A Prisoner of Birth

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

REVENGE IS A dish best served cold.

Danny placed Les Liaisons Dangereuses in his briefcase as the plane began its descent through a bank of murky clouds that hung over London. He had every intention of exacting cold revenge on all three men who had been responsible for the death of his closest friend, for preventing him from marrying Beth, for depriving him of being able to bring up his daughter Christy and for causing him to be imprisoned for a crime he did not commit.

He now had the financial resources to pick them off slowly, one by one, and it was his intention that by the time he'd completed the task, all three of them would consider death a preferable option.

"Would you please fasten your seatbelt, sir, we'll be landing at Heathrow in a few minutes."

Danny smiled up at the stewardess who had interrupted his thoughts. Mr. Justice Sanderson hadn't been given the opportunity to pass judgment in the case of Moncrieff v. Moncrieff, as one of the parties had withdrawn its claim soon after Mr. Gene Hunsacker had left the judge's chambers.

Mr. Munro had explained to Nick over dinner at the New Club in Edinburgh that if the judge had reason to believe a crime had been committed, he would have no choice but to send all the relevant papers to the Procurator Fiscal. Elsewhere in the city, Mr. Desmond Galbraith was informing his client that if that were to happen, Hugo's nephew might not be the only Moncrieff to experience the slamming of the iron door.

Munro had advised Sir Nicholas not to press charges, despite the fact that Danny was in no doubt who had been responsible for the three policemen waiting for him on the last occasion he had landed at Heathrow. Munro had added, in one of those rare moments when his guard came down, "But if your uncle Hugo causes any trouble in the future, then all bets are off."

Danny had tried inadequately to thank Munro for all he had done over the years-think like Nick-and was surprised by his response, "I'm not sure whom I enjoyed defeating more, your uncle Hugo or that prig Desmond Galbraith." The guard remained down. Danny had always thought how lucky he was to have Mr. Munro in his corner, but he had only recently become aware what it would be like to have him as an opponent.

When coffee was served, Danny had asked Fraser Munro to become a trustee of the family estate as well as its legal adviser. He had bowed low and said, "If that is your wish, Sir Nicholas." Danny had also made it clear that he wanted Dunbroathy Hall and the surrounding land to be handed over to the National Trust for Scotland, and that he intended to allocate whatever funds were necessary for its upkeep.

"Precisely as your grandfather envisaged," said Munro. "Although I have no doubt your uncle Hugo, with the help of Mr. Galbraith, would have found some ingenious way of wriggling out of that commitment."

Danny was beginning to wonder if Munro had had a wee dram too many. He couldn't imagine how the old solicitor would react were he to find out what Danny had in mind for another member of his profession.

The plane touched down at Heathrow just after eleven. Danny was meant to have caught the 8:40 flight, but had overslept for the first time in weeks.

He put Spencer Craig out of his mind when the aircraft came to a halt at its docking gate. He unbuckled his seatbelt and joined the other passengers standing in the aisle waiting for the door to swing open. This time there would be no policemen waiting outside for him.

After the case had come to its premature end, Hunsacker had slapped the judge on the back and offered him a cigar. Mr. Justice Sanderson was briefly lost for words, but he did manage a smile before politely refusing.

Danny pointed out to Hunsacker that if he had stayed in Geneva, he would still have ended up with Sir Alexander's collection, because Hugo would have been happy to sell it to him and probably for a lower price.

"But I wouldn't have kept my pact with your grand-daddy," Hunsacker replied. "Now I've done something to repay his kindness and shrewd advice over so many years."

An hour later Gene took off for Texas in his private jet, accompanied by 173 leather-bound albums, which Danny knew would keep him engrossed for the entire journey, and probably the rest of his life.

As Danny climbed aboard the Heathrow Express, his thoughts turned to Beth. He desperately wanted to see her again. Maupassant summed up his feelings so well: "What's the point of triumph if you've no one to share it with?" But he could hear Beth asking, "What's the point of revenge now you have so much to live for?" He would have reminded her first of Bernie and then of Nick, who had also had so much to live for. She would realize that the money meant nothing to him. He would have happily exchanged every penny for…

If only he could turn the clock back…

If only they had gone up to the West End the following night…

If only they hadn't gone to that particular pub…

If only they had left by the front door…

If only…

The Heathrow Express pulled into Paddington station seventeen minutes later. Danny checked his watch; he still had a couple of hours before his meeting with Ms. Bennett. This time he'd go by taxi, and would be waiting in reception long before his appointment. The judge's words were still ringing in his ears: "I intend to sign an order today which will ensure that you will be returned to prison for a further four years should you break any of your license conditions in the future."

Although settling scores with the three Musketeers remained Danny's first priority, he would have to put aside enough time to work on his degree, and honor his promise to Nick. He was even beginning to wonder if Spencer Craig might have played some role in Nick's death. Had Leach, as Big Al suggested, murdered the wrong man?

The taxi drew up outside his house in The Boltons. For the first time Danny really felt as if it was his home. He paid the fare, and opened the gate to find a tramp lounging on his doorstep.

"This is going to be your lucky day," Danny said as he took out his wallet. The dozing figure was dressed in an open-neck blue and white striped shirt, a pair of well-worn jeans and a pair of black shoes that must have been polished that morning. He stirred and raised his head.

"Hi, Nick."

Danny threw his arms around him, just as Molly opened the door. She put her hands on her hips. "He said he was a friend of yours," she said, "but I still told him to wait outside."

"He is my friend," said Danny. "Molly, meet Big Al."

Molly had already prepared an Irish stew for Nick, and as her portions were always too large, there was more than enough for both of them.

"So tell me everything," Danny said once they were seated at the kitchen table.

"No a lot tae tell, Nick," said Big Al between mouthfuls. "Like you, they released me after I'd served half my sentence. Thank God they shipped me oot, otherwise I might 've been there fur the rest of ma life." He reluctantly put down his spoon and added with a smile, "An we know who wis responsible fur that."

"So what have you got planned?" asked Danny.

"Nothing at the moment, but ye did say tae come and see you wance I got oot. "He paused." I hoped ye'd let me stay fur a night."

"Stay as long as you like," said Danny. "My housekeeper will prepare the guest bedroom," he added with a grin.

"I'm not your housekeeper," said Molly sharply. "I'm your cleaner what occasionally cooks."

"Not any longer, Molly, you're now the housekeeper, as well as cook, on ten pounds an hour." Molly was speechless. Danny took advantage of this unusual state of affairs to add, "And what's more, you'll need to hire a cleaner to help you now that Big Al's joining us."

"No, no," said Big Al. "I'll be out of here just as soon as I find a job."

"You were a driver in the army, weren't you?" asked Danny.

"I wis your driver fur five years," whispered Big Al, nodding his head in the direction of Molly.

"Then you've got your old job back," said Danny.

"But you haven't got a car," Molly reminded him.

"Then I shall have to get one," said Danny. "And who better to advise me?" he added, winking at Big Al. "I've always wanted a BMW," he said. "Having worked in a garage, I know the exact model…"

Big Al put a finger up to his lips.

Danny knew Big Al was right. Yesterday's triumph must have gone to his head, and he'd slipped back to behaving like Danny-a mistake he couldn't afford to make too often. Think like Danny, act like Nick. He snapped back into his unreal world.

"But first you'd better go and buy some clothes," he said to Big Al, "before you even think about a car."

"And some soap," said Molly, filling Big Al's plate for a third time.

"Then Molly can scrub your back."

"I will do no such thing," said Molly. "But I'd better go and make up one of the guest bedrooms if Mr. Big Al is going to be with us-for a few days." Danny and Big Al laughed as she took off her apron and left the kitchen.

Once the door was closed, Big Al leaned across the table. "Are ye still planning tae get they bastards that-"

"Yes, I am," said Danny quietly, "and you couldn't have turned up at a better time."

"So when dae we start?"

"You start by having a bath, and then go and buy yourself some clothes," Danny said, taking out his wallet for a second time. "Meanwhile, I've got an appointment with my probation officer."

"And how have you spent the past month, Nicholas?" was Ms. Bennett's first question.

Danny tried to keep a straight face. "I've been busy sorting out those family problems I mentioned at our last meeting," he replied.

"And has everything worked out as planned?"

"Yes, thank you, Ms. Bennett."

"Have you found a job yet?"

"No, Ms. Bennett. I'm currently concentrating on my business studies degree at London University."

"Ah, yes, I remember. But surely the grant isn't sufficient to live on?"

"I can just about get by," said Danny.

Ms. Bennett returned to her list of questions. "Are you still living in the same house?"

"Yes."

"I see. I think perhaps I should come and inspect the property at some time, just to make sure it meets with the minimum Home Office standards."

"You would be most welcome to visit any time that suits you," said Danny.

She read out the next question. "Have you been associating with any former prisoners you were in jail with?"

"Yes," said Danny, aware that concealing anything from his probation officer would be regarded as a breach of his parole conditions. "My former driver has just been released on bail, and is currently staying with me."

"Is there enough room in the house for both of you?"

"More than enough, thank you, Ms. Bennett."

"And does he have a job?"

"Yes, he's going to be my driver."

"I think you're in enough trouble as it is, Nicholas, without being facetious."

"It's no more than the truth, Ms. Bennett. My grandfather has left me with sufficient funds to allow me to employ a driver."

Ms. Bennett looked down at the questions that the Home Office expected her to ask at monthly meetings. There didn't appear to be anything there about employing your own driver. She tried again.

"Have you been tempted to commit a crime since our last meeting?"

"No, Ms. Bennett."

"Have you been taking any drugs?"

"No, Ms. Bennett."

"Are you at present drawing unemployment benefit?"

"No, Ms. Bennett."

"Do you require any other assistance from the probation service?"

"No, thank you, Ms. Bennett."

Ms. Bennett had come to the end of her list of questions, but had only spent half the time she was allocated for each client. "Why don't you tell me what you've been up to for the past month?" she asked desperately.

"I'm going to have to let you go," said Beth, resorting to the euphemism Mr. Thomas always fell back on whenever he sacked a member of staff.

"But why?" asked Trevor Sutton. "If I go, you won't have a manager. Unless you've already got someone else lined up to replace me."

"I have no plans to replace you," said Beth. "But since my father's death, the garage has been steadily losing money. I can't afford this state of affairs to continue any longer," she added, reading from the script Mr. Thomas had prepared for her.

"But you haven't given me enough time to prove myself," protested Sutton.

Beth wished that it was Danny who was sitting in her place-but if Danny had been around, the problem would never have arisen in the first place.

"If we have another three months like the last three," Beth said, "we'll be out of business."

"What am I expected to do?" demanded Sutton, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table. "Because I know one thing, the boss would never have treated me this way."

Beth felt angry that he had mentioned her father. But Mr. Thomas had advised her to try to put herself in Trevor's shoes, and to imagine how he must be feeling, especially since he'd never worked anywhere else since the day he left Clement Attlee Comprehensive.

"I've had a word with Monty Hughes," said Beth, trying to remain calm, "and he assured me that he'd be able to find you a place on his staff." What she didn't add was that Mr. Hughes only had a junior mechanic's job available, which would mean a considerable drop in pay for Trevor.

"That's all very well," he said angrily, "but what about compensation? I know my rights."

"I'm willing to pay you three months' wages," said Beth, "and also to give you a reference saying that you've been among the hardest workers." And among your most stupid, Monty Hughes had added when Beth had consulted him. While she waited for Trevor's response, she recalled Danny's words, but only because he can't add up. Beth pulled open the drawer of her father's desk and extracted a bulky package and a single sheet of paper. She ripped open the package and emptied its contents onto the desk. Sutton stared down at the pile of fifty-pound notes and licked his lips as he tried to calculate just how much money was on the table. Beth slid a contract across the desk that Mr. Thomas had prepared for her the previous afternoon. "If you sign here," she said, placing her finger on a dotted line, "the seven thousand pounds will be yours." Trevor hesitated, while Beth tried not to show just how desperate she was for him to sign the contract. She waited for Trevor to spend the money, although it seemed an age before he eventually picked up the proffered pen and wrote the only two words he could spell with confidence. He suddenly gathered up the cash and, without uttering another word, turned his back on Beth and marched out of the room.

Once Trevor had kicked the door closed behind him, Beth breathed a sigh of relief that wouldn't have left him in any doubt that he could have demanded far more than seven thousand, though, in truth, withdrawing that amount of cash from the bank had just about emptied the garage's account. All that was left for Beth to do now was to sell off the property as quickly as possible.

The young estate agent who had looked over the property had assured her that the garage was worth at least two hundred thousand. After all, it was a freehold site, situated in an excellent location with easy access to the City. Two hundred thousand pounds would solve all of Beth's financial problems, and mean there was enough left over to ensure that Christy could have the education she and Danny had always planned for her.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

DANNY WAS READING Milton Friedman's Tax Limitation, Inflation and the Role of Government and taking notes on the chapter about the property cycle and the effects of negative equity when the phone rang. After two hours of studying, he was beginning to feel that anything would be an improvement on Professor Friedman. He picked up the phone to hear a woman's voice.

"Hi, Nick. It's a voice from your past."

"Hi, voice from my past," said Danny, desperately trying to put a name to it.

"You said you were going to come and see me while I was on tour. Well, I keep looking out into the audience, but you're never there."

"So where are you performing at the moment?" asked Danny, still racking his brains, but no name came to his rescue.

" Cambridge, the Arts Theatre."

"Great, which play?"

"A Woman of No Importance."

"Oscar Wilde again," said Danny, aware that he didn't have much longer.

"Nick, you don't even remember my name, do you?"

"Don't be silly, Katie," he said, just in time. "How could I ever forget my favorite understudy?"

"Well, I've got the lead now, and I was hoping you'd come and see me."

"Sounds good," said Danny, flicking through the pages of his diary, although he knew that almost every evening was free. "How about Friday?"

"Couldn't be better. We can spend the weekend together."

"I have to be back in London for a meeting on Saturday morning," said Danny, looking at a blank page in his diary.

"So it will have to be another one-night stand," said Katie. "I can live with that." Danny didn't respond. "Curtain's up at seven-thirty. I'll leave a ticket for you at the box office. Come alone, because I don't intend to share you with anybody."

Danny put the phone down and stared at the photograph of Beth that was in a silver frame on the corner of his desk.

"There are three men coming up the path," said Molly as she looked out of the kitchen window. "They look foreign."

"They're quite harmless," Danny assured her. "Just show them into the living room and tell them I'll join them in a moment."

Danny ran up the stairs to his study and grabbed the three files that he had been working on in preparation for the meeting, then quickly made his way back downstairs.

The three men who were waiting for him looked identical in every way except for their age. They wore well-tailored dark blue suits, white shirts and anonymous ties, and each carried a black leather briefcase. You would have passed them in the street without giving them a second look-which would have pleased them.

"How nice to see you again, Baron," said Danny.

De Coubertin bowed low. "We are touched that you invited us to your beautiful home, Sir Nicholas. May I introduce Monsieur Bresson, the bank's chief executive, and Monsieur Segat, who handles our major accounts." Danny shook hands with all three men as Molly reappeared carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits.

"Gentlemen," said Danny as he sat down. "Perhaps I could begin by asking you to bring me up to date on the current state of my account."

"Certainly," said Monsieur Bresson, opening an unmarked brown file. "Your number-one account is showing a balance of just over fifty-seven million dollars, which is currently accumulating interest at the rate of 2.75 percent per annum. Your number-two account," he continued, "has a balance of just over one million dollars. This was known at the bank as your grandfather's stamp account, which he used whenever he wanted to add to his collection at short notice."

"You can combine the two accounts," said Danny, "as I won't be buying any stamps." Bresson nodded. "And I have to say, Monsieur Bresson, that I find a 2.75 percent return on my capital unacceptable, and that I shall in future be putting my money to better use."

"Can you tell us what you have in mind?" asked Segat.

"Yes," said Danny. "I shall be investing in three areas-property, stocks and shares, and possibly bonds, which incidentally are showing a current return of 7.12 percent across the board. I will also set aside a small amount, never more than ten percent of my total worth, for speculative ventures."

"Then may I suggest in the circumstances," said Segat, "that we move your money into three separate accounts that cannot be traced back to you, while appointing nominee directors as your representatives."

"In the circumstances?" repeated Danny.

"Since 9/11, the Americans and the British are taking far more interest in anyone who moves large sums of money around. It would not be wise for your name to keep popping up on their radar."

"Good thinking," said Danny.

"Assuming that you agree to our setting up these accounts," added Bresson, "may I ask whether you will wish to make additional use of the bank's expertise in managing your investments? I mention this, because our property department, for example, employs over forty specialists in the field-seven of them in London -who currently manage a portfolio of just under one hundred billion dollars, and our investment department is considerably larger."

"I shall take advantage of everything you have to offer," said Danny, "and do not hesitate to let me know if you think I am making a wrong decision. However, over the past couple of years I have spent a considerable amount of time following the fortunes of twenty-eight particular companies and I have decided to invest some of my capital in eleven of them."

"What will be your policy when it comes to purchasing shares in those companies?" asked Segat.

"I would want you to buy in small tranches whenever they come on the market-never aggressively, as I do not wish to be responsible for influencing the market either way. Also, I never want to hold more than two percent of any one company." Danny handed Bresson a list of the companies whose progress he had been monitoring long before he had escaped from prison.

Bresson ran his finger down the names, and smiled. "We have been keeping an eye on several of these companies ourselves, but I am fascinated to see that you have identified one or two that we have not yet considered."

"Then please double-check them, and if you have any doubts, tell me."

Danny picked up one of his files. "When it comes to property, I intend to act aggressively," he said. "And I will expect you to move quickly if immediate payment will secure a more realistic price."

Bresson handed over a card. It had no name on it, no address, just a phone number embossed in black. "That is my private line. We can wire any amount of money you require to any country on earth at the touch of a button. And when you call, you need never give your name, as the line is voice-activated."

"Thank you," said Danny, placing the card in an inside pocket. "I also require your advice on a more pressing matter, namely my day-to-day living expenses. I have no desire for the taxman to be prying into my affairs, and as I live in this house and employ a housekeeper and driver, while apparently subsisting on nothing more than a student grant, it may be the Inland Revenue's radar that I keep popping up on."

"If I might make a suggestion?" said de Coubertin. "We used to transfer one hundred thousand pounds a month to an account in London for your grandfather. It came from a trust we set up on his behalf. He paid tax on this income in full, and even carried out some of his smaller transactions through a company registered in London."

"I should like you to continue that arrangement," said Danny. "How do I go about it?"

De Coubertin extracted a slim file from his briefcase, removed a single sheet of paper and said, pointing to a dotted line, "If you sign here, Sir Nicholas, I can assure you that everything will be set up and administered to your satisfaction. All I will need to know is to which bank we should make the monthly transfer."

"Coutts and Co. in the Strand," said Danny.

"Just like your grandfather," said the chairman.

"How long will it take to get to Cambridge?" Danny asked Big Al moments after the three Swiss bankers had disappeared into thin air.

"Aboot an hour and a half. So we ought tae be leaving fairly soon, boss."

"Fine," said Danny. "I'll go and change and pack an overnight bag."

"Molly's already done that," said Big Al. "I put it in the boot of the car."

The Friday evening traffic was heavy, and it wasn't until they joined the M11 that Big Al managed to push the speedometer above thirty miles an hour. He drove into King's Parade only minutes before the curtain was due to rise.

Danny had been so preoccupied during the past few weeks with getting the better of Nick's grandfather's will that this was going to be his first visit to the theater since seeing Lawrence Davenport in The Importance of Being Earnest.

Lawrence Davenport. Although Danny had begun to form plans for all three of his antagonists, every time he thought about Davenport, Sarah came into his mind. He was aware that he might well have been back in Belmarsh had it not been for her, and also that he would need to see her again, as she could open doors to which he didn't have a key.

Big Al brought the car to a halt outside the theater. "What time will ye be gon' back tae London, boss?"

"I haven't decided yet," said Danny, "but not before midnight."

He picked up his ticket from the box office, handed over three pounds in exchange for a program, and followed a group of fellow latecomers into the stalls. Once he'd found his seat, he began to turn the pages of the program. He'd meant to read the play before this evening, but it had remained on his desk unopened while he tried to keep up with Milton Friedman.

Danny stopped at a page that displayed a large, glamorous headshot of Katie Benson. Unlike so many actresses, it was not a photograph that had been taken years before. He read the brief résumé of her credits. A Woman of No Importance was clearly the most significant role she had played in her short career.

When the curtain rose, Danny became lost in another world, and resolved that in future he would go to the theater on a regular basis. How he wished that Beth was sitting next to him and sharing in his enjoyment. Katie was standing on stage arranging some flowers in a vase, but all he could think about was Beth. But as the play unfolded, he had to admit that Katie was giving a polished performance, and he soon became engrossed in the story of a woman who suspected her husband of being unfaithful.

During the interval, Danny made a decision, and by the time the curtain came down, Mr. Wilde had even shown him how to go about it. He waited for the theater to empty before he made his way to the stage door. The doorman gave him a suspicious look when he asked if he could see Miss Benson.

"What's your name?" he demanded, checking his clipboard.

"Nicholas Moncrieff."

"Ah, yes. She's expecting you. Dressing room seven, first floor."

Danny walked slowly up the stairs and when he reached the door marked 7, he waited for a moment before knocking.

"Come in," said a voice he remembered.

He opened the door to find Katie sitting in front of a mirror wearing only a black bra and panties. She was removing her stage makeup.

"Shall I wait outside?" he asked.

"Don't be silly, darling, I've got nothing new to show you, and in any case, I was hoping to arouse a few memories," she added, turning to face him.

She stood up and stepped into a black dress, which strangely made her look even more desirable. "You were wonderful," he said lamely.

