‘You think Leach was his supplier?’
‘Like I said, no whit I’d call a coincidence.’ Nick put down his pen. ‘He has the shakes,’ continued Big Al, ‘but that always happens when ye start a detox. Doc seems tae think this time he really wants tae come aff the stuff. Anyway, we’ll soon find oot if Leach is involved.’
‘How?’ asked Nick.
‘He gets oot of solitary in a couple of weeks. If Mortimer stops turning up tae the hospital fur treatment the moment Leach is back on the block, we’ll know who the supplier is.’
‘So we’ve only got another fortnight to gather the evidence we need,’ said Nick.
‘Unless it is a coincidence.’
‘That’s not a risk we can take,’ said Nick. ‘Borrow Danny’s tape recorder and set up an interview as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Big Al, standing to attention by the side of his bed. ‘Dae I tell Danny aboot this, or keep ma mooth shut?’
‘You tell him everything, so he can pass on the information to his barrister. In any case, three brains are better than two.’
‘Jist how clever is he?’ asked Big Al as he sat back down on his bunk.
‘He’s brighter than me,’ admitted Nick. ‘But don’t tell him I said so, because with a bit of luck I’ll be out of this place before he works it out for himself.’
‘Perhaps it’s time we told him the truth about us?’
‘Not yet,’ said Nick firmly.
‘Letters,’ said the officer. ‘Two for Cartwright, and one for you, Moncrieff.’ He passed the single letter to Danny, who checked the name on the envelope.
‘No, I’m Cartwright,’ said Danny. ‘He’s Moncrieff.’
The officer frowned, and handed the single letter to Nick and the other two to Danny.
‘An I’m Big Al,’ said Big Al.
‘Fuck off,’ said the officer, slamming the door behind him.
Danny began to laugh, but then he looked at Nick and saw that he had turned ashen. He was holding the envelope in his hand, and was shaking. Danny couldn’t remember when Nick had last received a letter. ‘Do you want me to read it first?’ he asked.
Nick shook his head, unfolded the letter and began to read. Big Al sat up, but didn’t speak. The unusual doesn’t happen that often in prison. As Nick read, his eyes began to water. He brushed a shirtsleeve across his face, then passed the letter across to Danny.
Dear Sir Nicholas,
I am sorry to have to inform you that your father has passed away. He died from heart failure yesterday morning, but the doctor assures me that he suffered little or no pain. I will, with your permission, make an application for compassionate leave in order that you can attend the funeral.
Yours sincerely,
Fraser Munro, Solicitor
Danny looked up to see Big Al holding Nick in his arms. ‘His dad’s died, hasn’t he?’ was all Big Al said.
25
‘CAN YOU TAKE CARE of this while I’m away?’ asked Nick, unfastening the silver chain from round his neck and handing it to Danny.
‘Sure,’ said Danny, as he studied what looked like a key attached to the chain. ‘But why not take it with you?’
‘Let’s just say I trust you more than most of the people I’m going to meet up with later today.’
‘I’m flattered,’ said Danny, putting the chain round his neck.
‘No need to be,’ said Nick with a smile.
He looked at his reflection in the small steel mirror that was screwed into the wall above the washbasin. His personal possessions had been returned to him at five o’clock that morning, in a large plastic bag that hadn’t been unsealed for four years. He would have to leave by six if he was to be in Scotland in time for the funeral.
‘I can’t wait,’ said Danny, staring at him.
‘For what?’ asked Nick as he straightened his tie.
‘Just to be allowed to wear my own clothes again.’
‘You’ll be allowed to do that at your appeal, and once they overturn the verdict you’ll never have to put on prison clothes again. In fact, you’ll be able to walk straight out of the courtroom a free man.’
‘Especially after they hear ma tape,’ chipped in Big Al with a grin. ‘I think today’s the day.’ He was about to explain what he meant when they heard a key turning in the lock. It was the first time they had ever seen Pascoe and Jenkins dressed in civilian clothes.
