John made all the decisions without consulting her, but in return she was given a lifestyle which many women would envy as well as the reassurance that her parents could continue at their beloved Cerne House. Her husband was always calm, considerate, in control. Catherine had come to rely on him, and longed to please him. She wanted to lose weight so that she could be chic and soigne for him. It was a losing battle. John however did not seem to mind.
They made love nearly every day. Sometimes he enjoyed being slow and obliging, patiently bringing her to a pitch where she would shamelessly scream and beg him to finish. At other times he had no thought of foreplay. She never knew before they started.
One Monday morning they were in the kitchen, she cooking breakfast as a surprise. John usually had only toast and coffee. He was staring out of the window. He seldom bothered reading newspapers. Finally she put in front of him a plate piled with sausages, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs.
‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
She laughed, remembering their strenuous lovemaking over the weekend. ‘I thought you might need to build up your strength before a hard day’s work.’ She sat down opposite him and sipped her black coffee, watching him eat. A high‑calorie breakfast was not included in her latest diet.
‘Give me a bite,’ she said after a minute, resolve slipping.
He carefully put pieces of bacon, egg, sausage, and mushroom on the fork and held it out to her. She put out her tongue and slowly licked the fragrant, delicious mouthful.
‘Stop that,’ he said, ‘or I’ll never get out of the door.’
‘Make me.’
He came over to her and kissed her, pulling her to her feet. They staggered against the draining board. He dragged up her dressing gown from behind, knowing she was naked underneath, thrust his knee between her legs, jerked them apart and bend her forward. Unzipping himself, he slapped her lightly once and quickly thrust into her. She reached out for something to hold on to, which proved to be the taps of the sink, all the time moving against him. Her long continuous high‑pitched cry was a powerful erotic stimulant for both of them. John came quickly. She gave a gasp, her body tensing from head to foot, coming at the same time.
He moved back, doing himself up. Catherine’s head hung down in the sink, her ample pink curves bare to his view. She had neither the strength nor the will to move. He kissed the nape of her neck.
She pushed her long hair from her face, as finally she turned round to face him.
‘You’re a dangerous man to have around the house,’ she said wearily
‘Maybe I’ll stay at home today. I could, if you wanted me to?’
‘No,’ she said, laughing, ‘just go and do whatever it is you do, and leave me in peace.’
‘All right.’ He took up his car keys and walked down the hall. ‘By the way, I won’t be home tonight. Promise me you’ll stay with your parents.’ When she nodded, wordlessly, he opened the door, gave her a wink, and vanished.
* * *
‘Here comes trouble,’ the car dealer muttered. John looked round and saw two men walking towards them.
He had been talking to the dealer whom he had met at other car auctions. They were eating bacon sandwiches and had large mugs of hot soup in their hands. It was freezing cold and they were ankle‑deep in mud from the cattle sale the day before.
Harrogate Auctions took place in two old barns and dealt in cattle, sheep and horses for four days a week. On the other day secondhand cars, vans, tractors and farming equipment were offered for sale. It was small, with a friendly atmosphere. John had visited it several times. As otherwise he spent his time alone, he enjoyed the company of the traders.
He had driven to Yorkshire in the van he had entered for an auction and expected to buy another one to drive home in. He used different names to buy and sell his vehicles but, as he always made sure they were properly taxed and insured, did not regard this activity as a major risk.
‘Anything we can do for you?’ His companion regarded the two men with ill‑concealed suspicion.
‘We’d like a word with the bloke who put the blue Ford van in the auction,’ one said, looking directly at John.
‘I did.’ He shrugged. ‘Anything wrong?’
The man flipped an identity card out of his pocket. ‘Harrogate CID. Could we have a private word?’
John accompanied the men outside, where it had started to snow. His brain was working fast. He had bought the Ford Anglia at Camberley car auctions a month ago. As always, he had been given an undertaking that the vehicle was not, to the best of the auctioneer’s knowledge, stolen or an insurance write‑off.
‘We have reason to believe that this van was used in a burglary outside Cheltenham two weeks ago,’ the detective said. ‘We were informed this morning that it had turned up here. Did you arrive in that van today?’
It was impossible for him to deny it. ‘Yes.’
‘Then we would like you to accompany us to the station, to answer a few questions.’
‘Fine.’
In the police car he decided he would refuse to answer any questions until he got hold of Ernest Rubinstein, the solicitor whose services Arthur had told him to retain for just such an eventuality.
* * *
John had only met Rubinstein once before but they had got on. The lawyer was a small man with greasy black hair and round gold‑rimmed glasses. His office had been a mess, bundles of papers tied with pink ribbons thrown carelessly on shelves, chairs and floor.
‘The life of an ordinary lawyer is not a glamorous one,’ his brief told John. ‘It’s a mundane round of wills, divorces, bankruptcies, company failures and petty disputes. But I have chosen a different path. I’ve made it my business to handle the careers of a few professional career criminals. I’m not saying I agree with their morals, but they usually say exactly what they mean, they keep their promises and, more to the point, always pay my fees on time without quibble. Usually in cash. And, of course, they need my services on a pretty regular basis.’
