To Cut a Long Story Short

Crime Pays*

Kenny Merchant — that wasn’t his real name, but then, little was real about Kenny — had selected Harrods on a quiet Monday morning as the venue for the first part of the operation.

Kenny was dressed in a pinstriped suit, white shirt and Guards tie. Few of the shop’s customers would have realised it was a Guards tie, but he was confident that the assistant he had selected to serve him would recognise the crimson and dark-blue stripes immediately.

The door was held open for him by a commissionaire who had served in the Coldstream Guards, and who on spotting the tie immediately saluted him. The same commissionaire had not saluted him on any of his several visits during the previous week, but to be fair, Kenny had been dressed then in a shiny, well-worn suit, open-necked shirt and dark glasses. But last week had only been for reconnaissance; today he planned to be arrested.

Although Harrods has over a hundred thousand customers a week, the quietest period is always between ten and eleven on a Monday morning. Kenny knew every detail about the great store, in the way a football fan knows all the statistics of his favourite team.

He knew where all the CCTV cameras were placed, and could recognise any of the security guards at thirty paces. He even knew the name of the assistant who would be serving him that morning, although Mr Parker had no idea that he had been selected as a tiny cog in Kenny’s well-oiled machine.

When Kenny appeared at the jewellery department that morning, Mr Parker was briefing a young assistant on the changes he required to the shelf display.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, turning to face his first customer of the day. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I was looking for a pair of cufflinks,’ Kenny said, in the clipped tones he hoped made him sound like a Guards officer.

‘Yes, of course sir,’ said Mr Parker.

It amused Kenny to see the deferential treatment he received as a result of the Guards tie, which he had been able to purchase in the men’s department the previous day for an outlay of £23.

‘Any particular style?’ asked the sales assistant.

‘I’d prefer silver.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Mr Parker, who proceeded to place on the counter several boxes of silver cufflinks.

Kenny already knew the pair he wanted, as he had picked them out the previous Saturday afternoon. ‘What about those?’ he asked, pointing to the top shelf. As the sales assistant turned away, Kenny checked the TV surveillance camera and took a pace to his right, to be sure that they could see him more clearly. While Mr Parker reached up to remove the cufflinks, Kenny slid the chosen pair off the counter and slipped them into his jacket pocket before the assistant turned back round.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kenny saw a security guard moving swiftly towards him, while at the same time speaking into his walkie-talkie.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the guard, touching his elbow. ‘I wonder if you would be kind enough to accompany me.’

‘What’s this all about?’ demanded Kenny, trying to sound annoyed, as a second security guard appeared on his other side.

‘Perhaps it might be wise if you were to accompany us, so that we can discuss the matter privately,’ suggested the second guard, holding onto his arm a little more firmly.

‘I’ve never been so insulted in my life,’ said Kenny, now speaking at the top of his voice. He took the cufflinks out of his pocket, replaced them on the counter and added, ‘I had every intention of paying for them.’

The guard picked up the box. To his surprise the irate customer then accompanied him to the interview room without uttering another word.

On entering the little green-walled room, Kenny was asked to take a seat on the far side of a desk. One guard returned to his duties on the ground floor while the other remained by the door. Kenny knew that on an average day, forty-two people were arrested for shoplifting at Harrods, and over 90 per cent of them were prosecuted.

A few moments later, the door opened and a tall, thin man with a weary look on his face entered the room. He took a seat on the other side of the desk and glanced across at Kenny before pulling open a drawer and removing a green form.

‘Name?’ he said.

‘Kenny Merchant,’ Kenny replied without hesitation.

‘Address?’

‘42 St Luke’s Road, Putney.’

‘Occupation?’

‘Unemployed.’

Kenny spent several more minutes accurately answering the tall man’s enquiries. When the inquisitor reached his final question, he spent a moment studying the silver cufflinks before filling in the bottom line. Value: £90. Kenny knew all too well the significance of that particular sum.

The form was then swivelled round for Kenny to sign, which to the inquisitor’s surprise he did with a flourish.

The guard then accompanied Kenny to an adjoining room, where he was kept waiting for almost an hour. The guard was surprised that Kenny didn’t ask what would happen next. All the others did. But then, Kenny knew exactly what was going to happen next, despite the fact that he had never been charged with shoplifting before.