‘Follow me, Moncrieff,’ said Pascoe. ‘The governor wants a word with you before we set off for Edinburgh.’
‘Do give him my best wishes,’ said Danny, ‘and ask him if he’d like to pop in for afternoon tea some time.’
Nick laughed at Danny’s imitation of his accent. ‘If you think you can pass yourself off as me, why don’t you try taking my class this morning?’
‘Are ye talking to me?’ asked Big Al.
Davenport’s phone was ringing, but it was some time before he emerged from under the sheets to answer it. ‘Who the hell is this?’ he mumbled.
‘Gibson,’ announced the familiar voice of his agent.
Davenport was suddenly awake. Gibson Graham only rang when it meant work. Davenport prayed it would be a film, another television role, or perhaps an advertisement – they paid so well, even for a voiceover. Surely his fans would still recognize the dulcet tones of Dr Beresford.
‘I’ve had an availability enquiry,’ said Gibson, trying to make it sound as if it was a regular occurrence. Davenport sat up and held his breath. ‘It’s a revival of The Importance of Being Earnest, and they want you to play Jack. Eve Best’s signed up to play Gwendolen. Four weeks on the road before it opens in the West End. The pay’s not great, but it will remind all those producers out there that you’re still alive.’ Delicately put, thought Davenport, although he didn’t warm to the idea. He remembered only too well what it was like to spend weeks on the road followed by night after night in the West End, not forgetting the half-empty matinees. Although he had to admit that it was his first serious offer for nearly four months.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.
‘Don’t take too long,’ said Gibson. ‘I know they’ve already put a call in to Nigel Havers’ agent to check his availability.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ Davenport repeated, and put the phone down. He checked his bedside clock. It was ten past ten. He groaned, and slid back under the sheets.
Pascoe rapped gently on the door, before he and Jenkins escorted Nick into the office.
‘Good morning, Moncrieff,’ said the governor, looking up from behind his desk.
‘Good morning, Mr Barton,’ Nick replied.
‘You realize,’ said Barton, ‘that although you have been granted compassionate leave in order to attend your father’s funeral, you remain a category-A prisoner, which means that two officers must accompany you until you return tonight. The regulations also state that you should be handcuffed at all times. However, given the circumstances, and in view of the fact that for the past two years you have been an enhanced prisoner, and that it’s only a few months before you are due to be released, I’m going to exercise my prerogative and allow you to be uncuffed once you cross the border. That is, unless either Mr Pascoe or Mr Jenkins has reason to believe you might attempt to escape or commit an offence. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, Moncrieff, that if you were foolish enough to try to take advantage of my decision, I would have no choice but to recommend to the Parole Board that you should not be considered for early release on – ’ he checked Nick’s file – ‘July seventeenth, but that you should serve your full sentence, another four years. Is that fully understood, Moncrieff?’
‘Yes, thank you, governor,’ said Nick.
‘Then there is nothing more for me to say other than to offer my condolences for the loss of your father, and to wish you a peaceful day.’ Michael Barton rose from behind his desk and added, ‘May I say that I am only sorry this sad event did not take place after you had been released.’
&
nbsp; ‘Thank you, governor.’
Barton nodded, and Pascoe and Jenkins led their charge out.
The governor frowned when he saw the name of the next prisoner who was due to come in front of him. He wasn’t looking forward to the encounter.
During the morning break, Danny took over Nick’s duties as the prison librarian, re-shelving recently returned books and date-stamping those that prisoners wished to take out. After completing these tasks, he picked up a copy of The Times from the newspaper shelf and sat down to read it. Papers were delivered to the prison every morning but could only be read in the library: six copies of the Sun, four of the Mirror, two of the Daily Mail and a single copy of The Times – which Danny felt was a fair reflection of the prisoners’ preferences.
Danny had read The Times every day for the past year, and was now familiar with its layout. Unlike Nick, he still couldn’t complete the crossword, although he spent as much time reading the business section as he did the sports pages. But today would be different. He leafed through the paper until he came to a section that he had not troubled himself with in the past.
