Although Erick and Andrea disagreed with everything Tim Larsen stood for and objected to his one‑sided view of the case, they recognised his basic honesty. Over the agonisingly slow months leading up to the trial, a perverse sort of camaraderie had grown between them.
Bail had been refused to all defendants. Meanwhile, the media never stopped fabricating new scandals about the GIANT directors. All untrue, but newspaper sales had never been better.
It was such a beautiful day that Andrea decided to walk the mile from the Politigaarden to the Ministry of Justice where she worked as a secretary. She was conscious of the many interested glances thrown her way by passers‑by, who obviously recognised her from the newspapers, but she ignored them.
Andrea knew by now that Danes were more curious than sensitive.
Back at her desk, she was surprised when her boss invited her into his office for a private word. As she had asked for the morning off, she did not expect anything to be wrong.
‘Have you ever considered,’ he began nervously, ‘finding another occupation until your husband’s situation has been resolved?’
She frowned. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’
‘We have nothing but praise for your work, Andrea,’ he said hastily, ‘but you must understand that when the press discover you work for the Ministry of Justice, it could be embarrassing.’
She flushed angrily. ‘I’m not on trial. Erick hasn’t yet been found guilty of anything and if he is, it will be for something of which he is morally innocent. But I agree it will be embarrassing for the Ministry, so if you want me to leave without a fuss, I demand six months’ pay.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ her superior said, relieved. ‘The cheque will be in the post tonight.’
* * *
Preparation for the court case took eighteen months.
Erick and his co‑defendants were charged with conspiracy to deceive the minority shareholders in CDCM by selling GIANT of Scandinavia at an inflated price.
The defence would argue that the price was agreed by the CDCM board, which had been legally appointed, and reflected the value of the goodwill in GIANT. But as GIANT had now been forced into liquidation by Janus Kirk, this argument was going to be difficult to maintain.
A special court room had been built to accommodate the many defence barristers, clerks and assistants. The area for the press had to be made five times bigger than usual.
A judge and two lay assessors, one a dentist, the other a postman, were to hear the case.
In June 1971 the trial finally started. The press, finding the fine detail of the case too boring, still invented outrageous events which had nothing to do with what had happened in court. The defendants were assured by their barristers that they could ignore what was said in the papers.
Erick was involved in every detail of the case and wrote long instructions to his barrister every evening. When, towards the end of the case, the barrister informed him that he had some doubts about the outcome, Erick reached what he felt was the lowest point in his imprisonment.
‘It’s not my job to give advice,’ his guard, Rasmussen, remarked that evening, when Erick returned to his cell from the court. ‘But we’ve been together nearly every day for the last two years, and I have extensive experience in the observation of human misery.’
Erick shrugged his shoulders wearily. ‘I don’t believe anyone can help me anymore.’
‘Exactly,’ nodded the guard. ‘That’s exactly what you must learn to live with. That there’s absolutely no chance of your getting off.’
‘Thanks for those words of encouragement!’
‘You know you’ve lost. The point is, what are you going to do about it?’
‘Figure out how to get my revenge? No, no. What matters is how I get back on my feet, when I get out.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Rasmussen put the catch on the lock and sat on the bed next to Erick. ‘Listen, the judge, a leading member of the establishment, has to convict all of you. There’s too much at stake here. Public opinion is too critical of you for him to find you innocent. You have to accept that and look beyond it.’
‘Yes the whole thing is a farce,’ Erick agreed heavily. ‘I must play my part, serve my time and try to keep my sanity.’
‘You’ve got it. Now all those people in court needn’t matter to you anymore. They’ve done their worst. You are already preparing yourself mentally for life after prison. Hang on to that.’
* * *
On Friday, 28th January 1972, the court was ready to publish its findings.
‘Has your barrister said anything about how long you will get if this goes against us today?’ Erick asked a pale, thin, sick‑looking Aage Madsen.
‘It’s no good losing faith now. I haven’t even asked anyway. I only know I will appeal if the verdict goes against me.’
Erick could not help feeling guilty that Madsen had ended up like this. Of course he knew he had nothing for which to blame himself, but he had unwittingly got them all into this situation, and Madsen was innocent of any wrongdoing.’
At exactly two o’clock they were ushered into the packed courtroom. A ripple of excitement ran through the Court when the Judge entered.
‘This court finds all the defendants guilty as charged. Jan Christensen, as Managing Director I find that you must bear the main responsibility and sentence you to seven years. Per Densby, your previous good name has been dragged through this court. I sentence you also to seven years. Erick Elgberg, I have allowed for your youth, but it was your ability to persuade others which was a major factor in creating this scandal. I sentence you to five years imprisonment. Aage Madsen, you allowed yourself to be persuaded and should have known better. I sentence you to four years.’
Faberson and Jeppesen each received two years for giving wrongful advice and were disbarred. As they had already served this time on remand, the Judge ordered their immediate release.
When they left the courtroom, the prisoners were jostled out through the building and into a windowless police van which took them back to Vestre Faengsel with full police escort.
‘Why am I back here?’ Erick asked Rasmussen. ‘This is a remand prison.’
