A Prisoner of Birth

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

DANNY CARTWRIGHT SAT on the small wooden chair in the dock and waited for the clock to strike ten so the trial could begin. He looked down into the well of the court to see his two counsel deep in conversation as they waited for the judge to appear.

Danny had spent an hour with Alex Redmayne and his junior in an interview room below the court earlier that morning. They had done their best to reassure him, but he knew all too well that although he was innocent of murdering Bernie, he had no defense to the charges of fraud, theft, deception and escaping from prison; a combined tariff of eight to ten years seemed to be the general consensus, from the barrack-room lawyers of Belmarsh to the eminent silks plying their trade at the Old Bailey.

No one needed to tell Danny that if the sentence was added to his original tariff, the next time he came out of Belmarsh would be for his own funeral.

The press benches to Danny's left were packed with reporters, notepads open, pens poised as they waited to add to the thousands of column inches they had already written over the past six months. The life story of Danny Cartwright, the only man ever to escape from Britain's top-security prison, who had stolen more than fifty million dollars from a Swiss Bank after selling a stamp collection that didn't belong to him, and had ended up being arrested in The Boltons in the early hours of the morning while in the arms of his fiancée (The Times), sexy childhood sweetheart (The Sun). The press couldn't make up their minds if Danny was the Scarlet Pimpernel or Jack the Ripper. The story had fascinated the public for months, and the first day of the trial was taking on the status of an opening night in the West End, with queues beginning to form outside the Old Bailey at four o'clock that morning for a theater that seated less than a hundred and was rarely full. Most people agreed that Danny Cartwright was more likely to spend the rest of his days in Belmarsh than The Boltons.

Alex Redmayne and his junior, The Rt. Hon. Sir Matthew Redmayne KCMG QC, could not have done more to help Danny during the past six months, while he had been reincarcerated in a cell little bigger than Molly's broom cupboard. They had both refused to charge a penny for their services, although Sir Matthew had warned Danny that if they were able to convince the jury that the profits he'd accrued during the past two years belonged to him and not to Hugo Moncrieff, he would be presenting a hefty bill plus expenses, for what he called refreshers. It was one of the few occasions during that time when all three of them had burst out laughing.

Beth had been released on bail the morning after she had been arrested. But no one had been surprised when neither Danny nor Big Al were granted the same latitude.

Mr. Jenkins was waiting in reception at Belmarsh to greet them, and Mr. Pascoe made sure that they ended up sharing a cell. Within a month Danny was back in his post as the prison librarian, just as he had told Ms. Bennett he would be. Big Al was allocated a job in the kitchen, and although the cooking didn't compare to Molly's, at least they both ended up with the best of the worst.

Alex Redmayne never once reminded Danny that if he had taken his advice and pleaded guilty to manslaughter at the original trial, he would now be a free man, managing Wilson 's garage, married to Beth and helping to raise their family. But a free man in what sense? Alex could hear him asking.

There had also been moments of triumph to sit alongside disaster. The gods prefer it that way. Alex Redmayne had been able to convince the court that although Beth was technically guilty of the offense she had been charged with, she had only been aware that Danny was still alive for four days, and they had already made an appointment to see Alex in his chambers on the morning she had been arrested. The judge had given Beth a six-month suspended sentence. Since then she had visited Danny at Belmarsh on the first Sunday of every month.

The judge had not taken quite as lenient a view when it came to the role Big Al had played in the conspiracy. Alex had pointed out in his opening speech that his client, Albert Crann, had made no financial gain from the Moncrieff fortune, other than to receive a salary as Danny's driver while being allowed to sleep in a small room on the top floor of his house in The Boltons. Mr. Arnold Pearson QC, representing the Crown, then produced a bombshell that Alex hadn't seen coming.

"Can Mr. Crann explain how the sum of ten thousand pounds was deposited in his private account only days after he'd been discharged from prison?"

Big Al had no explanation, and even if he had, he wasn't about to tell Pearson where the money had come from.

The jury were not impressed.

The judge sent Big Al back to Belmarsh to serve another five years-the rest of his original sentence. Danny made sure he quickly became enhanced, and that he behaved impeccably during his period of incarceration. Glowing reports from senior officer Ray Pascoe, confirmed by the governor, meant that Big Al would be released on a tag in less than a year. Danny would miss him, though he knew that if he even hinted as much, Big Al would cause just enough trouble to ensure that he remained at Belmarsh until Danny was finally released.

Beth had one good piece of news to tell Danny on her Sunday afternoon visit.

"I'm pregnant."

"Christ, we only had four nights together," said Danny as he took her in his arms.

"I don't think that was the number of times we made love," said Beth, before adding, "Let's hope it will be a brother for Christy."

"If it is, we can call him Bernie."

"No," said Beth, "we're going to call him-" The klaxon signaled the end of visits and drowned out her words.

"Can I ask you a question?" said Danny when Pascoe escorted him back to his cell.

"Of course," Pascoe replied. "Doesn't mean I'll answer it."

"You always knew, didn't you?" Pascoe smiled, but didn't reply. "What made you so sure that I wasn't Nick?" asked Danny as they reached his cell.

Pascoe turned the key in the lock and heaved open the heavy door. Danny walked in, assuming he wasn't going to answer his question, but then Pascoe nodded at the photograph of Beth that Danny had sellotaped back on to the wall.

"Oh, my God," said Danny, shaking his head. "I never took her photo off the wall."

Pascoe smiled, stepped back into the corridor and slammed the cell door shut.

Danny looked up at the public gallery to see Beth, now six months pregnant, looking down at him with that same smile he remembered so well from their playground days at Clement Attlee comprehensive and which he knew would still be there until the end of his days, however long the judge decreed his sentence should run.

Danny's and Beth's mothers sat on either side of her, a constant support. Also seated in the gallery were many of Danny's friends and supporters from the East End who would go to their graves proclaiming his innocence. Danny's eyes settled on Professor Amirkhan Mori, a foul-weather friend, before moving on to someone seated at the end of the row, whom he hadn't expected to see again. Sarah Davenport leaned over the balcony, and smiled down at him.

In the well of the court, Alex and his father were still deep in conversation. The Times had devoted a whole page to the father and son who would be appearing together as defense counsel in the case. It was only the second time in history that a high-court judge had returned to the role of barrister, and it was certainly the first occasion in anyone's memory that a son would lead his father.

Danny and Alex had renewed their friendship during the past six months, and he knew they would remain close for the rest of their lives. Alex's father came from the same growth as Professor Mori-a rare vintage. Both men were passionate: Professor Mori in the pursuit of learning, Sir Matthew in the pursuit of justice. The old judge's presence in the courtroom had made even practiced lawyers and cynical journalists think more carefully about the case, but they remained puzzled as to what had convinced him that Danny Cartwright could possibly be innocent.

Mr. Arnold Pearson QC and his junior were seated at the other end of the bench, checking over the opening for the Crown line by line and making the occasional small emendation. Danny was well prepared for the outburst of venom and bile that he was sure would come when Pearson rose from his place and told the court that not only was the defendant an evil and dangerous criminal, but that there was only one place the jury should consider dispatching him for the rest of his life.

Alex Redmayne had told Danny that he only expected three witnesses to give evidence: Chief Inspector Fuller, Sir Hugo Moncrieff and Fraser Munro. But Alex and his father already had plans to ensure that a fourth witness would also be called. Alex had warned Danny that whichever judge was appointed to try the case would do everything in his power to prevent that happening.

It came as no surprise to Sir Matthew that Mr. Justice Hackett had called both counsel to his chambers before proceedings began, to warn them to steer clear of any reference to the original murder trial, the verdict of which had been reached by a jury and later upheld by three judges at the court of appeal. He went on to stress that should either party attempt to place on record the contents of a particular tape as evidence, or mention the names of Spencer Craig, now an eminent QC, Gerald Payne, who had been elected to Parliament, or the well-known actor Lawrence Davenport, they could expect to face his wrath.

It was common knowledge in legal circles that Mr. Justice Hackett and Sir Matthew Redmayne had not been on speaking terms for the past thirty years. Sir Matthew had won too many cases in the lower courts when they were both fledgling barristers for anyone to be left in much doubt which of them was the superior advocate. The press were hoping that their rivalry would be rekindled once the trial was under way.

The jury had been selected the previous day, and were now waiting to be called into court so that they could hear the evidence before passing a final verdict in the case of The Crown versus Daniel Arthur Cartwright.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

MR. JUSTICE HACKETT peered around the courtroom much as an opening batsman does when checking to see where the fielders have been placed to catch him out. His eyes rested on Sir Matthew Redmayne, who was at second slip, waiting for the opening ball. None of the other players caused the judge the slightest apprehension, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to relax if Sir Matthew was put on to bowl.

He turned his attention to the opening bowler for the home team, Mr. Arnold Pearson QC not known for taking early wickets.

"Mr. Pearson, are you ready to make your opening?"

"I am, m'lord," replied Pearson, rising slowly from his place. He tugged on the lapels of his gown and touched the top of his ancient wig, then placed his file on a little raised stand and began to read the first page as if he had never seen it before.

"Members of the jury," he began, beaming across at the twelve citizens who had been selected to pass judgment on this occasion. "My name is Arnold Pearson, and I shall be leading for the Crown in this case. I will be assisted by my junior, Mr. David Simms. The defense will be led by Mr. Alex Redmayne, assisted by his junior, Sir Matthew Redmayne." All eyes in the courtroom turned to look at the old man who was slouched on the corner of the bench, seemingly fast asleep.

"Members of the jury," Pearson continued, "the defendant is charged with five counts. The first is that he did wilfully escape from Belmarsh prison, a high-security establishment in southeast London, while in custody for a previous offense.

"The second count is that the defendant did steal from Sir Hugo Moncrieff an estate in Scotland, comprising a fourteen-bedroom mansion and twelve thousand acres of arable land.