The obituary of Sir Angus Moncrieff Bt MC OBE warranted half a page, even if it was the bottom half. Danny read the details of Sir Angus’s life from his days at Loretto School, followed by Sandhurst, from where he graduated and took up a commission as a second lieutenant with the Cameron Highlanders. After winning the MC in Korea, Sir Angus had gone on to become Colonel of the Regiment in 1994, when he was awarded the OBE. The final paragraph reported that his wife had died in 1970, and that the title now passed to their only son, Nicholas Alexander Moncrieff. Danny picked up the Concise Oxford Dictionary that was never far from his side and turned to the back to look up the meaning of the letters Bt, MC and OBE. He smiled at the thought of telling Big Al that they were now sharing a cell with an hereditary knight, Sir Nicholas Moncrieff Bt. Big Al already knew.
‘See you later, Nick,’ said a voice, but the prisoner had already left the library before Danny could correct his mistake.
Danny played with the key on the end of the silver chain, wishing, like Malvolio, that he could be someone he wasn’t. It reminded him that his essay on Twelfth Night had to be handed in by the end of the week. He thought about the mistake his fellow prisoner had made, and wondered if he could get away with it when he came face to face with Nick’s class. He folded The Times and placed it back on the shelf, then crossed the corridor to the education department.
Nick’s group were already sitting behind their desks waiting for him, and clearly none of them had been told that their usual teacher was on his way to Scotland to attend his father’s funeral. Danny marched boldly into the room and smiled at the dozen expectant faces. He unbuttoned his blue and white striped shirt, to ensure that the silver chain was even more prominent.
‘Open your books to page nine,’ Danny said, hoping he sounded like Nick. ‘You’ll see a set of animal pictures on one side of the page, and a list of names on the other. All I want you to do is to match up the pictures with the names. You have two minutes.’
‘I can’t find page nine,’ said one of the prisoners. Danny walked across to help him just as an officer strolled into the room. A puzzled expression appeared on his face.
‘Moncrieff ?’
Danny looked up.
‘I thought you were on compassionate leave?’ he said, checking his clipboard.
‘You’re quite right, Mr Roberts,’ said Danny. ‘Nick’s at his father’s funeral in Scotland, and he asked me to take over his reading class this morning.’
Roberts looked even more puzzled. ‘Are you taking the piss, Cartwright?’
‘No, Mr Roberts.’
‘Then get yourself back to the library before I put you on report.’
Danny quickly left the room and returned to his desk in the library. He tried not to laugh, but it was some time before he could concentrate enough to continue his essay on his favourite Shakespeare comedy.
Nick’s train pulled into Waverley station a few minutes after twelve. A police car was waiting to drive them the fifty miles from Edinburgh to Dunbroath. As they pulled away from the kerb, Pascoe checked his watch. ‘We should have plenty of time. The service doesn’t start until two.’
Nick looked out of the car window as the city gave way to open country. He felt a freedom he hadn’t experienced in years. He had forgotten how beautiful Scotland was, with its harsh greens and browns and almost purple sky. Nearly four years in Belmarsh with only a view of high brick walls topped with razor wire tends to dim the memory.
He tried to compose his thoughts before they reached the parish church in which he’d been christened and his father would be buried. Pascoe had agreed that after the service was over he could spend an hour with Fraser Munro, the family solicitor, who had made the application for his compassionate leave, and who Nick suspected had also put in a plea for minimum security, and certainly no handcuffs, once they had crossed the border.
The police car drew up outside the church fifteen minutes before the service was due to begin. An elderly gentleman, whom Nick remembered from his youth, stepped forward as the policeman opened the back door. He wore a black tailcoat, wing collar and a black silk tie. He looked more like an undertaker than a solicitor. He raised his hat and gave a slight bow. Nick shook hands with him and smiled. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Munro,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
‘Good afternoon, Sir Nicholas,’ he replied. ‘Welcome home.’