About an hour later the police arrived and he was driven, along with five others, to Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court. There followed another long wait before he came up in front of the magistrate. The charge was read out to him and he pleaded guilty. As the value of the cufflinks was under £100, Kenny knew he would receive a fine rather than a custodial sentence, and he waited patiently for the magistrate to ask the same question he had when Kenny had sat at the back of the court and listened to several cases the previous week.

‘Is there anything else you would like me to take into consideration before I pass sentence?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Kenny. ‘I stole a watch from Selfridges last week. It’s been on my conscience ever since, and I would like to return it.’ He beamed up at the magistrate.

The magistrate nodded and, looking down at the defendant’s address on the form in front of him, ordered that a constable should accompany Mr Merchant to his home and retrieve the stolen merchandise. For a moment the magistrate almost looked as if he was going to praise the convicted criminal for his act of good citizenship, but like Mr Parker, the guard and the inquisitor, he didn’t realise he was simply another cog in a bigger wheel.

Kenny was driven to his home in Putney by a young constable, who told him that he’d only been on the job for a few weeks. Then you’re in for a bit of a shock, thought Kenny as he unlocked the front door of his home and invited the officer in.

‘Oh my God,’ said the young man the moment he stepped into the sitting room. He turned, ran back out of the flat and immediately called his station sergeant on the car radio. Within minutes, two patrol cars were parked outside Kenny’s home in St Luke’s Road. Chief Inspector Travis marched through the open door to find Kenny sitting in the hall, holding up the stolen watch.

‘To hell with the watch,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘What about this lot?’ he said, his arms sweeping around the sitting room.

‘It’s all mine,’ said Kenny. ‘The only thing I admit to stealing, and am now returning, is one watch. Timex Masterpiece, value £44, taken from Selfridges.’

‘What’s your game, laddie?’ asked Travis.

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ said Kenny innocently.

‘You know exactly what I mean,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘This place is full of expensive jewellery, paintings, objets d’art and antique furniture’ — around £300,000-worth, Kenny would have liked to have told him — ‘and I don’t believe any of it belongs to you.’

‘Then you’ll have to prove it, Chief Inspector, because should you fail to do so, the law assumes that it belongs to me. And that being the case, I will be able to dispose of it as I wish.’ The Chief Inspector frowned, informed Kenny of his rights and arrested him for theft.

When Kenny next appeared in court, it was at the Old Bailey, in front of a judge. Kenny was dressed appropriately for the occasion in a pinstriped suit, white shirt and Guards tie. He stood in the dock charged with the theft of goods to the value of £24,000.

The police had made a complete inventory of everything they found in the flat, and spent the next six months trying to trace the owners of the treasure trove. But despite advertising in all the recognised journals, and even showing the stolen goods extensively on television’s Crimewatch, as well as putting them on display for the public to view, over 80 per cent of the items remained unclaimed.

Chief Inspector Travis tried to bargain with Kenny, saying he would recommend a lenient sentence if he would cooperate and reveal who the property belonged to.

‘It all belongs to me,’ repeated Kenny.

‘If that’s going to be your game, don’t expect any help from us,’ said the Chief Inspector.

Kenny hadn’t expected any help from Travis in the first place. It had never been part of his original plan.

Kenny had always believed that if you penny-pinch when it comes to selecting a lawyer, you could well end up paying dearly for it. So when he stood in the dock he was represented by a leading firm of solicitors and a silky barrister called Arden Duveen, QC, who wanted £10,000 on his brief.

Kenny pleaded guilty to the indictment, aware that when the police gave evidence they would be unable to mention any of the goods that had remained unclaimed, and which the law therefore assumed belonged to him. In fact, the police had already reluctantly returned the property that they were unable to prove had been stolen, and Kenny had quickly passed it on to a dealer for a third of its value, compared with the tenth he had been offered by a fence six months before.

Mr Duveen, QC, defending, pointed out to the judge that not only was it his client’s first offence, but that he had invited the police to accompany him to his home, well aware that they would discover the stolen goods and that he would be arrested. Could there be better proof of a repentant and remorseful man, he asked.