"The third count is that he occupied a house, namely number twelve The Boltons, London SW3, which was not lawfully his.

"The fourth count relates to the theft of a unique stamp collection and the subsequent sale of that collection for the sum of over twenty-five million pounds.

"And the fifth count is that the defendant cashed checks on a bank account at Coutts in the Strand, London, and transferred money from a private bank in Switzerland, neither of which he was entitled to do, and that he profited by so doing.

"The Crown will show that all five of these counts are interlinked, and were committed by one person, the defendant, Daniel Cartwright, who falsely passed himself off as Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, the rightful and legal beneficiary of the late Sir Alexander Moncrieff's will. In order to prove this, members of the jury, I will first have to take you back to Belmarsh prison to show how the defendant was able to place himself in a position to commit these audacious crimes. To do that, it may be necessary for me to mention in passing the original offense of which Cartwright was convicted."

"You will do no such thing," interjected Mr. Justice Hackett sternly. "The original crime committed by the defendant has no bearing on the offenses that are being tried in this court. You may not refer to that earlier case unless you can show a direct and relevant connection between it and this case." Sir Matthew wrote down the words, direct and relevant connection. "Do I make myself clear, Mr. Pearson?"

"You most certainly do, my lord, and I apologize. It was remiss of me."

Sir Matthew frowned. Alex would have to develop an ingenious argument to show that the two crimes were linked if he didn't want to arouse the wrath of Mr. Justice Hackett and be stopped in full flow. Sir Matthew had already given the matter some considerable thought.

"I will tread more carefully in future," Pearson added as he turned the next page of his file.

Alex wondered if Pearson had offered up this hostage at an early stage in the hope that Hackett would come down on him from a great height, as he knew only too well that the judge's ruling was far more helpful to the prosecution than to the defense.

"Members of the jury," continued Pearson, "I want you to keep in mind all five offenses, as I am about to demonstrate how they are interwoven, and therefore could only have been committed by one person: the defendant, Daniel Cartwright." Pearson tugged on his gown once again before proceeding. "June seventh 2002 is a day that may well be etched on your memories, as it was the occasion on which England beat Argentina in the World Cup." He was pleased to see how many members of the jury smiled in recollection. "On that day, a tragedy took place at Belmarsh prison, which is the reason we are all here today. While the vast majority of the inmates were on the ground floor watching the football match on television, one prisoner chose that moment to take his own life. That man was Nicholas Moncrieff, who at approximately one-fifteen that afternoon, hanged himself in the prison showers. During the previous two years, Nicholas Moncrieff had shared a cell with two other inmates, one of whom was the defendant, Daniel Cartwright.

"The two men were roughly the same height, and were only a few months apart in age. In fact, they were so similar in appearance that in prison uniform they were often mistaken for brothers. My lord, with your permission, I will at this juncture distribute, among the members of the jury, photographs of Moncrieff and Cartwright so that they may see for themselves the similarities between the two men."

The judge nodded and the clerk of the court collected a bundle of photographs from Pearson's junior. He handed two up to the judge, before distributing the remainder among the jury. Pearson leaned back and waited until he was satisfied that every member of the jury had been given time to consider the photographs. Once they had done so, he said, "I shall now describe how Cartwright took advantage of this likeness, cutting his hair and changing his accent, to cash in on the tragic death of Nicholas Moncrieff. And cash in on it is literally what he did. However, as in all audacious crimes, a little luck was required.

"The first piece of luck was that Moncrieff asked Cartwright to take care of a silver chain and key, a signet ring bearing his family crest and a watch inscribed with his initials that he wore at all times except when he took a shower. The second piece of luck was that Moncrieff had an accomplice who was in the right place at the right time.

"Now, members of the jury, you may well ask how it could be possible for Cartwright, who was serving a twenty-two-year sentence for-"

Alex was on his feet and about to protest when the judge said, "Don't go any further down that road, Mr. Pearson, unless you wish to try my patience."

"I do apologize, my lord," said Pearson, well aware that any member of the jury who hadn't followed the extensive press coverage of the case over the past six months would now be in little doubt what crime Cartwright had originally been sentenced for.

"As I was saying, you may wonder how Cartwright, who was serving a twenty-two-year sentence, was able to change identity with another prisoner who had only been sentenced to eight years, and who, more importantly, was due to be released in six weeks' time. Surely their DNA wouldn't match up, their blood groups were likely to be different, their dental records dissimilar. That's when the second piece of luck fell into place," said Pearson, "because none of this would have been possible if Cartwright hadn't had an accomplice who worked as an orderly in the prison hospital. That accomplice was Albert Crann, the third man who shared a cell with Moncrieff and Cartwright. When he heard about the hanging in the shower, he switched the names on the files in the hospital's medical records, so that when the doctor checked the body, he would remain under the illusion that it was Cartwright who had committed suicide, and not Moncrieff.

"A few days later the funeral took place at St. Mary's church in Bow, where even the defendant's closest family, including the mother of his child, were convinced that the body being lowered into the grave was that of Daniel Cartwright.

"What kind of man, you might ask, would be willing to deceive his own family? I'll tell you what kind of man. This man," he said, pointing at Danny. "He even had the nerve to turn up to the funeral posing as Nicholas Moncrieff so that he could witness his own burial and be certain he'd got away with it."

Once again Pearson leaned back so that the significance of his words could sink into the jury's minds. "From the day of Moncrieff's death," he continued, "Cartwright always wore Moncrieff's watch, his signet ring and the silver chain and key, in order to deceive the prison staff and his fellow inmates into believing that he was in fact Nicholas Moncrieff, who only had six weeks of his sentence left to serve.

"On July seventeenth 2002, Daniel Cartwright walked out of the front gate of Belmarsh prison a free man, despite having another twenty years of his sentence left to serve. Was it enough for him to have escaped? It was not. He immediately took the first train to Scotland so that he could lay claim to the Moncrieff family estate, and then returned to London to take up residence in Sir Nicholas Moncrieff's town house in The Boltons.

"But it didn't even end there, members of the jury. Cartwright then had the audacity to start drawing cash from Sir Nicholas Moncrieff's bank account at Coutts in The Strand. You might have felt that was enough, but no. He then flew to Geneva for an appointment with the chairman of Coubertin and Company, a leading Swiss bank, to whom he presented the silver key along with Moncrieff's passport. That gave him access to a vault, which contained the fabled stamp collection of Nicholas Moncrieff's late grandfather, Sir Alexander Moncrieff. What did Cartwright do when he got his hands on this family heirloom that had taken Sir Alexander Moncrieff over seventy years to assemble? He sold it the following day to the first bidder who arrived on the scene, netting himself a cool twenty-five million pounds."

Sir Matthew raised an eyebrow. How unlike Arnold Pearson to do cool.

"So now that Cartwright is a multimillionaire," continued Pearson, "you may well ask yourselves what he could possibly do next. I will tell you. He flew back to London, bought himself a top-of-the-range BMW, employed a chauffeur and a housekeeper, settled down in The Boltons and carried on the myth that he was Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. And, members of the jury, he would still be living that myth today if it were not for the sheer professionalism of Chief Inspector Fuller, the man who arrested Cartwright for his original offense in 1999, and who now single-handed"-Sir Matthew wrote down those words-"tracked him down, arrested him and finally brought him to justice. That, members of the jury, is the case for the prosecution. But later I will produce a witness who will leave you in no doubt that the defendant, Daniel Cartwright, is guilty of all five charges on the indictment."

As Pearson resumed his seat, Sir Matthew looked across at his old adversary and touched his forehead as if he was raising an invisible hat. "Chapeau," he said.

"Thank you, Matthew," Pearson replied.

"Gentlemen," said the judge, looking at his watch, "I think this might be a suitable moment to break for lunch."

"Court will rise!" shouted the usher, and all the officials immediately stood up and bowed low. Mr. Justice Hackett returned their bow and left the courtroom.

"Not bad," admitted Alex to his father.

"I agree, though dear old Arnold did make one mistake, which he may live to regret."

"And what was that?" asked Alex.

Sir Matthew passed his son the piece of paper on which he had written the word single-handed.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

"THERE'S ONLY ONE thing you have to get this witness to admit," said Sir Matthew. "But at the same time, we don't need the judge or Arnold Pearson to realize what you're up to."

"No pressure," said Alex with a grin as Mr. Justice Hackett reentered the courtroom and everyone rose.

The judge bowed low before resuming his place in the high-backed red leather chair. He opened his notebook to the end of his analysis of Pearson's opening, turned to a fresh page and wrote the words, first witness. He then nodded in the direction of Mr. Pearson, who rose from his place and said, "I call Chief Inspector Fuller."

Alex hadn't seen Fuller since the first trial four years ago, and he was unlikely to forget that occasion, as the Chief Inspector had run circles around him. If anything, he looked even more confident than he had done then. Fuller took the oath without even glancing at the card.

"Detective Chief Inspector Fuller," said Pearson, "would you please begin by confirming your identity to the court."

"My name is Rodney Fuller. I'm a serving officer with the Metropolitan Police stationed at Palace Green, Chelsea."

"Can I also place on the record that you were the arresting officer when Daniel Cartwright committed his previous offense for which he received a prison sentence?"

"That is correct, sir."

"How did you come to learn that Cartwright might possibly have escaped from Belmarsh prison and was passing himself off as Sir Nicholas Moncrieff?"

"On October twenty-third last year I received a telephone call from a reliable source who told me that he needed to see me on an urgent matter."

"Did he go into any detail at that time?"

"No, sir. He's not the sort of gentleman who would commit himself over the telephone."

Sir Matthew wrote down the word gentleman, not a word a policeman would normally use when referring to a snitch. His second catch in the slips on the opening morning. He wasn't expecting many of those while Arnold Pearson was on his feet bowling the Chief Inspector gentle off-breaks.

"So a meeting was arranged," said Pearson.

"Yes, we agreed to meet the following day at a time and place of his choosing."