"Are you sure, darling?" she asked looking at him more closely. "You don't sound altogether convinced."

"Oh, yes," Danny said. "I really enjoyed the play."

Katie stared at him. "Something's wrong."

"I have to get back to London. I have some urgent business."

"On a Friday night? Oh, come on, Nick, you can do better than that."

"It's just that-"

"It's another woman, isn't it?"

"Yes," admitted Danny.

"Then why did you bother to come in the first place?" she said angrily, turning her back on him.

"I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."

"Don't bother to apologize, Nick. You couldn't have made it more obvious that I'm a woman of no importance."

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

"SORRY, BOSS, BUT I thought ye said no before midnight," said Big Al, quickly finishing his hamburger.

"I changed my mind."

"I thought that was a lady's prerogative?"

"So did she," said Danny.

By the time they reached the M11 fifteen minutes later, Danny was already fast asleep. He didn't wake until the car came to a halt at a traffic light on Mile End Road. If Danny had woken a few moments earlier he would have asked Big Al to take a different route.

The light changed, and they sped through green light after green light, as if someone else knew that Danny shouldn't be there. He leaned back and closed his eyes, though he knew there were some familiar landmarks he wouldn't be able to pass without at least a fleeting glance: Clement Attlee Comprehensive, St. Mary's church, and of course Wilson's garage.

He opened his eyes, and wished he'd kept them closed. "It can't be possible," he said. "Pull over, Al."

Big Al brought the car to a halt, and looked around to make sure the boss was all right. Danny was staring across the road in disbelief. Big Al tried to work out what he was looking at, but couldn't see anything unusual.

"Wait here," said Danny, opening the back door. "I'll only be a couple of minutes."

Danny walked across the road, stood on the pavement and stared up at a sign that was attached to the wall. He took a pen and a piece of paper out of an inside pocket and wrote down the number below the words FOR SALE . When he saw some locals spilling out of a nearby pub, he ran quickly back across the road and joined Big Al in the front of the car.

"Let's get out of here," he said without explanation.

Danny thought of asking Big Al to drive him back to the East End on Saturday morning so he could have a second look, but he knew he couldn't take the risk of someone even thinking they recognized him.

A plan began to form in his mind, and by Sunday evening it was nearly in place. Every detail would have to be followed to the letter. One mistake and all three of them would work out exactly what he was up to. But the bit-part players, the understudies, had to be in their positions long before the three lead actors could be allowed to walk onto the stage.

When Danny woke on Monday morning and went down to breakfast, he left The Times unopened on the kitchen table. He played over in his mind what needed to be done, because he couldn't afford to commit anything to paper. If Arnold Pearson QC had asked him as he left the kitchen what Molly had given him for breakfast that morning, he wouldn't have been able to tell him. He retreated to his study, locked the door and sat at his desk. He picked up the phone and dialed the number on the card.

"I will need to move a small amount of money sometime today, and very quickly," he said.

"Understood."

"I will also require someone to advise me on a property transaction."

"They will be in touch with you later today."

Danny replaced the phone and checked his watch. No one would be at their desks before nine. He paced around the room, using the time to rehearse his questions, questions that mustn't sound prepared. At one minute past nine, he took the piece of paper out of his pocket and dialed the number.

"Douglas Allen Spiro," said a morning voice.

"You have a for-sale sign outside a property on Mile End Road," said Danny.

"I'll put you through to Mr. Parker, he deals with properties in that area."

Danny heard a click. "Roger Parker."

"You have a property for sale on Mile End Road," repeated Danny.

"We have several properties in that area, sir. Can you be more specific?"

" Wilson 's garage."

"Oh, yes, first-class property, freehold. It's been in the same family for over a hundred years."

"How long has it been on the market?"

"Not long, and we've already had a lot of interest."

"How long?" repeated Danny.

"Five, perhaps six months," admitted Parker.

Danny cursed to himself as he thought about the anxiety Beth's family must have been going through, and he'd done nothing to help. He wanted to ask so many questions that he knew Mr. Parker couldn't answer. "What's the asking price?"

"Two hundred thousand," said Parker, "or near offer, which of course includes the fixtures and fittings. Can I take your name, sir?"

Danny replaced the receiver. He stood up and walked across to a shelf that had three files on it marked Craig, Davenport and Payne. He took down Gerald Payne's file and checked the phone number of the youngest partner in Baker, Tremlett and Smythe's history, as Mr. Arnold Pearson QC had been so keen to inform the jury. But Danny had no plans to speak to Payne today. Payne had to come to him, desperate to be part of the deal. Today was saved for the messenger. He dialed the number.

"Baker, Tremlett and Smythe."

"I'm thinking of buying a property on Mile End Road."

"I'll put you through to the department that handles East London."

There was a click on the end of the line. Would whoever picked up the phone ever discover they had been randomly selected to be the messenger and shouldn't later be blamed when the earthquake erupted? "Gary Hall. How can I help you?"

"Mr. Hall, my name is Sir Nicholas Moncrieff and I wonder"-slowly, very slowly-"if I've got the right man."

"Tell me what it is you need, sir, and I'll see if I can help."

"There's a property for sale in Mile End Road that I'd like to buy, but I don't want to deal directly with the vendor's estate agent."

"I understand, sir. You can be assured of my discretion." I hope not, thought Danny.

"What number in Mile End Road is it?"

"One four three," Danny replied. "It's a garage- Wilson 's garage."

"Who are the vendor's agents?"

"Douglas Allen Spiro."

"I'll have a word with my opposite number there and find out all the details," said Hall, "then give you a bell back."

"I'll be in your area later today," said Danny. "Perhaps you could join me for a coffee?"

"Of course, Sir Nicholas. Where would you like to meet?"

Danny could only think of one place he'd ever been to that was anywhere near Baker, Tremlett and Smythe's offices. "The Dorchester," he said. "Shall we say twelve o'clock?"

"I'll see you there at twelve, Sir Nicholas."

Danny remained seated at his desk. He put three ticks on a long list in front of him, but he still needed several other players to be in place before midday if he was going to be ready for Mr. Hall. The phone on his desk began to ring. Danny picked it up.

"Good morning, Sir Nicholas," said a voice. "I manage the bank's property desk in London."

Big Al drove Danny to Park Lane, and drew up outside the terrace entrance of the Dorchester just after eleven thirty. A doorman walked down the steps and opened the back door of the car. Danny stepped out.

"My name is Sir Nicholas Moncrieff," he said as he walked up the steps. "I'm expecting a guest to join me around twelve-a Mr. Hall. Could you tell him I'll be in the lounge?" He took out his wallet and handed the doorman a ten-pound note.

"I certainly will, sir," said the doorman, raising his top hat.

"And your name is?" asked Danny.

"George."

"Thank you, George," said Danny, and walked through the revolving doors and into the hotel.

He paused in the lobby, and introduced himself to the head concierge. After a short conversation with Walter, he parted with another ten-pound note.

On Walter's advice, Danny made his way to the lounge and waited for the maître d' to return to his post. This time Danny took a ten-pound note out of his wallet before he'd made his request.

"Why don't I put you in one of our more private alcoves, Sir Nicholas? I'll see that Mr. Hall is brought across to you the moment he arrives. Would you care for anything while you're waiting?"

"A copy of The Times and a hot chocolate," said Danny.

"Of course, Sir Nicholas."

"And your name is?" asked Danny.

"Mario, sir."

George, Walter and Mario had unwittingly become members of his team, at a cost of thirty pounds. Danny turned to the business section of The Times to check on his investments while he waited for the innocent Mr. Hall to appear. At two minutes to twelve, Mario was standing by his side. "Sir Nicholas, your guest has arrived."

"Thank you, Mario," Danny said as if he were a regular customer.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sir Nicholas," said Hall as he took the seat opposite Danny.

"What would you like to drink, Mr. Hall?" said Danny.

"Just a coffee, thank you."

"A coffee and my usual, please, Mario."

"Of course, Sir Nicholas."

The young man who had joined Danny was dressed in a beige suit, green shirt and a yellow tie. Gary Hall would never have been offered for a position at the Banque de Coubertin. He opened his briefcase and took out a file. "I think I have all the information you require, Sir Nicholas," said Hall, flicking open the cover. "Number one hundred and forty-three Mile End Road -used to be a garage, owned by a Mr. George Wilson, who died recently." The blood drained from Danny's face as he realized just how far the ramifications of Bernie's death had extended; a single incident that had changed so many lives.

"Are you feeling all right, Sir Nicholas?" asked Hall, looking genuinely concerned.

"Yes, I'm fine, just fine," said Danny, quickly recovering. "You were saying?" he added as a waiter placed a hot chocolate in front of him.

"After Mr. Wilson retired, the business was carried on for a couple of years under a man called…" Hall referred to his file, though Danny could have told him. "Trevor Sutton. But during that time the company ran up considerable debts, so the owner decided to cut her losses and put it up for sale."

"Her losses?"

"Yes, the site is now owned"-he once again checked his file-"by a Miss Elizabeth Wilson, the daughter of the previous owner."

"What's the asking price?" said Danny.

"The site is approximately five thousand square feet, but if you are considering making an offer, I could do a survey and confirm the exact measurements." 4,789 square feet, Danny could have told him. "There's a pawnshop on one side, and a Turkish carpet warehouse on the other."

"What's the asking price?" repeated Danny.

"Oh, yes, sorry. Two hundred thousand, including fixtures and fittings, but I'm fairly confident you could pick it up for a hundred and fifty. There hasn't been much interest shown in the property, and there's a far more successful garage trading on the other side of the road."

"I can't afford to waste any time haggling," said Danny, "so listen carefully. I'm prepared to pay the asking price, and I also want you to approach the owners of the pawnshop and the carpet warehouse, as I intend to make an offer for their properties."

"Yes, of course, Sir Nicholas," said Hall writing down his every word. He hesitated for a moment. "I'll need a deposit of twenty thousand pounds before we can proceed."

"By the time you get back to your office, Mr. Hall, two hundred thousand pounds will have been deposited in your client account." Hall didn't look convinced, but managed a thin smile. "As soon as you know about the other two properties, call me."

"Yes, Sir Nicholas."

"And I must make one thing clear," said Danny. "The owner must never find out who she is dealing with."

"You can rely on my discretion, Sir Nicholas."

"I hope so," said Danny, "because I found I couldn't rely on the discretion of the last company I dealt with, and that's how they lost my business."

"I understand," said Hall. "How do I get in touch with you?" Danny took out his wallet and handed him a freshly minted embossed card. "And finally, may I ask, Sir Nicholas, which solicitors will be representing you in this transaction?"

This was the first question Danny hadn't anticipated. He smiled. "Munro, Munro and Carmichael. You should only deal with Mr. Fraser Munro, the senior partner, who handles all my personal affairs."

"Of course, Sir Nicholas," said Hall, rising from his place once he had written the name down. "I'd better get straight back to the office and talk to the vendor's agents."

Danny watched Hall as he scuttled away, his coffee untouched. He was confident that within the hour the whole office would have heard about the eccentric Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, who clearly had more money than sense. They would undoubtedly tease young Hall about his wasted morning, until they discovered the £200,000 in the client account.

Danny flicked open his mobile phone and dialed the number. "Yes," said a voice. "I want two hundred thousand pounds to be transferred to the client account of Baker, Tremlett and Smythe in London."

"Understood."

Danny closed the phone and thought about Gary Hall. How quickly would he discover that Mrs. Isaacs had wanted her husband to sell the pawnshop for years, and that the carpet warehouse only just about broke even, and Mr. and Mrs. Kamal hoped to retire to Ankara so that they could spend more time with their daughter and grandchildren?

Mario placed the bill discreetly on the table by his side. Danny left a large tip. He needed to be remembered. As he passed through reception, he paused to thank the head concierge.

"My pleasure, Sir Nicholas. Do let me know if I can be of any service in the future."

"Thank you, Walter. I may well be in touch."

Danny pushed his way through the swing doors and walked out onto the terrace. George rushed across to the waiting car and opened the back door. Danny extracted another ten-pound note.

"Thank you, George."

George, Walter and Mario were now all paid-up members of his cast, although the curtain had only fallen on the first act.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

DANNY TOOK THE file marked Davenport off the shelf and placed it on his desk. He turned to the first page.

Davenport, Lawrence, actor-pages 2-11

Davenport, Sarah, sister, solicitor-pages 12-16

Duncan, Charlie, producer-pages 17-20

He turned to page 17. Another bit-part player was about to become involved in Lawrence Davenport's next production. Danny dialed his number.

"Charles Duncan Productions."

"Mr. Duncan, please."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"Nick Moncrieff."

"I'll put you through, Mr. Moncrieff."

"I'm trying to remember where we met," said the next voice on the line.

"At the Dorchester, for The Importance of Being Earnest closing-night party."

"Oh, yes, now I remember. So what can I do for you?" asked a suspicious-sounding voice.

"I'm thinking of investing in your next production," said Danny. "A friend of mine put a few thousand in Earnest and he tells me he made a handsome profit, so I thought this might be the right time for me to-"

"You couldn't have called at a better time," said Duncan. "I've got the very thing for you, old boy. Why don't you join me at the Ivy for a spot of lunch sometime so we can discuss it?"

Could anyone really fall for that line, thought Danny. If they could, this was going to be easier than he had imagined. "No, let me take you to lunch, old boy," said Danny. "You must be extremely busy, so perhaps you'd be kind enough to give me a call when you're next available."

"Well, funnily enough," said Duncan, "I've just had a cancellation for tomorrow, so if you happened to be free-"

"Yes, I am," said Danny, before baiting the trap. "Why don't you join me at my local pub?"

"Your local pub?" said Duncan, not sounding quite so enthusiastic.

"Yes, the Palm Court Room at the Dorchester. Shall we say one o'clock?"

"Ah, yes, of course. I'll see you there, one o'clock," said Duncan. "It's Sir Nicholas, isn't it?"

"Nick's just fine," said Danny, before putting the phone down and making an entry in his diary.

Professor Amirkhan Mori smiled benevolently as he peered into the packed auditorium. His lectures were always well attended, and not just he also imparted so much wisdom and knowledge, but because he managed to do it with humor. It had taken Danny some time to realize that the professor enjoyed provoking discussion and argument by offering up outrageous statements to see what reaction he would arouse from his students.

"It would have been better for the economic stability of our nation if John Maynard Keynes had never been born. I cannot think of one worthwhile thing that he achieved in his lifetime." Twenty hands shot into the air.

"Moncrieff," he said. "What example do you have to offer of a legacy that Keynes could be proud of?"

"He founded the Cambridge Arts Theatre," said Danny, hoping to play the professor at his own game.

"He also played Orsino in Twelfth Night when he was a student at King's College," said Mori. "But that was before he went on to prove to the world that it made economic sense for wealthy countries to invest in and encourage developing nations." The clock on the wall behind him struck one. "I've had enough of you lot," said the professor, and marched off the platform and disappeared out of the swing doors to laughter and applause.

Danny knew he wouldn't have time even to grab a quick lunch in the canteen if he wasn't going to be late for the meeting with his probation officer, but as he dashed out of the lecture theater he found Professor Mori waiting in the corridor.

"I wonder if we might have a word, Moncrieff," said Mori, and without waiting for a reply, charged off down the corridor. Danny followed him into his office, prepared to defend his views of Milton Friedman, as he knew his latest essay was not in line with the professor's oft-expressed opinions on the subject.

"Have a seat, dear boy," Mori said. "I'd offer you a drink, but frankly I don't have anything worth drinking. But to more important matters. I wanted to know if you had considered entering your name for the Jennie Lee Memorial Prize essay competition."

"I hadn't given it a thought," admitted Danny.

"Then you should," said Professor Mori. "You're by far the brightest student of your intake, which isn't saying a lot, but I still think you could win the prise. If you have the time, you ought to give it your serious consideration."

"What sort of commitment would it require?" asked Danny, whose studies were still only the second priority in his life.

The professor picked up a booklet that was lying on his desk, turned to the first page and began reading out loud. "The essay should be no less than ten thousand words and no more than twenty, on a subject of the entrant's choice, and it must be handed in by the end of Michaelmas Term."

"I'm flattered that you think I'm up to it," said Danny.

"I'm only surprised that your masters at Loretto didn't advise you to go to Edinburgh or Oxford, rather than join the army."

Danny would like to have told the professor that no one from Clement Attlee Comprehensive had ever been to Oxford, including the head teacher.

"Perhaps you'd like to think it over," said the professor. "Let me know when you've come to a decision."

"I certainly will," said Danny as he rose to leave. "Thank you, professor."

Once he was back in the corridor, Danny began running toward the entrance. As he charged through the front doors, he was relieved to see Big Al waiting by the car.

Danny mulled over Professor Mori's words as Big Al drove along the Strand and through The Mall on his way to Notting Hill Gate. He continually broke the speed limit as he didn't want the boss to be late for his appointment. Danny made it clear that he'd rather pay a speeding fine than spend another four years in Belmarsh. It was unfortunate that Big Al drew up outside the probation office just as Ms. Bennett stepped off her bus. She stared through the car window as Danny tried to conceal himself behind Big Al's hulking frame.

"She probably thinks ye huv robbed a bank," said Big Al, "and I'm the getaway driver."

"I did rob a bank," Danny reminded him.

Danny was made to wait in reception for longer than usual before Ms. Bennett reappeared and beckoned him into her office. Once he was seated on his plastic chair on the opposite side of the formica table, she said, "Before I begin, Nicholas, perhaps you can explain whose car you arrived in this afternoon?"

"It's mine," replied Danny.

"And who was the driver?" asked Ms. Bennett.

"He's my chauffeur."

"How can you afford to own a BMW and have a chauffeur when your only declared source of income is a student grant?" she asked.

"My grandfather set up a trust fund for me, which pays out a monthly income of a hundred thousand pounds and-"

"Nicholas," said Ms. Bennett sharply, "these meetings are meant to be an opportunity for you to be open and frank about any problems you are facing so that I can offer you advice and assistance. I am going to allow you one more chance to answer my questions honestly. If you continue to act in this frivolous manner, I will have no choice but to mention it in my next report to the Home Office, and we both know what the consequences of that will be. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Ms. Bennett," said Danny, recalling what Big Al had told him when he had faced the same problem with his probation officer. "Tell them what they want tae hear, boss. It makes life so much easier."

"Let me ask you once again. Who owns the car you arrived in this afternoon?"

"The man who was driving it," said Danny.

"And is he a friend? Or do you work for him?"

"I knew him when I was in the army, and because I was running late, he offered me a lift."

"And can you tell me if you have any source of income other than your student grant?"

"No, Ms. Bennett."

"That's more like it," said Ms. Bennett. "You see how much more smoothly everything goes when you cooperate? Now, is there anything else you want to discuss with me?"

Danny was tempted to tell her about his meeting with the three Swiss bankers, take her through the property deal he was trying to put together, or let her know what he had in mind for Charlie Duncan. He settled on, "My professor wants me to enter for the Jennie Lee Memorial Prize essay competition, and I wondered what your advice would be."

Ms. Bennett smiled. "Do you think it will enhance your chances of becoming a teacher?"

"Yes, I suppose it might," said Danny.

"Then I would advise you to enter the competition."

"I am most grateful, Ms. Bennett."

"Not at all," she replied. "After all, that's what I'm here for."

Danny's unplanned late-night visit to Mile End Road had rekindled those glowing embers that lifers call their demons. Returning to the Old Bailey in broad daylight would mean that he had to face an even greater challenge.

As Big Al swung the car into St. Paul 's Yard, Danny looked up at the statue perched on top of the Central Criminal Court: a woman was attempting to balance a pair of scales. When Danny had flicked through his diary to see if he was free to have lunch with Charlie Duncan, he had been reminded how he had planned to spend that morning. Big Al drove past the public entrance, swung right at the end of the road and made his way around to the back of the building, where he parked outside a door marked Visitors' Entrance.

Once Danny had been cleared through security he began the long climb up the steep stone steps that led to the galleries that overlook the different courts. When he reached the top floor, a court official wearing a long black schoolmaster's gown asked him if he knew which court he wished to attend.

"Number four," he told the officer, who pointed down the corridor to the second door on the right. Danny followed his instructions and made his way into the public gallery. A handful of onlookers-family and friends of the accused, and a few of the simply curious-were seated on a bench in the front row peering down into the court. He didn't join them.

Danny had no interest in the accused man. He had come to watch his adversary performing on his home ground. He slipped into a place in the corner of the back row. Like a skilled assassin, he had a perfect sighting of his quarry as he went about his business, while Spencer Craig would have had to turn around and stare up into the gallery if he were to have any chance of seeing him, and even then Danny would appear as an irrelevant speck on his landscape.

Danny watched every move Craig made, much as a boxer does when sparring with an opponent, looking for flaws, searching for weaknesses. Craig displayed very few to the untrained eye. As the morning progressed, it became clear that he was skillful, cunning and ruthless, all necessary weapons in the armory of his chosen profession; but he also appeared willing to stretch the elastic of the law to breaking point if it would advance his cause, as Danny had already learned to his cost. He knew that when the time came to face Craig head on, he would have to be at his sharpest, because this opponent wasn't going to lie down until the last breath had been knocked out of him.

Danny felt that he now knew almost everything there was to know about Spencer Craig, which only made him more cautious. While Danny had the advantage of preparation and the element of surprise, he also had the disadvantage of having dared to enter an arena that Craig considered to be nothing less than his birthright, whereas Danny had only inhabited the same terrain for a few months. With every day that he played his role it became more of a reality, so that now, no one he came across ever doubted that he was Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. But Danny remembered that Nick had written in his diary that whenever you face a skillful enemy, you must lure him off his own ground, so that he does not feel at ease, because that is when you have the best chance of taking him by surprise.

