A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

  Sir Matthew waited long enough for the jury to become curious about why he had not been allowed to finish his previous question before he responded. ‘No, I am not, m’lord. However, I do wish to pursue a line of questioning that is relevant to this case, namely the scar on the defendant’s left leg.’ He once again made eye contact with Craig. ‘Can I confirm, Mr Craig, that you did not witness Danny Cartwright being stabbed in the leg, which left him with the scar shown so clearly in the photographs which you handed over to the chief inspector and was the evidence he relied upon to arrest my client?’

  Alex held his breath. It was some time before Craig eventually said, ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘So please indulge me for a moment, Mr Craig, and allow me to put forward three scenarios for your consideration. You can then tell the jury, from your vast experience of the criminal mind, which of them you consider to be the most likely.’

  ‘If you feel a parlour game will in any way assist the jury, Sir Matthew,’ sighed Craig, ‘please be my guest.’

  ‘I think you will find that it’s a parlour game that will assist the jury,’ said Sir Matthew. The two men stared at each other for some time before Sir Matthew added, ‘Allow me to suggest the first scenario. Danny Cartwright grabs the knife from the bar just as you suggested, follows his fiancée into the alley, stabs himself in the leg, pulls out the knife, and then stabs his best friend to death.’

  Laughter broke out in the court. Craig waited for it to die down before he responded.

  ‘That’s a farcical suggestion, Sir Matthew, and you know it.’

  ‘I’m glad that we have at last found something on which we can agree, Mr Craig. Let me move on to my second scenario. It was in fact Bernie Wilson who grabbed the knife from the bar, he and Cartwright go out into the alley, he stabs Cartwright in the leg, pulls out the knife and then stabs himself to death.’

  This time even the jury joined in the laughter.

  ‘That’s even more farcical,’ said Craig. ‘I’m not quite sure what you imagine this charade is proving.’

  ‘This charade is proving,’ said Sir Matthew, ‘that the man who stabbed Danny Cartwright in the leg was the same man who stabbed Bernie Wilson in the chest, because only one knife was involved – the one picked up from the bar. So I agree with you, Mr Craig, my first two scenarios are farcical, but before I put the third one to you, allow me to ask you one final question.’ Every eye in the courtroom was now on Sir Matthew. ‘If you did not witness Cartwright being stabbed in the leg, how could you possibly have known about the scar?’

  Everyone’s gaze was transferred to Craig. He was no longer calm. His hands felt clammy as they gripped the side of the witness box.

  ‘I must have read about it in the transcript of the trial,’ said Craig, trying to sound confident.

  ‘You know, one of the problems that an old warhorse like myself faces once he’s pensioned off,’ said Sir Matthew, ‘is that he has nothing to do with his spare time. So for the past six months, my bedside reading has been this transcript.’ He held up a five-inch-thick document, and added, ‘From cover to cover. Not once, but twice. And one of the things I discovered during my years at the Bar was that often it’s not what’s in the evidence that gives a criminal away, but what has been left out. Let me assure you, Mr Craig, there is no mention, from the first page to the last, of a wound to Danny Cartwright’s left leg.’ Sir Matthew added, almost in a whisper, ‘And so I come to my final scenario, Mr Craig. ‘It was you who picked up the knife from the bar before running out into the alley. It was you who thrust the knife into Danny Cartwright’s leg. It was you who stabbed Bernie Wilson in the chest and left him to die in the arms of his friend. And it will be you who will spend the rest of your life in prison.’

  Uproar broke out in the courtroom.

  Sir Matthew turned to Arnold Pearson, who still wasn’t lifting a finger to assist his colleague, but remained hunched up in the corner of counsel’s bench, his arms folded.

  The judge waited until the usher had called for silence and order was restored before saying, ‘I feel I should give Mr Craig the opportunity to answer Sir Matthew’s accusations rather than leave them hanging in the air.’

  ‘I will be only too happy to do so, m’lord,’ said Craig evenly, ‘but first I should like to suggest to Sir Matthew a fourth scenario, which at least has the merit of credibility.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ said Sir Matthew, leaning back.

  ‘Given your client’s background, isn’t it possible that the wound to his leg was inflicted at some time before the night in question?’

  ‘But that still doesn’t explain how you could possibly have known about the scar in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t have to explain,’ said Craig defiantly, ‘because a jury has already decided that your client didn’t have a leg to stand on.’ He looked rather pleased with himself.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Sir Matthew, turning to his son, who on cue handed him a small cardboard box. Sir Matthew placed the box on the ledge in front of him, and took his time before removing a pair of jeans and holding them up in full view of the jury. ‘These are the jeans that the prison service returned to Miss Elizabeth Wilson when it was thought that Danny Cartwright had hanged himself. I am sure that the jury will be interested to see that there is a bloodstained tear in the left lower thigh region, which matches up exactly with . . .’

  The outburst that followed drowned out the rest of Sir Matthew’s words. Everyone turned to look at Craig, wanting to find out what his answer would be, but he wasn’t given the chance to reply, as Pearson finally rose to his feet.