"And when you met the next day he informed you that he had some information concerning Daniel Cartwright."

"Yes. Which came as a bit of a surprise," said Fuller, "because I was under the misapprehension that Cartwright had hanged himself. Indeed, one of my officers attended his funeral."

"So how did you respond to this revelation?"

"I took it seriously, because the gentleman had proved reliable in the past."

Sir Matthew underlined the word gentleman.

"So what did you do next?"

"I placed a twenty-four-hour surveillance team on number twelve The Boltons, and quickly discovered that the resident who was claiming to be Sir Nicholas Moncrieff did bear a striking resemblance to Cartwright."

"But surely that would not have been enough for you to move in and arrest him."

"Certainly not," replied the Chief Inspector. "I needed more tangible proof than that."

"And what form did this tangible proof take?"

"On the third day of surveillance, the suspect received a visit from a Miss Elizabeth Wilson, and she stayed the night."

"Miss Elizabeth Wilson?"

"Yes. She is the mother of Cartwright's daughter, and she visited him regularly while he was in prison. This made me confident that the information I had been given was accurate."

"And that was when you decided to arrest him?"

"Yes, but as I knew we were dealing with a dangerous criminal who had a record of violence, I requested back-up from the riot squad. I was unwilling to take any risks when it came to the safety of the public."

"Quite understandable," purred Pearson. "Would you describe to the court how you went about apprehending this violent criminal?"

"At two o'clock the following morning, we surrounded the house in The Boltons and carried out a raid. On apprehending Cartwright, I cautioned and arrested him for unlawfully escaping from one of Her Majesty's Prisons. I also charged Elizabeth Wilson with aiding and abetting a criminal. Another section of my team arrested Albert Crann, who was also living on the premises, as we had reason to believe he was an accomplice of Cartwright's."

"And what has happened to the other two prisoners who were arrested at that time?" asked Pearson.

"Elizabeth Wilson was released on bail that morning, and was later given a six-month suspended jail sentence."

"And Albert Crann?"

"He was on license at the time, and was sent back to Belmarsh to complete his original sentence."

"Thank you, chief inspector. I have no more questions for you at the present time."

"Thank you, Mr. Pearson," said the judge. "Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Mr. Redmayne?"

"I most certainly do, m'lord," said Alex as he rose from his place.

"Chief inspector, you told the court that it was a member of the public who volunteered the information that made it possible for you to arrest Daniel Cartwright."

"Yes, that is correct," said Fuller, gripping the rail of the witness box.

"So it wasn't, as my learned friend suggested, a single-handed piece of police ingenuity?"

"No. But as I'm sure you appreciate, Mr. Redmayne, the police rely on a network of informers, without whom half the criminals currently in jail would be on the streets committing even more crimes."

"So this gentleman, as you described your informant, called you at your office?" The chief inspector nodded. "And you arranged to meet him at a mutually convenient place the following day?"

"Yes," replied Fuller, determined not to give anything away.

"Where did that meeting take place, chief inspector?"

Fuller turned to the judge. "I would prefer, m'lord, not to have to identify the location."

"Understandably," said Mr. Justice Hackett. "Move on, Mr. Redmayne."

"So there would be no point in my asking you, chief inspector, to name your paid informant?"

"He wasn't paid," said Fuller, regretting the words the moment he said them.

"Well, at least we now know that he was an unpaid professional gentleman."

"Well done," said Alex's father in a loud stage whisper. The judge frowned.

"Chief inspector, how many officers did you find it necessary to deploy in order to arrest one man and one woman who were in bed at two o'clock in the morning?" Fuller hesitated. "How many, chief inspector?"

"Fourteen."

"Wasn't it more like twenty?" said Alex.

"If you count the back-up team, it might have been twenty."

"Sounds a little excessive for one man and one woman," suggested Alex.

"He may have been armed," said Fuller. "That was a risk I wasn't willing to take."

"Was he, in fact, armed?" asked Alex.

"No he was not…"

"Perhaps not for the first time-" began Alex.

"That's quite enough, Mr. Redmayne," said the judge, interrupting before he could finish the sentence.

"Good try," said Alex's father, loud enough for everyone in the courtroom to hear.

"Do you wish to make a contribution, Sir Matthew?" snapped the judge.

Alex's father opened his eyes like a jungle beast that had been woken from a deep sleep. He rose slowly from his place and said, "How kind of you to ask, my lord. But no, not at this juncture. Possibly later." He slumped back in his place.

The press benches were suddenly jolted into action as the first boundary was scored. Alex pursed his lips for fear he would burst out laughing. Mr. Justice Hackett could barely restrain himself.

"Get on with it, Redmayne," said the judge, but before Alex could respond, his father was back on his feet. "I do apologize, m'lord," he said sweetly, "but which Redmayne did you have in mind?"

This time the jury burst out laughing. The judge made no attempt to reply, and Sir Matthew sank back in his seat, closed his eyes and whispered, "Go for the jugular, Alex."

"Chief inspector, you told the court that it was after you had seen Miss Wilson enter the house that you became convinced that it was Daniel Cartwright and not Sir Nicholas Moncrieff who was living there."

"Yes, that's correct," said Fuller, still gripping the side of the witness box.

"But once you had taken my client into custody, chief inspector, didn't you have a moment's anxiety about whether you might have arrested the wrong man?"

"No, Mr. Redmayne, not after I'd seen the scar on his…"

"Not after you'd seen the scar on his-"

"-checked his DNA on the police computer," said the chief inspector.

"Sit down," whispered Alex's father. "You've got everything you need, and Hackett won't have worked out the significance of the scar."

"Thank you, chief inspector. No more questions, m'lord."

"Do you wish to reexamine this witness, Mr. Pearson?" asked Mr. Justice Hackett.

"No, thank you, m'lord," said Pearson, who was writing down the words not after I'd seen the scar on his… and trying to work out their significance.

"Thank you, chief inspector," said the judge. "You may leave the witness box."

Alex leaned over to his father as the chief inspector made his way out of the courtroom and whispered, "But I didn't get him to admit that the 'professional gentleman' was in fact Craig."

"That man was never going to name his contact, but you still managed to trap him twice. And don't forget, there's another witness who must also know who reported Danny to the police, and he's certainly not going to feel at home in a courtroom, so you should be able to corner him long before Hackett works out what your real purpose is. Never forget we can't afford to make the same mistake as we did with Lord Justice Browne and the unplayed tape." Alex nodded as Mr. Justice Hackett turned his attention to counsel's bench. "Perhaps this would be a good time to take a break."

"All rise."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

ARNOLD PEARSON WAS deep in conversation with his junior when Mr. Justice Hackett said in a loud voice, "Are you ready to call your next witness, Mr. Pearson?"

Pearson rose from his place. "Yes, m'lord. I call Sir Hugo Moncrieff."

Alex watched Sir Hugo carefully as he entered the courtroom. Never prejudge a witness, his father had taught him from the cradle, but Hugo was clearly nervous. He took a handkerchief out of his top pocket and mopped his brow even before he had reached the witness box.

The usher guided Sir Hugo into the box and handed him a Bible. The witness read the oath from the card that was held up in front of him, then looked up toward the gallery, searching for the person he wished was giving evidence in his place. Mr. Pearson gave him a warm smile when he looked back down.

"Sir Hugo, would you just for the record state your name and address?"

"Sir Hugo Moncrieff, the Manor House, Dunbroath in Scotland."

"Let me begin, Sir Hugo, by asking you when you last saw your nephew, Nicholas Moncrieff."

"On the day we both attended his father's funeral."

"And did you have an opportunity to speak to him on that sad occasion?"

"Unhappily not," said Hugo. "He was accompanied by two prison officers who said that we were not to have any contact with him."

"What sort of relationship did you have with your nephew?" asked Pearson.

"Cordial. We all loved Nick. He was a fine lad, whom the family considered had been badly treated."

"So there was no ill feeling when you and your brother learned that he had inherited the bulk of the estate from your father."

"Certainly not," said Hugo. "Nick would automatically inherit the title on his father's death, and along with it the family estate."

"So it must have come as a terrible shock to discover that he had hanged himself in prison, and that an impostor had taken his place."

Hugo lowered his head for a moment, before saying, "It was a massive blow for my wife Margaret and myself, but thanks to the professionalism of the police and the rallying round of friends and family, we are slowly trying to come to terms with it."

"Word-perfect," whispered Sir Matthew.

"Can you confirm, Sir Hugo, that the Garter King of Arms has established your right to the family title?" asked Mr. Pearson, ignoring Sir Matthew's comment.

"Yes, I can, Mr. Pearson. The letters patent were sent to me some weeks ago."

"Can you also confirm that the estate in Scotland, along with the house in London and the bank accounts in London and Switzerland are once again in the custody of the family?"

"I'm afraid I cannot, Mr. Pearson."

"And why is that?" asked Mr. Justice Hackett.

Sir Hugo appeared a little flustered as he turned toward the judge. "It's the policy of both banks concerned not to confirm ownership while a court case is still in progress, m'lord. They have assured me that legal transfer will take place to the rightful party as soon as this case is concluded, and the jury have delivered their verdict."

"Fear not," said the judge, giving him a warm smile. "Your long ordeal is coming to an end."

Sir Matthew was on his feet instantly. "I apologize for interrupting your lordship, but does your response to this witness imply that you have already come to a decision in this case?" he asked with a warm smile.

It was the judge's turn to look flustered. "No, of course not, Sir Matthew," he replied. "I was merely stating that whatever the outcome of this trial, Sir Hugo's long wait is finally coming to an end."

"I am obliged, my lord. It comes as a great relief to discover that you have not made up your mind before the defense has been given a chance to present its case." He settled back in his place.

Pearson glowered at Sir Matthew, but the old man's eyes were already closed. Turning back to the witness, he said, "I am sorry, Sir Hugo, that you have had to be put through such an unpleasant ordeal, which is not of your own making. But it has been important for the jury to see what havoc and distress the defendant Daniel Cartwright has brought down on your family. As his lordship has made clear, that ordeal is finally coming to an end."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," said Sir Matthew.