‘Everyone has appealed against their sentences. It was on the radio and TV news.’
‘No one even asked me if I wanted to appeal!’
Rasmussen shrugged. ‘Your barrister must have done it on your behalf.’
When, the following Monday, his barrister visited him, Erick surprised him by making it clear that he did not want to appeal.
That same afternoon Rasmussen once again sat with him in his cell.
‘I’d like us to keep in contact when all this is over,’ Erick said.
‘No. From now on we go our separate ways. That’s how I want it,’ was the guard’s abrupt answer.
‘Why? I’ll have served my time by then.’
‘My job as a prison officer would be at risk if I ever associated with you again. I might lose my pension. No, we are now two ships sailing in different directions.’
‘You’ve been very good to me. I’d just like to show my gratitude in some way, that’s all. I’m sorry you feel like that.’
‘Let me put it more bluntly, Erick. You are a convicted criminal and life for you will never be the same again. Society has branded you. Now you must live off your wits, survive as best you can in a world where everyone else has some respect and dignity. You can’t go back to the way you lived before. In prison you’ll now start to make friends and gain valuable associates you would not have deigned to speak to previously. When you are out these people will be important to you. You will be important to them. And never forget – statistically there is a sixty‑five per cent chance you’ll end up back in jail.’
‘Never!’ said Erick, shaking his hand. ‘When I get out of here it’s the simple life for me. No wheeling and dealing, no big business schemes. I don’t care if I’m poor for the rest of my days – I’ll be going straight. I can’t
face prison again.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
_________________________
Cerne Estate, Spring, Dorset 1966
With Catherine expecting a child, Lord and Lady Carven and May Forbes decided this was the right time for the next generation to take over Cerne House and Estate. The house in Salisbury was sold and John bought a detached Regency villa in two acres of grounds just outside Bournemouth. Archie and Gwen were installed in the main house and May was delighted with her self‑contained flat in an annexe.
It gave John enormous pleasure to engage a live‑in housekeeper who tended both his in‑laws and his mother. May’s days in service were over at last.
At Cerne John employed a builder recommended by Arthur to renovate and decorate the house inside and out. John found Keith Spike’s company so congenial that he asked the young man to work for him permanently. Keith was in his late‑twenties, an excellent carpenter and fanatical cricket player. He moved into May Forbes’s old flat with his wife and baby daughter and became John’s occasional driver as well as resident handyman.
On 28th April 1966, Michael John Forbes was born after an emergency Caesarean. The doctor told John afterwards that it was unlikely his wife would bear another baby.
That night he sat by Michael’s incubator as Catherine slept. He was such a scrap of a child with frail twig‑like legs and arms and a thick shock of hair.
Although Michael was not yet a day old John knew that his arrival had brought new meaning to his own life. The bond of love between him and his baby son was something he had never felt for another human being.
* * *
Let’s get away,’ he said to Catherine a few months later. ‘Just you, me and Michael. The sooner the better.’
‘Where to? He’s still very young.’
Unsurprisingly after the traumatic birth, Catherine had turned into an anxious mother who presided vigilantly over her son’s welfare.
Her disappointment that there would be no sisters or brothers for him had been keen but John had told her firmly to count her blessings. They had a son now, strong and healthy, who was bringing them great happiness. It was enough for him.
‘I just want us three to be together somewhere different,’ he explained. ‘Give me a chance to really get to know my son without business and Estate matters intruding. Leave it to me, I’ll find us the perfect place.’
He rented a house on the outskirts of Cannes for six weeks during early summer. It had a pool, a wide terrace and a large garden with palm trees and a spectacular view of the Mediterranean. They loved the house and the neighbourhood, which was twenty minutes from the town centre.
It became John’s daily routine to take a leisurely two‑hour walk in the mornings pushing Michael in his pram. He usually went to La Croisette, the seaside promenade, where he had a cup of coffee at an open‑air café. Then he strolled round the market behind Rue d’Antibes and bought the items on Catherine’s shopping list. Back home, she fed Michael and put him down to sleep before they had lunch on the terrace. In the evening they went to a variety of outdoor restaurants with the pram standing next to their table.
John also chartered a yacht and its crew for three days. Catherine felt she was living in a dream. She had never known such happiness.
* * *
Meanwhile the demand for hemp was higher than they could fulfil. After the tragedy on the first landing, John had instructed David to follow the weather forecasts in detail and to abort any operation if the weather or the tides were at all doubtful. The Spanish captain was instructed to unload further away from the coast, enabling them to leave the hemp safely until bad weather conditions improved.
John insisted on not increasing the price, as he thought other importers would only undercut them, but he chartered another fishing boat in Morocco and increased the frequency of landings to twice a month. The quantities per shipment were doubled.
After less than a year, the Invisible Company controlled virtually the entire hemp market in Britain.
* * *
On Friday 14th October 1966, Arthur phoned John late and told him that that afternoon a Swiss collector, who had lived in England for ten years, had visited Black’s of Mayfair. He and his wife wanted to sell their valuable collection of art and antiques. They had left photographs and a detailed list. Arthur guessed that it might be in John’s interest to talk to the vendor as the man had let slip that he owned a small but influential bank in Zurich. Presumably there were financial problems.
