A Prisoner of Birth by Jeffrey Archer
Danny had been testing his new skills every day, but getting himself invited to a closing-night party, giving the impression that he was a regular customer at the Dorchester, fooling a young estate agent who was desperate to close a deal, and convincing a theatrical producer that he might invest in his latest production, were simply the opening rounds of a long competition in which Craig was undoubtedly the number-one seed. If Danny were to lower his guard even for a moment, the man strutting his hour upon the courtroom floor below would not hesitate to strike again, and this time he would make sure that Danny was sent back to Belmarsh for the rest of his life.
He had to lure this man into a swamp from which he could not hope to escape. Charlie Duncan might be able to help him strip Lawrence Davenport of his adoring fans; Gary Hall could even cause Gerald Payne to be humiliated in the eyes of his colleagues and friends; but it would take far more to ensure that Spencer Craig would end his legal career, not sitting in judgement on the bench wearing a wig and red gown while being addressed as m’lord, but standing in the dock being convicted by a jury of his fellow citizens on a charge of murder.
55
‘GOOD MORNING, George,’ said Danny as the doorman opened the back door of the car for him.
‘Good morning, Sir Nicholas.’
Danny strolled into the hotel and waved at Walter as he passed through the reception area. Mario’s face lit up the moment he spotted his favourite customer.
‘A hot chocolate and The Times, Sir Nicholas?’ he asked once Danny had settled into his alcove seat.
‘Thank you, Mario. I’d also like a table for lunch tomorrow at one o’clock, somewhere I can’t be overheard?’
‘That won’t be a problem, Sir Nicholas.’
Danny leant back and thought about the meeting that was about to take place. His advisers from de Coubertin’s property department had called three times during the past week: no names, no small talk, just facts and considered advice. Not only had they come up with a realistic price for the pawn shop and the carpet warehouse, but they had also drawn his attention to a barren plot of land that ran behind the three properties and was owned by the local council. Danny didn’t tell them he knew every inch of that land, because when he was a kid he’d played striker while Bernie was in goal in their private cup final.
They had also been able to inform him that for some years the council’s planning committee had wanted to build ‘affordable housing’ on that particular site, but that with a garage so close to the site, the health and safety committee had vetoed the idea. The minutes of the relevant committee meetings had arrived in a brown envelope the following morning. Danny had plans to solve their problems.
‘Good morning, Sir Nicholas.’
Danny looked up from his newspaper. ‘Good morning, Mr Hall,’ he said as the young man took the seat opposite him. Hall opened his briefcase and took out a thick file marked Moncrieff, then removed a document and handed it to Danny.
‘These are the deeds for Wilson’s garage,’ he explained. ‘Contracts were exchanged when I met up with Miss Wilson this morning.’ Danny thought his heart would stop beating. ‘A charming young woman who seemed relieved to have the problem off her hands.’
Danny smiled. Beth would deposit the £200,000 with her local branch of the HSBC, content to see it earning 4.5 per cent per annum, although he knew exactly who would benefit most from the windfall.
‘And the two buildings on either side?’ asked Danny. ‘Have you made any progress with them?’
‘To my surprise,’ said Hall, ‘I think we can close a deal on both sites.’ This came as no surprise to Danny. ‘Mr Isaacs says he’d let the pawn shop go for two hundred and fifty thousand, while Mr Kamal is asking three hundred and sixty thousand for the carpet warehouse. Together they would just about double the size of your holding, and our investment people estimate that the marriage value alone could double your original outlay.’
‘Pay Mr Isaacs his asking price. Offer Mr Kamal three hundred thousand and settle for three hundred and twenty.’
‘But I still think I can get you a better deal,’ said Hall.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ said Danny. ‘I want you to close both deals on the same day, because if Mr Kamal were to find out what we’re up to, he’d know he’s got a ransom strip.’
‘Understood,’ said Hall, as he continued to write down Danny’s instructions.