Pearson once again ignored the interruption. "No more questions, my lord," he said, before resuming his place.

"Every word of that was rehearsed," whispered Sir Matthew, his eyes still closed. "Lead the damn man down a long, dark path and when he least expects it, plunge a knife into his heart. I can promise you, Alex, no blood will flow, blue or red."

"Mr. Redmayne, I apologize for interrupting you," said the judge, "but is it your intention to cross-examine this witness?"

"Yes, m'lord."

"Pace yourself, my boy. Don't forget that he's the one who wants to get it over with," whispered Sir Matthew as he slumped back into his place.

"Sir Hugo," Alex began, "you told the court that your relationship with your nephew, Nicholas Moncrieff, was a close one-cordial was the word I think you used to describe it-and that you would have spoken to him at his father's funeral had the prison officers not prevented it."

"Yes, that is correct," said Hugo.

"Let me ask you, when was it that you first discovered that your nephew was in fact dead, and not living, as you had believed, in his home in The Boltons?"

"A few days before Cartwright was arrested," said Hugo.

"That would have been about a year and a half after the funeral at which you were not allowed any contact with your nephew?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"In that case, I am bound to ask, Sir Hugo, how many times during that eighteen-month period did you and your nephew, whom you were so close to, meet up or speak on the phone?"

"But that's the point, it wasn't Nick," said Hugo, looking pleased with himself.

"No, it wasn't," agreed Alex. "But you have just told the court that you didn't become aware of that fact until three days before my client was arrested."

Hugo looked up to the gallery, hoping for inspiration. This wasn't one of the questions Margaret had anticipated and told him how to answer. "Well, we both lead busy lives," he said, trying to think on his feet. "He was living in London, while I spend most of my time in Scotland."

"I understand that they now have telephones in Scotland," said Alex. A ripple of laughter went around the court.

"It was a Scot who invented the telephone, sir," said Hugo sarcastically.

"All the more reason to pick one up," suggested Alex.

"What are you implying?" asked Hugo.

"I'm not implying anything," replied Alex. "But can you deny that when you both attended a stamp auction at Sotheby's in London in September 2002 and spent the next few days in Geneva at the same hotel as the man you believed to be your nephew, you made no attempt to speak to him?"

"He could have spoken to me," said Hugo, his voice rising. "It's a two-way street, you know."

"Perhaps my client didn't want to speak to you, as he knew only too well what sort of relationship you had with your nephew. Perhaps he knew that you had not written or spoken to him once during the past ten years. Perhaps he knew that your nephew loathed you, and that your own father-his grandfather-had cut you out of his will?"

"I see that you are determined to take the word of a criminal before that of a member of the family."

"No, Sir Hugo. I learned all of this from a member of the family."

"Who?" demanded Hugo defiantly.

"Your nephew, Sir Nicholas Moncrieff," replied Alex.

"But you didn't even know him."

"No, I didn't," admitted Alex. "But while he was in prison, where you never once in four years visited or wrote to him, he kept a daily diary, which has proved most revealing."

Pearson leaped up. "M'lord, I must protest. These diaries to which my learned friend refers were only placed in the jury bundle a week ago, and although my junior has struggled manfully to go through them line by line, they consist of over a thousand pages."

"My lord," said Alex, "my junior has read every word of those diaries, and for the convenience of the court he has highlighted any passages we might later wish to bring to the attention of the jury. There can be no doubt that they are admissible."

"They may well be admissible," said Mr. Justice Hackett, "but I do not consider them to be at all relevant. It is not Sir Hugo who is on trial, and his relationship with his nephew is not at the heart of this case, so I suggest you move on, Mr. Redmayne."

Sir Matthew tugged his son's gown. "May I have a word with my junior?" Alex asked the judge.

"If you must," replied Mr. Justice Hackett, still smarting from his last encounter with Sir Matthew. "But make it quick."

Alex sat down. "You've made your point, my boy," whispered Sir Matthew, "and in any case, the most significant line in the diaries ought to be saved for the next witness. Added to that, old man Hackett is wondering if he's gone too far and given us enough ammunition to apply for a retrial. He'll want to avoid allowing us that opportunity at all costs. This will be his last appearance in the High Court before he retires, and he wouldn't want a retrial to be the one thing he's remembered for. So when you resume, say that you accept his lordship's judgment without question, but that as you may need to refer to certain passages in the diary on some later occasion, you hope that your learned friend will find time to consider the few entries that your junior has marked for his convenience."

Alex rose from his place and said, "I accept your lordship's judgment without question, but as I may need to refer to certain passages in the diary at a later date, I can only hope that my learned friend will find enough time to read the few lines that have been marked up for his consideration." Sir Matthew smiled. The judge frowned, and Sir Hugo looked mystified.

Alex turned his attention back to the witness, who was now mopping his brow every few moments.

"Sir Hugo, can I confirm that it was your father's wish, as clearly stated in his will, that the estate in Dunbroath should be handed over to the National Trust for Scotland, with a sufficient sum of money to be put aside for its upkeep."

"That was my understanding," admitted Hugo.

"Then can you also confirm that Daniel Cartwright abided by those wishes, and that the estate is now in the hands of the National Trust for Scotland?"

"Yes, I am able to confirm that," replied Hugo, somewhat reluctantly.

"Have you recently found time to visit number twelve The Boltons and see what condition the property is in?"

"Yes, I have. I couldn't see a great deal of difference from how it was before."

"Sir Hugo, would you like me to call Mr. Cartwright's housekeeper in order that she can tell the court in graphic detail what state she found the house in when she was first employed?"

"That won't be necessary," said Hugo. "It may well have been somewhat neglected, but as I have already made clear, I spend most of my time in Scotland, and rarely visit London."

"That being the case, Sir Hugo, let us move on to your nephew's account at Coutts bank in the Strand. Are you able to tell the court how much money was in that account at the time of his tragic death?"

"How could I possibly know that?" Hugo replied sharply.

"Then allow me to enlighten you, Sir Hugo," said Alex, extracting a bank statement from a folder. "Just over seven thousand pounds."

"But surely what matters is how much there is in that account at the present time?" retorted Sir Hugo triumphantly.

"I couldn't agree with you more," said Alex, taking out a second bank statement. "At close of business yesterday, the account stood at a little over forty-two thousand pounds." Hugo kept glancing up at the public gallery as he mopped his brow. "Next, we should consider the stamp collection that your father, Sir Alexander, left to his grandson, Nicholas."

"Cartwright sold it behind my back."

"I would suggest, Sir Hugo, that he sold it right in front of your nose."

"I would never have agreed to part with something that the family has always regarded as a priceless heirloom."

"I wonder if you would like a little time to reconsider that statement," said Alex. "I am in possession of a legal document drawn up by your solicitor, Mr. Desmond Galbraith, agreeing to sell your father's stamp collection for fifty million dollars to a Mr. Gene Hunsacker of Austin, Texas."

"Even if that were true," said Hugo, "I never saw a penny of it, because it was Cartwright who ended up selling the collection to Hunsacker."

"He did indeed," said Alex, "for a sum of fifty-seven and a half million dollars-seven and a half million more than you managed to negotiate."

"Where is all this leading, Mr. Redmayne?" asked the judge. "However well your client has husbanded the Moncrieff legacy, it was still he who stole everything in the first place. Are you trying to suggest that it was always his intention to return the estate to its rightful owners?"

"No, my lord. However, I am attempting to demonstrate that perhaps Danny Cartwright is not quite the evil villain that the prosecution would have us believe. Indeed, thanks to his stewardship, Sir Hugo will be far better off than he could have expected to be."

Sir Matthew offered up a silent prayer.

"That's not true!" said Sir Hugo. "I'll be worse off."

Sir Matthew's eyes opened and he sat bolt upright. "There is a God in Heaven after all," he whispered. "Well done, my boy."

"I am now completely at a loss," said Mr. Justice Hackett. "If there is over seven and a half million dollars more in the bank account than you had anticipated, Sir Hugo, how can you possibly be worse off?"

"Because I recently signed a legal contract with a third party who was unwilling to reveal the details of what had happened to my nephew unless I agreed to part with twenty-five percent of my inheritance."

"Sit back, say nothing," murmured Sir Matthew.

The judge called loudly for order, and Alex didn't ask his next question until silence had been restored.

"When did you sign this agreement, Sir Hugo?"

Hugo removed a small diary from an inside pocket, and flicked over the pages until he came to the entry he was looking for. "October twenty-second last year," he said.

Alex checked his notes. "The day before a certain professional gentleman contacted Chief Inspector Fuller to arrange a meeting at an unknown location."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Hugo.

"Of course you don't," said Alex. "You had no way of knowing what was going on behind your back. But I am bound to ask, Sir Hugo, once you had signed the legal contract agreeing to part with millions of pounds should your family fortune be restored, what this professional gentleman could possibly be offering you in exchange for your signature."

"He told me that my nephew had been dead for over a year, and that his place had been usurped by that man sitting in the dock."

"And what was your reaction to this incredible piece of news?"

"I didn't believe it to begin with," said Hugo, "but then he showed me several photographs of Cartwright and Nick, and I had to admit they did look alike."

"I find it hard to believe, Sir Hugo, that that was enough proof for a shrewd man like yourself to agree to part with twenty-five percent of his family fortune."

"No, it wasn't enough. He also supplied me with several other photographs to back up his claim."

"Several other photographs?" prompted Alex hopefully.

"Yes. One of them was of the defendant's left leg, showing a scar above his knee that proved he was Cartwright, and not my nephew."

"Change the subject," whispered Sir Matthew.

"You have told the court, Sir Hugo, that the person who demanded twenty-five percent of what was rightfully yours in exchange for this piece of information was a professional gentleman."