Mr Duveen went on to point out to the court that Mr Merchant had served nine years in the armed services, and had been honourably discharged following active service in the Gulf, but that since leaving the army he seemed unable to settle down to civilian life. Mr Duveen did not claim this as an excuse for his client’s behaviour, but he wished the court to know that Mr Merchant had vowed never to commit such a crime again, and therefore pleaded with the judge to impose a lenient sentence.

Kenny stood in the dock, his head bowed.

The judge lectured him for some time on how evil his crime had been, but added that he had taken into consideration all the mitigating circumstances surrounding this case, and had settled on a prison sentence of two years.

Kenny thanked him, and assured him that he would not be bothering him again. He knew that the next crime he had planned could not end up with a prison sentence.

Chief Inspector Travis watched as Kenny was taken down, then, turning to the prosecuting counsel, asked, ‘How much do you imagine that bloody man has made by keeping to the letter of the law?’

‘About a hundred thousand would be my bet,’ replied the Crown’s silk.

‘More than I’d be able to put by in a lifetime,’ the Chief Inspector commented, before uttering a string of words that no one present felt able to repeat to their wives over dinner that evening.

Prosecuting counsel was not far out. Kenny had deposited a cheque at the Hongkong and Shanghai Bank earlier that week for £86,000.

What the Chief Inspector couldn’t know was that Kenny had completed only half of his plan, and that now the seed money was in place, he was ready to prepare for an early retirement. Before he was taken away to prison, he made one further request of his solicitor.

While Kenny was holed up in Ford Open Prison he used his time well. He spent every spare moment going over various Acts of Parliament that were currently being debated in the House of Commons. He quickly dismissed several Green Papers, White Papers and Bills on health, education and the social services, before he came across the Data Protection Bill, each clause of which he set about studying as assiduously as any Member of the House of Commons at the report stage of the Bill. He followed each new amendment that was placed before the House, and each new clause as it was passed. Once the Act had become law in 1992, he sought a further interview with his solicitor.

The solicitor listened carefully to Kenny’s questions and, finding himself out of his depth, admitted he would have to seek counsel’s opinion. ‘I will get in touch with Mr Duveen immediately,’ he said.

While Kenny waited for his QC’s judgement, he asked to be supplied with copies of every business magazine published in the United Kingdom.

The solicitor tried not to look puzzled by this request, as he had done when he had been asked to supply every Act of Parliament currently being debated in the House of Commons. During the next few weeks, bundles and bundles of magazines arrived at the prison, and Kenny spent all his spare time cutting out any advertisements that appeared in three magazines or more.

A year to the day after Kenny had been sentenced, he was released on parole following his exemplary behaviour. When he walked out of Ford Open Prison, having served only half his term, the one thing he took with him was a large brown envelope containing three thousand advertisements and the written opinion of leading counsel on clause 9, paragraph 6, subsection (a) of the Data Protection Act 1992.

A week later, Kenny took a flight to Hong Kong.

The Hong Kong police reported back to Chief Inspector Travis that Mr Merchant had booked into a small hotel, and spent his days visiting local printers, seeking quotes for the publication of a magazine entitled Business Enterprise UK, and the retail price of headed notepaper and envelopes. The magazine, they quickly discovered, would contain a few articles on finance and shares, but the bulk of its pages would be taken up with small advertisements.

The Hong Kong police confessed themselves puzzled when they discovered how many copies of the magazine Kenny had ordered to be printed.

‘How many?’ asked Chief Inspector Travis.

‘Ninety-nine.’

‘Ninety-nine? There has to be a reason,’ was Travis’s immediate response.

He was even more puzzled when he discovered that there was already a magazine called Business Enterprise, and that it published 10,000 copies a month.

The Hong Kong police later reported that Kenny had ordered 2,500 sheets of headed paper, and 2,500 brown envelopes.

‘So what’s he up to?’ demanded Travis.

No one in Hong Kong or London could come up with a convincing suggestion.

Three weeks later, the Hong Kong police reported that Mr Merchant had been seen at a local post office, despatching 2,400 letters to addresses all over the United Kingdom.

The following week, Kenny flew back to Heathrow.

Although Travis kept Kenny under surveillance, the young constable was unable to report anything untoward, other than that the local postman had told him Mr Merchant was receiving around twenty-five letters a day, and that like clockwork he would drop into Lloyd’s Bank in the King’s Road around noon and deposit several cheques for amounts ranging from two hundred to two thousand pounds. The constable didn’t report that Kenny gave him a wave every morning just before entering the bank.