‘Our problem,’ Rubinstein now told John in the interview room at Harrogate Police station, ‘is that although the van was bought perfectly legitimately, the police have a witness who took its registration number on the night of the burglary.’
‘If that’s all they’ve got,’ John said, relieved, ‘I can tell them the van wasn’t there and get my own witness to give me an alibi.’
Rubinstein sighed.
‘In my long experience, it’s best never to tell an obvious lie. The police won’t stop here. They have a long list of similar burglaries which the Met want to match up. They’ll dig into your background in the hope that they can tie you in with them, and I get the feeling your assumed identity won’t stand up to close scrutiny.’
‘Then what do you suggest?’
‘There’s nothing worse than a long‑winded lawyer, so I’ll get straight to the point. I take it you bought the van in a name other than Forbes or Spencer?’ He looked pleased when John nodded. ‘Spencer’ being the name he had given when questioned by the police. ‘The Camberley auctioneer has already told them that he wouldn’t be able to identify the purchaser. That means, if the van had been stolen after some person unknown had bought it and used it to commit the burglary, then the police can only bring a charge of larceny against you as John Spencer.’
John was silent for a moment. He thought he knew what Rubinstein was trying to tell him. Better to admit that he stole the van than have the police probe further into the burglaries. ‘John Spencer’ would not be questioned in any depth if he pleaded guilty to car theft straight out.
‘What will I get if I admit that?’
‘It’s a first offence,’ Rubinstein said thoughtfully, ‘and be dealt with at the local Quarter Session. The police will quietly make them all aware of their suspicions about the burglaries. Normally it would have been six months, but this is different. Let us not kid ourselves. At a guess we’re looking at between a year to eighteen mon
ths.’
* * *
Next day, John was home before ten o’clock in the evening, having been bailed to appear before the magistrates in July. He’d travelled back by train.
He had told Catherine that he had been delayed in Harrogate for a couple of days, but as soon as he walked into the living room she sensed there was something wrong. ‘Has anything happened? John, what is it?’
‘Nothing serious.’ He poured himself a whisky. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, anyway.’
‘That only makes me more worried!’
‘I might be going away for a year or so, that’s all.’
‘Prison?’ She forced herself to say the word casually, though it stuck in her throat. This was something he had warned her might happen, but she had never really believed it.
‘It looks like it. But I’ve used another name. There won’t be any scandal.’
‘Imagine if they found out who you really are. Mummy and Daddy would be devastated.’
‘They won’t now.’
She turned away, not wanting him to see the panic and despair she felt. ‘But a year! What shall I tell my parents? And your mother?’
He shrugged. ‘That I’m going to the States on business. After a while you can say business is so fantastic I can’t get away. After that we will dream something else up. They won’t suspect anything.’
‘You’re taking it all very calmly.’
He tossed off his whisky at a gulp. ‘When you fear the worst and get away this lightly, you count your blessings.’
She ran to him and buried her head against his shoulder.
‘A year without you! I won’t be able to bear it. Does this mean you’ll give up your way of life afterwards?’
He cradled her in his arms. ‘If I said yes, I’d be lying and I respect you too much to lie, but I’ll make sure this won’t happen again.’
She wanted to scream at him that he had to stop, he must. She couldn’t bear this to happen again. But she knew better than to pressure him.
‘Any other wife would shout and scream. I just go along with you like the stupid cow I am,’ she said bitterly.
‘Catherine.’ He held her away from him and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘If I’d thought you’d ever be the kind of wife who would shout and scream, I wouldn’t have married you. We’re good together, aren’t we? And you can’t say I didn’t warn you what you might be letting yourself in for.’
He walked across the room and turned on the television. She stood where he had left her, drained of feeling. She knew she would never persuade him to do anything against his will. Either she continued to be his compliant wife or their marriage was over.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked at last.
Without taking his eyes from the screen, he said, ‘Sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes. And,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘a nice cold beer.’
In spite of herself, she smiled. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
‘Let’s make the most of the next few days, Catherine. We’ll have to live off them for the next year.’
* * *
Looking out of the narrow window of the police van on his way from court to prison, John wondered how he would survive in this world of concrete, used as he was to country living.
He had been sentenced to eighteen months, because the judge thought there was rather more to his case than the bare facts given.
Reading Prison was old and rundown. The paint was peeling, the walls damp. For the first hour he sat in a dark holding cell in reception, fighting claustrophobia. His two companions, obviously old lags who knew each other, ignored him completely. Their competitive farting made the air unbreathable.
At four o’clock he was taken to the main prison. The warders were affable, and said that they expected him to get along fine if he left them in peace and got on with ‘doing his bird’. He was shown to a cramped cell which was spotlessly clean, full of small, rather strange looking plants on shelves put up on the walls.
John wondered about his cell mate. Would he be easy going or would the next few minutes be an exercise in asserting his own natural dominance?
‘Welcome.’ An athletic‑looking sandy haired man strode into the cell. ‘I’m David Kennedy, your cell mate. Excuse the plants, but live with me, live with my bonsai.’
John picked up a pot which contained a miniature elm. ‘Japanese, I take it?’