"Yes, he most certainly was," said Hugo.

"Perhaps the time has come, Sir Hugo, for you to name this professional gentleman."

"I can't do that," said Hugo.

Once again, Alex had to wait for the judge to bring the court to order before he was able to ask his next question. "Why not?" demanded the judge.

"Let Hackett run with it," whispered Sir Matthew. "Just pray he doesn't work out for himself who the professional gentleman is."

"Because one of the clauses in the agreement," said Hugo, mopping his brow, "was that under no circumstances would I reveal his name."

Mr. Justice Hackett placed his pen down on the desk. "Now listen to me, Sir Hugo, and listen carefully. If you don't want a contempt-of-court order brought against you, and a night in a cell to help jog your memory, I suggest that you answer Mr. Redmayne's question, and tell the court the name of this professional gentleman who demanded twenty-five percent of your estate before he was willing to expose the defendant as a fraud. Do I make myself clear?"

Hugo began to shake uncontrollably. He peered up into the gallery, to see Margaret nodding. He turned back to the judge and said, "Mr. Spencer Craig QC."

Everyone in the courtroom began speaking at once.

"You can sit down, my boy," said Sir Matthew, "because I think that's what they call in Danny's neck of the woods a double whammy. Now our esteemed judge has no choice but to allow you to subpoena Spencer Craig, unless of course he wants a retrial."

Sir Matthew glanced across to see Arnold Pearson looking up at his son. He was doffing an imaginary hat.

"Chapeau, Alex," he said.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

"HOW DO YOU imagine Munro will cope when he comes up against Pearson?" asked Alex.

"An aging bull against an aging matador," Sir Matthew replied. "Experience and sheer cunning will prove more important than the charge, so I'd have to bet on Munro."

"So when do I show the red rag to this bull?"

"You don't," said Sir Matthew. "You leave that pleasure to the matador. Pearson won't be able to resist the challenge, and it will make far more of an impact coming from the prosecution."

"All rise," announced the court usher.

Once they had all settled back in their places, the judge addressed the jury. "Good morning, members of the jury. Yesterday you heard Mr. Pearson complete the case for the prosecution, and now the defense will be given the opportunity to put its side of the argument. After a consultation with both sides, I shall be inviting you to dismiss one of the charges, namely that the defendant attempted to steal the Moncrieff family estate in Scotland. Sir Hugo Moncrieff confirmed that this was not the case, and that in accordance with his father Sir Alexander's wishes, the estate has been taken over by the National Trust for Scotland. However, the defendant still faces four other serious charges, on which you and you alone have been given the responsibility of making a judgment."

He smiled benignly at the jury before turning his attention to Alex. "Mr. Redmayne, please call your first witness," he said in a far more respectful tone than he had adopted the previous day.

"Thank you, m'lord," said Alex, rising from his place. "I call Mr. Fraser Munro."

The first thing Munro did when he entered the courtroom was to smile at Danny in the dock. He had visited him at Belmarsh on five occasions during the past six months, and Danny knew that he had also attended several consultations with Alex and Sir Matthew.

Once again no bills for services rendered had been presented. All Danny's bank accounts had been frozen, so all he had was the twelve pounds a week he was paid as the prison librarian, which wouldn't have covered Munro's taxi fare from the Caledonian Club to the Old Bailey.

Fraser Munro stepped into the witness box. He was dressed in a black tailcoat and pinstripe trousers, a white shirt with a wing collar and a black silk tie. He looked more like one of the court officials than a witness, lending him an authority that had influenced many a Scottish jury. He gave the judge a slight bow before delivering the oath.

"Would you please state your name and address for the record," said Alex.

"My name is Fraser Munro and I live at number forty-nine Argyll Street, Dunbroath in Scotland."

"And your occupation?"

"I am a solicitor of the High Court of Scotland."

"Can I confirm that you are a past president of the Scottish Law Society?"

"I am, sir." That was something Danny didn't know.

"And you are a freeman of the City of Edinburgh?"

"I have that honor, sir." Something else Danny didn't know.

"Would you please explain to the court, Mr. Munro, what your relationship is with the accused?"

"Certainly, Mr. Redmayne. I had the privilege, as my father did before me, of representing Sir Alexander Moncrieff, the first holder of the baronetcy."

"Did you also represent Sir Nicholas Moncrieff?"

"I did, sir."

"And did you conduct his legal affairs while he was in the army, and later when he was in prison?"

"Yes. He would telephone me from time to time while he was in prison, but the bulk of our work was conducted by lengthy correspondence."

"And did you visit Sir Nicholas while he was in prison?"

"No, I did not. Sir Nicholas explicitly requested me not to do so, and I adhered to his wishes."

"When did you first meet him?" asked Alex.

"I knew him as a child when he was growing up in Scotland, but before the occasion when he returned to Dunbroath to attend his father's funeral, I had not seen him for twelve years."

"Were you able to speak to him on that occasion?"

"Most certainly. The two prison officers who were in attendance could not have been more considerate, and they allowed me to spend an hour with Sir Nicholas in private consultation."

"And the next time you met him was seven or eight weeks later, when he came to Scotland just after he had been released from Belmarsh prison."

"That is correct."

"Did you have any reason to believe that the person who visited you on that occasion was not Sir Nicholas Moncrieff?"

"No, sir. I had only seen him for one hour during the past twelve years, and the man who walked into my office not only looked like Sir Nicholas, but was wearing the same clothes as he had done on the previous occasion we'd met. He was also in possession of all the correspondence that had taken place between us over the years, and was wearing a gold ring bearing the family coat of arms as well as a silver chain and key that his grandfather had shown me some years before."

"So he was, in every sense, Sir Nicholas Moncrieff?"

"To the naked eye, yes, sir."

"Looking back over that time with the benefit of hindsight, did you ever suspect that the man you believed to be Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was in fact an impostor?"

"No. In all matters he conducted himself with courtesy and charm, rare in such a young man. In truth he reminded me more of his grandfather than any other member of the family."

"How did you eventually discover that your client was not in fact Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, but Danny Cartwright?"

"After he'd been arrested and charged with the offenses that are the subject of this current trial."

"Can I confirm for the record, Mr. Munro, that since that day, the responsibility for the Moncrieff estate has returned to your stewardship?"

"That is correct, Mr. Redmayne. However, I must confess that I have not conducted the day-to-day business with the flair that Danny Cartwright always displayed."

"Would it be right to say that the estate is in a stronger financial position now than it has been for some years?"

"Without question. However, the trust has not managed to maintain the same growth since Mr. Cartwright was sent back to prison."

"I do hope," interrupted the judge, "that you are not suggesting, Mr. Munro, that that diminishes the severity of these charges?"

"No, my lord, I am not," said Munro. "But I have discovered with advancing years that few things are entirely black or white, but more often different shades of gray. I can best sum it up, my lord, by saying that it was an honor to have served Sir Nicholas Moncrieff and it has been a privilege to work with Mr. Cartwright. They are both oaks, even if they were planted in different forests. But then, m'lord, we all suffer in our different ways from being prisoners of birth."

Sir Matthew opened both his eyes and stared at a man he wished he'd known for many years.

"The jury cannot have failed to notice, Mr. Munro," continued Alex, "that you retain the greatest respect and admiration for Mr. Cartwright. But with that in mind, they may find it hard to understand how the same man became involved in such a nefarious deception."

"I have considered that question endlessly for the past six months, Mr. Redmayne, and have come to the conclusion that his sole purpose must have been to fight a far bigger injustice that had-"

"Mr. Munro," interrupted the judge sternly, "as you well know, this is neither the time nor the place to express your personal opinions."

"I am grateful, my lord, for your guidance," said Munro, turning to face the judge, "but I took an oath to tell the whole truth, and I presume you would not wish me to do otherwise?"

"No, I would not, sir," snapped the judge, "but I repeat, this is not the appropriate place to express such views."

"My lord, if a man cannot express his honestly held views in the Central Criminal Court, perhaps you can advise me where else he is free to state that which he believes to be the truth?"

A ripple of applause ran around the public gallery.

"I think the time has come to move on, Mr. Redmayne," said Mr. Justice Hackett.

"I have no more questions for this witness, my lord," said Alex. The judge looked relieved.

As Alex resumed his seat, Sir Matthew leaned across and whispered, "I actually feel a little sorry for dear Arnold. He must be torn between taking on this giant at the risk of being humiliated, or avoiding him altogether and leaving the jury with an impression that they will regale their grandchildren with."

Mr. Munro didn't flinch as he stared resolutely at Pearson, who was deep in conversation with his junior, both of them looking equally perplexed.

"I don't wish to hurry you, Mr. Pearson," said the judge, "but is it your intention to cross-examine this witness?"

Pearson rose even more slowly than usual, and did not tug the lapels of his gown or touch his wig. He glanced down at the list of questions he had forfeited his weekend to prepare, and changed his mind.

"Yes, my lord, but I will not be detaining the witness for long."

"Just long enough, I hope," murmured Sir Matthew.

Pearson ignored the remark, and said, "I am at pains to understand, Mr. Munro, how a man as shrewd and experienced in legal matters as yourself could not have suspected even for a moment that his client was an impostor."

Munro tapped his fingers on the side of the witness box, and waited for as long as he felt he could get away with. "That's easy to explain, Mr. Pearson," he eventually said. "Danny Cartwright was at all times utterly plausible, though I confess that there was a single moment in our two-year-long relationship when he lowered his guard."

"And when was that?" Pearson asked.

"When we were discussing his grandfather's stamp collection and I had cause to remind him that he had attended the opening of an exhibition of that collection at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. I was surprised that he did not appear to recollect the occasion, which I found puzzling, as he was the only member of the Moncrieff family who had received an invitation."

"Did you not question him on the subject?" demanded Pearson.

"No," said Munro. "I felt that it would not have been appropriate at the time."