After six months the letters slowed to a trickle, and Kenny’s visits to the bank almost came to a halt.

The only new piece of information the Constable was able to pass on to Chief Inspector Travis was that Mr Merchant had moved from his small flat in St Luke’s Road, Putney, to an imposing four-storey mansion in Chester Square, SW1.

Just as Travis turned his attention to more pressing cases, Kenny flew off to Hong Kong again. ‘Almost a year to the day,’ was the Chief Inspector’s only comment.

The Hong Kong police reported back to the Chief Inspector that Kenny was following roughly the same routine as he had the previous year, the only difference being that this time he had booked himself into a suite at the Mandarin. He had selected the same printer, who confirmed that his client had made another order for Business Enterprise UK. The second issue had some new articles, but would contain only 1,971 advertisements.

‘How many copies is he having published this time?’ asked the Chief Inspector.

‘The same as before,’ came back the reply. ‘Ninety-nine. But he’s only ordered two thousand sheets of headed paper and two thousand envelopes.’

‘What is he up to?’ repeated the Chief Inspector. He received no reply.

Once the magazine had rolled off the presses, Kenny returned to the post office and sent out 1,971 letters, before taking a flight back to London, care of British Airways, first class.

Travis knew Kenny must be breaking the law somehow, but he had neither the staff nor the resources to follow it up. And Kenny might have continued to milk this particular cow indefinitely had a complaint from a leading company on the stock exchange not landed on the Chief Inspector’s desk.

A Mr Cox, the company’s financial director, reported that he had received an invoice for £500 for an advertisement his firm had never placed.

The Chief Inspector visited Mr Cox in his City office. After a long discussion, Cox agreed to assist the police by pressing charges.

The Crown took the best part of six months to prepare its case before sending it to the CPS for consideration. They took almost as long before deciding to prosecute, but once they had, the Chief Inspector drove straight to Chester Square and personally arrested Kenny on a charge of fraud.

Mr Duveen appeared in court the following morning, insisting that his client was a model citizen. The judge granted Kenny bail, but demanded that he lodge his passport with the court.

‘That’s fine by me,’ Kenny told his solicitor. ‘I won’t be needing it for a couple of months.’

The trial opened at the Old Bailey six weeks later, and once again Kenny was represented by Mr Duveen. While Kenny stood to attention in the dock, the clerk of the court read out seven charges of fraud. On each charge he pleaded not guilty. Prosecuting counsel made his opening statement, but the jury, as in so many financial trials, didn’t look as if they were following his detailed submissions.

Kenny accepted that twelve good men and women true would decide whether they believed him or Mr Cox, as there wasn’t much hope that they would understand the niceties of the 1992 Data Protection Act.

When Mr Cox read out the oath on the third day, Kenny felt he was the sort of man you could trust with your last penny. In fact, he thought he might even invest a few thousand in his company.

Mr Matthew Jarvis, QC, counsel for the Crown, took Mr Cox through a series of gentle questions designed to show him to be a man of such probity that he felt it was nothing less than his public duty to ensure that the evil fraud perpetrated by the defendant was stamped out once and for all.

Mr Duveen rose to cross-examine him.

‘Let me begin, Mr Cox, by asking you if you ever saw the advertisement in question.’

Mr Cox stared down at him in righteous indignation.

‘Yes, of course I did,’ he replied.

‘Was it of a quality that in normal circumstances would have been acceptable to your company?’

‘Yes, but...’

‘No “buts”, Mr Cox. It either was, or it was not, of a quality acceptable to your company.’

‘It was,’ replied Mr Cox, through pursed lips.

‘Did your company end up paying for the advertisement?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Mr Cox. ‘A member of my staff queried the invoice, and immediately brought it to my attention.’

‘How commendable,’ said Duveen. ‘And did that same member of staff spot the wording concerning payment of the invoice?’

‘No, it was I who spotted that,’ said Mr Cox, looking towards the jury with a smile of satisfaction.

‘Most impressive, Mr Cox. And can you still recall the exact wording on the invoice?’

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Mr Cox. He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘“If you are dissatisfied with the product, there is no obligation to pay this invoice.” ’

‘“No obligation to pay this invoice,” ’ repeated Duveen.