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 judgment 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.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

"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 favorite 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 leaned 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 pawnshop 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 percent 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 pawnshop go for two hundred and fifty thousand, while Mr. Kamal is asking three hundred and twenty 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 would almost 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 toward 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 leaned 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. "He told me he had a feeling Danny would like his name cleared, not would have liked. Don't you find that odd?"

"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 it 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 leaned 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."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

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 H. M. Bateman cartoon. The headwaiter 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 headwaiter 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 color 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 theater 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 theater 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."

"But he can still fill a theater?"

"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 theater-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 theater is sixty percent 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."

"So were we," admitted Duncan as the wine waiter drained the bottle. Danny nodded when he held it up inquiringly.

"Fine wine, that," said Duncan. Danny smiled. "Larry's problem is that he hasn't been offered much lately, and at least Earnest kept his name on the billboards for a few weeks. Soap stars, like footballers, soon get used to earning thousands of pounds a week, not to mention the lifestyle that goes with it. But once that tap is turned off, even if they've accumulated a few assets along the way, they can quickly run out of cash. It's been a problem for so many actors, especially the ones who believe their own publicity and don't put anything aside for a rainy day, and then find themselves facing a large tax bill."

Another question answered. "So what are you planning to do next?" asked Danny, not wanting to show too much interest in Lawrence Davenport in case Duncan became suspicious. "I'm putting on a piece by a new playwright called Anton Kaszubowski. He won several awards at the Edinburgh Festival last year. It's called Bling Bling, and I have a feeling it's just what the West End is looking for. Several big names are already showing interest, and I'm expecting to make an announcement in the next few days. Once I know who's taking the lead, I'll drop you a line." He toyed with his glass. "What sort of figure would you be thinking of investing?" he asked.

"I'd begin with something small," said Danny, "say ten thousand. If that works out, I could well become a regular."

"I survive on my regulars," said Duncan and drained his glass. "I'll be in touch as soon as I've signed up a lead actor. By the way, I always throw a small drinks party for the investors when I launch a new show, which inevitably attracts a few stars. You'll be able to see Larry again. Or his sister, depending on your preference."

"Anything else, Sir Nicholas?" asked the headwaiter.

Danny would have called for a third bottle, but Charlie Duncan had already answered all his questions. "Just the bill, thank you, Mario."

After Big Al had returned him to The Boltons, Danny went straight up to his study and took the Davenport file off the shelf. He spent the next hour making notes. Once he had written down everything of relevance that Duncan had told him, he replaced the file between Craig's and Payne's and returned to his desk.

He began to read through his attempt at a prize essay, and after only a few paragraphs his suspicions that it wouldn't be good enough to impress Professor Mori, let alone the panel of judges, were confirmed. The only good thing about the time he had spent on it was that it had occupied the endless hours of waiting before he could make his next move. He had to avoid the temptation to speed things up, which might well result in him making a fatal error.

It was several weeks before Gary Hall managed to close the two property deals in Mile End Road, without either seller becoming aware what he was up to. Like a good fisherman, Danny cast his fly with a single purpose: not to catch the minnows like Hall that hang around the surface, but to tempt the bigger fish, like Gerald Payne, to leap out of the water.

He also had to wait for Charlie Duncan to find a star for his new show before he could legitimately meet up with Davenport again. He also had to wait for-The phone rang. Danny picked it up. "That problem you mentioned," said a voice. "I believe we may have come up with a solution. We should meet." The line went dead. Danny was beginning to discover why Swiss bankers continue to hold on to the accounts of the rich who value discretion.

He picked up his pen, returned to his essay and tried to think of a more arresting opening line. John Maynard Keynes would surely have known the popular song, "Ain't We Got Fun," with its damning line, "There's nothing surer, the rich get rich and the poor get children." He may well have speculated on its application to nations as well as individuals…

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

"JAPANESE KNOTWEED?"

"Yes, we believe that Japanese knotweed is the answer," said Bresson. "Although I'm bound to say that we were both puzzled by the question."

Danny made no attempt to enlighten them, as he was just beginning to learn how to play the Swiss at their own game. "And why is it the answer?" he asked.

"If Japanese knotweed is discovered on a building site, it can hold up planning permission for at least a year. Once it's been identified, experts have to be brought in to destroy the weed, and building cannot commence until the local health and safety committee have deemed the site to have passed all the necessary tests."

"So how do you get rid of Japanese knotweed?" asked Danny.

"A specialist company moves in and sets fire to the entire site. Then you have to wait another three months to make sure that every last rhizome has been removed before you can reapply for planning permission."

"That wouldn't come cheap?"

"No, it certainly doesn't come cheap for the owner of the land. We came across a classic example in Liverpool," added Segat. "The city council discovered Japanese knotweed on a thirty-acre site that had already been granted planning permission for a hundred council houses. It took more than a year to remove it at a cost of just over three hundred thousand pounds. By the time the houses had been built, the developer was lucky to break even."

"Why is it so dangerous?" asked Danny.

"If you don't destroy it," said Bresson, "it will eat its way into the foundations of any building, even reinforced concrete, and ten years later, without warning, the whole edifice comes tumbling down, leaving you with an insurance bill that would bankrupt most companies. In Osaka, Japanese knotweed destroyed an entire apartment block, which is how it acquired its name."

"So how do I get hold of some?" asked Danny.

"Well, you certainly won't find a packet on the shelves of your local garden center," said Bresson. "However, I suspect that any company which specializes in destroying it could point you in the right direction." Bresson paused for a moment. "It would of course be illegal to plant it on someone else's land," he said, looking directly at Danny.

"But not on your own land," Danny replied, which silenced both bankers. "Have you come up with a solution for the other half of my problem?"

It was Segat who answered him. "Once again, your request was to say the least unusual, and it certainly falls into the high-risk category. However, my team feel they may have identified a piece of land in East London that fulfills all your criterion." Danny recalled Nick correcting him on the proper use of the word criteria, but decided not to enlighten Segat. " London, as you will be well aware," continued Segat, "is bidding to host the 2012 Olympics, with most of the major events provisionally planned to take place at Stratford in East London. Although the success or failure of the bid has not yet been decided, this has already created a large speculative market for sites in the area. Among the sites the Olympic Committee are currently considering is the venue for a velodrome, which would accommodate all the indoor cycling events. My contacts inform me that six potential sites have been identified, of which only two are likely to be on the shortlist. You are in the happy position of being able to purchase both sites, and although you would initially have to pay a heavy premium, there is still potential for a handsome profit."

"How heavy a premium?" asked Danny.

"We have valued the two sites," said Bresson, "at around a million pounds each, but both of the current owners are asking for a million and a half. But if they were both to make the shortlist, they could end up being worth as much as six million. And if one of them turned out to be the winner, that figure could be doubled."

"But if it doesn't," said Danny, "I stand to lose three million." He paused. "I'll have to consider your report very carefully before I'm willing to risk that amount."

"You've only got a month to make up your mind," said Bresson, "because that's when the shortlist will be announced. If both of the sites are on it, you certainly wouldn't be able to pick them up at that price."

"You'll find all the material you need to help make your decision in here," added Segat, handing Danny two files.

"Thank you," said Danny. "I'll let you know what I've decided by the end of the week." Segat nodded. "Now, I'd like an update on how your negotiations with Tower Hamlets council over the Wilson garage site on Mile End Road are progressing."

"Our London lawyer had a meeting with the council's chief planning officer last week," said Segat, "to try to discover what his committee would regard as acceptable were you to apply for outline planning permission. The council has always envisaged a block of affordable flats on that piece of land, but they accept that the developer has to make a profit. They've come up with a proposal that if seventy flats were to be built on the site, one third of them would have to be classified as affordable dwellings."

"That's not mathematically possible," said Danny.

Segat smiled for the first time. "We didn't consider it wise to point out that there would have to be either sixty-nine or seventy-two flats, allowing us some room for negotiation. However, if we were to agree in principle, to their suggestion, they would sell us the plot for four hundred thousand pounds, and grant outline planning permission at the same time. On that basis, we would recommend that you accept their offer price, but try to get the council to allow you to build ninety flats. The chief planning officer felt that this would cause heated debate in the council chamber, but if we were to raise our offer to, say, five hundred thousand, he could see his way to recommending our proposal."

"If this were to be approved by the council," said Bresson, "you'd end up owning the whole site for just over a million pounds."

"If we managed to achieve that, what do you suggest should be my next move?"

"You have two choices," said Bresson. "You can either sell on to a developer, or you can build and manage the project yourself."

"I have no interest in spending the next three years on a building site," said Danny.

"In that case, once we've agreed terms and provisional planning permission has been granted, just sell the site on to the highest bidder."

"I agree that might be the wisest solution," said Segat. "And I'm confident that you will still double your investment in the short term."

"You've done well," said Danny.

"We could not have moved so swiftly," said Segat, "had it not been for your knowledge of the site and its past history."

Danny didn't react to what was clearly a fishing expedition. "Finally, perhaps you could bring me up to date on my current financial position."

"Certainly," said Bresson, extracting another file from his briefcase. "We have merged your two accounts as requested and formed three trading companies, none of them in your name. Your personal account currently stands at $55,373,871, slightly down on where it was three months ago. However, you have made several investments during that time, which should eventually show a handsome return. We have also purchased on your behalf some of the shares you identified when we last met, making a further investment of just over two million pounds-you'll find the details on page nine of your green file. Again, following your instructions, we have placed any surplus cash with triple-A institutions on the overnight currency markets, which is presently showing a year-on-year return of approximately eleven percent."

Danny decided not to comment on the difference between the 2.75 percent interest the bank had originally been paying and the 11 percent he was now accruing. "Thank you," he said. "Perhaps we could meet again in a month's time." Segat and Bresson nodded and began to gather up their files. Danny rose from his place and, aware that neither banker had any interest in small talk, accompanied them to the front door.

"I'll be back in touch," he said, "the moment I've come to a decision on those two Olympic sites."

After they had been driven away, Danny went upstairs to his study, removed Gerald Payne's file from the shelf, placed it on his desk and spent the rest of the morning transferring all the details that would assist in his plan to destroy him. If he were to purchase the two sites, he would then need to meet Payne face to face. Had he ever heard of Japanese knotweed?

Are parents always more ambitious for their children than they are for themselves, Beth wondered as she entered the headmistress's study.

Miss Sutherland stepped forward from behind her desk and shook hands with Beth. The headmistress didn't smile as she ushered her into a chair and then reread the application form. Beth tried not to show just how nervous she was.

"Am I to understand, Miss Wilson," said the headmistress, emphasizing the word miss, "you are hoping that your daughter will be able to join our preschool group at St. Veronica's next term?"

"Yes, I am," replied Beth. "I think Christy would greatly benefit from the stimulus your school has to offer."

"There is no doubt that your daughter is advanced for her years," said Miss Sutherland, glancing at her entrance papers. "However, as I'm sure you will appreciate, before she can be offered a place at St. Veronica's, there are other concerns I will have to take into consideration."

"Naturally," said Beth, fearing the worst.

"For instance, I can find no mention of the child's father on the application form."

"No," said Beth. "He died last year."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Miss Sutherland, not sounding at all sorry. "May I inquire, what was the cause of death?"

Beth hesitated, as she always found it difficult to utter the words. "He committed suicide."

"I see," said the headmistress. "Were you married to him at the time?"

"No," admitted Beth. "We were engaged."

"I'm sorry to have to ask this question, Miss Wilson, but what were the circumstances of your fiancé's death?"

"He was in prison at the time," said Beth softly.

"I see," said Miss Sutherland. "May I ask what offense he was convicted of?"

"Murder," said Beth, now certain that Miss Sutherland already knew the answer to every question she was asking.

"In the eyes of the Catholic Church both suicide and murder are, as I'm sure you are aware, Miss Wilson, mortal sins." Beth said nothing. "I also feel it is my duty to point out," the headmistress continued, "that there are no illegitimate children currently registered at St. Veronica's. However, I will give your daughter's application my most serious consideration, and will let you know my decision in the next few days."

At that moment, Beth felt that Slobodan Miloševich had a better chance of winning the Nobel Peace Prize than Christy did of entering St. Veronica's.

The headmistress rose from behind her desk, walked across the room and opened the study door.

"Goodbye, Miss Wilson."

Once the door had been closed behind her, Beth burst into tears. Why should the sins of the father…

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

DANNY WONDER ED HOW he would react to meeting Gerald Payne. He couldn't afford to show any emotion, and certainly if he were to lose his temper all the hours that he'd spent planning Payne's downfall would have been wasted.

Big Al drew up outside Baker, Tremlett and Smythe a few minutes early, but when Danny pushed through the swing doors and walked into the foyer, he found Gary Hall standing by the reception desk waiting to greet him.

"He's quite an exceptional man," Hall enthused as they walked across to a bank of lifts. "The youngest partner in the history of the company," he added as he pressed a button that would whisk them up to the top floor. "And quite recently he's landed a safe parliamentary seat, so I don't suppose he'll be with us for much longer."

Danny smiled. His plan had only involved Payne being sacked. Having to give up a parliamentary seat as well would be an added bonus.

When they stepped out of the lift, Hall led his most important client along the partners' corridor until they reached a door with the name Gerald Payne printed in gold. Hall knocked softly, opened it and stood aside to allow Danny to enter. Payne leaped up from behind his desk and tried to do up his jacket as he walked toward them, but it was clear that it had been some time since the middle button had reached the buttonhole. He thrust out his hand and gave Danny an exaggerated smile. Try as he might, Danny couldn't return it.

"Have we met before?" asked Payne, looking at Danny more closely.

"Yes," said Danny. "At Lawrence Davenport's closing-night party."

"Oh, yes, of course," said Payne, before inviting Danny to take a seat on the opposite side of the desk. Gary Hall remained standing.

"Let me begin, Sir Nicholas… "

"Nick," said Danny.

"Gerald," said Payne. Danny nodded.

"As I was saying, let me begin by expressing my admiration for your little coup with Tower Hamlets council over the site in Bow-a deal which, in my opinion, will see you double your outlay in under a year."

"Mr. Hall did most of the spadework," said Danny. "I'm afraid I've been distracted by something far more demanding."

Payne leaned forward. "And will you be involving our firm in your latest venture?" he inquired.

"Certainly in the final stages," said Danny, "although I've already completed most of the research. But I'll still need someone to represent me when it comes to putting in an offer for the site."

"We'll be happy to assist in any way we can," said Payne, the smile returning to his face. "Do you feel able to take us into your confidence at this stage?" he added.

Danny was pleased to find that Payne was clearly only interested in what might be in it for him. This time he returned the smile. "Everyone knows that if London is awarded the 2012 Olympics, there will be a lot of money to be made during the run-up," said Danny. "With a budget of ten billion available, there should be enough washing around for all of us."

"I would normally agree with you," said Payne, looking a little disappointed, "but don't you think that market is already rather overcrowded?"

"Yes, I do," said Danny, "if your mind is only focused on the main stadium, the swimming pool, the gymnastics hall, the athletes' village or even the equestrian center. But I've identified an opportunity that hasn't attracted press attention or any public interest."

Payne leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table as Danny sat back and relaxed for the first time. "Almost no one has noticed," Danny continued, "that the Olympic Committee has been considering six sites for the building of a velodrome. How many people can even tell you what takes place in a velodrome?"

"Cycling," said Gary Hall.

"Well done," said Danny. "And in a fortnight's time we'll learn which two sites the Olympic Committee has provisionally shortlisted. My bet is that even after the announcement is made, it won't get much more than the odd paragraph in the local paper, and then only on the sports pages." Neither Payne nor Hall interrupted him. "But I have some inside information," said Danny, "which I acquired at a cost of four pounds ninety-nine."

"Four ninety-nine?" repeated Payne, looking mystified.

"The price of Cycling Monthly," said Danny, removing a copy from his briefcase. "In this month's issue, they leave no doubt which two sites the Olympic Committee will be shortlisting, and their editor clearly has the ear of the minister." Danny passed the magazine over to Payne, open at the relevant page.

"And you say the press haven't followed this up?" said Payne once he'd finished reading the magazine's leader.

"Why should they?" said Danny.

"But once the site has been announced," said Payne, "dozens of developers will apply for the contract."

"I'm not interested in building the velodrome," said Danny. "I intend to have made my money long before the first excavator moves onto the site."

"And how do you expect to do that?"

"That, I admit, has cost me a little more than four ninety-nine, but if you look on the back of Cycling Monthly," said Danny, turning the magazine over, "you'll see the name of the publishers printed in the bottom right-hand corner. The next edition won't be on the stands for another ten days, but for a little more than the cover price I managed to get my hands on an early proof. There's an article on page seventeen by the president of the British Cycling Federation, in which he says that the minister has assured him that only two sites are being taken seriously. The minister will be making an announcement to that effect in the House of Commons the day before the magazine goes on sale. But he goes on to point out which of the two sites his committee will be backing."

"Brilliant," said Payne. "But surely the owners of that site must be aware that they may be sitting on a fortune?"

"Only if they can get their hands on next month's Cycling Monthly, because at the moment they still think they're on a shortlist of six."

"So what are you planning to do about it?" asked Payne.

"The site that is favored by the Cycling Federation changed hands quite recently for three million pounds, although I haven't been able to identify the buyer. However, once the minister has made her announcement, the site could be worth fifteen, perhaps even twenty million. While there are still six possible sites on the shortlist, if someone were to offer the present owner say four or five million, I suspect they might be tempted to take a quick turn rather than risk ending up with nothing. Our problem is that we have less than a fortnight before the shortlist of two is announced, and once the views of the Cycling Federation's president become public, there will be nothing left in it for us."

"Can I make a suggestion?" said Payne.

"Go ahead," said Danny.

"If you're so certain there are only two sites in contention, why not purchase both of them? Your profit may not be as large, but it would be impossible for you to lose."

Danny now realized why Payne had become the youngest partner in the firm's history.

"Good idea," said Danny, "but there's not much point in doing that until we've found out if the site we're really interested in can be purchased. That's where you come in. You'll find all the details you need in this file, apart from who owns the site; after all, you have to do something to earn your money."

Payne laughed. "I'll get straight on to it, Nick, and be back in touch with you as soon as I've tracked down the owner."

"Don't hang about," said Danny, standing up. "The rewards will only be high if we can move quickly."

Payne produced the same smile as he stood to shake hands with his new client. As Danny turned to leave, he spotted a familiar invitation on the mantelpiece. "Will you be at Charlie Duncan's drinks party this evening?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"Yes, I will. I occasionally invest in his shows."

"Then I may see you there," said Danny. "In which case you'll be able to bring me up to date."

"Will do," said Payne. "Can I just check on one thing before I get started?"

"Yes, of course," said Danny, trying not to sound anxious.

"When it comes to the investment, will you be putting up the full amount yourself?"

"Every penny," said Danny.

"And you wouldn't consider allowing anyone else to have a piece of the action?"

"No," said Danny firmly.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," said Beth. "It's been two weeks since my last confession."

Father Michael smiled the moment he recognized Beth's gentle voice. He was always moved by her confessions, because what she considered to be a sin, most of his parishioners would not have thought worthy of mention.

"I am ready to hear your confession, my child," he said, as if he had no idea who it was on the other side of the lattice window.

"I have thought unworthily of another, and wished them ill."

Father Michael stirred. "Are you able to tell me what caused you to have such evil thoughts, my child?"

"I wanted my daughter to have a better start in life than I did, and I felt that the headmistress of the school I had chosen did not give me a fair hearing."

"Is it possible that you were unable to see things from her point of view?" said Father Michael. "After all, you may have misjudged her motives." When Beth didn't respond, he added, "You must always remember, my child, that it is not for us to judge the Lord's will, as He might have other plans for your little girl."

"Then I must ask for the Lord's forgiveness," said Beth, "and wait to discover what is His will."

"I think that would be the wise course to take, my child. Meanwhile, you should pray and seek the Lord's guidance."

"And what penance should I perform, Father, for my sins?"

"You must learn to be contrite, and to forgive those who cannot hope to understand your problems," said Father Michael. "You will say one Our Father and two Hail Marys."

"Thank you, Father."

Father Michael waited until he heard the little door close and was sure that Beth had departed. He sat alone for some time while he gave Beth's problem considerable thought, only relieved that he was not interrupted by another parishioner. He then stepped out of the confessional box and headed for the vestry. He walked quickly past Beth who was on her knees, head bowed, a rosary in her hand.

Once he'd reached the vestry, Father Michael locked the door, went over to his desk and dialed a number. This was one of those rare occasions when he felt the Lord's will needed a little assistance.

Big Al dropped the boss outside the front door a few minutes after eight. Once Danny had entered the building, he didn't need to be told where Charlie Duncan's office was. The sound of laughter and exuberant chatter was coming from the first floor, and one or two of the guests had spilled out onto the landing.

Danny climbed the shabby, badly lit staircase, passing framed posters of previous shows Duncan had produced, not one of which Danny remembered being a hit. He made his way past an intertwined young couple who didn't give him as much as a glance. He walked into what was clearly Duncan 's office and quickly discovered why people were spilling out onto the landing. It was so crowded, the guests could hardly move. A young girl standing by the door offered him a drink and Danny asked for a glass of water-after all, he needed to concentrate if his investment was to show a dividend.

Danny glanced around the room looking for someone he knew, and spotted Katie. She turned away the moment she saw him. It only made him smile and think of Beth. She'd always teased him about how shy he was, especially when he entered a room full of strangers. If Beth had been there, by now she would have been chatting to a group of people she'd never met before. How he missed her. Someone touched his arm, interrupting his thoughts, and he turned to find Gerald Payne standing by his side.

"Nick," he said as if they were old friends. "Good news. I've tracked down the bank which represents the owner of one of the sites."

"And do you have any contacts there?"