"But if you suspected, even for a moment, that this man was not Sir Nicholas," Pearson said, pointing a finger at Danny but not looking in his direction, "surely it was your responsibility to pursue the matter?"

"I did not feel so at the time."

"But this man was perpetuating a massive fraud on the Moncrieff family, which you had made yourself a party to."

"I didn't see it that way," responded Munro.

"But as you were the custodian of the Moncrieff estate, surely it was your duty to expose Cartwright for the fraud he was."

"No, I didn't consider that to be my duty," said Munro calmly.

"Did it not alarm you, Mr. Munro, that this man had taken up residence at the Moncrieffs' London town house when he had no right to do so?"

"No, it did not alarm me," replied Munro.

"Were you not appalled by the thought that this outsider now had control of the Moncrieff fortune, which you had guarded so jealously on behalf of the family for so many years?"

"No, sir, I was not appalled by that thought."

"But later, when your client was arrested on charges including fraud and theft, did you not feel that you had been negligent in the pursuance of your duty?" demanded Pearson.

"I do not require you to advise me whether I have or have not been negligent in my duty, Mr. Pearson."

Sir Matthew opened one eye. The judge kept his head down.

"But this man had stolen the family silver, to quote another Scot, and you had done nothing to prevent it," said Pearson, his voice rising with every word.

"No, sir, he had not stolen the family silver, and I feel confident that Harold Macmillan would have agreed with me on this occasion. The only thing Danny Cartwright had stolen, Mr. Pearson, was the family name."

"You can no doubt explain to the court," said the judge, having sufficiently recovered from Mr. Munro's previous onslaught, "the moral dilemma I am facing with your hypothesis."

Mr. Munro turned to face the judge, aware that he had captured the attention of everyone in the court, including the policeman on the door. "Your lordship need not trouble himself with any moral dilemma, because I was interested only in the legal niceties of the case."

"The legal niceties?" said Mr. Justice Hackett, treading carefully.

"Yes, m'lord. Mr. Danny Cartwright was the sole heir to the Moncrieff fortune, so I was unable to work out what law, if any, he was breaking."

The judge leaned back, happy to allow Pearson to be the one who sank deeper and deeper into the Munro mire.

"Can you explain to the court, Mr. Munro," asked Pearson in a whisper, "just what you mean by that?"

"It's quite simple really, Mr. Pearson. The late Sir Nicholas Moncrieff made a will in which he left everything to Daniel Arthur Cartwright of twenty-six Bacon Road, London E3, with the sole exception of an annuity of ten thousand pounds, which he bequeathed to his former driver, a Mr. Albert Crann."

Sir Matthew opened his other eye, not sure whether to focus on Munro or Pearson.

"And this will was properly executed and witnessed?" asked Pearson, desperately searching for a possible escape route.

"It was signed by Sir Nicholas in my office on the afternoon of his father's funeral. Aware of the gravity of the situation and my responsibility as the legal custodian of the family estate-as you have been so keen to point out, Mr. Pearson-I asked Senior Officer Ray Pascoe and Senior Officer Alan Jenkins to witness Sir Nicholas's signature in the presence of another partner of the firm." Munro turned to the judge. "I am in possession of the original document, m'lord, should you wish to study it."

"No, thank you, Mr. Munro. I am quite happy to take your word," the judge replied.

Pearson collapsed onto the bench, quite forgetting to say, "No more questions, my lord."

"Do you wish to re-examine this witness, Mr. Redmayne?" the judge inquired.

"Just one question, my lord," said Alex. "Mr. Munro, did Sir Nicholas Moncrieff leave anything to his uncle, Hugo Moncrieff?"

"No," said Munro. "Not a brass farthing."

"No more questions, m'lord."

An outbreak of hushed whispers filled the courtroom as Munro stepped out of the witness box, walked across to the dock and shook hands with the defendant.

"My lord, I wonder if I might address you on a point of law," inquired Alex as Munro departed from the courtroom.

"Of course, Mr. Redmayne, but first I will have to release the jury. Members of the jury, as you have just heard, defense counsel has asked to discuss a point of law with me. It may not have any bearing on the case, but should it do so, I will fully brief you on your return."

Alex looked up at the packed public gallery as the jury left. His gaze settled on an attractive young woman whom he had noticed sitting at one end of the front row every day since the trial had begun. He had meant to ask Danny who she was.

A few moments later the usher approached the bench and said, "The court has been cleared, m'lord."

"Thank you, Mr. Hepple," said the judge. "How can I assist you, Mr. Redmayne?"

"My lord, following the evidence given by the estimable Mr. Munro, the defense would suggest that there is no case to answer on counts three, four and five, namely the occupation of the house in The Boltons, benefiting from the sale of the stamp collection, and the issuing of checks on the Coutts bank account. We would ask that all these counts be dismissed, as it is self-evidently quite difficult to steal that which already belongs to you."

The judge took a few minutes to consider the argument before replying, "You make a fair point, Mr. Redmayne. What is your view, Mr. Pearson?"

"I feel I should point out, m'lord," said Pearson, "that although it may well be the case that the defendant was the beneficiary of Sir Nicholas Moncrieff's will, there is nothing to suggest that he was aware of this at the time."

"My lord," countered Alex immediately, "my client was well aware of the existence of Sir Nicholas's will, and of who the beneficiaries were."

"How is that possible, Mr. Redmayne?" asked the judge.

"While he was in prison, m'lord, as I pointed out on a previous occasion, Sir Nicholas kept a daily diary. He recorded the details of his will on the day after he returned to Belmarsh following his father's funeral."

"But that doesn't prove that Cartwright was privy to his thoughts," pointed out the judge.

"I would agree with you, m'lord, were it not for the fact that it was the defendant himself who pointed out the relevant passage for my junior's consideration." Sir Matthew nodded.

"That being the case," said Pearson, coming to the judge's rescue, "the Crown has no objection to these charges being withdrawn from the list."

"I am grateful for your intervention, Mr. Pearson," said the judge, "and agree that it would appear to be the proper solution. I will so inform the jury when they return."

"Thank you, m'lord," said Alex. "I am obliged to Mr. Pearson for his assistance in this matter."

"However," said the judge, "I'm sure you don't need reminding, Mr. Redmayne, that the most serious offense, that of escaping from prison while in custody, remains on the indictment."

"I am indeed aware of that, m'lord," said Alex.

The judge nodded. "Then I shall ask the usher to bring back the jury so I can inform them of this development."

"There is a related matter, my lord."

"Yes, Mr. Redmayne?" said the judge, putting down his pen.

"My lord, following Sir Hugo Moncrieff's evidence, we have subpoenaed Mr. Spencer Craig QC to appear before you as a witness. He has asked for your lordship's indulgence as he is currently leading in a case taking place in another part of this building, and will not be free to appear before your lordship until tomorrow morning."

Several members of the press rushed out of the courtroom to phone their news desks.

"Mr. Pearson?" said the judge.

"We have no objection, m'lord."

"Thank you. When the jury returns, after I have directed them on these two matters, I shall release them for the rest of the day."

"As you wish, my lord," said Alex, "but before you do so, may I alert you to a slight change in tomorrow's proceedings?" Mr. Justice Hackett put his pen down a second time, and nodded.

"My lord, you will be aware that it is a recognized tradition of the English Bar to allow one's junior to examine one of the witnesses in a case, in order that they may gain from the experience and indeed be given the chance to advance their career."

"I think I can see where this is leading, Mr. Redmayne."

"Then with your permission, m'lord, my junior, Sir Matthew Redmayne, will lead for the defense when we examine the next witness, Mr. Spencer Craig."

The rest of the press corps bolted for the door.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

DANNY SPENT ANOTHER sleepless night in his cell at Belmarsh, and it wasn't just Big Al's snoring that kept him awake.

Beth sat up in bed trying to read a book, but she never turned a page as her mind was more concerned with the ending of another story.

Alex Redmayne didn't sleep, because he knew that if they failed tomorrow, he would not be given a third chance.

Sir Matthew Redmayne didn't even bother to go to bed, but went over the order of his questions again and again.

Spencer Craig tossed and turned as he tried to work out which questions Sir Matthew was most likely to ask, and how he could avoid answering them.

Arnold Pearson never slept.

Mr. Justice Hackett slept soundly.

Court number four was already packed by the time Danny took his place in the dock. He glanced around the courtroom, and was surprised to see a melee of senior barristers and solicitors attempting to find vantage points from which to follow proceedings.

The press benches were filled with crime correspondents who for the past week had written hundreds of column inches, and had warned their editors to expect a lead story for tomorrow's first editions. They couldn't wait for the encounter between the greatest advocate since F. E. Smith and the most brilliant young QC of his generation (The Times), or the Mongoose versus the Snake (The Sun).

Danny looked up at the public gallery and smiled at Beth, who was sitting in her usual place next to his mother. Sarah Davenport was seated at the end of the front row, her head bowed. On counsel's bench Mr. Pearson was chatting to his junior. He looked more relaxed than at any time during the trial; but then today he would only be a spectator, not a participant.

The only empty seats to be found in the well of the courtroom were at the far end of counsel's bench awaiting the entrance of Alex Redmayne and his junior. Two extra policemen had been stationed on the door to explain to latecomers that only those on official business could now be accommodated in the courtroom.

Danny sat in the center of the dock, the best seat in the house. This was one performance for which he would like to have read the script before the curtain went up.

There was a babble of anticipation in the room as everyone awaited the four remaining participants who still had to make their entrance. At five minutes to ten, a policeman opened the courtroom door and a hush fell over the assembled gathering as those who had been unable to find a seat stood aside to allow Alex Redmayne and his junior to make their way to counsel's bench.