  ‘M’lord, I must remind Sir Matthew that it is not Mr Craig who is on trial,’ Pearson declared, having to almost shout in order to make himself heard, ‘and that this piece of evidence’ – he pointed at the jeans which Sir Matthew was still holding up – ‘has no relevance when it comes to deciding if Cartwright did or did not escape from custody.’

  Mr Justice Hackett was no longer able to hide his anger. His jovial smile had been replaced by a grim visage. Once silence had returned to his court, he said, ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Mr Pearson. A bloodstained tear in the defendant’s jeans is certainly not relevant to this case.’ He paused for a moment before looking down at the witness with disdain. ‘However, I feel I have been left with no choice but to abandon this trial and dismiss the jury until all the transcripts of this and the earlier case have been sent to the DPP for his consideration, because I am of the opinion that a gross miscarriage of justice may have taken place in the case of The Crown versus Daniel Arthur Cartwright.’

  This time the judge made no attempt to quell the uproar that followed as journalists bolted for the door, some of them already on their mobile phones even before they had left the courtroom.

  Alex turned to congratulate his father, to find him slumped in the corner of the bench, his eyes closed. He opened an eyelid, peered up at his son and remarked, ‘It’s far from over yet, my boy.’

  BOOK SIX

  JUDGEMENT

  78

  Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not . . .

  Once Father Michael had blessed the bride and groom, Mr and Mrs Cartwright joined the rest of the congregation as they gathered around the grave of Danny Cartwright.

  And though I have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains, and have not . . .

  It had been the bride’s wish to honour Nick in this way, and Father Michael had agreed to conduct a service in memory of the man whose death had made it possible for Danny to prove his innocence.

  And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not . . .

  Apart from Danny, only two people present had known the man who had come to be buried in a foreign field. One of them stood upright on the far side of the grave, dressed in a black tailcoat, wing collar
and black silk tie. Fraser Munro had travelled down from Dunbroath to the East End of London to represent the last in the line of Moncrieffs that he would serve. Danny had tried to thank him for his wisdom and strength at all times, but all Mr Munro had said was, ‘I wish I’d had the privilege of serving you both. But that was not the Lord’s will,’ added the elder of the Kirk. Something else Danny hadn’t known about the man.

  When they had all met up at Wilson House before the marriage ceremony began, Munro took some considerable time admiring Danny’s paintings. ‘I had no idea, Danny, that you were a collector of McTaggart, Peploe and Lauder.’

  Danny grinned. ‘I think you’ll find it was Lawrence Davenport who collected them. I merely acquired them, but having lived with them I intend to add more of the Scottish school to my collection.’

  ‘How like your grandfather,’ said Munro. Danny decided not to point out to Mr Munro that he had never actually met Sir Alexander. ‘By the way,’ added Munro sheepishly, ‘I must admit to having hit one of your adversaries below the belt while you were safely locked up in Belmarsh.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Sir Hugo Moncrieff, no less. And what’s worse, I did so without seeking your approval, most unprofessional of me. I’ve wanted to get it off my chest for some time.’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance, Mr Munro,’ said Danny, trying to keep a straight face. ‘So what have you been up to in my absence?’

  ‘I must confess that I sent all the papers concerning the validity of Sir Alexander’s second will to the Procurator Fiscal’s office, alerting them to the fact that I felt an offence may have been committed.’ Danny didn’t speak. He had learned early on in their relationship not to interrupt Munro while he was in full flow. ‘As nothing happened for several months, I assumed that Mr Galbraith had somehow managed to have the whole episode swept under the carpet.’ He paused. ‘That was until I read this morning’s Scotsman on the plane down to London.’ He opened his ever-present briefcase, took out a newspaper and passed it across to Danny.

  Danny stared at the front page headline. Sir Hugo Moncrieff arrested for forgery and attempted fraud. The article was accompanied by a large photograph of Sir Nicholas Moncrieff that in Danny’s opinion didn’t do him justice. When Danny finished reading the article, he smiled and said to Munro, ‘Well, you did say that if he caused me any further trouble, then “all bets are off ”.’

  ‘Did I really utter those words?’ said Munro in disgust.

  For we know in part, and we prophesy in part.

  Danny’s eyes moved on to the only other person present who had been a friend of Nick’s, and had known him far better than either he or Munro had. Big Al stood to attention between Ray Pascoe and Alan Jenkins. The governor had granted him compassionate leave to attend the funeral of his friend. Danny smiled when their eyes met, but Big Al quickly bowed his head. He didn’t want these strangers to see him weeping.

  But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away.

  Danny turned his attention to Alex Redmayne, who hadn’t been able to hide his delight when Beth had invited him to be godfather to their son, the brother of Christy. Alex stood next to his father, the man who had made it possible for Danny to be a free man.