"Unfortunately not," admitted Payne, "but as they are based in Geneva, the owner may well be a foreigner who has no idea of the site's potential value."

"Or he may be an Englishman who knows only too well." Danny had already discovered that Payne's bottles were always three-quarters full.

"Either way," said Payne, "we'll find out tomorrow because the banker, a Monsieur Segat, has promised to call back in the morning and let me know if his client is willing to sell."

"And the other site?" asked Danny.

"Not much point in chasing after that if the owner of the first site is unwilling to sell."

"You're probably right;" said Danny, not bothering to point out that was what he had recommended in the first place.

"Gerald," said Lawrence Davenport, leaning down to kiss Payne on both cheeks.

Danny was surprised to see that Davenport was unshaven, and wearing a shirt that had clearly already been worn more than once that week. As the two men exchanged greetings, he felt such loathing for both of them that he found himself unable to join in the conversation.

"Do you know Nick Moncrieff?" asked Payne.

Davenport showed neither recognition nor interest.

"We met at your closing-night party," said Danny.

"Oh, right," said Davenport, showing a little more interest.

"I saw the play twice."

"How flattering," said Davenport, giving him the smile reserved for his fans.

"Will you be starring in Charlie's next production?" asked Danny.

"No," replied Davenport. "Much as I adored being in Earnest, I can't afford to devote my talents to the stage alone."

"Why's that?" asked Danny innocently.

"You have to turn down so many opportunities if you commit yourself to a long run. You never know when someone's going to ask you to star in a film, or take the lead in a new miniseries."

"That's a pity," said Danny. "I would have invested considerably more if you'd been a member of the cast."

"How nice of you to say so," said Davenport. "Perhaps you'll have another opportunity at some time in the future."

"I do hope so," said Danny, "because you're a real star." He was becoming aware that there was no such thing as over-the-top with Lawrence Davenport, as long as you were talking to Lawrence Davenport about Lawrence Davenport.

"Well," said Davenport, "if you really did want to make a shrewd investment, I have-"

"Larry!" said a voice. Davenport turned away and kissed another man, far younger than himself. The moment had gone, but Davenport had left the door wide open and Danny intended to barge in unannounced at some later date.

"Sad," said Payne as Davenport drifted off.

"Sad?" prompted Danny.

"He was the star of our generation at Cambridge," said Payne. "We all assumed he would have a glittering career, but it wasn't to be."

"I notice that you call him Larry," said Danny. "Like Laurence Olivier."

"That's about the only thing he has in common with Olivier."

Danny almost felt sorry for Davenport when he recalled Dumas's words, With friends like these… "Well, time is still on his side," he added.

"Not with his problems, it isn't," said Payne.

"His problems?" said Danny as he felt a slap on the back.

"Hi, Nick," said Charlie Duncan, another instant friend.

"Hi, Charlie," replied Danny.

"Hope you're enjoying the party," said Duncan, as he filled Danny's empty glass with champagne.

"Yes, thank you."

"Are you still thinking of investing in Bling Bling, old boy?" whispered Duncan.

"Oh, yes," said Danny. "You can put me down for ten thousand." He didn't add, despite it being an unfathomable script.

"Shrewd fellow," said Duncan, and slapped him on the back again. "I'll drop a contract in the post tomorrow."

"Is Lawrence Davenport doing a film at the moment?" Danny asked.

"What makes you ask that?"

"The unshaven look and the shabby clothes. I thought they might involve some part he's playing."

"No, no," said Duncan laughing. "He's not playing a part, he's only just got out of bed." Once again he lowered his voice. "I'd steer clear of him at the moment, old boy."

"And why's that?" asked Danny.

"He's on the scrounge. Don't lend him anything, because you'll never get it back. God knows how much he owes just to the people in this room."

"Thanks for the warning," said Danny, putting the full glass of champagne on a passing tray. "I must be off. But thanks, it's been a great party."

"So soon? But you haven't even met the stars you'll be investing in."

"Yes I have," said Danny.

She picked up the phone on her desk, and recognized the voice immediately.

"Good evening, Father," she said. "How may I assist you?"

"No, Miss Sutherland, it is I who wish to assist you."

"And what do you have in mind?"

"I was hoping to help you come to a decision concerning Christy Cartwright, a young member of my congregation."

"Christy Cartwright?" said the headmistress. "The name rings a bell."

"As indeed it should, Miss Sutherland. Any conscientious headmistress couldn't fail to notice that Christy is potentially scholarship material in this dreadful age of academic rankings."

"And any conscientious headmistress could also not have failed to notice that the child's parents were unmarried, a state of affairs that the governors of St. Veronica's still frown upon, as I'm sure you will recall from the days when you served on the board."

"And rightly so, Miss Sutherland," responded Father Michael. "But let me put your mind at rest by assuring you that I read the marriage banns three times at St. Mary's, and posted the date of their wedding on the church noticeboard as well as the parish magazine."

"But unfortunately the marriage never took place," the headmistress reminded him.

"Due to unforeseen circumstances," murmured Father O'Connor.

"I am sure that I don't have to remind you, Father, of Pope John Paul's encyclical Evangelium Vitae making it clear that suicide, and indeed murder, are still, in the eyes of the Church, mortal sins. This, I fear, leaves me with no choice but to wash my hands of the matter."

"You wouldn't be the first person in history to do that, Miss Sutherland."

"That was unworthy of you, Father," snapped the headmistress.

"You are right to rebuke me, Miss Sutherland, and I apologize. I fear that I am only human, and am therefore prone to making mistakes. Perhaps one of them was when an exceptionally talented young woman made an application to be headmistress of St. Veronica's, and I failed to inform the governors that she had recently had an abortion. I'm sure I don't need to remind you, Miss Sutherland, that the Holy Father also considers that to be a mortal sin."

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

FOR SEVERAL WEEKS, Danny had been avoiding Professor Mori. He feared his effort for the essay competition would not have impressed the garrulous professor.

But after he left the morning lecture, Danny saw Mori standing by the door of his office. There was no escaping the beckoning finger. Like a schoolboy who knows he's about to be given a flogging, Danny meekly followed him into his study. He waited for the stinging remarks, the barbed witticisms, the poisoned arrows aimed at a static target.

"I'm disappointed," began Professor Mori as Danny lowered his head. How was it possible that he could handle Swiss bankers, West End impresarios, senior partners and seasoned solicitors, but was a quivering wreck in the presence of this man? "So now you know," continued the professor, "how it must feel to be an Olympic finalist who fails to step onto the podium."

Danny looked up, puzzled.

"Congratulations," said a beaming Professor Mori. "You came fourth in the prize essay competition. As it counts towards your degree, I'm expecting great things from you when you sit your final exams." He rose, still smiling. "Congratulations," he repeated, shaking Danny warmly by the hand.

"Thank you, professor," said Danny, trying to take in the news. He could hear Nick saying, Damn good show, old chap, and he only wished he could share the news with Beth. She would be so proud. How much longer could he survive without seeing her?

He left the professor and ran along the corridor, out of the door and down the steps, to see Big Al standing by the back door of the car looking anxiously at his watch. Danny inhabited three different worlds, and in the next one he couldn't afford to be late for his probation officer.

Danny had decided not to tell Ms. Bennett how he would be spending the rest of his afternoon, as he had no doubt that she would dismiss the very idea as frivolous. However, she did appear pleased to learn how he'd fared in the essay competition.

Molly had already served Monsieur Segat with a second cup of tea by the time Danny arrived back from his meeting with Ms. Bennett. The Swiss banker rose from his place as Danny entered the room. He apologized for being a few minutes late, without offering an explanation.

Segat gave a slight nod before sitting back down. "You are now the owner of both sites, which are in serious contention for the Olympic velodrome," he said. "Although you can no longer expect to make quite such a large profit, you should still have a more than satisfactory return on your original investment."

"Has Payne called back?" was all Danny wanted to know.

"Yes. He phoned again this morning, and made a bid of four million pounds for the site most likely to be selected. I presume you want me to turn the offer down?"

"Yes. But tell him that you would accept six million, on the understanding that the contract is signed before the minister announces her decision."

"But that site will be worth at least twelve million if everything goes to plan."

"Be assured, everything is going to plan," said Danny. "Has Payne shown any interest in the other site?"

"No. Why should he," said Segat, "when everyone seems to know which site is going to be selected?"

Having gained all the information he needed, Danny switched subjects. "Who came up with the highest offer for our site on Mile End Road?"

"The highest bidder turned out to be Fairfax Homes, a first-class company, which the council has worked with in the past. I've studied their proposal," said Segat, handing Danny a glossy brochure, "and have no doubt that subject to a few modifications from the planning committee, the scheme should get the green light within the next few weeks."

"How much?" asked Danny, trying not to sound impatient.

"Ah, yes," said Segat, checking his figures, "remembering that your outlay was a little over a million pounds, I think you can be well satisfied that Fairfax Homes came in at £1,801,156, giving you a profit of over half a million pounds. Not a bad return on your capital, remembering that the money's been in play for less than a year."

"How do you explain the figure of £1,801,156?" asked Danny.

"I would guess that Mr. Fairfax expected that there would be several bids around the one point eight million mark and just stuck his date of birth on the end."

Danny laughed as he began to study Fairfax 's plans for a magnificent new block of luxury flats on the site where he had once worked as a garage mechanic.

"Do I have your authority to call Mr. Fairfax and let him know his was the successful bid?"

"Yes, do," said Danny. "And once you've spoken to him, I'd like a word."

While Segat made the call, Danny continued to study Fairfax Homes' impressive plans for the new apartment block. He only had one query.

"I'll just pass you over to Sir Nicholas, Mr. Fairfax," said Segat. "He would like to have a word with you."

"I've just been studying your plans, Mr. Fairfax," said Danny, "and I see you have a penthouse on the top floor."

"That's right," said Fairfax. "Four beds, four baths, all ensuite, just over three thousand square feet."

"Overlooking a garage on the other side of Mile End Road."

"Less than a mile from the City," retorted Fairfax. Both of them laughed.

"And you're putting the penthouse on the market at six hundred and fifty thousand, Mr. Fairfax?"

"Yes, that's the asking price," Fairfax confirmed.

"I'll close the deal at a million three," said Danny, "if you'll throw in the penthouse."

"A million two and you've got yourself a deal," said Fairfax.

"On one condition."

"And what's that?"

Danny told Mr. Fairfax the one change he wanted, and the developer agreed without hesitation.

Danny had chosen the hour carefully: 11 A.M. Big Al drove around Redcliffe Square twice before stopping outside number 25.

Danny walked up a path that hadn't seen a trowel recently. When he reached the front door he rang the bell and waited for some time, but there was no reply. He banged the brass knocker twice, and could hear the sound echoing inside, but still no one answered the door. He rang the bell one more time before finally giving up and deciding to try again in the afternoon. He had almost reached the gate when the door suddenly swung open and a voice demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

"Nick Moncrieff," said Danny, turning around and walking back up the path. "You asked me to give you a call, but you're ex-directory, and as I just happened to be passing… "

Davenport was wearing a silk dressing gown and slippers. He clearly hadn't shaved for several days and began blinking in the morning sunlight like an animal that had come out of hibernation on the first day of spring. "You told me you had an investment you thought I might be interested in," Danny reminded him.

"Oh, yes, I remember now," said Lawrence Davenport, sounding a little more receptive. "Yes, come in."

Danny entered an unlit corridor that brought back memories of what the house in The Boltons had been like before Molly had taken charge.

"Do have a seat while I get changed," said Davenport. "I'll only be a moment."

Danny didn't sit. He strolled around the room admiring the paintings and fine furniture, even if they were covered in a layer of dust. He peered through the back window to see a large but unkempt garden.

The anonymous voice had called from Geneva that morning to say that houses in the square were currently changing hands at around three million pounds. Mr. Davenport had purchased number 25 in 1995, when eight million viewers were tuning in to The Prescription every Saturday evening to find out which nurse Dr. Beresford would be sleeping with that week. "He has a mortgage of one million pounds with Norwich Union," said the voice, "and for the last three months he's fallen behind with his payments."

Danny turned away from the window when Davenport walked back into the room. He was wearing an open-neck shirt, jeans and sneakers. Danny had seen better-dressed men in prison.

"Can I fix you a drink?" asked Davenport.

"It's a little early for me," said Danny.

"It's never too early," said Davenport as he poured himself a large whiskey. He took a gulp and smiled. "I'll get straight to the point, because I know you're a busy chap. It's just that I'm a little strapped for cash at the moment-only temporary, you understand-just until someone signs me up for another series. In fact, my agent was on the phone this morning with one or two ideas."

"You need a loan?" said Danny.

"Yes, that's the long and the short of it."

"And what can you put up as collateral?"

"Well, my paintings for a start," said Davenport. "I paid over a million for them."

"I'll give you three hundred thousand for the entire collection," said Danny.

"But I paid over…" spluttered Davenport, pouring himself another whiskey.

"That's assuming you can provide evidence that the total you paid does amount to over a million." Davenport stared at him, as he tried to recall where they had last met. "I'll instruct my lawyer to draw up a contract, and you'll receive the money the day you sign it."

Davenport took another gulp of whiskey. "I'll think about it," he said.

"You do that," said Danny. "And if you repay the full amount within twelve months, I'll return the paintings at no extra charge."

"So what's the catch?" asked Davenport.

"No catch, but if you fail to pay the money back within twelve months, the paintings will be mine."

"I can't lose," said Davenport, a broad grin spread across his face.

"Let's hope not," said Danny, who stood up to join him as Davenport began walking toward the door.

"I'll send a contract round along with a check for three hundred thousand pounds," said Danny as he followed him into the hall.

"That's good of you," said Davenport.

"Let's hope your agent comes up with something that suits your particular talents," said Danny as Davenport opened the front door.

"You don't have to concern yourself about that," said Davenport. "My bet is that you'll have your money back within a few weeks."

"That's good to hear," said Danny. "Oh, and should you ever decide to sell this house… "

"My home?" said Davenport. "No, never. Out of the question, don't even think about it."

He closed the front door as if he'd been dealing with a tradesman.

CHAPTER SIXTY

DANNY READ THE report in The Times as Molly poured him a black coffee.

An exchange which had taken place on the floor of the House between the Minister of Sport and Billy Cormack, the Member for Stratford South, was tucked in at the end of the paper's Parliamentary report.

Cormack (Lab., Stratford South): "Can the minister confirm that she has shortlisted two sites for the proposed Olympic velodrome?"

Minister: "Yes I can, and I'm sure my honorable friend will be delighted to learn that the site in his constituency is one of the two still under consideration."

Cormack: "I thank the minister for her reply. Is she aware that the president of the British Cycling Federation has written to me pointing out that his committee voted unanimously in favor of the site in my constituency?"

Minister: "Yes I am, partly because my honorable friend kindly sent me a copy of that letter (laughter). Let me assure him that I shall take the views of the British Cycling Federation very seriously before I make my final decision."

Andrew Crawford (Con., Stratford West): "Does the minister realize that this news will not be welcomed in my constituency, where the other shortlisted site is located, as we have plans to build a new leisure center on that land, and never wanted the velodrome in the first place?"

Minister: "I will take the honorable member's views into consideration before I make my final decision."

Molly placed two boiled eggs in front of Danny just as his mobile phone rang. He wasn't surprised to see Payne's name flash up on the little screen, although he hadn't expected him to call quite so early. He flicked open the mobile and said, "Good morning."

"Morning, Nick. Sorry to ring at this hour, but I wondered if you'd read the Parliamentary report in the Telegraph?"

"I don't take the Telegraph," said Danny, "but I have read the ministerial exchange in The Times. What's your paper saying?"

"That the president of the British Cycling Federation has been invited to address the Olympic Sites Committee next week, four days before the minister makes her final decision. Apparently it's no more than a formality-an inside source has told the Telegraph that the minister is only waiting for the surveyor's report before she confirms her decision."

"The Times has roughly the same story," said Danny.

"But that isn't why I phoned," said Payne. "I wanted you to know that I've already had a call from the Swiss this morning and they've turned down your offer of four million."

"Hardly surprising, given the circumstances," said Danny.

"But," said Payne, "they made it clear that they would accept six mil, as long as the full amount is paid before the minister announces her final decision in ten days' time."

"That's still a no-brainer," said Danny. "But I've got some news too, and I'm afraid mine is not so good. My bank's not willing to advance me the full amount right now."

"But why not?" said Payne. "Surely they can see what an opportunity this is?"

"Yes, they can, but they still consider it's a risk. Perhaps I should have warned you that I'm a little overstretched at the moment, with one or two other projects that aren't going quite as well as I'd hoped."

"But I thought you made a killing on the Mile End Road site?"

"It didn't turn out quite as well as I anticipated," said Danny. "I ended up with a profit of just over three hundred thousand. And as I told Gary Hall some time ago, my last agent let me down rather badly, and I'm now having to pay the price for his lack of judgment."

"So how much can you put up?" asked Payne.

"A million," said Danny. "Which means that we'll be five million short, so I fear the deal is off."

A long silence followed, during which Danny sipped his coffee and removed the tops of his two eggs.

"Nick, I don't suppose you'd allow me to offer this deal to some of my other clients?"

"Why not," said Danny, "remembering all the work you've put in. I'm just livid that I can't put up all the capital for the best deal I've come across for years."

"That's very magnanimous of you," said Payne. "I won't forget it. I owe you one."

"You sure do," said Danny as he snapped his mobile closed.

He was just about to attack his egg when the phone rang again. He checked the screen to see if he could ask whoever was calling to ring back later, but realized he couldn't when the word voice flashed up. He opened the phone and listened.

"We've already had several calls this morning with offers for your site, including one of eight million. What do you want me to do about Mr. Payne?"

"You'll be getting a call from him making an offer of six million. You will accept his offer," Danny said before the voice could comment, "on two conditions."

"Two conditions," repeated the voice.

"He must deposit six hundred thousand with the bank before close of business today and he must also pay the full amount before the minister makes her announcement in ten days' time."

"I'll call you back once he's been in touch," said the voice.

Danny looked down at a prison yolk. "Molly, could you boil me another couple of eggs?"

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

SPENCER CRAIG LEFT chambers at five o'clock, as it was his turn to host the quarterly Musketeers' dinner. They still got together four times a year despite the fact that Toby Mortimer was no longer with them. The fourth dinner had become known as the Memorial Dinner.

Craig always used outside caterers so that he didn't have to worry about preparing the meal or the clearing up afterward, although he did like to select the wine himself, and to sample the food before the first guest arrived. Gerald had rung him earlier in the day to say that he had some exciting news to share with the team that could change their whole lives.

Craig would never forget the previous occasion when a meeting of the Musketeers had changed their whole lives, but since Danny Cartwright had hanged himself, no one had ever referred to the subject again. Craig thought about his fellow Musketeers as he drove home. Gerald Payne had gone from strength to strength in his firm, and now that he had been selected for a safe Conservative seat in Sussex, he looked certain to be a Member of Parliament whenever the Prime Minister called the next election. Larry Davenport appeared more relaxed recently, and had even paid back the ten thousand pounds Craig had lent him a couple of years ago, which he hadn't expected to see again; perhaps Larry also had something to tell the team. Craig had his own piece of news to share with the Musketeers this evening, and although it was no more than he had expected, it was nevertheless gratifying.

The briefs had picked up again as he continued to win cases, and his appearance at the Danny Cartwright trial was becoming a hazy memory that most of his colleagues could hardly recall-with one exception. His private life remained patchy, to say the least: the occasional one-night stand, but other than Larry's sister, there was no one he wanted to see a second time. However, Sarah Davenport had made it all too clear that she wasn't interested, but he hadn't given up hope.

When Craig arrived back at his home in Hambledon Terrace, he checked the wine racks to find he had nothing worthy of a Musketeers' dinner. He strolled to his local on the corner of the King's Road and selected three bottles of Merlot, three of a vintage Australian Sauvignon and a magnum of Laurent Perrier. After all, he had something to celebrate.

As he walked back to the house carrying two bags full of bottles, he heard a siren in the distance, which brought back memories of that night. They didn't seem to fade with time, like other memories. He had called Detective Sergeant Fuller, then run home, stripped off his clothes, had a quick shower without allowing his hair to get wet, dressed in an almost identical suit, shirt and tie, and been back sitting at the bar seventeen minutes later.

If Redmayne had checked the distance between the Dunlop Arms and Craig's home before the opening of the trial, he might have been able to plant even more doubt in the jurors' minds. Thank God it was only his second case as a leader, because if he'd been up against Arnold Pearson he would have checked every paving stone on the route back to his home with a stopwatch in his hand.

Craig had not been surprised by how long it had taken DS Fuller before he walked into the pub, as he knew he would have far more important problems to deal with in the alley: a dying man, and an obvious suspect covered in blood. He would also have no reason to suspect that a complete stranger could have been involved, especially when three other witnesses corroborated his story. The barman had kept his mouth shut, but then he'd been in trouble with the police before, and would have made an unreliable witness, whichever side he appeared for. Craig had continued to purchase all his wine from the Dunlop Arms and when the bills were sent at the end of each month and didn't always add up, he made no comment.

Once he'd returned home, Craig left the wine on the kitchen table and put the champagne in the fridge. He then went upstairs to shower and change into something more casual. He'd just returned to the kitchen and started uncorking a bottle when the doorbell rang.

He couldn't remember when he'd last seen Gerald looking so buoyant, and assumed it must be because of the news he'd called about that afternoon.

"How are you enjoying the constituency work?" Craig asked as he hung up Payne's coat and led him into the drawing room.

"Great fun, but I can't wait for the general election so I can take my place in the Commons." Craig poured him a glass of champagne and asked if he'd heard from Larry lately. "I popped round to see him one evening last week, but he wouldn't let me inside the house, which I thought was a little strange."