This morning Sir Matthew made no pretense of slumping in a corner and closing his eyes. He didn't even sit down. He stood bolt upright and looked around the courtroom. It was many years since he'd appeared as an advocate in any court. Once he'd found his bearings, he unfolded a small wooden stand that his wife had retrieved from the loft the night before, and which hadn't seen service for a decade. He placed it on the desk in front of him, and from his bag he removed a sheaf of papers on which he had written in his neat hand the questions Spencer Craig had spent all night trying to anticipate. Finally he handed Alex two photographs that they both knew could decide the fate of Danny Cartwright.

Only after everything was in place did Sir Matthew turn and smile at his old adversary. "Good morning, Arnold," he said. "I do hope that we won't be troubling you too much today."

Pearson returned the smile. "A sentiment with which I am fully able to concur," he said. "In fact, I'm going to break the habit of a lifetime, Matthew, and wish you luck, despite the fact I have never once during all my years at the Bar wanted my opponent to win. Today is the exception."

Sir Matthew gave a slight bow. "I will do my best to fulfill your wishes." He then sat down, closed his eyes and began to compose himself.

Alex busied himself preparing documents, transcripts, photographs and other miscellaneous material in neat piles so that when his father shot out his right hand, like an Olympic relay runner, the baton would be passed instantly.

The noise of uninvolved chatter ceased when Mr. Justice Hackett made his entrance. He ambled across to the three chairs on the center of the stage, attempting to give an impression that nothing untoward was about to take place in the court that morning.

Having amply filled the center chair, he spent longer than usual arranging his pens and checking his notebook while he waited for the jury to take their places.

"Good morning," he said once they had settled, the tone of his voice rather avuncular. "Members of the jury, the first witness today will be Mr. Spencer Craig QC. You will recall his name being raised during the cross-examination of Sir Hugo Moncrieff. Mr. Craig does not appear as a witness for either the prosecution or the defense, but has been subpoenaed to attend this court, meaning that he does not do so willingly. You must remember that your only duty is to decide if the evidence Mr. Craig presents has any bearing on the case being tried in this court, namely, did the defendant unlawfully escape from custody? On that count, and that count alone, you will be asked to deliver your verdict."

Mr. Justice Hackett beamed down at the jury before turning his attention to junior counsel. "Sir Matthew," he said, "are you ready to call the witness?"

Matthew Redmayne rose slowly from his place. "I am indeed, my lord," he responded, but did not do so. He poured himself a glass of water, then placed a pair of spectacles on the end of his nose, and finally opened his red leather folder. Having satisfied himself that he was ready for the encounter, he said, "I call Mr. Spencer Craig," his words sounding like a death knell.

A policeman stepped out into the corridor and bellowed, "Mr. Spencer Craig!"

Everyone's attention was now focused on the courtroom door as they awaited the entrance of the final witness. A moment later, Spencer Craig, dressed in his legal garb, strode into the courtroom as if it was just another day in the life of a busy advocate.

Craig stepped into the witness box, picked up the Bible and, facing the jury, delivered the oath in a firm and confident manner. He knew that it was they, and they alone, who would decide his fate. He handed the Bible back to the usher, and turned to face Sir Matthew.

"Mr. Craig," Sir Matthew began in a quiet, lulling tone, as if it was his desire to assist the witness in every possible way. "Would you be kind enough to state your name and address for the record?"

"Spencer Craig, forty-three Hambledon Terrace, London SW3."

"And your occupation?"

"I am a barrister at law and a Queen's Counsel."

"So there is no need for me to remind such an eminent member of the legal profession of the significance of the oath, or the authority of this court."

"No need at all, Sir Matthew," replied Craig, "although you appear to have done so."

"Mr. Craig, when did you first discover that Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was in fact Mr. Daniel Cartwright?"

"A friend of mine who had been at school with Sir Nicholas bumped into him at the Dorchester Hotel. He soon realized that the man was an impostor."

Alex placed a tick in the first box. Craig had clearly anticipated his father's first question, and delivered a well-prepared answer.

"And why should this friend decide to inform you, in particular, of this remarkable discovery?"

"He didn't, Sir Matthew; it simply arose in conversation over dinner one night."

Another tick.

"Then what was it that caused you to take a gigantic leap in the dark and come to the conclusion that the man posing as Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was in fact Daniel Cartwright?"

"I didn't for some time," said Craig, "not until I was introduced to the supposed Sir Nicholas at the theater one evening and was shocked by the similarity in looks, if not in manner, between him and Cartwright."

"Was that the moment when you decided to contact Chief Inspector Fuller and alert him to your misgivings?"

"No. I felt that would have been irresponsible, so I first made contact with a member of the Moncrieff family in case, as you have suggested, I was taking a gigantic leap in the dark."

Alex placed another tick on the list of questions. So far, his father hadn't laid a glove on Craig.

"Which member of the family did you contact?" asked Sir Matthew, knowing only too well.

"Mr. Hugo Moncrieff, Sir Nicholas's uncle, who informed me that his nephew had not been in touch with him since the day he'd been released from prison some two years before, which only added to my suspicions."

"Was that when you reported those suspicions to Chief Inspector Fuller?"

"No, I still felt I needed more concrete evidence."

"But the chief inspector could have relieved you of that burden, Mr. Craig. I am at a loss to understand why a busy professional gentleman like yourself chose to remain involved?"

"As I've already explained, Sir Matthew, I felt it was my responsibility to make sure that I wasn't wasting the police's time."

"How very public-spirited of you." Craig ignored Sir Matthew's barbed comment, and smiled at the jury. "But I'm bound to ask," added Sir Matthew, "who it was that alerted you to the possible advantages of being able to prove that the man posing as Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was in fact an impostor?"

"The advantages?"

"Yes, the advantages, Mr. Craig."

"I'm not sure I follow you," said Craig. Alex placed the first cross on his list. The witness was clearly playing for time.

"Then allow me to assist you," said Sir Matthew. He put out his right hand and Alex handed him a single sheet of paper. Sir Matthew ran his eye slowly down the page, giving Craig time to wonder just what bombshells it could possibly contain.

"Would I be right in suggesting, Mr. Craig," said Sir Matthew, "that if you were able to prove that it was Nicholas Moncrieff and not Danny Cartwright who committed suicide while in Belmarsh prison, Mr. Hugo Moncrieff would not only inherit the family title, but a vast fortune to go with it."

"I was not aware of that at the time," said Craig, not flinching.

"So you were acting with entirely altruistic motives?"

"Yes, I was, sir, as well as the desire to see a dangerous and violent criminal locked up."

"I will be coming to the dangerous and violent criminal who should be locked up in a moment, Mr. Craig, but before then, allow me to ask you when your acute sense of public service was overcome by the possibility of making a quick buck?"

"Sir Matthew," interrupted the judge, "that is hardly the sort of language I expect from junior counsel when addressing a QC."

"I apologize, m'lord. I will rephrase my question. Mr. Craig, when did you first become aware of the chance of making several million pounds from a piece of information you had picked up from a friend over dinner?"

"When Sir Hugo invited me to act on his behalf in a private capacity."

Alex placed another tick against another anticipated question, although he knew Craig was lying.

"Mr. Craig, do you consider it ethical for a QC to charge twenty-five percent of a man's inheritance in exchange for a piece of second-hand information?"

"It is now quite common, Sir Matthew, for barristers to be paid on results," said Craig calmly. "I realize the practice has only been introduced since your day, so perhaps I should point out that I did not charge a fee or any expenses, and that had my suspicions been proved wrong I would have wasted a considerable amount of my time and money."

Sir Matthew smiled at him. "Then you will be delighted to learn, Mr. Craig, that the altruistic side of your nature has won the day." Craig didn't rise to Sir Matthew's barb, although he was desperate to find out what he meant by it. Sir Matthew took his time before he added, "As you may be aware, the court has recently been informed by Mr. Fraser Munro, the late Sir Nicholas Moncrieff's solicitor, that his client bequeathed his entire estate to his close friend Mr. Danny Cartwright. So you have, as you feared might be the case, wasted a considerable amount of your time and money. But despite my client's good fortune, let me assure you, Mr. Craig, that I shall not be charging him twenty-five percent of his inheritance for my services."

"Nor should you," snapped Craig angrily, "as he'll be spending at least the next twenty-five years in prison, and therefore will have to wait an awfully long time before he can benefit from this unexpected windfall."

"I may be wrong, Mr. Craig," said Sir Matthew quietly, "but I have a feeling that it will be the jury who makes that decision, and not you."

"I may be wrong, Sir Matthew, but I think you'll find that a jury has already made that decision some time ago."

"Which brings me neatly on to your meeting with Chief Inspector Fuller, which you were so keen that nobody should find out about." Craig looked as if he was about to respond, then clearly thought better of it, and allowed Sir Matthew to continue. "The chief inspector, being a conscientious officer, informed the court that he would require a little more proof than photographs revealing a close similarity between the two men before he could consider making an arrest. In an answer to one of my leader's questions, he confirmed that you supplied him with that proof."

Sir Matthew knew that he was taking a risk. Had Craig responded by saying that he had no idea what he was talking about, and that he had simply passed on his suspicions to the chief inspector and left him to decide if any action should be taken, Sir Matthew had no follow-up question. He would then have to move on to a different subject, and Craig would have realized that he had merely been on a fishing expedition-and had landed nothing. But Craig did not respond immediately, which gave Sir Matthew the confidence to take an even bigger risk. He turned to Alex and said, in a voice loud enough for Craig to hear, "Let me have those photographs of Cartwright running along the Embankment, the ones that show the scar."

Alex handed his father two large photographs.

After a long pause Craig said, "I may have told the chief inspector that if the man living in The Boltons had a scar on his left thigh, just above the knee, that would prove that he was in fact Danny Cartwright."

The look on Alex's face revealed nothing, although he could hear his heart beating.

"And did you then hand over some photographs to the chief inspector to prove your point?"

"I may have done," admitted Craig.

"Perhaps if you were to see copies of the photographs they might refresh your memory?" suggested Sir Matthew, thrusting them toward him. The biggest risk of all.

"That won't be necessary," said Craig.