‘Yes,’ Mr Cox replied. ‘That’s what it stated.’

‘So you didn’t pay the bill?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Allow me to sum up your position, Mr Cox. You received a free advertisement in my client’s magazine, of a quality that would have been acceptable to your company had it been in any other periodical. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, but...’ began Mr Cox.

‘No more questions, m’lud.’

Duveen had avoided mentioning those clients who had paid for their advertisements, as none of them was willing to appear in court for fear of the adverse publicity that would follow. Kenny felt his QC had destroyed the prosecution’s star witness, but Duveen warned him that Jarvis would try to do the same to him the moment he stepped into the witness box.

The judge suggested a break for lunch. Kenny didn’t eat — he just perused the Data Protection Act once again.

When the court resumed after lunch, Mr Duveen informed the judge that he would be calling only the defendant.

Kenny entered the witness box dressed in a dark-blue suit, white shirt and Guards tie.

Mr Duveen spent some considerable time allowing Kenny to take him through his army career and the service he had given to his country in the Gulf, without touching on the service he had more recently given at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He then proceeded to guide Kenny through the evidence in brief. By the time Duveen had resumed his place, the jury were in no doubt that they were dealing with a businessman of unimpeachable rectitude.

Mr Matthew Jarvis QC rose slowly from his place, and made great play of rearranging his papers before asking his first question.

‘Mr Merchant, allow me to begin by asking you about the periodical in question, Business Enterprise UK. Why did you select that particular name for your magazine?’

‘It represents everything I believe in.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it does, Mr Merchant, but isn’t the truth that you were trying to mislead potential advertisers into confusing your publication with Business Enterprise, a magazine of many years’ standing and an impeccable reputation. Isn’t that what you were really up to?’

‘No more than Woman does with Woman’s Own, or House and Garden with Homes and Gardens,’ Kenny retorted.

‘But all the magazines you have just mentioned sell many thousands of copies. How many copies of Business Enterprise UK did you publish?’

‘Ninety-nine,’ replied Kenny.

‘Only ninety-nine? Then it was hardly likely to top the bestsellers’ list, was it? Please enlighten the court as to why you settled on that particular figure.’

‘Because it is fewer than a hundred, and the Data Protection Act 1992 defines a publication as consisting of at least one hundred copies. Clause 2, subsection 11.’

‘That may well be the case, Mr Merchant, which is all the more reason,’ suggested Mr Jarvis, ‘that to expect clients to pay £500 for an unsolicited advertisement in your magazine was outrageous.’

‘Outrageous, perhaps, but not a crime,’ said Kenny, with a disarming smile.

‘Allow me to move on, Mr Merchant. Perhaps you could explain to the court on what you based your decision, when it came to charging each company.’

‘I found out how much their accounts departments were authorised to spend without having to refer to higher authority.’

‘And what deception did you perpetrate to discover that piece of information?’

‘I called the accounts department and asked to speak to the billing clerk.’

A ripple of laughter ran through the courtroom. The judge cleared his throat theatrically and demanded the court come to order.

‘And on that alone you based your decision on how much to charge?’

‘Not entirely. You see, I did have a rate card. Prices varied between £2,000 for a full-colour page and £200 for a quarter-page, black and white. I think you’ll find we’re fairly competitive — if anything, slightly below the national average.’

‘Certainly you were below the national average for the number of copies produced,’ snapped Mr Jarvis.

‘I’ve known worse.’

‘Perhaps you can give the court an example,’ said Mr Jarvis, confident that he had trapped the defendant.

‘The Conservative Party.’

‘I’m not following you, Mr Merchant.’

‘They hold a dinner once a year at Grosvenor House. They sell around five hundred programmes and charge £5,000 for a full-page advertisement in colour.’

‘But at least they allow potential advertisers every opportunity to refuse to pay such a rate.’

‘So do I,’ retorted Kenny.

‘So, you do not accept that it is against the law to send invoices to companies who were never shown the product in the first place?’

‘That may well be the law in the United Kingdom,’ said Kenny, ‘even in Europe. But it does not apply if the magazine is produced in Hong Kong, a British colony, and the invoices are despatched from that country.’

Mr Jarvis began sifting through his papers.

‘I think you’ll find it’s amendment 9, clause 4, as amended in the Lords at report stage,’ said Kenny.