His cell mate grinned. ‘I spent a couple of years in Tokyo while I was in the army.’
John was amazed by this. Handsome, clean‑cut David Kennedy with his straight back and clear direct gaze was hardly the sort of man he’d expected to meet here.
‘What rank and regiment?’
‘Captain, Prince of Wales Regiment, stationed at Royston in Hertfordshire. Spent a couple of years in Japan as a military attaché before I left the service.’
‘Fascinating. You must tell me more about it. My father was an army man. I expect we’ll have plenty of time to talk in here!’
‘You can say that again.’ David sat on his bunk and offered John a cigarette, which he declined. ‘But first I should fill you in on a few things. Among the inmates here there’s a bastard called Poulson who unfortunately controls the prison. I’m warning you now, don’t get on the wrong side of him.’
* * *
John settled in. After the first few days he was confident he could tough it out. He found the thought of prison had been more daunting than the reality. He quickly learned the routine and what to look out for, which prisoners could be trusted and which couldn’t. He was surprised that he didn’t feel any sense of dishonour about being here, and came to the conclusion that if you had no morals, you had no shame either. That thought shed a different light on his situation. The boredom, the sense of isolation, the lack of privacy, even the loss of freedom he could cope with. The sense of being deprived of control over his own life was different, and he knew he would have to do something about that.
After a week, when his first favourable impression of David Kennedy had been confirmed, his cell mate told him how he had ended up in prison. In Tokyo he had become friendly with the Embassy’s gardener, Makimoto Takamori. He and his two brothers were bonsai enthusiasts and created beautiful gardens displaying the perfect miniature trees.
Before he left Japan, although still in the army, David had gained a thorough knowledge of the principles of bonsai and decided to try to sell the trees in England. He received a shipment of fifty and sold them within days to his colleagues and friends, making a profit of £500. He promptly ordered a larger shipment from Makimoto. Soon his garage was full, and he built a new heated greenhouse to house hundreds of specimens. The income from his business was higher than his army salary and, after discussing it with his wife Fiona, he decided to leave the army and concentrate on the importing.
A year later, he received two containers with only a month’s interval between shipments. The trees in both consignments were dead. He had no insurance, and the transportation of the trees was his responsibility. Knowing how much Makimoto relied on the his trade, David also felt morally obliged to pay him.
He arranged an overdraft, backed by a security on his new house and on the trees in transit and in stock. When the loan had been arranged, he paid Makimoto . But his working capital had been severely diminished and a couple of months later he was forced to close down his business. The liquidator discovered that he had technically traded while insolvent and not told the bank about the worthless consignment they had taken as security. A year later David found himself serving a two‑year sentence.
* * *
Two weeks after beginning his sentence, John received a postcard of the Champs-Elysées in Paris, with a hastily scrawled message: Missing you. Kind regards. Arthur and Diana. Underneath was written: PS. Surprise! Got ‘married’ today!
John smiled. Typically, Arthur had never mentioned a thing about anyone called Diana in their many conversations. In fact he rarely
mentioned women except for his old mum and John had regarded him as a confirmed bachelor, maybe homosexual. Arthur was a man of many surprises, he mused, and looked forward to meeting the bride on his release.
* * *
After a month in Reading, John had established a circle of friends. To his surprise he found many to be well‑educated former students of Oxford. After being sentenced there, they were sent to Reading to serve their sentences. They had mostly been dealing drugs, usually cannabis, about which John knew little.
But besides the more intelligent prisoners he also included in his circle several whose only attribute was their physical strength.
He soon knew everything there was to know about Poulson, who was serving a life sentence for a contract killing and had been placed in Reading for some years, before he would as other dangerous prisoners were by the Home Office be moved on to another prison. A heavily built man in his forties, he had an ugly scar running down his left cheek to the corner of his mouth, the legacy of a prison brawl. He guarded against the possibility of its ever happening again by retaining three minders who were constantly by his side – except in his more intimate moments. John had heard that Poulson had sex regularly with a selected inmate, but as he professed to hate all homosexuals the chosen recipient of his favours had to dress in black stockings and high‑heeled shoes. He was made to kneel on the bed with his head and shoulders covered by a blanket and his penis strapped up so Poulson could imagine he was having sex with a woman.
When the prison baron started being friendly to him, John realised that he was being weighed up. Though John Spencer had said nothing against him, Poulson obviously saw him as a threat to his position and wanted to neutralise him. John felt he was a marked man.
One day Poulson beckoned him to the table where he held court in the association room.
‘Jackson is leaving in a couple of weeks so I would like you to help me instead. This is my offer. You’ll bring me up trays from the food trolleys three times a day. Of course I’ll do you favours in return. Later on, you might like to take Jackson’s place in breaking in my little ‘ladies’. What do you say?’
To gain time John agreed. Jackson was being released in a few weeks, which gave him a chance to formulate a plan. He decided first to concentrate on the two minders and via David Kennedy arranged meetings with each of them in the gym, where he knew Paulson would not venture. He offered them substantial sums, paid to their wives or next‑of‑kin, if they would transfer their allegiance from Poulson to him.