‘Once you’ve closed both deals, let me know immediately so I can open negotiations with the council about the strip of land behind the three sites.’
‘We could even draw you up some outline plans before we approach them,’ said Hall. ‘It might be an ideal site for a small office block, even a supermarket.’
‘No it would not, Mr Hall,’ said Danny firmly. ‘If you did that, you’d be wasting your time and my money.’ Hall looked embarrassed. ‘There’s a branch of Sainsbury’s only a hundred yards away, and if you study the council’s ten-year development plan for the area, you’ll see that the only projects they’re giving planning permission for are affordable dwellings. My experience tells me that if you make a council think something is their idea in the first place, you have a far better chance of closing a deal. Don’t get greedy, Mr Hall. Remember, that was another mistake my last agent made.’
‘I’ll remember,’ said Hall.
Danny’s advisers had done their homework so well that he had no difficulty in running circles around Hall.
‘Meanwhile, I’ll deposit five hundred and seventy thousand pounds in your client account today, so that you can close both deals as soon as possible – but don’t forget, on the same day, and without either side finding out about the other sale and certainly without them becoming aware of my involvement.’
‘I won’t let you down,’ said Hall.
‘I hope not,’ said Danny. ‘Because if you succeed in this little enterprise, I’ve been working on something far more interesting. But as there is an element of risk involved, it will need the backing of one of your partners, preferably someone young, who’s got balls and imagination.’
‘I know exactly the right man,’ said Hall.
Danny didn’t bother to say and so do I.
‘How are you, Beth?’ asked Alex Redmayne as he rose from behind his desk and ushered her towards a comfortable chair by the fire.
‘I’m well, thank you, Mr Redmayne.’
Alex smiled as he took a seat by her side. ‘I never could get Danny to call me Alex,’ he said, ‘even though I like to think that towards the end we became friends. Perhaps I’ll be more successful with you.’
‘The truth, Mr Redmayne, is that Danny was even shyer than I am; shy and stubborn. You mustn’t think that because he didn’t call you by your first name he didn’t consider you a friend.’
‘I wish he was sitting there now telling me that,’ said Alex, ‘although I was delighted when you wrote asking to see me.’
‘I wanted to seek your advice,’ said Beth, ‘but until recently, I haven’t been in a position to do so.’
Alex leant across and took her hand. He smiled when he saw the engagement ring, which she hadn’t worn on the previous occasion. ‘How can I help?’
‘It’s just that I thought I should let you know that something strange took place when I went to Belmarsh to pick up Danny’s personal belongings.’
‘That must have been a dreadful experience,’ said Alex.
‘In some ways it was worse than the funeral,’ replied Beth. ‘But as I left, I bumped into Mr Pascoe.’
‘Bumped into,’ said Alex, ‘or had he been hanging around hoping to see you?’
‘Possibly he had, but I couldn’t be sure. Does it make any difference?’
‘A world of difference,’ said Alex. ‘Ray Pascoe is a decent, fair-minded man, who never doubted Danny was innocent. He once told me that he had met a thousand murderers in his time, and Danny wasn’t one of them. So what did he have to say?’
‘That’s the strange thing,’ said Beth
‘A slip of the tongue, perhaps,’ said Alex. ‘Did you press him on the point?’
‘No,’ said Beth. ‘By the time I’d thought about it he was gone.’
Alex didn’t speak for some time while he considered the implications of Pascoe’s words. ‘There’s only one course of action open to you if you still hope to clear Danny’s name, and that’s to make an application to the Queen for a royal pardon.’
‘A royal pardon?’
‘Yes. If the Law Lords can be convinced that an injustice has been done, the Lord Chancellor can recommend to the Queen that the appeal court’s decision be overturned. It was quite common in the days of capital punishment, although it’s far rarer now.’
‘And what would be the chances of Danny’s case even being considered?’ asked Beth.
‘It’s rare for an application for pardon to be granted, although there are many people, some in high places, who consider Danny suffered an injustice – myself included.’