‘But that is not what their Lordships intended when they drafted that particular amendment,’ said Jarvis, moments after he had located the relevant clause.

‘I am not a mind-reader, Mr Jarvis,’ said Kenny, ‘so I cannot be sure what their Lordships intended. I am only interested in keeping to the letter of the law.’

‘But you broke the law by receiving money in England and not declaring it to the Inland Revenue.’

‘That is not the case, Mr Jarvis. Business Enterprise UK is a subsidiary of the main company, which is registered in Hong Kong. In the case of a British colony, the Act allows subsidiaries to receive the income in the country of distribution.’

‘But you made no attempt to distribute the magazine, Mr Merchant.’

‘A copy of Business Enterprise UK was placed in the British Library and several other leading institutions, as stipulated in clause 19 of the Act.’

‘That may be true, but there is no escaping the fact, Mr Merchant, that you were demanding money under false pretences.’

‘Not if you state clearly on the invoice that if the client is dissatisfied with the product, they are not required to make any payment.’

‘But the wording on the invoice is so small that you would need a magnifying glass to see it.’

‘Consult the Act, Mr Jarvis, as I did. I could not find anything to indicate what size the lettering should be.’

‘And the colour?’

‘The colour?’ asked Kenny, feigning surprise.

‘Yes, Mr Merchant, the colour. Your invoices were printed on dark-grey paper, while the lettering was light grey.’

‘Those are the company colours, Mr Jarvis, as anyone would know who had looked at the cover of the magazine. And there is nothing in the Act to suggest what colour should be used when sending out invoices.’

‘Ah,’ said prosecuting counsel, ‘but there is a clause in the Act stating in unambiguous terms that the wording should be placed in a prominent position. Clause 3, paragraph 14.’

‘That is correct, Mr Jarvis.’

‘And do you feel that the back of the paper could be described as a prominent position?’

‘I certainly do,’ said Kenny. ‘After all, there wasn’t anything else on the back of the page. I do also try to keep to the spirit of the law.’

‘Then so will I,’ snapped Jarvis. ‘Because once a company has paid for an advertisement in Business Enterprise UK, is it not also correct that that company must be supplied with a copy of the magazine?’

‘Only if requested — clause 42, paragraph 9.’

‘And how many companies requested a copy of Business Enterprise UK?’

‘Last year it was 107. This year it dropped to ninety-one.’

‘And did they all receive copies?’

‘No. Unfortunately, in some cases they didn’t last year, but this year I was able to fulfil every order.’

‘So you broke the law on that occasion?’

‘Yes, but only because I was unable to print a hundred copies of the magazine, as I explained earlier.’

Mr Jarvis paused to allow the judge to complete a note. ‘I think you’ll find it’s clause 84, paragraph 6, m’lud.’

The judge nodded.

‘Finally, Mr Merchant, let me turn to something you lamentably failed to tell your defence counsel when he was questioning you.’

Kenny gripped the side of the witness box.

‘Last year you sent out 2,400 invoices. How many companies sent back payments?’

‘Around 45 per cent.’

‘How many, Mr Merchant?’

‘1,130,’ admitted Kenny.

‘And this year, you sent out only 1,900 invoices. May I ask why five hundred companies were reprieved?’

‘I decided not to invoice those firms that had declared poor annual results and had failed to offer their shareholders a dividend.’

‘Most commendable, I’m sure. But how many still paid the full amount?’

‘1,090,’ said Kenny.

Mr Jarvis stared at the jury for some time before asking, ‘And how much profit did you make during your first year?’

The courtroom was as silent as it had been at any point during the eight-day trial as Kenny considered his reply. ‘£1,412,000,’ he eventually replied.

‘And this year?’ asked Mr Jarvis quietly.

‘It fell a little, which I blame on the recession.’

‘How much?’ demanded Mr Jarvis.

‘A little over £1,200,000.’

‘No more questions, m’lud.’

Both leading counsels made robust final statements, but Kenny sensed that the jury would wait to hear the judge’s summing-up on the following day before they came to their verdict.

Mr Justice Thornton took a considerable time to sum the case up. He pointed out to the jury that it was his responsibility to explain to them the law as it applied in this particular case.