‘Leach, although you have been provisionally released from segregation, let me remind you that it is only provisional,’ said the governor. ‘Should you cause even the slightest disruption now that you’re back on the wing, I don’t want you to be in any doubt that you will be returned to closed conditions without recourse to me.’
‘Recourse to you?’ sneered Leach, as he stood in front of the governor’s desk with an officer on either side of him.
‘Are you questioning my authority?’ asked the governor, ‘because if you are . . .’
‘No, I am not, sir,’ said Leach sarcastically. ‘Just your knowledge of the 1999 Prison Act. I was thrown into segregation before being placed on report.’
‘A governor is allowed to carry out such an action without resorting to report if he has reason to believe that there is a prima facie case of—’
‘I want to put in an immediate request to see my lawyer,’ said Leach coolly.
‘I’ll note your request,’ responded Barton, trying to remain composed. ‘And who is your lawyer?’
‘Mr Spencer Craig,’ Leach replied. Barton wrote the name down on the pad in front of him. ‘I will be requesting that he makes a formal complaint against you and three members of your staff.’
‘Are you threatening me, Leach?’
‘No, sir. Just making sure it’s on the record that I have made a formal complaint.’
Barton could no longer hide his exasperation, and nodded curtly, his sign that the officers should remove the prisoner from his sight immediately.
Danny wanted to tell Nick the good news, but he knew that he wouldn’t return from Scotland until after midnight.
Alex Redmayne had written to confirm that the date of his appeal had been set for May 31st, only two weeks away. Mr Redmayne also wanted to know if Danny wished to attend the hearing, remembering that he had not given evidence in his original trial. He’d written back immediately confirming that he wanted to be present.
He had also written to Beth. He would have liked her to be the first to learn that Mortimer had made a full confession, and Big Al had recorded every word of it on Danny’s tape recorder. The tape was now secreted inside his mattress, and he would hand it over to Mr Redmayne during his next legal visit. Danny wanted to let Beth know they now had the evidence they needed, but he couldn’t risk putting anything in writing.
Big Al didn’t try to hide the fact that he was pleased with himself, and even offered to appear as a witness. It looked as if Nick had been right.
Danny was going to be released before he was.
26
THE CHURCH WARDEN was waiting for Sir Nicholas in the vestry. He gave a slight bow before accompanying the new head of the family down the aisle to the front pew on the right-hand side. Pascoe and Jenkins took their places in the row behind.
Nick turned to his left, where the rest of the family were seated in the first three rows on the other side of the aisle. Not one of them even glanced in his direction; they were all clearly under his uncle Hugo’s instructions to ignore him. That didn’t stop Mr Munro joining Nick in the front row. The organ struck up, and the local parish priest, accompanied by the regimental chaplain, led the choir down the aisle to the words of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’.
The trebles filed into the front row of the choir stalls, followed by the tenors and basses. A few moments later a coffin was borne in on the shoulders of six squaddies from the Cameron Highlanders, then placed gently on a bier in front of the altar. All the colonel’s favourite hymns were sung lustily during the service, ending with ‘The Day Thou Gavest Lord is Ended’. Nick bowed his head in prayer for a man who did believe in God, Queen and country.
When the vicar delivered his eulogy, Nick recalled one of his father’s expressions, which he invariably repeated whenever they had attended a regimental funeral in the past – ‘The padre did him proud.’
Once the chaplain had offered closing prayers and the priest had administered the final blessing, the congregation of family, friends, representatives of the regiment and locals gathered in the churchyard to witness the burial.
For the first time, Nick noticed the massive figure of a man who must have weighed more than twenty-five stone, and who didn’t look at home in Scotland. He smiled. Nick returned his smile and tried to recall when they had last met. Then he remembered: Washington DC; the opening of an exhibition at the Smithsonian to celebrate his grandfather’s eightieth birthday, when his fabled stamp collection had been put on display to the public. But Nick still couldn’t recall the man’s name.