"The last time I visited him at home the place was in a dreadful state," said Craig. "It might have been no more than that, or perhaps just another boyfriend he didn't want you to meet."

"He must be working," said Payne. "He sent me a check last week for a loan I'd given up on long ago."

"You too?" said Craig as the doorbell rang a second time.

When Davenport strolled in to join them, all the swagger and self-confidence seemed to have returned. He kissed Gerald on both cheeks as if he were a French general inspecting his troops. Craig offered him a glass of champagne, and couldn't help thinking that Larry looked ten years younger than when he'd last seen him. Perhaps he was about to reveal something that would upstage them all.

"Let's begin the evening with a toast," said Craig. "To absent friends." The three men raised their glasses and cried, "Toby Mortimer."

"So who shall we drink to next?" asked Davenport.

"Sir Nicholas Moncrieff," said Payne without hesitation.

"Who the hell is he?" asked Craig.

"The man who's about to change all our fortunes."

"How?" asked Davenport, unwilling to reveal the fact that Moncrieff was the reason he'd been able to pay back the money he'd borrowed from them both, as well as several other debts.

"I'll tell you the details over dinner," said Payne. "But tonight I insist on going last, because this time I'm confident that you won't be able to trump me."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Gerald," said Davenport, looking even more pleased with himself than usual.

A young woman appeared in the doorway. "We're ready when you are, Mr. Craig."

The three men strolled through to the dining room recounting their days at Cambridge, the stories becoming more exaggerated by the year.

Craig took his place at the head of the table as portions of smoked salmon were placed in front of his two guests. Once he had tasted the wine and nodded his approval, he turned to Davenport and said, "I can't wait any longer, Larry. Let's hear your news first. You've clearly had a change of fortune."

Davenport leaned back in his chair and waited until he was certain he had their undivided attention. "A couple of days ago I had a call from the BBC, asking me to drop into Broadcasting House for a chat. That usually means they want to offer you a small part in a radio play with a fee that wouldn't cover the taxi fare from Redcliffe Square to Portland Place. But this time, I was taken out to lunch by a senior producer, who told me that they were going to write a new character into Holby City , and I was their first choice. It seems that Dr. Beresford has faded in people's memory…"

"Blessed memory," said Payne, raising his glass.

"They've asked me to do a screen test next week."

"Bravo," said Craig, also raising his glass.

"My agent tells me they're not considering anyone else for the part, so he should be able to close a three-year contract with residuals and a tough renewal clause."

"Not bad, I must admit," said Payne, "but I'm confident I can still beat both of you. So what's your news, Spencer?"

Craig filled his glass and took a sip before he spoke.

"The Lord Chancellor has asked to see me next week." He took another sip as he allowed the news to sink in.

"Is he going to offer you his job?" asked Davenport.

"All in good time," said Craig. "But the only reason he asks to see someone of my humble status is when he's going to invite them to take silk and become a QC."

"And well deserved," said Davenport, as he and Payne rose from their places to salute their host.

"It hasn't been announced yet," said Craig, waving them back down, "so whatever you do, don't breathe a word."

Craig and Davenport leaned back in their chairs and turned to Payne. "Your turn, old chum," said Craig. "So what is it that's going to change our whole lives?"

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," said Danny.

Big Al stood in the doorway, clutching a large parcel. "It's jist been delivered, boss. Where wull I put it?"

"Just leave it on the table," said Danny, continuing to read his book as if the package was of little importance. As soon as he heard the door close, he put down Adam Smith on the theory of free-market economics and walked across to the table. He looked at the package marked Hazardous, Handle with Care for some time before removing the brown paper wrapping to reveal a cardboard box. He had to peel off several layers of sellotape before he was finally able to lift the lid.

He took out a pair of black rubber boots, size 9½, and tried them on-a perfect fit. Next he removed a pair of thin latex gloves and a large torch. When he switched it on, the beam lit up the whole room. The next articles to be removed from the box were a black nylon jumpsuit and a mask to cover his nose and mouth. He had been given a choice of black or white, and had chosen black. The only thing Danny left in the box was a small plastic container covered in bubble wrap and marked Hazardous. He didn't unwrap the container because he already knew what was inside. He placed the gloves, torch, boots, jumpsuit and mask back in the box, took a reel of thick tape from the top drawer of his desk and resealed the lid. Danny smiled. A thousand pounds well invested.

"And how much will you be contributing to this little enterprise?" asked Craig.

"About a million of my own money," said Payne, "of which I've already transferred six hundred thousand in order to secure the contract."

"Won't that stretch you?" asked Craig.

"To breaking point," Payne admitted, "but I'm unlikely to come across an opportunity like this again in my lifetime, and the profit will allow me enough to live on after I become an MP and have to resign my partnership."

"Let me try to understand what you're proposing," said Davenport. "Whatever sum we put up, you'll guarantee to double it in less than a month."

"You can never guarantee anything," said Payne, "but this is a two-horse race, and ours is the clear favorite. In simple terms, I have the opportunity to pick up a piece of land for six million, which will be worth fifteen to twenty million once the minister announces which site she's selected for the velodrome."

"That's assuming she chooses your site," said Craig.

"I've shown you the entry in Hansard reporting her exchange with those two MPs."

"Yes, you have," said Craig. "But I'm still puzzled. If it's such a good deal, why doesn't this chap Moncrieff buy the site himself?"

"I don't think he ever had enough to cover the six million in the first place," said Payne. "But he's still putting up a million of his own money."

"Something just doesn't feel right to me," said Craig.

"You're such an old cynic, Spencer," said Payne. "Let me remind you what happened last time I presented the Musketeers with such a golden opportunity-Larry, Toby and I all doubled our money on that farmland in Gloucestershire in just under two years. Now I'm offering you an even safer bet, except this time you'll double your money in ten days."

"OK, I'm willing to risk two hundred thousand," said Craig. "But I'll kill you if anything goes wrong."

The blood drained from Payne's face, and Davenport was struck dumb. "Come on, chaps, it was only a joke," said Craig. "So I'm good for two hundred thousand. What about you, Larry?"

"If Gerald's willing to risk a million, so am I," said Davenport, quickly recovering. "I'm fairly confident I can raise that amount on my house without it changing my lifestyle."

"Your lifestyle is going to change in ten days' time, old chum," said Payne. "Neither of us will ever need to work again."

"All for one and one for all," said Davenport, trying to stand up.

"All for one and one for all!" cried Craig and Payne in unison. They all raised their glasses.

"How are you going to raise the rest of the money?" Craig asked. "After all, the three of us will be putting in less than half."

"Don't forget Moncrieff's million, and my chairman is stumping up half a million. I've also approached a few chums who I've made money for over the years, and even Charlie Duncan is considering investing, so I should have covered the full amount by the end of the week. And as I'm the host for the next get-together of the Musketeers," he continued, "I thought I'd book a table at Harry's Bar."

"Or McDonald's," said Craig, "should the minister select the other site."

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

ALEX WAS LOOKING across the Thames at the London Eye when she arrived. He rose from the bench to greet her.

"Have you ever been on the Eye?" he asked as she sat down beside him.

"Yes, once," said Beth. "I took my father on it when it first opened. You used to be able to see our garage from the top."

"It won't be that long before you'll be able to see Wilson House," said Alex.

"Yes. It was kind of the developer to name the building after my dad. He'd have enjoyed that," said Beth.

"I have to be back in court by two o'clock," said Alex. "But I needed to see you urgently, as I have some news."

"It was good of you to give up your lunch break."

"I had a letter this morning from the Lord Chancellor's office," said Alec, "and he's agreed to reopen the case." Beth threw her arms around him. "But only if we can supply some fresh evidence."

"Wouldn't the tape be considered as fresh evidence?" asked Beth. "There's been mention of it in both local papers since we launched the campaign to have Danny pardoned."

"I'm sure they'll take it into consideration this time, but if they believe the conversation was recorded under duress, they'll have to discount it."

"But how will anyone be able to prove that either way?" asked Beth.

"Do you remember that Danny and Big Al shared a cell with a man called Nick Moncrieff?"

"Of course," said Beth. "They were good friends. He taught Danny to read and write and even attended his funeral, although none of us were allowed to speak to him."

"Well, some weeks before Moncrieff was released, he wrote to me offering to help in any way he could, as he was convinced Danny was innocent."

"But there are countless people who believe Danny is innocent," said Beth, "and if you felt Big Al would have made a bad witness, why should Nick be any different?"

"Because Danny once told me that Moncrieff kept a diary while he was in prison, so it's possible that the tape incident has been recorded. Courts take diaries very seriously, because they're contemporaneous evidence."

"Then all you have to do is get in touch with Moncrieff," said Beth, unable to hide her excitement.

"It's not quite that simple," said Alex.

"Why not? If he was so keen to help…"

"Not long after his release he was arrested for breaking his parole."

"So is he back inside?" asked Beth.

"No, that's the strange thing. The judge gave him one last chance. He must have had a hell of a lawyer defending him."

"Then what's to stop you trying to get hold of his diaries?" asked Beth.

"It's possible that after his latest brush with the law, he might not welcome a letter from a lawyer he's never met, asking him to become involved in yet another court case."

"Danny said you could always rely on Nick, come hell or high water."

"Then I'll write to him today," said Alex.

Danny picked up the phone.

"Payne transferred six hundred thousand pounds by wire this morning," said the voice, "so if he pays the remaining five million four hundred thousand by the end of the week, the velodrome site will be his. I thought you'd want to know that we've had another bid in this morning for ten million, which of course we had to turn down. I hope you know what you're doing." The line went dead. It was the first time the voice had offered an opinion on anything.

Danny dialed the number of his bank manager at Coutts. He was about to convince Payne that the deal couldn't fail.

"Good morning, Sir Nicholas. How can I help you?"

"Good morning, Mr. Watson. I want to transfer a million pounds from my current account to Baker, Tremlett and Smythe's client account."

"Certainly, sir." There was a long pause before Mr. Watson added, "You do realize that will leave your account overdrawn?"

"Yes, I do," said Danny, "but it will be covered on October first when you receive the monthly check from my grandfather's trust."

"I'll do the paperwork today and be back in touch," said Mr. Watson.

"I don't care when you do the paperwork, Mr. Watson, as long as the full amount is transferred before close of business this evening." Danny replaced the receiver. "Damn," he said. Not the way Nick would have behaved in the circumstances. He must quickly return to Nick mode. He swung round to see Molly standing in the doorway. She was shaking, and seemed unable to speak.

"What's the matter, Molly?" asked Danny, jumping up from his chair. "Are you all right?"

"It's him," she whispered.

"Him?" said Danny.

"That actor."

"What actor?"

"That Dr. Beresford. You know, Lawrence Davenport."

"Is it, indeed," said Danny. "You'd better show him into the drawing room. Offer him some coffee and tell him I'll be with him in a moment."

As Molly ran downstairs, Danny made two new entries in the Payne file before placing it back on the shelf. He then took down the Davenport file and quickly brought himself up to date.

He was just about to close it when his eye caught a note under the heading Early life which caused him to smile. He replaced the file on the shelf and went downstairs to join his uninvited guest.

Davenport leaped up as Danny entered the room, and this time he did shake hands. Danny was momentarily taken aback by his appearance. He was now clean-shaven, and wearing a well-tailored suit and a smart open-necked shirt. Was he about to return the £300,000?

"Sorry to barge in on you like this," said Davenport. "I wouldn't have done so if it wasn't a bit of an emergency."

"Please don't concern yourself," said Danny as he sat in the chair opposite him. "How can I help?"

Molly placed a tray on the side table and poured Davenport a cup of coffee.

"Cream or milk, Mr. Davenport?" she asked.

"Neither, thank you."

"Sugar, Mr. Davenport?"

"No, thank you."

"Would you like a chocolate biscuit?" asked Molly.

"No, thank you," Davenport said, patting his stomach.

Danny sat back and smiled. He wondered if Molly would be quite so awestruck if she realized that she had just served the son of a car-park attendant with the Grimsby Borough Council.

"Well, just let me know if you want anything else, Mr. Davenport," said Molly before backing out of the room, having quite forgotten to offer Danny his usual hot chocolate. Danny waited for the door to close. "Sorry about that," he said. "She's normally quite sane."

"Don't worry, old chap," said Davenport. "One gets used to it."

Not for much longer, thought Danny. "Now, how can I help?" he asked.

"I want to invest a rather large sum of money in a business venture. Only temporary, you understand. Not only will I repay you within a few weeks at the outside, but," he said, looking up at the McTaggart above the fireplace, "I'll also be able to reclaim my paintings at the same time."

Danny would have been sad to lose his recent acquisitions, as he'd been surprised how quickly he'd become attached to them. "I'm sorry, how thoughtless of me," he said, suddenly aware that the room was full of Davenport 's old pictures. "Be assured, they will be returned the moment the loan is repaid."

"That could turn out to be a lot sooner than I had originally anticipated," said Davenport. "Especially if you were able to help me out with this little enterprise."

"What sort of sum did you have in mind?" asked Danny.

"A million," said Davenport tentatively. "The problem is that I've only got a week to come up with the money."

"And what would your collateral be this time?" asked Danny.

"My house in Redcliffe Square."

Danny recalled Davenport 's words the last time they had met: My home? No, never. Out of the question, don't even think about it. "And you say that you will pay the full sum back within a month, using your home as collateral?"

"Within a month, it's guaranteed-a racing certainty."

"And if you fail to pay back the million in that time?"

"Then, just like my pictures, the house is yours."

"We have a deal," said Danny. "And as you've only got a few days to come up with the money, I'd better get straight on to my lawyers and instruct them to draw up a contract."

When they left the drawing room and walked out into the hallway, they found Molly standing by the front door clutching Davenport 's overcoat.

"Thank you," said Davenport after she had helped him on with his coat and opened the door.

"I'll be in touch," said Danny, not shaking hands with Davenport as he stepped out onto the path. Molly almost curtsied.

Danny turned around and headed back to his study. "Molly, I have some calls to make, so I could be a few minutes late for lunch," he said over his shoulder. When he received no reply, he turned back to see his housekeeper standing at the door chatting to a woman.

"Is he expecting you?" asked Molly.

"No, he isn't," replied Ms. Bennett. "I came on the off-chance."

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

THE ALARM WENT off at 2 A.M. but Danny wasn't asleep. He jumped out of bed and quickly put on the pants, T-shirt, socks, slacks and trainers that he'd laid out on the chair by the window. He didn't turn on the light.

He checked his watch: six minutes past two. He closed the bedroom door and walked slowly downstairs. He opened the front door to see his car parked by the curb. Although he couldn't see him, he knew Big Al would be seated behind the wheel. Danny looked around-there were one or two lights still on in the square, but no one to be seen. He climbed into the car but didn't speak. Big Al switched on the ignition and drove for a hundred yards before he put on the side lights.

Neither of them spoke as Big Al turned right and headed for the Embankment. He had done the run five times during the past week; twice during the day, three times at night-what he called "night ops." But the dry runs were over, and tonight the full operation would be carried out. Big Al was treating the whole thing like a military exercise, and his nine years in the army were being put to good use. During the day, the journey averaged around forty-three minutes, but at night he could cover the same distance in twenty-nine, never once exceeding the speed limit.

As they progressed past the House of Commons and along the north side of the Thames, Danny concentrated on what needed to be done once they had reached the target area. They drove through the City and into the East End. Danny's concentration was broken only for a moment when they passed a large construction site with a vast advertising hoarding displaying a magnificent mock-up of what Wilson House would look like once it was completed: sixty luxury flats, thirty affordable dwellings it promised, nine already sold, including the penthouse. Danny smiled.

Big Al continued on down Mile End Road before turning left at a signpost indicating Stratford, The home of the 2012 Olympics. Eleven minutes later, he turned off the road and onto a gravel track. He switched the lights off, as he knew each twist and turn, almost every stone between there and the target area.

At the end of the track he drove past a sign that read, Private Land : Keep Off. He kept on going; after all, the land was owned by Danny, and would still be his for another eight days. Big Al brought the car to a halt behind a small mound, switched off the engine and pressed a button. The side window purred down. They sat still and listened, but the only sounds were night noises. During an afternoon recce they'd come across the occasional dog walker and a group of kids kicking a football around, but now there was nothing, not even a night owl to keep them company.

After a couple of minutes Danny touched Big Al's elbow. They climbed out of the car and walked around to the boot. Big Al opened the boot while Danny slipped off his trainers. Big Al lifted the box out of the back and placed it on the ground, just as they had done the night before, when Danny had walked the course to see if he could locate the seventy-one white pebbles they had put in cracks, holes and crevices during the day. He had managed to find fifty-three. He'd do better tonight. Another dry run that afternoon had given him a chance to check the ones he'd missed.

In daylight he could cover the three acres in just over two hours. Last night had taken three hours, seventeen minutes, while tonight would take even longer because of the number of times he would have to drop to his knees.

It was a clear, still night, as promised by the weather forecasters, who were predicting light showers in the morning. Like any good farmer planting his seeds, Danny had chosen the day, even the hour, carefully. Big Al removed the black jumpsuit from the box and handed it to Danny, who unzipped the front and climbed in. Even this simple exercise had been practiced several times in the dark. Big Al then passed him the rubber boots, followed by the gloves, the mask, the torch and finally the small plastic container marked "Hazardous."

Big Al stationed himself by the back of the car as the boss set off. When Danny reached the corner of his land, he walked another seven paces before he came across the first white pebble. He picked it up and dropped it into a deep pocket. He fell on his knees, switched on the torch and placed a tiny fragment of stem into a crack in the ground. He turned off the torch and stood up. Yesterday he had practised the exercise without the rhizome. Nine more paces and he came to the second pebble, where he repeated the whole process, and then only one pace before he reached the third pebble and knelt by a little crevice before carefully scattering the rhizome deep inside. Five more paces…

Big Al desperately wanted a smoke, but he knew it was a risk he couldn't take. Once in Bosnia a squaddie had lit up during a night op, and three seconds later he got a bullet through his head. Big Al knew the boss would be out there for at least three hours, so he couldn't afford to let his concentration slip, even for a moment.

Pebble number twenty-three was at the far corner of Danny's land. He shone his torch down a large hole, before dropping in some more rhizome. He placed another pebble in his pocket.

Big Al stretched and began to walk slowly around the car. He knew they planned to leave long before first light, which was at 6:48 A.M. He checked his watch: 4:17. They both looked up when a plane flew overhead, the first to land at Heathrow that morning.

Danny put pebble number thirty-six in his right-hand pocket, taking care to distribute the weight evenly. He repeated the process again and again: a few paces, kneel down, turn on the torch, drop some rhizome in the crack, pick up the pebble and drop it in a pocket, turn off the torch, stand up, walk on-it felt much more tiring than it had the night before.

Big Al froze as a car drove onto the site and parked about fifty yards away. He couldn't be sure if whoever was in the car had seen him. He fell onto his stomach and began to crawl toward the enemy. A cloud moved to reveal the moon, just a sliver of light-even the moon was on their side. The car's headlights had been turned off, but an inside light remained on.

Danny thought he saw a car's lights, and immediately fell flat on the ground. They had arranged that Big Al would flash his torch three times to warn him if there was any danger. Danny waited for over a minute, but there was no flashing beam, so he stood up and headed toward the next pebble.

Big Al was now only a few yards from the parked car, and although the windows were steamed up, he could see that the inside light was still on. He pushed himself up onto his knees and peered through the rear window. It took all his discipline not to burst out laughing when he saw a woman stretched out on the back seat, her legs wide apart, moaning. Big Al couldn't see the face of the man who was on top of her, but felt a throbbing in his pants. He fell back down on his stomach and began the long crawl back to base.

When Danny reached pebble number sixty-seven, he cursed. He'd covered the entire area, and somehow missed four. As he walked slowly back toward the car, each pace became more cumbersome than the last. One thing he hadn't anticipated was the sheer weight of the pebbles.

Once Big Al was back at base, he still kept a wary eye on the car. He wondered if the boss had even been aware of its presence. Suddenly he heard the sound of an engine revving up, and the headlights were turned full on before the car swung around, back onto the gravel path and disappeared into the night.

When Big Al saw Danny coming toward him, he removed the empty box from the boot and put it on the ground in front of him. Danny began to take the pebbles out of his pockets and place them in the box; a painstaking exercise when the slightest sound might attract attention. Once the task had been completed, he took off the mask, the gloves, the boots and the jumpsuit. He handed them to Big Al, who put them in the box on top of the pebbles. The last things to be deposited were the torch and an empty plastic container.

Big Al closed the boot and climbed into the front of the car as the boss fastened his seatbelt. He turned on the ignition, swung the car around and drove slowly back toward the gravel track. Neither of them spoke, even when they reached the main road. The job wasn't finished yet.

During the week, Big Al had identified various skips and building sites where they could dispose of any evidence of their nocturnal enterprise. Big Al stopped seven times during a journey that took just over an hour instead of the usual forty minutes. By the time they drove into The Boltons, it was half past seven. Danny smiled when he saw a few drops of rain land on the windscreen and the automatic wipers switch themselves on. Danny stepped out of the car, walked up the path and unlocked the front door. He picked up a letter that was lying on the mat and tore it open as he climbed the staircase. When he saw the signature on the bottom of the page he went straight to his study and locked the door.

Once he had read the letter, he wasn't quite sure how he should reply. Think like Danny. Behave like Nick.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

"NICK, HOW LOVELY to see you," said Sarah. She leaned across and whispered, "Now tell me you've been a good boy."

"Depends what you mean by good," said Danny as he took the seat next to her.

"You haven't missed a meeting with your favorite lady?"

Danny thought about Beth, even though he knew Sarah was referring to Ms. Bennett. "Not one," he said. "In fact, she recently visited me at home and passed my accommodation as suitable, putting ticks in all the relevant boxes."

