d seen the scar on his . . . and trying to work out their significance.

  ‘Thank you, chief inspector,’ said the judge. ‘You may leave the witness box.’

  Alex leant over to his father as the chief inspector made his way out of the courtroom and whispered, ‘But I didn’t get him to admit that the “professional gentleman” was in fact Craig.’

  ‘That man was never going to name his contact, but you still managed to trap him twice. And don’t forget, there’s another witness who must also know who reported Danny to the police, and he’s certainly not going to feel at home in a courtroom, so you should be able to corner him long before Hackett works out what your real purpose is. Never forget we can’t afford to make the same mistake as we did with Lord Justice Browne and the unplayed tape.’

  Alex nodded as Mr Justice Hackett turned his attention to counsel’s bench. ‘Perhaps this would be a good time to take a break.’

  ‘All rise.’

  75

  ARNOLD PEARSON was deep in conversation with his junior when Mr Justice Hackett said in a loud voice, ‘Are you ready to call your next witness, Mr Pearson?’

  Pearson rose from his place. ‘Yes, m’lord. I call Sir Hugo Moncrieff.’

  Alex watched Sir Hugo carefully as he entered the courtroom. Never prejudge a witness, his father had taught him from the cradle, but Hugo was clearly
nervous. He took a handkerchief out of his top pocket and mopped his brow even before he had reached the witness box.

  The usher guided Sir Hugo into the box and handed him a Bible. The witness read the oath from the card that was held up in front of him, then looked up towards the gallery, searching for the person he wished was giving evidence in his place. Mr Pearson gave him a warm smile when he looked back down.

  ‘Sir Hugo, would you just for the record state your name and address?’

  ‘Sir Hugo Moncrieff, the Manor House, Dunbroath in Scotland.’

  ‘Let me begin, Sir Hugo, by asking you when you last saw your nephew, Nicholas Moncrieff.’

  ‘On the day we both attended his father’s funeral.’

  ‘And did you have an opportunity to speak to him on that sad occasion?’

  ‘Unhappily not,’ said Hugo. ‘He was accompanied by two prison officers who said that we were not to have any contact with him.’

  ‘What sort of relationship did you have with your nephew?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Cordial. We all loved Nick. He was a fine lad, whom the family considered had been badly treated.’

  ‘So there was no ill feeling when you and your brother learned that he had inherited the bulk of the estate from your father.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Hugo. ‘Nick would automatically inherit the title on his father’s death, and along with it the family estate.’

  ‘So it must have come as a terrible shock to discover that he had hanged himself in prison, and that an impostor had taken his place.’

  Hugo lowered his head for a moment, before saying, ‘It was a massive blow for my wife Margaret and myself, but thanks to the professionalism of the police and the rallying round of friends and family, we are slowly trying to come to terms with it.’

  ‘Word-perfect,’ whispered Sir Matthew.

  ‘Can you confirm, Sir Hugo, that the Garter King of Arms has established your right to the family title?’ asked Mr Pearson, ignoring Sir Matthew’s comment.