  When they had all met in Alex’s chambers a few days after the trial had been abandoned, Danny had asked Sir Matthew what he’d meant when he’d said, ‘It’s far from over yet.’ The old judge had taken Danny to one side so that Beth could not hear his words, and told him that although Craig, Payne and Davenport had all been arrested and charged with the murder of Bernie Wilson, they were still professing their innocence, and were clearly working together as a team. He warned Danny that he and Beth would be put through the ordeal of a further trial at which they would both have to testify about what had really happened that night to another friend who was buried in St Mary’s churchyard. Unless, of course . . .

  For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

  Danny couldn’t resist looking across the road, where a newly painted sign had recently been put in place: Cartwright’s Garage, Under New Management. Once he’d completed the negotiations and agreed a price with Monty Hughes, Munro had drawn up a contract that would allow Danny to take over a business that he would be able to commute to each morning by crossing the road.

  The Swiss bankers had made it clear that they considered Danny had paid far too high a price for the garage on the other side of the road. Danny didn’t bother to explain to Segat the difference between the words price and value, as he doubted if either he or Bresson would have spent much time with Mr Oscar Wilde.

  And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

  Danny gripped his wife’s hand. Tomorrow they would fly to Rome for a much-delayed honeymoon, during which they would try to forget that when they returned they would have to face another long trial before the ordeal would finally be over. Their ten-week-old son chose that moment to express his feelings by bursting into tears, and not in memory of Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, but simply because he felt that the service had gone on for far too long, and in any case, he was hungry.

  ‘Shh,’ said Beth soothingly. ‘It won’t be much longer before we can all go home,’ his mother promised as she took Nick in her arms.

  In the name of the father and of the son . . .

  79

  ‘BRING UP the prisoners.’

  Court number four at the Old Bailey was packed long before ten o’clock in the forenoon, but then, it was not every day that a Queen’s Counsel, a Member of Parliament and a popular actor were arraigned on charges of murder, affray and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice.

  Counsel’s bench was littered with legal luminaries who were checking files, arranging documents and in one case putting final touches to an opening speech, as they waited for the prisoners to take their place in the dock.

  All three defendants were being represented by the most eminent legal minds their solicitors could instruct, and the talk in the corridors of the Old Bailey was that as long as they all stuck to their original story, it was doubtful if any twelve jurors would be able to reach a unanimous verdict. The chatter subsided when Spencer Craig, Gerald Payne and Lawrence Davenport took their places in the dock.

  Craig was so conservatively dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit, white shirt and his favourite mauve tie that it appeared as if he had entered through the wrong door, and that it should have been he who was seated on counsel’s bench waiting to deliver the opening speech.

  Payne was wearing a dark grey suit, college tie and cream shirt, as befitted a Member of Parliament representing a rural seat. He appeared calm.

  Davenport wore faded jeans, an open-necked shirt and a blazer. He was unshaven, which the press would describe the following morning as designer stubble; but they would also report that he looked as if he hadn’t slept for several days. Davenport ignored the press benches and glanced up towards the public gallery, while Payne and Craig chatted to each other as if they were waiting to be served lunch in a busy restaurant. Once Davenport had checked to see that she was in her place, he stared blankly in front of him and waited for the judge to appear.

  Everyone who had managed to secure a place in the packed courtroom rose as Mr Justice Armitage entered. He waited for them to bow before returning the compliment, taking the middle seat on the bench. He smiled down benevolently as if this was just another day at the office. He instructed the court usher to bring in the jury. The usher bowed low before disappearing through a side door, to reappear moments later followed by the twelve citizens who had been selected by rote to sit in judgement on the three defendants.

  Lawrence Davenport’s barrister allowed the flicker of a smile to cross his face when he saw that the jury consisted of seven women and five men. He felt confident that the worst result would now be a hung jury.

 
As the jury took their places in the box, Craig studied them with intense interest, aware that they and they alone would decide his fate. He’d already briefed Larry to make eye contact with the women jurors as they only needed three who couldn’t bear the idea of Lawrence Davenport being sent to jail. If Larry could just manage that simple task, they would all be set free. But Craig was annoyed to see that rather than obeying his simple instruction, Davenport appeared preoccupied and just stared fixedly in front of him.

  Once the jury had settled, the judge invited the associate to read out the charges.

  ‘Will the defendants please rise.’

  All three of them stood up.

  ‘Spencer Malcolm Craig, you are charged that on the night of September eighteenth 1999 you did murder one Bernard Henry Wilson. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty,’ said Craig defiantly.

  ‘Gerald David Payne, you are charged that on the night of September eighteenth 1999 you were involved in an affray that ended in the death of Bernard Henry Wilson. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty,’ said Payne firmly.

  ‘Lawrence Andrew Davenport, you are charged with perverting the course of justice, in that on March twenty-third 2000, you gave evidence on oath that you knew to be false in a material particular. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

  Every eye in the courtroom was fixed on the actor, who found himself once again centre stage. Lawrence Davenport raised his head and looked up into the public gallery, where his sister was seated at the end of the front row.

  Sarah gave her brother a reassuring smile.

  Davenport lowered his head, and for a moment seemed to hesitate before saying in a whisper that was barely audible, ‘Guilty.’