"And you haven't even thought about going abroad?"

"Not unless you count traveling up to Scotland to visit Mr. Munro."

"Good. So what else have you been up to that's safe to tell your other solicitor?"

"Not a lot," said Danny. "How's Lawrence?" he asked, wondering if he had told her about the loan.

"Never better. He's doing a screen test for Holby City next Thursday-a new part that's been written especially for him."

"So what's it called? Witness to murder?" asked Danny, regretting his words the moment he'd said them.

"No, no," said Sarah, laughing. "You're thinking of the part he played in Witness for the Prosecution, but that was years ago."

"It certainly was," said Danny. "And it was a performance I'm unlikely to forget."

"I didn't realize you'd known Larry that long."

"Only from a distance," said Danny. He was relieved to be rescued by a familiar voice saying, "Hello, Sarah." Charlie Duncan bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

"Good to see you, Nick," said Duncan. "You two know each other, of course."

"Of course," said Sarah.

Duncan whispered, "Be careful what you say, you're sitting behind a critic. Enjoy the show," he added in a loud voice.

Danny had read the script of Bling Bling, but hadn't been able to follow it, so he was curious to see how the piece would work on stage, and what he had spent ten thousand pounds on. He opened the program to find that the play was billed as "a hilarious look at Britain during the Blair era." He turned the page and began reading about the playwright, a dissident Czech who had escaped from… The lights went down and the curtain rose.

No one laughed for the first fifteen minutes of the performance, which surprised Danny, as the play had been billed as a light-hearted comedy. When the star finally made his entrance, a few laughs followed in his wake, but Danny wasn't altogether sure that they were intended by the playwright. By the time the curtain for the interval came down, Danny found himself stifling a yawn.

"What do you think?" he asked Sarah, wondering if he had missed something.

Sarah put a finger to her lips and pointed to the critic in front of them, who was writing furiously. "Let's go and have a drink," she said.

Sarah touched his arm as they walked slowly up the aisle. "Nick, it's my turn to seek your advice."

"On what?" said Danny. "Because I must warn you, I know nothing about the theater."

She smiled. "No, I'm talking about the real world. Gerald Payne has recommended that I put some money in a property deal he's involved in. He mentioned your name, so I wondered if you thought it was a safe investment."

Danny wasn't sure how to reply, because however much he loathed her brother, he had no quarrel with this charming woman, who had prevented him being sent back to jail.

"I never advise friends to put money in anything," said Danny. "It's a no-win situation-if they make a profit they forget that it was you who recommended it, and if they make a loss they never stop reminding you. My only advice would be not to gamble what you can't afford, and never to risk an amount that might cause you to lose a night's sleep."

"Good advice," said Sarah. "I'm grateful."

Danny followed her into the stalls bar. As they entered the crowded room, Danny spotted Gerald Payne standing by a table, pouring a glass of champagne for Spencer Craig. He wondered if Craig had been tempted to invest any money in his Olympic site, and hoped to find out later at the opening-night party.

"Let's avoid them," said Sarah. "Spencer Craig has never been my favorite man."

"Mine neither," said Danny as they made their way toward the bar.

"Hey, Sarah, Nick! We're over here," shouted Payne, waving furiously at them. "Come and have a glass of bubbly."

Danny and Sarah reluctantly walked across to join them. "You remember Nick Moncrieff," said Payne, turning to Craig.

"Of course," said Craig. "The man who's about to make us all a fortune."

"Let's hope so," said Danny-one of his questions answered.

"We'll need all the help we can get after tonight's performance," said Payne.

"Oh, it could have been worse," said Sarah as Danny passed her a glass of champagne.

"It's shit," said Craig. "So that's one of my investments down the drain."

"You didn't put too much into it, I hope," said Danny, embarking on a fishing expedition.

"Nothing compared to what I've invested in your little enterprise," said Craig, who couldn't take his eyes off Sarah.

Payne whispered conspiratorially to Danny, "I transferred the full amount this morning. We'll be exchanging contracts sometime in the next few days."

"I'm delighted to hear it," said Danny genuinely, although the Swiss had already informed him of the transfer just before he'd left for the theater.

"By the way," added Payne, "because of my political connections, I've managed to get a couple of tickets for Parliamentary questions next Thursday. So if you'd like to join me for the minister's statement, you'd be most welcome."

"That's kind of you, Gerald, but wouldn't you rather take Lawrence or Craig?" He still couldn't bring himself to call him Spencer.

"Larry's got a screen test that afternoon, and Spencer has an appointment with the Lord Chancellor at the other end of the building. We all know what that's about," he said, winking.

"Do we?" asked Danny.

"Oh, yes. Spencer's about to be made a QC," Payne whispered.

"Congratulations," said Danny, turning to his adversary.

"It's not official yet," said Craig, not even glancing in his direction.

"But it will be next Thursday," said Payne. "So, Nick, why don't you meet me outside the St. Stephen's entrance of the House of Commons at twelve thirty and we can listen to the minister's statement together before going off to celebrate our good fortune."

"I'll see you there," said Danny as three bells sounded. He glanced across at Sarah, who had been trapped in the corner by Craig. He would like to have rescued her, but was swept along by the crowd as it began a reverse stampede back into the theater.

Sarah returned to her seat just as the curtain rose. The second half turned out to be a slight improvement on the first, but Danny suspected not nearly enough to please the man seated in front of him.

When the curtain fell, the critic was the first out of the stalls, and Danny felt like joining him. Although the cast managed three curtain calls, Danny didn't have to stand on this occasion, as no one else bothered to. When the lights finally came up, Danny turned to Sarah and said, "If you're going to the party, why don't I give you a lift?"

"I'm not going," said Sarah. "And I suspect not many of this lot will be either."

"It's my turn to seek your advice," said Danny. "Why not?"

"The pros can always smell a flop, so they'll avoid being seen at a party where people might think they're involved in some way." She paused. "I hope you didn't invest too much."

"Not enough to lose a night's sleep," said Danny.

"I won't forget your advice," she said, linking her arm in his. "So how do you feel about taking a lonely girl out to dinner?"

Danny recalled the last time he'd taken up such an offer, and how that evening had ended. He didn't want to have to explain to another girl, and particularly not this one. "I'm sorry," he said, "but…"

"You're married?" asked Sarah.

"I only wish," said Danny.

"I only wish I'd met you before she did," said Sarah, unlinking her arm.

"That wouldn't have been possible," said Danny, without explanation.

"Bring her along next time," said Sarah. "I'd like to meet her. Goodnight, Nick, and thanks again for your advice." She kissed him on the cheek and drifted off to join her brother.

Danny only just stopped himself from warning her not to invest a penny in Payne's Olympic venture, but he knew that with a girl that bright it might be one risk too many.

He joined the silent throng as they disgorged themselves from the theater as quickly as they could, but he still couldn't avoid a downcast Charlie Duncan, who had stationed himself by the exit. He gave Danny a weak smile.

"Well, at least I won't have to spend any money on a closing-night party."

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

DANNY MET GERALD Payne outside the St. Stephen's entrance of the Palace of Westminster. It was his first visit to the House of Commons, and he was planning that it would be Payne's last.

"I have two tickets for the public gallery," Payne announced in a loud voice to the policeman stationed at the entrance. It still took them a long time to pass through security.

Once they had emptied their pockets and passed through the metal detector, Payne guided Danny down a long marble corridor to the Central Lobby.

"They don't have tickets," Payne explained as he marched past a row of visitors sitting on the green benches waiting patiently to be admitted to the public gallery. "They won't get in until late this evening, if at all."

Danny took in the atmosphere of the Central Lobby while Payne reported to the policeman on the desk and presented his tickets. Members were chatting to visiting constituents, tourists were staring up at the ornate mosaic ceiling, while others for whom it had all become commonplace strode purposefully across the lobby as they went about their business.

Payne seemed interested in only one thing: making sure he secured a good seat before the minister rose to make her statement from the dispatch box. Danny also wanted him to have the best possible view of proceedings.

The policeman pointed to a corridor on his right. Payne marched off, and Danny had to hurry to catch him up. Payne strode down the green-carpeted corridor and up a flight of steps to the first floor as if he were already a Member. He and Danny were met at the top of the stairs by an usher, who checked their tickets before escorting them into the Strangers' Gallery. The first thing that struck Danny was how small the gallery was, and how few places there were for visitors, which explained the number of people having to wait on the ground floor. The usher found them two seats in the fourth row and handed them both an order paper. Danny leaned forward and looked down into the Chamber, surprised to see how few Members were present despite it being the middle of the day. It was clear that not many MPs were that interested in where the Olympic velodrome would be sited, even though some people's whole future rested on the minister's decision. One of them was sitting next to Danny.

"Mostly London Members," Payne whispered as he turned to the relevant page on the order paper. His hand was shaking as he drew Danny's attention to the top of the page: 12:30 P.M., Statement by the Minister of Sport.

Danny tried to follow what was happening in the chamber below. Payne explained that it was a day allocated for questions to the Minister of Health, but that these would end promptly at 12:30. Danny was delighted to see just how impatient Payne was to swap his place in the gallery for a seat on the green benches below.

As the clock above the Speaker's chair edged ever nearer to 12:30, Payne began fidgeting with his order paper, his right leg twitching. Danny remained calm, but then he already knew what the minister was going to tell the House.

When the Speaker rose at 12:30 and bellowed, "Statement by the Minister of Sport," Payne leaned forward to get a better view as the minister rose from the front bench and placed a red file on the dispatch box.

"Mr. Speaker, with your permission I will make a statement concerning which site I have selected for the building of a prospective Olympic velodrome. Members will recall that I informed the House earlier this month that I had shortlisted two locations for consideration but would not make my final decision until I had received detailed surveyors' reports on both sites." Danny glanced around at Payne; a bead of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Danny tried to look concerned, too. "Those reports were handed into my office yesterday, and copies were also sent to the Olympic Sites Committee, to the two honorable Members in whose constituencies the sites are located, and to the president of the British Cycling Federation. Members can obtain copies from the Order Office immediately following this statement.

"Having read the two reports, all the parties concerned agreed that only one site could possibly be considered for this important project." A flicker of a smile appeared on Payne's lips. "The surveyor's report revealed that one of the sites is unfortunately infested with a noxious and invasive plant known as Japanese knotweed (laughter). I can sense that honorable Members, like myself, have not come across this problem before, so I will spend a moment explaining its consequences. Japanese knotweed is an extraordinarily aggressive and destructive plant, which, once it takes hold, quickly spreads and renders the land on which it is growing unsuitable for any building project. Before making my final decision, I sought advice as to whether there was a simple solution to this problem. I was assured by experts in the field that Japanese knotweed can in fact be eradicated by chemical treatment." Payne looked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "However, past experience has shown that first attempts are not always successful. The average time before land owned by councils in Birmingham, Liverpool and Dundee was cleared of the weed and passed fit to build on was just over a year.

"Honorable Members will appreciate that it would be irresponsible for my department to risk waiting another twelve months, or possibly even longer, before work can commence on the infested site. I am therefore left with no choice but to select the excellent alternative site for this project." Payne's skin turned chalk white when he heard the word "alternative." "I have been able to announce that my department, with the backing of the British Olympic Committee and the British Cycling Federation, has selected the site in Stratford South for the building of the new velodrome." The minister resumed her place and waited for questions from the floor.

Danny looked at Payne, whose head was resting in his hands.

An usher came running down the steps. "Is your friend feeling all right?" he asked, looking concerned.

"I'm afraid not," said Danny, looking unconcerned. "Can we get him to a lavatory? I have a feeling he's going to be sick."

Danny took Payne by the arm and helped him to his feet, while the usher guided them both up the steps and out of the gallery. He ran ahead and opened the door to allow Payne to stagger into the washroom. Payne began to be sick long before he'd reached a washbasin.

He pulled his tie loose and undid the top button of his shirt, then began to retch again. As he bowed his head and clung on to the side of the basin breathing heavily, Danny helped him off with his jacket. He deftly removed Payne's mobile from an inside pocket of his jacket and pressed a button that revealed a long list of names. He scrolled through them until he reached " Lawrence." As Payne stuck his head in the washbasin for the third time, Danny checked his watch. Davenport would be preparing for his screen test, one last look at the script before going off to makeup. He began to tap out a text message as Payne fell on his knees, sobbing, just as Beth had done when she watched her brother die. Minister didn't select our site. Sorry. Thought you'd want to know. He smiled and touched the "send" button, before returning to the list of contacts. He scrolled on down, stopping when the name "Spencer" appeared.

Spencer Craig looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He had purchased a new shirt and silk tie especially for the occasion. He'd also booked a car to pick him up from chambers at 11:30 A.M. He couldn't risk being late for the Lord Chancellor. Everyone seemed to know about his appointment, as he continually received smiles and murmurs of congratulation-from the head of chambers down to the tea lady.

Craig sat alone in his office pretending to read through a brief that had landed on his desk that morning. There had been a lot of briefs lately. He waited impatiently for the clock to reach eleven-thirty so that he could leave for his appointment at twelve. "First he'll offer you a glass of dry sherry," a senior colleague had told him. "Then he'll chat for a few minutes about the dire state of English cricket, which he blames on sledging, and then suddenly without warning he'll tell you in the strictest confidence that he will be making a recommendation to Her Majesty-he gets very pompous at this point-that your name should be included in the next list of barristers to take silk and be appointed a QC. He then rambles on for a few minutes about the onerous responsibility such an appointment places on any new appointee blah blah."

Craig smiled. It had been a good year, and he intended to celebrate the appointment in style. He pulled open a drawer, took out his checkbook and wrote out a check for two hundred thousand pounds payable to Baker, Tremlett and Smythe. It was the largest check he had ever written in his life, and he'd already asked his bank for a short-term overdraft facility. But then, he had never known Gerald to be so confident about anything before. He leaned back in his chair and savored the moment as he thought about what he would spend the profits on: a new Porsche, a few days in Venice. Even Sarah might fancy a trip on the Orient Express.

The phone on his desk rang.

"Your car has arrived, Mr. Craig."

"Tell him I'll be right down." He put the check in an envelope, addressed it to Gerald Payne at Baker, Tremlett and Smythe, left it on his blotting pad and strolled downstairs. He would be a few minutes early, but he had no intention of keeping the Lord Chancellor waiting. He didn't speak to the driver during the short journey down the Strand, along Whitehall and into Parliament Square. The car stopped outside the entrance to the House of Lords. An officer on the gate checked his name on a clipboard and waved the car through. The driver turned left under a gothic archway and came to a halt outside the Lord Chancellor's office.

Craig remained seated and waited for the driver to open the door for him, savoring every moment. He walked through the little archway to be greeted by a badge messenger carrying another clipboard. His name was checked once again before the messenger accompanied him slowly up a red-carpeted staircase to the Lord Chancellor's office.

The messenger tapped on the heavy oak door, and a voice said, "Come in." He opened the door and stood aside to allow Craig to enter. A young woman was seated at a desk on the far side of the room. She looked up and smiled. "Mr. Craig?"

"Yes," he replied.

"You're a little early, but I'll just check and see if the Lord Chancellor is free."

Craig was about to tell her that he was happy to wait, but she had already picked up the phone. "Mr. Craig is here, Lord Chancellor."

"Please send him in," came back a stentorian voice.

The secretary rose from behind her desk, crossed the room, opened another heavy oak door and ushered Mr. Craig into the Lord Chancellor's office.

Craig could feel the sweat on the palms of his hands as he walked into the magnificent oak-paneled room that overlooked the River Thames. Portraits of former Lord Chancellors were liberally displayed on every wall, and the ornate red and gold Pugin wallpaper left him in no doubt that he was in the presence of the most senior law officer in the land.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Craig," said the Lord Chancellor, opening a thick red folder that lay on the center of his desk. There was no suggestion of a glass of dry sherry as he browsed through some papers. Craig stared at the old man with his high forehead and bushy gray eyebrows, which had proved many a cartoonist's joy. The Lord Chancellor slowly raised his head and stared across the large, ornate desk at his visitor.

"I thought, given the circumstances, Mr. Craig, I should have a word in private rather than your becoming aware of the details in the press."

No mention of the state of English cricket.

"We have received an application," he continued in a dry, even tone, "for a royal pardon in the case of Daniel Arthur Cartwright." He paused to allow Craig to take in the full implication of what he was about to say. "Three Law Lords, led by Lord Beloff, have advised me that having reviewed all the evidence, it is their unanimous recommendation that I should advise Her Majesty to allow a full judicial review of the case." He paused again, clearly not wishing to hurry his words. "As you were a prosecution witness in the original trial, I felt I should warn you that their lordships are minded to call you to appear before them, along with"-he looked back down and checked his folder-"a Mr. Gerald Payne and Mr. Lawrence Davenport, in order to question the three of you concerning your evidence at the original hearing."

Before he could continue, Craig jumped in, "But I thought that before their lordships would even consider overturning an appeal, it was necessary for new evidence to be presented for their consideration?"

"New evidence has been forthcoming."

"The tape?"

"There is nothing in Lord Beloff's report that mentions a tape. There is, however, a claim from Cartwright's former cellmate"-once again the Lord Chancellor peered down at the folder-"a Mr. Albert Crann, who states that he was present when Mr. Toby Mortimer, whom I believe was known to you, stated that he had witnessed the murder of Mr. Bernard Wilson."

"But this is nothing more than hearsay, coming from the lips of a convicted criminal. It wouldn't stand up in any court in the land."

"In normal circumstances I would have to agree with that judgment, Mr. Craig, and would have dismissed the application had not another fresh piece of evidence been presented to their lordships."

"Another fresh piece of evidence?" repeated Craig, suddenly feeling a knot in the pit of his stomach.

"Yes," said the Lord Chancellor. "It appears that Cartwright shared a cell not only with Albert Crann, but also with another prisoner who kept a daily diary in which he meticulously recorded everything that he witnessed in prison, including verbatim accounts of conversations in which he took part."

"So the sole source of these accusations is a diary, which a convicted criminal claims he wrote while he was in prison."

"No one is accusing you of anything, Mr. Craig," said the Lord Chancellor quietly. "However, it is my intention to invite the witness to appear before their lordships. Of course, you will be given every opportunity to present your side of the case."

"Who is this man?" demanded Craig.

The Lord Chancellor turned a page of his folder and double-checked the name, before he looked up and said, "Sir Nicholas Moncrieff."

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

DANNY SAT IN his usual alcove seat at the Dorchester reading The Times. The cycling correspondent reported the Minister of Sport's surprise choice for the velodrome site. It managed a few column inches, tucked in between canoeing and basketball.

Danny had checked through the sports pages of most of the national newspapers earlier that morning and those which bothered to report the minister's statement agreed that she had been left with little choice. None of them, not even The Independent, had had enough space to inform its readers what Japanese knotweed was.

Danny checked his watch. Gary Hall was running a few minutes late and Danny could only imagine the recriminations which must be going on in the offices of Baker, Tremlett and Smythe. He turned to the front page, and was reading about the latest twist in the North Korea nuclear threat, when an out-of-breath Hall appeared by his side.

"Sorry to be late," he gasped, "but the senior partner called me in just as I was about to leave the office. Quite a bit of flack flying around following the minister's statement. Everyone is blaming everyone else." He took a seat opposite Danny and tried to compose himself.

"Just relax and let me order you a coffee," said Danny as Mario walked across.

"And another hot chocolate for you, Sir Nicholas?" Danny nodded, put down his paper and smiled at Hall. "Well, at least no one can blame you, Gary," he said.

"Oh, no one thinks I was even involved," said Hall. "Which is why I've been promoted."

"Promoted?" said Danny. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, but it wouldn't have happened if Gerald Payne hadn't been sacked." Danny somehow managed to stifle a smile. "He was summoned to the senior partner's office first thing this morning and told to clear his desk and be off the premises within an hour. One or two of us found ourselves promoted in the fallout."

"But didn't they realize that it was you and me who took the idea to Payne in the first place?"

"No. Once it turned out that you couldn't raise the full amount, it suddenly became Payne's idea. In fact, you're regarded as someone who's lost his investment, and may even have a claim against the company." Something Danny hadn't even considered-until then.

"I wonder what Payne will do now?" said Danny, probing.

"He'll never get another job in our business," said Hall. "Or at least not if the senior partner has anything to do with it."

"So what will the poor fellow do?" asked Danny, still fishing.

"His secretary tells me he's gone down to Sussex to stay with his mother for a few days. She's chairman of the local constituency that he's still hoping to represent at the next election."

"I can't see why that should be a problem," said Danny, hoping to be contradicted. "Unless of course he advised any of his constituents to invest in Japanese knotweed."

Hall laughed. "That man's a survivor," he said. "My bet is that he'll be a Member of Parliament in a couple of years' time and by then no one will even remember what all the fuss was about."

Danny frowned, suddenly aware that he might have only wounded Payne, although he didn't expect Davenport or Craig to recover quite so easily. "I have another job for you," he said, opening his briefcase and extracting a bundle of papers. "I need you to dispose of a property in Redcliffe Square; number twenty-five. The previous owner-"

"Hi, Nick," said a voice.

Danny looked up. A tall, heavily built man he'd never seen before was towering over him. He was wearing a kilt, had a shock of brown wavy hair and a ruddy complexion, and must have been around the same age as Danny. Think like Danny, behave like Nick. Be Nick. Danny had realized that this situation was bound to arise at some time, but lately he had become so relaxed in his new persona that he didn't think it was still possible for him to be taken by surprise. He was wrong. First, he needed to find out if the man had been at school or in the army with Nick, because it certainly wasn't prison. He stood up.

"Hello," said Danny, giving the stranger a warm smile and shaking him by the hand.

"Can I introduce you to a business associate of mine, Gary Hall."