John instructed the Hinkerstone Agency in Berkeley Street, a highly respected and discreet international detective agency, to get as much information as possible about his banking connection.
A meeting was arranged the following Tuesday in Arthur’s shop with the Swiss, Count George von Fritzenberg. Arthur had told the Count that he had a private buyer who might be interested in acquiring his collection.
Arriving early, John stood on the other side of the road admiring the shop. Painted black, with stylish gold lettering above the frontage, it looked wonderful. Large pots containing cherry trees stood to either side of the door. The windows were black‑tinted but through them a spot‑light could clearly be seen trained on a Han dynasty terracotta figure and an ancient Etruscan vase. When he opened the front door he stepped on to deep pile black carpet. It was like stepping into a dark sea, exciting and unnerving at the same time.
The Count was already waiting.
After introductions over coffee in Arthur’s office, he explained that he had to sell his valuable collection. John had learned through private enquiries that his country home outside Evesham was also for sale, but the Count did not mention it. Besides obtaining a reasonable price for his artefacts, his main concern was anonymity. A banker, he explained, could not afford any adverse publicity. The sale would have to be completed quickly and without fuss.
He told them he had chosen to live with his English wife and their children on a country estate in Evesham, which had belonged to her family, as his relationship with his own father was not good.
John had learned that the Swiss bank was run by managers von Fritzenberg’s father had appointed many years previously. When the Count’s father had died two months ago it had become clear that the bank had been steadily losing money over the last three years by investing badly in currency transactions. John knew that von Fritzenberg must be in very serious trouble indeed to part with a prized collection as well as his wife’s estate.
‘I will not take part in the valuation,’ John established. ‘Mr Black obviously knows much more about antiques than I do. I will merely follow his advice.’
‘The photos,’ Arthur said, ‘have given me a good idea. But before a proper valuation can be given, I must see the pieces themselves. When would it be convenient for me to visit, Count?’
The request seemed reasonable and von Fritzenberg was prepared to give a date and a time. Seeing his chance, John put in, ‘ Excuse me, I don’t wish to be indiscreet, but I understood your estate is also for sale and that you are considering moving back to Switzerland?’
‘Well, yes,’ said the Count reluctantly, obviously not liking the way the conversation was going.
‘Mr Forbes happens to be a wealthy man, the owner of the Cerne Estate. He has also worked in a City investment house,’ Arthur interrupted. ‘I’m sure he has a good reason for asking.’
For a moment nobody spoke, then John continued, ‘How much are you asking for both the Estate and your collection?’
‘Close to two million pounds.’ Von Fritzenberg got to his feet. ‘But I think I have been invited here under false pretences. I understood you might be interested in buying our collection. That is all I am interested in discussing. Good day.’ He threw his overcoat over his arm, grasped his briefcase and hurried down the stairs to the shop. John smiled at Arthur and left quickly.
He waited until von Fritzenberg’s hand was on the door, then said, ‘I’
ll probably buy both.’
Von Fritzenberg turned. ‘I beg your pardon? You haven’t even seen them!’
‘My chauffeur is sitting over there in the blue Jaguar. Why don’t we drive to your home right now? We can have a chat on the way.’
‘It’s a three‑hour journey!’
John shrugged. ‘I’ve nothing better to do.’
For two hours he deliberately talked about everything other than the bank, the property or the collection.
When they reached the house near Evesham he made no pretence of examining it or the antiquities. It was the bank he’d had his eye on all along.
By the early evening they’d settled that he would pay two million pounds within two weeks for a fifty‑one per cent share of the bank; the holding von Fritzenberg owned. The Count would be employed for life as chairman and executive director and besides a substantial salary, ten percent of the income from the shares would also go back to him. He would not have to sell his antiques or his wife’s estate and no one need know the true ownership of the shares. Indeed that was a condition of sale.
After dinner at his palatial house, von Fritzenberg confirmed that he and his wife would be moving back to Switzerland and taking control of the family bank.
A few days later the two men flew to Zurich, where John was shown around the bank without being introduced to anyone. In von Fritzenberg’s father’s office they signed an agreement prepared by a Swiss attorney.
* * *
‘I want you to take full control of the import business,’ John said to David a few days later.
‘What do you mean, full control? I thought I was in charge!’
‘So you are, but I intend to go into financing so I won’t be around to oversee operations.’ John smiled at David’s obvious surprise. ‘As you’ve often said, something could go wrong with the hemp business. Or else we’ll get too old for it. The Company needs other areas to expand into.’
‘So I take all the day‑to‑day decisions and report to you only on matters of extreme importance? Is that what you mean?’
‘Exactly. The hemp business is now your responsibility.’
* * *
On Wednesday, 21st December 1966, John Forbes parked his Jaguar behind Tooting Broadway station and took the Northern Line to Bank. It was eight‑thirty in the morning and he had already been to his office in Esher. John had grown accustomed to changing his routes and avoiding any pattern in his daily routine.