‘You seem to forget, Mr Redmayne, that I was in the pub when Craig provoked the row, I was in the alley when he attacked Danny, and I held Bernie in my arms when he told me that it was Craig who had stabbed him. My story has never wavered – not because, as Mr Pearson suggested, I’d prepared every word before the trial, but because I was telling the truth. There are three other people who know that I was telling the truth, and a fourth – Toby Mortimer – who confirmed my story only days before he took his own life, but despite your efforts at the appeal hearing, the judge wouldn’t even listen to the tape. Why should it be any different this time?’
Alex didn’t reply immediately, as it took him a moment to recover from Beth’s rebuke. ‘If you were able to rekindle a campaign among Danny’s friends,’ he eventually managed, ‘like the one you mounted when he was alive, there would be an outcry if the Law Lords didn’t reopen the case. But,’ he continued, ‘if you do decide to go down that particular road, Beth, it will be a long and arduous journey, and although I would be happy to offer my services pro bono, it still wouldn’t come cheap.’
‘Money is no longer a problem,’ said Beth confidently. ‘I recently managed to sell the garage for far more than I would have thought possible. I’ve put half the money aside for Christy’s education, because Danny wanted her to have a better start in life than he did, and I’d be happy to spend the other half trying to have the case reopened if you believe there’s the slightest chance of clearing his name.’
Alex once again leant across and took her hand. ‘Beth, can I ask you a personal question?’
‘Anything. Whenever Danny spoke about you, he always used to say, “He’s a diamond, you can tell him anything.” ’
‘I consider that a great compliment, Beth. It gives me the confidence to ask you something that’s been preying on my mind for some time.’ Beth looked up, the fire bringing a warm glow to her cheeks. ‘You are a young and beautiful woman, Beth, with rare qualities that Danny recognized. But don’t you think the time has come to move on? It’s six months since Danny’s death.’
‘Seven months, two weeks and five days,’ said Beth, lowering her head.
‘Surely he wouldn’t want you to mourn him for the rest of your life.’
‘No, he wouldn’t,’ said Beth. ‘He even tried to break off our relationship after his appeal had failed, but he didn’t mean it, Mr Redmayne.’
‘How can you be sure?’ asked Alex.
She opened her handbag, took out the last letter Danny had ever sent her and handed it over to Alex.
‘It’s almost impossible to read,’ he said.
‘And why’s that?’
‘You know the answer only too well, Beth. Your tears . . .’
‘No, Mr Redmayne, not my tears. Although I’ve read that letter every day for the past eight months, those tears were not shed by me, but by the man who wrote them. He knew how much I loved him. We would have made a life together even if we could only spend one day a month with each other. I’d have been happy to wait twenty years, more, in the hope that I would eventually be allowed to spend the rest of my life with the only man I’ll ever love. I adored Danny from the day I met him, and no one will ever take his place. I know I can’t bring him back, but if I could prove his innocence to the rest of the world, that would be enough, quite enough.’
Alex stood up, walked over to his desk and picked up a file. He didn’t want Beth to see the tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked out of the window at a statue of a blindfolded woman perched on top of a building, holding up a pair of scales for the world to see. He said quietly, ‘I’ll write to the Lord Chancellor today.’
‘Thank you, Alex.’
56
DANNY WAS SEATED at a corner table fifteen minutes before Charlie Duncan was due to appear. Mario had chosen the ideal spot to ensure that they could not be overheard. There were so many questions that Danny needed to ask, all filed away in his memory.
Danny studied the menu so that he would be familiar with it before his guest arrived. He expected that Duncan would be on time; after all, he was desperate for Danny to invest in his latest show. Perhaps at some time in the future he might even work out the real reason he’d been invited to lunch . . .