The man bent down and shook hands with Hall, saying, "Pleased to meet you, Gary. I'm Sandy, Sandy Dawson," he added in a strong Scottish accent.

"Sandy and I go back a long way," said Danny, hoping to find out just how long.

"Sure do," said Dawson. "But I haven't seen Nick since we left school."

"We were at Loretto together," Danny said, smiling at Hall. "So what have you been up to, Sandy?" he asked, desperately searching for another clue.

"Like my father, still in the meat business," said Dawson. "And ever thankful that Highland beef remains the most popular meat in the kingdom. What about you, Nick?"

"I've been taking it pretty easy since…" said Danny, attempting to discover if Dawson knew that Nick had been to prison.

"Yes, of course," said Sandy. "Terrible business, most unfair. But I'm delighted to see you've come through the whole experience unscathed." A puzzled look appeared on Hall's face. Danny couldn't think of a suitable reply. "I hope you're still finding time to play the occasional game of cricket," said Dawson. "Best fast bowler of our generation at school," he said, turning to Hall. "I should know-I was the wicketkeeper."

"And a damn good one," said Danny, slapping him on the back.

"Sorry to interrupt you," said Dawson, "but I couldn't just walk by without saying hello."

"Quite right," said Danny. "It was good to see you, Sandy, after all this time."

"You, too," said Dawson as he turned to leave. Danny sat back down, and hoped that Hall didn't hear the sigh of relief that followed Dawson 's departure. He began taking some more papers out of his briefcase, when Dawson turned back. "I don't suppose anyone has told you, Nick, that Squiffy Humphries died?"

"No, I'm sorry to hear that," said Danny.

"Had a heart attack on the golf course while playing a round with the headmaster. The fifteen has never been the same since Squiffy retired."

"Yes, poor old Squiffy. Great coach."

"I'll leave you in peace," said Dawson. "I thought you'd want to know. The whole of Musselburgh turned out for his funeral."

"No more than he deserved," said Danny. Dawson nodded and walked away.

This time Danny didn't take his eyes off the man until he saw him leave the room.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"Always embarrassing to meet up with old school chums years later," said Hall. "Half the time I can't even remember their names. Mind you, it would be difficult to forget that one. Quite a character."

"Yes," said Danny, quickly passing over the deeds of the house in Red-cliffe Square.

Hall studied the document for some time before he asked, "What sort of price are you expecting the property to fetch?"

"Around three million," said Danny. "There's a mortgage of just over a million, and I've put up another million, so anything above two point two, two point three should show me a profit."

"The first thing I'll have to do is arrange for a survey."

"Pity Payne didn't carry out a survey on the Stratford site."

"He claims he did," said Hall. "My bet is the surveyor had never heard of Japanese knotweed. To be fair, neither had anyone else in the office."

"I certainly hadn't," said Danny. "Well, not until quite recently."

"Any problems with the present owner?" asked Hall as he turned the last page of the deeds. Then he added before Danny could reply, "Is that who I think it is?"

"Yes, Lawrence Davenport, the actor," said Danny.

"Did you know he's a friend of Gerald's?"

"Yur on the front page of the Evening Standard, boss," said Big Al as he pulled out of the Dorchester forecourt and joined the traffic heading toward Hyde Park Corner.

"What do you mean?" said Danny, fearing the worst.

Big Al passed the paper back to Danny. He stared at the banner headline: Royal pardon for Cartwright?

He skimmed through the article before reading it more carefully a second time.

"I don't know whit yur gonnae dae, boss, if they ask Sir Nicholas Moncrieff tae appear in front of a tribunal an gie evidence in defense of Danny Cartwright."

"If all goes to plan," said Danny, looking at a photo of Beth surrounded by hundreds of campaigners from Bow, "it won't be me who's the defendant."

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

CRAIG HAD SENT out for four pizzas, and there would be no waitresses to serve chilled wine for this particular gathering of the Musketeers.

Since leaving the Lord Chancellor's office, he had spent every spare moment trying to find out everything he could about Sir Nicholas Mon-crieff. He had been able to confirm that Moncrieff had shared a cell with Danny Cartwright and Albert Crann while they were inmates at Bel-marsh. He also discovered that Moncrieff had been released from prison six weeks after Cartwright's death.

What Craig couldn't work out was why anyone would be willing to devote his entire existence, as Moncrieff had clearly done, to tracking down and then attempting to destroy three men he had never met. Unless… It was when he placed the two photographs of Moncrieff and Cartwright next to each other that he first began to consider the possibility. It didn't take him too long to come up with a plan to discover if the possibility could in fact be a reality.

There was a knock on the front door. Craig opened it, to be greeted by the forlorn figure of Gerald Payne, clutching on to a cheap bottle of wine. All the self-assurance of their previous meeting had evaporated.

"Is Larry coming?" he asked, not bothering to shake hands with Craig.

"I'm expecting him at any minute," said Craig as he led his old friend through to the drawing room. "So where have you been hiding yourself?"

"I'm staying in Sussex with my mother until this all blows over," Payne replied, sinking into a comfortable chair.

"Any trouble in the constituency?" Craig asked as he poured him a glass of wine.

"Could be worse," said Payne. "The Liberals are spreading rumors, but fortunately they do it so often no one takes much notice. When the editor of the local rag rang, I told him I'd resigned as a partner of Baker, Tremlett and Smythe because I wanted to devote more time to my constituency work in the run-up to the general election. He even wrote a supportive leader the following day."

"I have no doubt you'll survive," said Craig. "Frankly, I'm far more worried about Larry. He not only failed to land the part in Holby City, but he's telling everyone that you texted him about the minister's statement just as he was about to take the screen test."

"But that just isn't true," said Payne. "I was in such a state of shock I didn't get in touch with anyone, not even you."

"Someone did," said Craig. "And I now realize if it wasn't you who sent us both a text, it had to be someone who knew about Larry's screen test as well as my meeting with the Lord Chancellor."

"The same person who had access to my phone at that time."

"The ubiquitous Sir Nicholas Moncrieff."

"The bastard. I'll kill him," said Payne, without thinking what he was saying.

"That's what we should have done when we had the chance," said Craig.

"What do you mean?"

"You'll find out all in good time," said Craig as the doorbell rang. "That must be Larry."

While Craig answered the door, Payne sat thinking about the text messages that Moncrieff must have sent to Larry and Spencer while he was out of action in the Commons washroom, but he was still no nearer to understanding why when the two of them joined him. Payne couldn't believe the change in Larry in such a short time. He was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a crumpled shirt. He clearly hadn't shaved since he'd heard about the announcement. He slumped down in the nearest chair.

"Why, why, why?" were his opening words.

"You'll find out soon enough," said Craig, handing him a glass of wine.

"It was obviously a well-organized campaign," said Payne once Craig had refilled his glass.

"And there's no reason to believe that he's finished with us yet," said Craig.

"But why?" repeated Davenport. "Why lend me a million pounds of his own money if he knew I was going to lose every penny of it?"

"Because he had the security of your home to cover the loan," said Payne. "He couldn't lose."

"And what do you think he did the next day?" said Davenport. "He appointed your old firm to dispose of my house. They've already put a for-sale sign in the front garden and started showing potential buyers around."

"He did what?" said Payne.

"And this morning I received a solicitor's letter telling me that if I didn't vacate the premises by the end of the month, they would have no choice but to…"

"Where will you live?" asked Craig, hoping Davenport wouldn't ask to move in with him.

"Sarah's agreed to put me up until this mess gets sorted out."

"You've not told her anything?" asked Craig anxiously.

"No, not a thing," said Davenport. "Although she obviously knows something's wrong. And she keeps asking me when I first met Moncrieff."

"You can't afford to tell her that," said Craig, "or we'll all end up in even more trouble."

"How can we possibly be in any more trouble?" asked Davenport.

"We will be if Moncrieff is allowed to continue waging his vendetta," said Craig. Payne and Davenport made no attempt to contradict him. "We know that Moncrieff has handed over his diaries to the Lord Chancellor, and no doubt he'll be called on to give evidence before the Law Lords when they consider Cartwright's pardon."

"Oh, God," said Davenport, a look of sheer desperation on his face.

"No need to panic," said Craig. "I think I've come up with a way of finishing off Moncrieff once and for all." Davenport didn't look convinced. "And what's more, there's a possibility that we can still all get our money back, which would include your house, Larry, as well as your paintings."

"But how can that be possible?" asked Davenport.

"Patience, Larry, patience, and all will be revealed."

"I understand his tactics with Larry," said Payne, "because he had nothing to lose. But why put up a million of his own money when he knew it was a bum deal?"

"That was a stroke of sheer genius," admitted Craig.

"No doubt you're going to enlighten us," said Davenport.

"Because by investing that million," said Craig, ignoring his sarcasm, "you were both convinced, as I was, that we must be onto a winner."

"But he was still bound to lose his million," said Payne, "if he knew that the first site was doomed."

"Not if he already owned the site in the first place," said Craig.

Neither of his two guests spoke for some time, as they tried to work out the significance of his words.

"Are you suggesting that we were paying him to buy his own property?" said Payne eventually.

"Worse than that," said Craig, "because I think a piece of advice you gave him, Gerald, meant that he couldn't lose either way. So he ended up not only killing us, but making a killing himself."

The doorbell rang.

"Who's that?" asked Davenport, nearly jumping out of his chair.

"Only our supper," said Craig. "Why don't you two go through to the kitchen? I'll let you know over our pizzas exactly what I have planned for Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, because the time has come for us to fight back."

"I'm not sure I want another confrontation with that man," Davenport admitted as he and Payne walked through to the kitchen.

"We may not have much choice," said Payne.

"Any idea who's joining us?" asked Davenport, when he saw that the table had been laid for four.

Payne shook his head. "Haven't a clue. But I think it's unlikely to be Moncrieff."

"You're right, although it could just be one of his old school chums," said Craig as he joined them in the kitchen. He took the pizzas out of their boxes and placed them in the microwave.

"Are you going to explain what the hell you've been hinting at all evening?" asked Payne.

"Not yet," said Craig, checking his watch. "But you'll only have to wait a few more minutes to find out."

"At least tell me what you meant when you said that Moncrieff may have made a killing because of some advice I gave him," demanded Payne.

"Wasn't it you who told him to buy the second site so that it would be impossible for him to lose out either way?"

"Yes, I did. But if you remember, he didn't have enough money to buy the first site."

"Or that's what he told you," said Craig. "According to the Evening Standard, the other site is now expected to fetch twelve million."

"But why put up a million of his own money for the first site," asked Davenport, "if he already knew he was going to make a killing on the second?"

"Because he always intended to make a killing on both sites," said Craig. "Except on the first one we were to be the victims, while he didn't lose a penny. If you'd told us that it was Moncrieff who was lending you the money in the first place," he said to Davenport, "we could have worked it out."

Davenport looked sheepish, but made no attempt to defend himself.

"But what I still don't understand," said Payne, "is why he put us through all this. It can't just be because he shared a cell with Cartwright."

"I agree, there has to be more to it than that," said Davenport.

"There is," said Craig. "And if it's what I think it is, Moncrieff won't be bothering us for much longer."

Payne and Davenport didn't look convinced.

"At least tell us," said Payne, "how you happened to come across one of Moncrieff's old school friends."

"Ever heard of Old School Chums dot com?"

"So who have you been trying to get in touch with?" asked Payne.

"Anyone who knew Nicholas Moncrieff when he was at school or in the army."

"Did anybody get in touch with you?" asked Davenport as the doorbell rang again.

"Seven, but only one had all the necessary qualifications," said Craig as he left the kitchen to answer the door.

Davenport and Payne looked at each other, but didn't speak.

When Craig reappeared moments later, he was accompanied by a tall, heavily built man who had to lower his head as he passed through the kitchen doorway.

"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Sandy Dawson," said Craig. " Sandy was in the same house at Loretto school as Nicholas Moncrieff."

"For five years," said Dawson, shaking hands with Payne and Davenport. Craig poured him a glass of wine before ushering him toward the vacant seat at the table.

"But why do we need someone who knew Moncrieff at school?" asked Davenport.

"Why don't you tell them, Sandy?" said Craig.

"I contacted Spencer under the impression that he was my old friend Nick Moncrieff, who I haven't seen since leaving school."

"When Sandy got in touch," interrupted Craig, "I told him my reservations about the man claiming to be Moncrieff, and he agreed to put him to the test. It was Gerald who let me know that Moncrieff had an appointment with one of his colleagues, Gary Hall, at the Dorchester that morning. So Sandy turned up there a few minutes later."

"It wasn't difficult to find him," said Dawson. "Everyone from the hall porter to the hotel manager seemed to know Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. He was sitting in an alcove, exactly where the concierge said I would find him. When I first spotted him I felt certain it was Nick, but as it was almost fifteen years since I'd last seen him, I thought I'd better double-check. But when I walked over to have a word with him, he didn't show the slightest sign of recognition, and it's not as if I'm that easy to forget."

"That's one of the reasons I selected you," said Craig. "But it still doesn't constitute proof, not after all this time."

"Which is why I decided to interrupt his meeting," said Dawson, "to see whether it really was Nick."

"And?" asked Payne.

"Very impressive. Same look, same voice, even the same mannerisms, but I still wasn't convinced, so decided to put out a couple of feelers. When Nick was at Loretto he was captain of cricket, and a damn good fast bowler. This man knew that, but when I reminded him that I'd been the first eleven wicketkeeper, he didn't bat an eyelid. That was his first mistake. I never played cricket at school, detested the game. I was in the rugby fifteen, a second row forward-which may not come as a surprise-so I walked away, but I still wondered if he might have forgotten, so I went back to tell him the sad news that Squiffy Humphries had died, and that the whole town had turned out for his funeral. 'Great coach,' the man said. That was his second mistake. Squiffy Humphries was our house matron. She ruled the boys with a rod of iron; even I was frightened of her. There was no way he could ever have forgotten Squiffy. I don't know who that man at the Dorchester was, but I can tell you one thing for certain, he isn't Nicholas Moncrieff."

"Then who the hell is he?" asked Payne.

"I know exactly who he is," said Craig. "And what's more, I can prove it."

Danny had brought all three files up to date. There was no doubt that he had wounded Payne, and even crippled Davenport, but he'd hardly laid a glove on Spencer Craig, other than possibly to delay his appointment as a QC. And now he'd blown his cover, all three of them would be aware who was responsible for their downfall.

While Danny had remained anonymous, he'd been able to pick off his opponents one by one, and even select the ground on which he would fight. But he no longer had that advantage. Now they were only too aware of his presence, leaving him, for the first time, vulnerable and exposed. They would want to exact revenge, and he didn't need to be reminded what had happened the last time they worked as a team.

Danny had hoped to defeat all three of them before they found out who they were up against. Now his only hope was to expose them in court. But that would mean revealing that it was Nick who had been killed in the shower at Belmarsh, not him, and if he was to risk that, his timing had to be perfect.

Davenport had lost his home and his art collection, and had been written out of Holby City even before he'd completed a screen test. He had moved in with his sister in Cheyne Walk, which made Danny feel guilty for the first time; he wondered how Sarah would react if she ever found out the truth.

Payne was on the verge of bankruptcy, but Hall had said that his mother might have bailed him out, and at the next election he could still expect to become the Honorable Member for Sussex Central.

And Craig had lost nothing compared to his friends, and certainly showed no signs of remorse. Danny wasn't in any doubt which one of the Musketeers would lead the counterattack.

Danny put the three files back on the shelf. He had already planned his next move, which he was confident would see all three of them end up in jail. He would appear before the three Law Lords as Mr. Redmayne had requested, and would supply the fresh evidence needed to expose Craig as a murderer, Payne as his accomplice and Davenport as having committed perjury, which had caused an innocent man to be sent to prison for a crime he did not commit.

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

BETH EMERGED FROM the darkness of Knightsbridge tube station. It was a bright, clear afternoon, and the pavements were busy with window-shoppers and locals walking off their Sunday lunch.

Alex Redmayne could not have been kinder or more supportive over the past weeks, and when she left him less than an hour ago, she had felt full of confidence. That confidence was now beginning to ebb away. As she walked in the direction of The Boltons, she tried to recall everything Alex had told her.

Nick Moncrieff was a decent man who had become a loyal friend of Danny's when they were in prison together. Some weeks before he was released, Moncrieff had written to Alex offering to do anything he could to assist Danny, who he was convinced was innocent.

Alex had decided to put that offer to the test, and after Moncrieff's release, he had written to him requesting to have sight of the diaries he had written while in prison, along with any contemporaneous notes concerning the taped conversation that had taken place between Albert Crann and Toby Mortimer. Alex ended the letter by asking if he would agree to appear before the tribunal and give evidence.

The first surprise came when the diaries were delivered to Alex's chambers the following morning. The second was the courier. Albert Crann could not have been more cooperative, answering all the questions Alex put to him, only becoming guarded when he was asked why his boss wouldn't agree to appear before the Law Lords-in fact, wouldn't even consider an off-the-record meeting with Mr. Redmayne in chambers. Alex assumed it must have something to do with Moncrieff wanting to avoid any confrontation with the police until he had completed his probation order. But Alex wasn't willing to give up that easily. Over lunch he had convinced Beth that if she could get Moncrieff to change his mind and agree to give evidence before the Law Lords, it might be the deciding factor in having Danny's name cleared. "No pressure," Beth had said with a smile, but now she was on her own and beginning to feel that pressure more with every step she took.

Alex had showed her a photograph of Moncrieff and warned her that when she first saw him she might think just for a moment that she was looking at Danny. But she must concentrate, and not allow herself to be distracted.

Alex had selected the day, even the hour, that the meeting should take place: a Sunday afternoon around four o'clock. He felt that Nick would be more relaxed at that time and possibly vulnerable to a distressed damsel appearing on his doorstep unannounced.

When Beth left the main road and walked into The Boltons, her pace became even slower. It was only the thought of clearing Danny's name that kept her going. She walked around the semicircular garden with its church in the center until she reached number 12. Before she opened the gate she rehearsed the words she and Alex had agreed on. "My name is Beth Wilson, and I apologize for disturbing you on a Sunday afternoon, but I think you shared a cell with Danny Cartwright, who was…"

By the time Danny had read through the third essay recommended by Professor Mori, he was beginning to feel a little more confident about facing his mentor. He turned to a piece he'd written over a year ago on J. K. Galbraith's theories on a low-tax economy producing… when the doorbell rang. He cursed. Big Al had gone to watch West Ham play Sheffield United. Danny had wanted to join him, but they both agreed that he couldn't take the risk. Would it be possible for him to visit Upton Park next season? He turned his attention back to Galbraith, in the hope that whoever it was would go away, and then the bell rang a second time.

He reluctantly stood up and pushed back his chair. Who would it be this time? A Jehovah's Witness or a double-glazing salesman? Whichever it turned out to be, he already had his first sentence prepared for whoever it had decided to interrupt his Sunday afternoon. He jogged downstairs and walked quickly along the corridor, hoping that he could get rid of them before his concentration broke. The bell rang a third time.

He pulled open the door.

"My name is Beth Wilson, and I apologize for disturbing you on a Sunday…"

Danny stared at the woman he loved. He had thought about this moment every day for the past two years, and what he would say to her. He stood there, speechless.

Beth turned white, and began to shake. "It can't be," she said.

"It is, my darling," Danny replied as he took her in his arms.

A man sitting in a car on the opposite side of the road continued to take photographs.

"Mr. Moncrieff?"

"Who is this?"

"My name is Spencer Craig. I'm a barrister, and I have a proposition to put to you."

"And what might that be, Mr. Craig?"

"If I were able to restore your fortune, your rightful fortune, what would that be worth to you?"

"Name your price."

"Twenty-five percent."

"That sounds a bit steep."

"To give you back your estate in Scotland, to kick out the present occupant of your house in The Boltons, to restore the full amount paid for your grandfather's stamp collection, not to mention ownership of a luxury penthouse in London, which I suspect you don't even know about, and to reclaim your bank accounts in Geneva and London? No, I don't think that's particularly steep, Mr. Moncrieff. In fact, it's quite reasonable when the alternative is a hundred percent of nothing."

"But how could this be possible?"

"Once you've signed a contract, Mr. Moncrieff, your father's fortune will be restored to you."

"And there will be no fees or hidden charges?" asked Hugo suspiciously.

"No fees or hidden charges," promised Craig. "In fact, I'll throw in a little bonus, which I suspect will even please Mrs. Moncrieff."

"And what's that?"

"You sign my contract, and by this time next week she'll be Lady Moncrieff."

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

"DID YOU GET a photo of his leg?" asked Craig.

"Not yet," replied Payne.

"Let me know the moment you do."

"Hold on," said Payne. "He's coming out of the house."

"With his driver?" asked Craig.

"No, with the woman who went inside yesterday afternoon."

"Describe her."

"Late twenties, five foot eight, slim, brown hair, great legs. They're both getting into the back of the car."

"Stay with them," said Craig, "and keep me briefed on where they go." He put the phone down, turned on his computer and pulled up a photo of Beth Wilson, not surprised that she fitted the description. However, he was surprised that Cartwright was willing to take such a risk. Did he now believe that he was invincible?

Once Payne had taken a photograph of Cartwright's left leg, Craig would make an appointment to see Detective Sergeant Fuller. He would then stand aside and let the policeman take all the credit for capturing an escaped murderer and his accomplice.

Big Al dropped Danny outside the entrance to the university. After Beth had given him a kiss, he jumped out of the car and ran up the steps and into the building.

All his plans had been blown away with one kiss, followed by a night with no sleep. When the sun rose the following morning, Danny knew that he could no longer live a life that didn't include Beth, even if it meant leaving the country and having to live abroad.