‘And we are certainly dealing with a man who has studied the letter of the law. And that is his privilege, because it is parliamentarians who make the law, and it is not for the courts to try and work out what was in their minds at the time.

‘To that end I must tell you that Mr Merchant is charged on seven counts, and on six of them I must advise you to return a verdict of “not guilty”, because I direct you that Mr Merchant has not broken the law.

‘On the seventh charge — that of failing to supply copies of his magazine, Business Enterprise UK, to those customers who had paid for an advertisement and then requested a copy — he admitted that, in a few cases, he failed so to do. Members of the jury, you may feel that he certainly broke the law on that occasion, even though he rectified the position a year later — and then I suspect only because the number of requests had fallen below one hundred copies. Members of the jury will possibly recall that particular clause of the Data Protection Act, and its significance.’ Twelve blank expressions didn’t suggest that they had much idea what he was talking about.

The judge ended with the words, ‘I hope you will not take your final decision lightly, as there are several parties beyond this courtroom who will be awaiting your verdict.’

The defendant had to agree with that sentiment as he watched the jury file out of the courtroom, accompanied by the ushers. He was taken back down to his cell, where he declined lunch, and spent over an hour lying on a bunk before he was asked to return to the dock and learn his fate.

Once Kenny had climbed the stairs and was back in the dock, he only had to wait a few minutes before the jury filed back into their places.

The judge took his seat, looked down towards the clerk of the court and nodded. The clerk then turned his attention to the foreman of the jury and read out each of the seven charges.

On the first six counts of fraud and deception, the foreman followed the instructions of the judge and delivered verdicts of ‘not guilty’.

The clerk then read out the seventh charge: failure to supply a copy of the magazine to those companies who, having paid for an advertisement in the said magazine and requested a copy of the said magazine, failed to receive one. ‘How do you find the defendant on this charge — guilty or not guilty?’ asked the clerk.

‘Guilty,’ said the foreman, and resumed his seat.

The judge turned his attention to Kenny, who was standing to attention in the dock.

‘Like you, Mr Merchant,’ he began, ‘I have spent a considerable time studying the Data Protection Act 1992, and in particular the penalties for failing to adhere to clause 84, paragraph 1. I have decided that I am left with no choice but to inflict on you the maximum penalty the law allows in this particular case.’ He stared down at Kenny, looking as if he was about to pronounce the death sentence.

‘You will be fined £1,000.’

Mr Duveen did not rise to seek leave for appeal or time to pay, because it was exactly the verdict Kenny had predicted before the trial opened. He had made only one error during the past two years, and he was happy to pay for it. Kenny left the dock, wrote out a cheque for the amount demanded and passed it across to the clerk of the court.

Having thanked his legal team, he checked his watch and quickly left the courtroom. The Chief Inspector was waiting for him in the corridor.

‘So that should finally put paid to your little business enterprise,’ said Travis, running alongside him.

‘I can’t imagine why,’ said Kenny, as he continued jogging down the corridor.

‘Because Parliament will now have to change the law,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘and this time it will undoubtedly tie up all your little loopholes.’

‘Not in the near future would be my bet, Chief Inspector,’ Kenny said as he left the building and began jogging down the courtroom steps. ‘As Parliament is about to rise for the summer recess, I can’t see them finding time for new amendments to the Data Protection Act much before February or March of next year.’

‘But if you try to repeat the exercise, I’ll arrest you the moment you get off the plane,’ Travis said as Kenny came to a halt on the pavement.

‘I don’t think so, Chief Inspector.’

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t imagine the CPS will be willing to go through another expensive trial, if all they’re likely to end up with is a fine of £1,000. Think about it, Chief Inspector.’

‘Well, I’ll get you the following year,’ said Travis.

‘I doubt it. You see, by then Hong Kong will no longer be a Crown Colony, and I will have moved on,’ said Kenny as he climbed into a taxi.

‘Moved on?’ said the Chief Inspector, looking puzzled.

Kenny pulled the taxi window down, smiled at Travis and said, ‘If you’ve nothing better to do with your time, Chief Inspector, I recommend that you study the new Financial Provisions Act. You wouldn’t believe how many loopholes there are in it. Goodbye, Chief Inspector.’

‘Where to, guv?’ asked the taxi driver.

‘Heathrow. But could we stop at Harrods on the way? There’s a pair of cufflinks I want to pick up.’