At two minutes to one, Charlie Duncan entered the Palm Court restaurant wearing an open-necked shirt and smoking a cigarette – a walking Bateman cartoon. The head waiter had a discreet word with him before offering him an ashtray. Duncan stubbed out his cigarette while the maître d’ rummaged around in a drawer in his desk and produced three striped ties, all of which clashed with Duncan’s salmon-pink shirt. Danny suppressed a smile. If it had been a tennis match, he would have started the first set five-love up. The head waiter accompanied Duncan across the room to Danny’s table. Danny made a mental note to double his tip.
Danny rose from his place to shake hands with Duncan, whose cheeks were now the same colour as his shirt.
‘You’re obviously a regular here,’ said Duncan, taking his seat. ‘Everyone seems to know you.’
‘My father and grandfather always used to stay here whenever they came down from Scotland,’ said Danny. ‘It’s a bit of a family tradition.’
‘So, what do you do, Nick?’ asked Duncan while he glanced at the menu. ‘I don’t recall seeing you at the theatre before.’
‘I used to be in the army,’ Danny replied, ‘so I’ve been abroad a lot of the time. But since my father’s death, I’ve taken over responsibility for the family trust.’
‘And you’ve never invested in the theatre before?’ asked Duncan as the sommelier showed Danny a bottle of wine. Danny studied the label for a moment, then nodded.
‘And what will you have today, Sir Nicholas?’ asked Mario.
‘I’ll have my usual,’ said Danny. ‘And keep it on the rare side,’ he added, remembering Nick once delivering those words to the servers behind the hotplate at Belmarsh. It had caused so much laughter that Nick had nearly ended up on report. The sommelier poured a little wine into Danny’s glass. He sniffed the bouquet before sipping it, then nodded again – something else Nick had taught him, using Ribena, water and a plastic mug to swill the liquid in.
‘I’ll have the same,’ said Duncan, closing his menu and handing it back to the maître d’. ‘But make mine medium.’
‘The answer to your question,’ said Danny, ‘is no, I’ve never invested in a play before. So I’d be fascinated to learn how your world operates.’
‘The first thing a producer has to do is identify a play,’ said Duncan. ‘Either a new one, preferably by an established playwright, or a revival of a classic. Your next problem is to find a star.’
‘Like Lawrence Davenport?’ said Danny, topping up Duncan’s glass.
‘No, that was a one-off. Larry Davenport’s not a stage actor. He can just about get away with light comedy as long as he’s backed up by a strong cast.’
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‘We were running a little thin towards the end of the run,’ admitted Duncan, ‘once his Dr Beresford fans had dried up. Frankly, if he doesn’t get back on television fairly soon, he won’t be able to fill a phone box.’
‘So how does the finance work?’ asked Danny, having already had three of his questions answered.
‘To put a play on in the West End nowadays costs four to five hundred thousand pounds. So once a producer has settled on a piece, signed up the star and booked the theatre – and it’s not always possible to get all three at the same time – he relies on his angels to raise the capital.’
‘How many angels do you have?’ asked Danny.
‘Every producer has his own list, which he guards like the crown jewels. I have about seventy angels who regularly invest in my productions,’ said Duncan as a steak was placed in front of him.
‘And how much do they invest, on average?’ asked Danny, pouring Duncan another glass of wine.
‘On a normal production, units would start around ten thousand pounds.’
‘So you need fifty angels per play.’
‘You’re sharp when it comes to figures, aren’t you?’ said Duncan, cutting into his steak.
Danny cursed to himself. He hadn’t meant to drop his guard, and quickly moved on. ‘So how does an angel, a punter, make a profit?’
‘If the theatre is sixty per cent full for the entire run, he’ll break even and get his money back. Above that figure, he can make a handsome profit. Below it, he can lose his shirt.’
‘And how much are the stars paid?’ asked Danny.
‘Badly, by their usual standards, is the answer. Sometimes as little as five hundred a week. Which is the reason so many of them prefer to do television, the odd advertisement, or even voiceovers rather than get themselves involved in real work. We only paid Larry Davenport one thousand.’
‘A thousand a week?’ said Danny. ‘I’m amazed he got out of bed for that.’