"I would like to see the photographs," said the judge, "and I suspect the jury would as well, Sir Matthew." Alex turned to see that several members of the jury were nodding.

"Certainly, m'lord," said Sir Matthew. Alex handed a pile of photographs to the usher, who gave two to the judge before distributing the remainder to the jury, to Pearson and finally to the witness.

Craig stared at the photos in disbelief. They were not the ones Gerald Payne had taken when Cartwright had been out on his evening run. If he had not admitted to knowing about the scar the defense would have crumbled, and the jury would have been none the wiser. He realized that Sir Matthew had landed a blow, but he was still on his feet, and would not fall for a sucker punch a second time.

"My lord," said Sir Matthew, "you will see the scar that the witness referred to is on Mr. Cartwright's left thigh, just above the knee. It has faded with the passing of time, but still remains clear to the naked eye." He turned his attention back to the witness. "You will recall, Mr. Craig, that Chief Inspector Fuller stated under oath that this was the evidence on which he relied before taking the decision to arrest my client." Craig made no attempt to contradict him. Sir Matthew didn't press him, as he felt the point had been well established. He paused, to allow the jury more time to study the photographs, as he needed the scar to be indelibly fixed in their minds before he asked a question that he was confident Craig could not have anticipated.

"When did you first phone Chief Inspector Fuller?"

Once again there was a silence, as Craig, like everyone else in the court other than Alex, tried to work out the significance of the question.

"I'm not sure I understand," he replied eventually.

"Then allow me to refresh your memory, Mr. Craig. You phoned Chief Inspector Fuller on October twenty-third last year, the day before you met him at an undisclosed location to hand over the photographs showing Danny Cartwright's scar. But when was the first occasion you came into contact with him?"

Craig tried to think of some way he could avoid answering Sir Matthew's question. He looked toward the judge, hoping for guidance. He received none.

"He was the policeman who turned up at the Dunlop Arms when I called 999 after I had witnessed Danny Cartwright stabbing his friend to death," he eventually managed.

"His friend," said Sir Matthew quickly, getting it on the record before the judge could intervene. Alex smiled at his father's ingenuity.

Mr. Justice Hackett frowned. He knew he could no longer prevent Sir Matthew pursuing the question of the original trial now that Craig himself had unwittingly brought the subject into play. "His friend," repeated Sir Matthew looking at the jury. He expected Arnold Pearson to leap up and cut him short, but there was no movement from the other end of counsel's bench.

"That's how Bernard Wilson was described in the court transcript," said Craig with confidence.

"Indeed he was," said Sir Matthew, "and I shall be referring to that transcript later. But for now I would like to return to Chief Inspector Fuller. On the first occasion you met him, following the death of Bernard Wilson, you made a statement."

"Yes, I did."

"In fact, Mr. Craig, you ended up making three statements: the first, thirty-seven minutes after the stabbing had taken place; the second, which you wrote later that night because you couldn't sleep; and a third seven months later, when you appeared in the witness box at Danny Cartwright's trial. I am in possession of all three of those statements, and I must admit, Mr. Craig, that they are admirably consistent." Craig didn't comment as he waited for the sting in the tail. "However, what I am puzzled by is the scar on Danny Cartwright's left leg, because you said in your first statement"-Alex handed his father a single sheet of paper, from which he read-"I saw Cartwright pick up the knife from the bar and follow the woman and the other man out into the alley. A few moments later I heard a scream. That was when I ran out into the alley and saw Cartwright stabbing Wilson in the chest again and again. I then returned to the bar and immediately phoned the police." Sir Matthew looked up. "Do you wish to make any amendments to that statement?"

"No," said Craig firmly, "that is exactly what happened."

"Well, not quite exactly," said Mr. Redmayne, "because police records show that you made your call at eleven twenty-three, so one is bound to ask what you were doing between-"

"Sir Matthew," interrupted the judge, surprised that Pearson hadn't leaped to his feet to intervene, but remained resolutely seated in his place, arms folded. "Are you able to show that this line of questioning is relevant, remembering that the only offense left on the charge sheet concerns your client escaping from custody?"

Sir Matthew waited long enough for the jury to become curious about why he had not been allowed to finish his previous question before he responded. "No, I am not, m'lord. However, I do wish to pursue a line of questioning that is relevant to this case, namely the scar on the defendant's left leg." He once again made eye contact with Craig. "Can I confirm, Mr. Craig, that you did not witness Danny Cartwright being stabbed in the leg, which left him with the scar shown so clearly in the photographs, which you handed over to the chief inspector and was the evidence he relied upon to arrest my client?"

Alex held his breath. It was some time before Craig eventually said, "No, I did not."

"So please indulge me for a moment, Mr. Craig, and allow me to put forward three scenarios for your consideration. You can then tell the jury, from your vast experience of the criminal mind, which of them you consider to be the most likely."

"If you feel a parlor game will in any way assist the jury, Sir Matthew," sighed Craig, "please be my guest."

"I think you will find that it's a parlous game that will assist the jury," said Sir Matthew. The two men stared at each other for some time before Sir Matthew added, "Allow me to suggest the first scenario. Danny Cartwright grabs the knife from the bar just as you suggested, follows his fiancée into the alley, stabs himself in the leg, pulls out the knife, and then stabs his best friend to death."

Laughter broke out in the court. Craig waited for it to die down before he responded.

"That's a farcical suggestion, Sir Matthew, and you know it."

"I'm glad that we have at last found something on which we can agree, Mr. Craig. Let me move on to my second scenario. It was in fact Bernie Wilson who grabbed the knife from the bar, he and Cartwright go out into the alley, he stabs Cartwright in the leg, pulls out the knife and then stabs himself to death."

This time even the jury joined in the laughter.

"That's even more farcical," said Craig. "I'm not quite sure what you imagine this charade is proving."

"This charade is proving," said Sir Matthew, "that the man who stabbed Danny Cartwright in the leg was the same man who stabbed Bernie Wilson in the chest, because only one knife was involved-the one picked up from the bar. So I agree with you, Mr. Craig, my first two scenarios are farcical, but before I put the third one to you, allow me to ask you one final question." Every eye in the courtroom was now on Sir Matthew. "If you did not witness Cartwright being stabbed in the leg, how could you possibly have known about the scar?" Everyone's gaze was transferred to Craig. He was no longer calm. His hands felt clammy as they gripped the side of the witness box.

"I must have read about it in the transcript of the trial," said Craig, trying to sound confident.

"You know, one of the problems that an old warhorse like myself faces once he's pensioned off," said Sir Matthew, "is that he has nothing to do with his spare time. So for the past six months, my bedside reading has been this transcript." He held up a five-inch-thick document, and added, "From cover to cover. Not once, but twice. And one of the things I discovered during my years at the Bar was that often it's not what's in the evidence that gives a criminal away, but what has been left out. Let me assure you, Mr. Craig, there is no mention, from the first page to the last, of a wound to Danny Cartwright's left leg." Sir Matthew added, almost in a whisper, "And so I come to my final scenario, Mr. Craig. It was you who picked up the knife from the bar before running out into the alley. It was you who thrust the knife into Danny Cartwright's leg. It was you who stabbed Bernie Wilson in the chest and left him to die in the arms of his friend. And it will be you who will spend the rest of your life in prison."

Uproar broke out in the courtroom.

Sir Matthew turned to Arnold Pearson, who still wasn't lifting a finger to assist his colleague, but remained hunched up in the corner of counsel's bench, his arms folded.

The judge waited until the usher had called for silence and order was restored before saying, "I feel I should give Mr. Craig the opportunity to answer Sir Matthew's accusations rather than leave them hanging in the air."

"I will be only too happy to do so, m'lord," said Craig evenly, "but first I should like to suggest to Sir Matthew a fourth scenario, which at least has the merit of credibility."

"I can't wait," said Sir Matthew, leaning back.

"Given your client's background, isn't it possible that the wound to his leg was inflicted at some time before the night in question?"

"But that still doesn't explain how you could possibly have known about the scar in the first place."

"I don't have to explain," said Craig defiantly, "because a jury has already decided that your client didn't have a leg to stand on." He looked rather pleased with himself.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," said Sir Matthew, turning to his son, who on cue handed him a small cardboard box. Sir Matthew placed the box on the ledge in front of him, and took his time before removing a pair of jeans and holding them up in full view of the jury. "These are the jeans that the prison service returned to Miss Elizabeth Wilson when it was thought that Danny Cartwright had hanged himself. I am sure that the jury will be interested to see that there is a blood-stained tear in the left lower thigh region, which matches up exactly with…"

The outburst that followed drowned out the rest of Sir Matthew's words. Everyone turned to look at Craig, wanting to find out what his answer would be, but he wasn't given the chance to reply, as Pearson finally rose to his feet.

"M'lord, I must remind Sir Matthew that it is not Mr. Craig who is on trial," Pearson declared, having to almost shout in order to make himself heard, "and that this piece of evidence"-he pointed at the jeans which Sir Matthew was still holding up-"has no relevance when it comes to deciding if Cartwright did or did not escape from custody."

Mr. Justice Hackett was no longer able to hide his anger. His jovial smile had been replaced by a grim visage. Once silence had returned to his court, he said, "I couldn't agree with you more, Mr. Pearson. A bloodstained tear in the defendant's jeans is certainly not relevant to this case." He paused for a moment before looking down at the witness with disdain. "However, I feel I have been left with no choice but to abandon this trial and dismiss the jury until all the transcripts of this and the earlier case have been sent to the DPP for his consideration, because I am of the opinion that a gross miscarriage of justice may have taken place in the case of The Crown versus Daniel Arthur Cartwright."

This time the judge made no attempt to quell the uproar that followed as journalists bolted for the door, some of them already on their mobile phones even before they had left the courtroom.

Alex turned to congratulate his father, to find him slumped in the corner of the bench, his eyes closed. He opened an eyelid, peered up at his son and remarked, "It's far from over yet, my boy."