Craig slipped out of the court while the jury were considering their verdict. He stood on the steps of the Old Bailey and phoned Payne on his mobile.

"Where did they end up?" he asked.

"Cartwright was dropped off at London University. He's doing a Business Studies degree there."

"But Moncrieff already has a degree in English."

"True, but don't forget that when Cartwright was at Belmarsh he took A levels in maths and business studies."

"Another small mistake that he's assumed no one would pick up," said Craig. "So where did the driver take the girl after he'd dropped Cartwright off?"

"They headed for the East End and-"

" Twenty-seven Bacon Road, Bow," said Craig.

"How did you know?"

"It's the home of Beth Wilson, Cartwright's girlfriend-she was with him that night in the alley, don't you remember?"

"How could I forget," snapped Payne.

"Did you manage to get a photograph of her?" asked Craig, ignoring the little outburst.

"Several."

"Good, but I still need a shot of Cartwright's left leg just above the knee before I can pay a visit to Detective Sergeant Fuller." Craig checked his watch. "I'd better get back to court. The jury shouldn't take too long to find my client guilty. Where are you at the moment?"

"Outside twenty-seven Bacon Road."

"Stay well out of sight," said Craig. "That woman would recognize you at a hundred paces. I'll call you as soon as the court rises."

During his lunch break, Danny decided to take a walk and grab a sandwich before he attended Professor Mori's lecture. He tried to recall the six theories of Adam Smith in case the professor's hovering finger ended up pointing at him. He failed to notice the man sitting on a bench on the other side of the road, a camera by his side.

Craig dialed Payne on his mobile moments after the court had risen.

"She didn't leave the house for over an hour," said Payne, and when she came out, she was carrying a large suitcase."

"Where did she go?" asked Craig.

"She was driven to her office at Mason Street in the City."

"And did she take the suitcase with her?"

"No, she left it in the boot of the car."

"So she intends to stay at The Boltons for at least another night."

"Looks that way. Or do you think they're planning to skip the country?" asked Payne.

"They're unlikely to consider doing that until after his final meeting with his probation officer on Thursday morning, when he will have completed his license."

"Which means we've only got another three days to gather all the evidence we need," said Payne.

"So what's he been up to this afternoon?"

"He left the university at four, and was driven back to The Boltons. He went into the house, but the driver left again straight away. I followed him in case he was picking up the girl."

"And was he?"

"Yes. He collected her from work and drove her back to the house."

"And the suitcase?"

"He carried it inside."

"Perhaps she thinks it's safe for her to move in now. Did he go for a run?"

"If he did," said Payne, "it must have been while I was following the girl."

"Don't bother with her tomorrow," said Craig. "From now on concentrate on Cartwright, because if we're going to flush him out, only one thing matters."

"The photograph," said Payne. "But what if he doesn't go for a run in the morning?"

"All the more reason to ignore the girl and stick with him," said Craig. "Meanwhile, I'll bring Larry up to date."

"Is he doing anything to earn his keep?"

"Not a lot," said Craig. "But we can't afford to antagonize him while he's still living with his sister."

Craig was shaving when the phone rang. He cursed.

"They left the house together again."

"So he didn't go for a run this morning?"

"Not unless it was before five A.M. I'll call again if there's any change in his routine."

Craig flicked the phone closed and continued to shave. He cut himself. He cursed again.

He needed to be in court by ten o'clock, when the judge would pass sentence on his aggravated burglary case. His client would probably end up with a two-year sentence, despite the fact that he had asked for twenty-three other offenses to be taken into consideration.

Craig dabbed on some aftershave as he thought about the charges Cartwright would end up facing: escaping from Belmarsh while impersonating another prisoner, theft of a stamp collection worth over fifty million dollars, falsifying checks on two bank accounts, with at least twenty-three other offenses to be taken into consideration. Once the judge had considered that lot, Cartwright wouldn't be seeing the light of day until he was eligible for his old-age pension. Craig suspected that the girl would also end up facing a long spell behind bars for aiding and abetting a criminal. And once they found out exactly what Cartwright had been up to since escaping from prison, no one would be talking about offering him a pardon. Craig was even beginning to feel confident that the Lord Chancellor would be calling him back again and this time he would be offered a dry sherry, while the two of them discussed the decline of English cricket.

"Wur bein followed," said Big Al.

"What makes you think that?" asked Danny.

"I spotted a car following us yisterday. Now it's there again."

"Take a left at the next junction and see if he stays with us."

Big Al nodded, and without indicating, suddenly swung left.

"Is he still following us?" asked Danny.

"Naw, he drove straight on," said Big Al, checking his rearview mirror.

"What type of car was it?"

"A dark blue Ford Mondeo."

"How many of those do you imagine there are in London?" asked Danny.

Big Al grunted. "He wis following us," he repeated as he turned into The Boltons.

"I'm going for a run," said Danny. "I'll let you know if I see anyone following me."

Big Al didn't laugh.

"Cartwright's chauffeur spotted me," said Payne, "so I had no choice but to drive on and keep out of sight for the rest of the day. I'm on my way to the hire company to exchange the car for a different model. I'll be back on duty first thing tomorrow morning. But I'm going to have to be more careful in future because Cartwright's driver is good. My bet is that he's ex-police or army, which means I'll need to change my car every day."

"What did you just say?" asked Craig.

"I'm going to have to change-"

"No, before that."

"Cartwright's driver must be police or army trained."

"Of course he is," said Craig. "Don't forget that Moncrieff's driver was locked up in the same cell as him and Cartwright."

"You're right," said Payne. "Crann, Albert Crann."

"Better known as Big Al. I've got a feeling that Detective Sergeant Fuller is going to end up with a royal flush-king, queen and now jerk."

"Do you want me to go back this evening and double-check?" asked Payne.

"No. Crann may well turn out to be a bonus, but we can't risk him working out that we're onto them. Keep well out of their way until tomorrow afternoon, because you can be sure that Crann will now be on the lookout for you. Once he drops Cartwright off at the house and leaves to pick up the girlfriend, that's when I think you'll find Cartwright'll go for his run."

As Danny walked down the corridor he was greeted by Professor Mori, who was talking to students who were sitting their exams.

"A year today, Nick," he said, "and it will be your turn to take your finals." Danny had quite forgotten about how little time he had left before his exams, and didn't bother to tell the professor that he had no idea where he would be a year today. "When I'll be expecting great things of you," added the professor.

"Let's hope I live up to your expectations."

"Nothing wrong with my expectations," said Mori, "although you're typical of someone who gets himself educated outside of the mainstream and then imagines he has a lot of catching up to do. I think you'll find, Nick, that when the time comes to take your exams, you'll have not only caught up, but overtaken most of your contemporaries."

"I'm flattered, professor," said Danny.

"I don't do flattey," said the professor as he turned his attention to another student.

Danny marched out onto the street to find Big Al holding open the back door of his car. "Anyone been following us today?"

"Naw, boss," said Big Al, climbing behind the wheel.

Danny didn't let Big Al know that he thought it was quite possible that someone was following them. He wondered how much time he had left before Craig stumbled across the truth, if he hadn't done so already. Danny only needed a couple more days before his probation would be completed, and then the whole world would know the truth.

When they drew up outside The Boltons, Danny jumped out and ran into the house.

"Do you want some tea?" Molly asked as he bounded up the stairs.

"No thanks, I'm going for a run."

Danny threw off his clothes and put on his running kit. He had decided to go on an extended run as he needed time to think about his meeting with Alex Redmayne the following morning. As he ran out of the front door, he saw Big Al making his way down to the kitchen, no doubt to grab a cup of tea with Molly before he left to pick up Beth. Danny jogged off down the road in the direction of the Embankment, a flood of adrenaline being released after sitting on his backside and listening to lectures for most of the day.

As he ran past Cheyne Walk he avoided looking up at Sarah's apartment, where he knew her brother was now living. If he had done so, he might have spotted another man he would have recognized standing by an open window taking a photograph of him. Danny continued toward Parliament Square, and when he passed the St. Stephen's entrance to the House of Commons he thought about Payne and wondered where he was now.

He was standing on the opposite side of the road focusing his camera, trying to look like a tourist taking a picture of Big Ben.

"Did you get a half-decent photograph?" asked Craig.

"Enough to fill a gallery," replied Payne.

"Well done. Bring them over to my place now, and we can have a look at them over dinner."

"Pizza again?" said Payne.

"Not for much longer. Once Hugo Moncrieff pays up, we'll not only finish off Cartwright, but make a handsome profit at the same time, which I'm fairly confident wasn't part of his long-term plan."

"I'm not quite sure what Davenport has done to deserve his million."

"I agree, but he's still a bit flaky, and we don't need him opening his mouth at the wrong time, especially now he's living with Sarah. See you soon, Gerald."

Craig put the phone down, poured himself a drink and thought about what he was going to say before he called the man he'd been looking forward to having a word with all week.

"Could I speak to Detective Sergeant Fuller?" he said when the phone was answered.

"Inspector Fuller," said a voice. "Who shall I say is calling?"

"Spencer Craig. I'm a barrister."

"I'll put you through, sir."

"Mr. Craig, it's been a long time since I've heard from you. I'm unlikely to forget the last occasion you called."

"Nor me," said Craig, "and that's the reason I'm phoning this time, inspector-many congratulations."

"Thank you," said Fuller, "but I find it hard to believe that's the only reason you called."

"You're right," said Craig, laughing. "But I do have a piece of information that might make your promotion to chief inspector even quicker."

"You have my full attention," said Fuller.

"But I have to make it clear, inspector, that you didn't get the information from me. I'm sure you'll understand why, once you discover who's involved. And I'd rather not talk about it over the phone."

"Of course," said Fuller, "so where and when would you like to meet?"

"The Sherlock Holmes, twelve-fifteen tomorrow?"

"How appropriate," said Fuller. "I'll see you there, Mr. Craig."

Craig put the phone down and thought he'd make one more call before Gerald turned up, but just as he picked up the phone, the doorbell rang. When he opened the door he found Payne standing under the porch, grinning. He hadn't seen him looking so pleased with himself for some time. Payne walked straight past Craig without uttering a word, marched into the kitchen and spread six photographs out on the table.

Craig looked down at the images and immediately understood why Payne was so smug. Just above the knee on Danny's left leg was a scar from a wound that Craig remembered inflicting, and although the scar had faded, it was still clear to the naked eye.

"That's all the evidence Fuller will need," said Craig as he picked up the kitchen phone and dialed a number in Scotland.

"Hugo Moncrieff," said a voice.

"Soon to be Sir Hugo," said Craig.

CHAPTER SEVENTY

"AS YOU KNOW, Nicholas, this will be our last meeting."

"Yes, Ms. Bennett."

"We have not always seen eye to eye, but I do feel that we have both come through the experience unscathed."

"I agree, Ms. Bennett."

"When you walk out of this building for the last time, you will be a free man, having completed your license."

"Yes, Ms. Bennett."

"But before I can sign you off officially, I have to ask you a few questions."

"Of course, Ms. Bennett."

She picked up a chewed biro and looked down at the long list of questions that the Home Office requires to be answered before a prisoner can finally be discharged.

"Are you currently taking any drugs?"

"No, Ms. Bennett."

"Have you recently been tempted to commit a crime?"

"Not recently, Ms. Bennett."

"During the past year have you mixed with any known criminals?"

"Not known criminals," said Danny. Ms. Bennett looked up. "But I've stopped mixing with them, and have no desire to meet up with them again unless it's in court."

"I'm relieved to hear that," said Ms. Bennett as she ticked the relevant box. "Do you still have somewhere to live?"

"Yes, but I anticipate moving quite soon." The pen hovered. "To a place I've been to before, which is officially sanctioned." The biro ticked another box.

"Are you presently living with your family?"

"Yes, I am."

Ms. Bennett looked up again. "The last time I asked you that question, Nicholas, you told me that you were living alone."

"We've recently been reconciled."

"I'm delighted to hear that, Nicholas," she said, a third of the boxes ticked.

"Do you have any dependents?"

"Yes, one daughter, Christy."

"So are you presently living with your wife and daughter?"

"Beth and I are engaged, and as soon as I've sorted out one or two problems I still have to deal with, we plan to be married."

"I'm delighted to hear that," said Ms. Bennett. "Might the Probation Service be able to assist you with these problems?"

"It's kind of you to ask, Ms. Bennett, but I don't think so. However, I do have an appointment with my counsel tomorrow morning, and I'm rather hoping that he will be able to help me move things along."

"I see," said Ms. Bennett returning to her questions. "Does your partner have a full-time job?"

"Yes, she does," said Danny. "She is the PA to the chairman of a City insurance company."

"So once you find a job, you'll be a two-income family."

"Yes, but for the foreseeable future, my salary will be considerably less than hers."

"Why? What job are you hoping to take up?"

"I'm expecting to be offered a position as the librarian in a large institution," said Danny.

"I can't think of anything more worthwhile," said Ms. Bennett, ticking another box and moving on to the next question. "Are you thinking of traveling abroad in the near future?"

"I have no plans to do so," said Danny.

"And finally," said Ms. Bennett, "are you worried that at some time in the future you might commit another crime?"

"I've made a decision that will render that option impossible for the foreseeable future," he assured her.

"I'm delighted to hear that," said Ms. Bennett as she ticked the final box. "That completes my questions. Thank you, Nicholas."

"Thank you, Ms. Bennett."

"I do hope," said Ms. Bennett as she rose from behind her desk, "that your lawyer will be able to get to grips with these problems that are troubling you."

"That's kind of you, Ms. Bennett," said Danny as they shook hands. "Let's hope so."

"And should you ever feel in need of any help or assistance, don't forget that I am only a phone call away."

"I think it's quite possible that someone will be in touch with you in the near future," said Danny.

"I look forward to hearing from them," said Ms. Bennett, "and I hope everything works out well for you and Beth."

"Thank you," said Danny.

"Goodbye, Nicholas."

"Goodbye, Ms. Bennett."

Nicholas Moncrieff opened the door and walked out onto the street a free man. Tomorrow he would be Danny Cartwright.

"Are you awake?"

"Yes," said Beth.

"Are you still hoping I'll change my mind?"

"Yes, but I know it's pointless to try and persuade you, Danny. You've always been as stubborn as a mule. I only hope you realize that if it turns out to be the wrong decision, this could be our last night together."

"But if I'm right," said Danny, "we'll have ten thousand nights like this."

"But we could have a lifetime of nights like this without you having to take such a risk."

"I've been taking that risk every day since I left prison. You have no idea, Beth, what it's like to be continually looking over your shoulder, waiting for someone to say, 'The game's up, Danny boy, you're going back to jail for the rest of your life.' At least this way, someone might be willing to listen to my side of the story."

"But what convinced you that this was the only way to prove your innocence?"

"You did," said Danny. "When I saw you standing in the doorway-'I'm sorry to disturb you, Sir Nicholas,'-he mimicked-"I realized that I no longer wanted to be Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. I'm Danny Cartwright, and I'm in love with Beth Bacon of Wilson Road."

Beth laughed. "I can't remember when you last called me that."

"When you were a grotty little eleven-year-old in pigtails."

Beth fell back on the pillow and didn't speak for some time. Danny wondered if she'd fallen asleep, until she gripped his hand and said, "But it's just as likely that you'll end up spending the rest of your life in jail."

"I've had more than enough time to think about that," said Danny, "and I'm convinced that if I walk into a police station with Alex Redmayne and give myself up-along with this house, all my assets and, most important of all, you, don't you think it might cross somebody's mind that I could be innocent?"

"Most people wouldn't be willing to take that risk," said Beth. "They'd be quite happy to spend the rest of their lives as Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, with everything that goes with it."

"But that's the point, Beth. I'm not Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. I'm Danny Cartwright."

"And I'm not Beth Moncrieff, but I'd rather be that than spending the next twenty years visiting you in Belmarsh on the first Sunday of every month."

"But not a day would go by when you weren't looking over your shoulder, misunderstanding the slightest innuendo, and having to avoid anyone who just might have known Danny or even Nick. And who could you share your secret with? Your mother? My mother? Your friends? The answer is, nobody. And what do we tell Christy when she's old enough to understand? Should we expect her to go on living a life of deceit, never knowing who her parents really are? No, if that's the alternative, I'd prefer to take the risk. After all, if three Law Lords believe my case is strong enough to consider a royal pardon, perhaps they'll feel that I have an even stronger case if I'm willing to give up so much to prove my innocence."

"I know you're right, Danny, but the last few days have been the happiest of my life."

"Mine, too, Beth, but they'll be happier still when I'm a free man. I have enough faith in human nature to believe that Alex Redmayne, Fraser Munro and even Sarah Davenport will not rest until they see that justice is done."

"You rather fancy Sarah Davenport, don't you," said Beth, running her fingers through his hair.

Danny smiled at her. "I must admit that Sir Nicholas Moncrieff did, but Danny Cartwright? Never."

"Why don't we spend one more day together," she said, "and make it something we'll never forget. And as it could be your last day of freedom, I'll let you do anything you desire."

"Let's stay in bed," said Danny, "and make love all day."

"Men," sighed Beth with a smile.

"We could take Christy to the zoo in the morning, and then have lunch at Ramsey's fish and chip shop."

"Then what?" asked Beth.

"I'll go to Upton Park and watch the Hammers, while you take Christy back to your mother's."

"And in the evening?"

"You can choose whichever film you like… as long as it's the new James Bond."

"And after that?"

"Same as every night this week," he said taking her in his arms.

"In which case I think we'd better stick to plan A," said Beth, "and make sure you're on time for the appointment with Alex Redmayne tomorrow morning."

"I can't wait to see his face," said Danny. "He thinks he has an appointment with Sir Nicholas Moncrieff to discuss the diaries and the possibility that he might get him to change his mind and agree to appear as a witness, while in fact he'll come face to face with Danny Cartwright, who wants to give himself up."

"Alex will be delighted," said Beth. "He never stops saying, 'If only I had a second chance.' "

"Well, he's about to be given one. And I can tell you, Beth, I can't wait for that meeting, because it will make me free for the first time in years." Danny leaned across and kissed her gently on the lips. As she slipped out of her nightdress, he placed a hand on her thigh.

"This is something else you're going to have to go without for the next few months," whispered Beth, as a noise like a clap of thunder reverberated from the floor below.

"What the hell was that?" said Danny, switching on the bedside light. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs. He swung his legs out of bed as three police officers dressed in flak jackets and carrying batons burst into the bedroom, with three more following close behind. The first three grabbed Danny and threw him to the floor, although he hadn't made any attempt to resist. Two of them pressed his face into the carpet while the third held his arms behind his back and snapped a pair of handcuffs on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could just see a policewoman pinning a naked Beth against the wall, while another handcuffed her.

"She's done nothing!" he shouted as he broke away and began to charge toward them, but before he'd taken a second step, the full force of a baton landed on the back of his skull and he collapsed to the floor.

Two men leaped on top of him, one pressing a knee into the middle of his spine while the other sat on his legs. When Inspector Fuller walked into the room, they yanked Danny to his feet.

"Caution them," Fuller said as he sat on the end of the bed and lit a cigarette.

Once the ritual had been completed, he stood up and strolled across to Danny.

"This time, Cartwright," he said, their faces only inches apart, "I'm going to make sure they throw away the key. And as for your girlfriend, no more Sunday afternoon visits, because she's going to be safely locked away in a prison of her own."

"On what charge?" spat out Danny.

"Aiding and abetting should fit the bill. The usual tariff is about six years, if I remember correctly. Take them away."

Danny and Beth were dragged downstairs like sacks of potatoes and out through the front door where three police cars, lights flashing, back doors open, awaited them. Bedroom lights all around the square were flicking on as neighbors whose sleep had been interrupted peered out of their windows to see what was going on at number 12.

Danny was thrown into the back of the middle car, to be sandwiched between two officers, just a towel covering him. He could see Big Al suffering the same treatment in the car in front of him. The cars drove out of the square in convoy, never breaking the speed limit, no sirens blaring. Inspector Fuller was pleased that the whole operation had taken less than ten minutes. His informer had proved reliable right down to the last detail.

Only one thought went through Danny's mind. Who would believe him when he told them that he'd had an appointment with his barrister later that morning when he had intended to give himself up before reporting to the nearest police station?

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

"YOU HAVEN'T ARRIVED a moment too soon," she said.

"That bad?" said Alex.

"Worse," replied his mother. "When will the Home Office realize that when judges retire, not only are they sent home for the rest of their lives, but the only people they have left to judge are their innocent wives."

"So what are you recommending?" asked Alex as they walked into the drawing room.

"That judges should be shot on their seventieth birthday, and their wives granted a royal pardon and given their pensions by a grateful nation."

"I may have come up with a more acceptable solution," suggested Alex.

"Like what? Making it legal to assist judges' wives to commit suicide?"

"Something a little less drastic," said Alex. "I don't know if his lordship has told you, but I sent him the details of a case I'm currently working on, and frankly I could do with his advice."

"If he turns you down, Alex, I won't feed him again."

"Then I must be in with a chance," said Alex as his father strolled into the room.

"A chance of what?" the old man asked.

"A chance of some help on a case that-"

"The Cartwright case?" said his father, staring out of the window. Alex nodded. "Yes, I've just finished reading the transcripts. As far as I can see, there aren't many more laws left for the lad to break: murder, escaping from prison, theft of fifty million dollars, cashing checks on two bank accounts that didn't belong to him, selling a stamp collection he didn't own, traveling abroad on someone else's passport, and even claiming a baronetcy that should rightfully have been inherited by someone else. You really can't blame the police for throwing the book at him."

"Does that mean you're not willing to help me?" asked Alex.

"I didn't say that," said Mr. Justice Redmayne, turning around to face his son. "On the contrary. I'm at your service, because of one thing I'm absolutely certain. Danny Cartwright is innocent."