And Thereby Hangs a Tale (9 page)

'You may well be right,' said Haskins. 'But it's
still my duty as a lawyer to inform my clients when I believe their case cannot
be won.'

'But you can't be worried about taking on Kullick
in court,' said Chester. 'After all, you didn't even think he was good enough
to be a partner in your firm.'

Haskins raised an eyebrow. 'That may well be
the case, but it wouldn't be Mr Kullick I would be up against.' He replaced his
halfmoon spectacles on the end of his nose and once again picked up the will,
then turned over several pages before identifying the rel-evant clause. He
looked solemnly at his clients before he began to read.

'I also bequeath ten million dollars to my
alma mater, Princeton University; five million dollars to the Veterans
Association of America; five million dollars to the Conference of Presidents,
to assist their work in Israel; five million dollars to the Republic-an Party,
which I have supported all my life; and finally five million dollars to the
National Rifle Association, the aims of which I
approve, and which I have always supported.'

The old lawyer looked up. 'I should point
out to you both that none of these bequests was in your father's original will,'
he said, before adding, 'and although I am in no doubt that we could beat Mr
Kullick if he was our only opponent, I can assure you that we would have little
chance of defeating five of the largest and most prestigious law firms in the
land. Between them they would have bled you dry long before the case came to
court. I fear I can only recommend that you settle for a cane with a silver
handle and a photograph of your father at Princeton.'

'While she walks away with a cool seventy million
dollars,' said Joni.

'Having sacrificed thirty million to ensure she
would never have to appear in court,' said Haskins as he placed the will back
on his desk. 'Clever woman, Ms Lynn Beattie, and that wasn't even her real
name.'

T
HE JUDGE LOOKED DOWN at the defendant and
frowned.

'Kevin Bryant, you have been found guilty of
armed robbery. A crime you clearly planned with considerable skill and
ingenuity. During your trial it has become clear that you knew exactly when to
carry out the attack upon your chosen victim, Mr Neville Abbott, a respected
diamond merchant from Hatton Garden. You held up the security guard at his
workshop with a shotgun, and forced him to open the strongroom where Mr Abbott
was showing a dealer from Holland a consignment of uncut diamonds he had
recently purchased from South Africa for just over ten million pounds.

'Thanks to outstanding police work, you were
arrested within days, although the diamonds have never been found. During the
seven months you have spent in custody you have been given every opportunity to
reveal the whereabouts of the diamonds, but you have chosen not to do so.

'Taking that fact, as well as your past
record, into consideration, I am left with no choice but to sentence you to
twelve years in prison.

However, Mr Bryant, I would consider a
reduction to your sentence if at any time you should change your mind and
decide to inform the police where the diamonds are.

Take the prisoner down.'

Detective Inspector Matthews frowned as he watched
Bryant being led down to the cells before being shipped off to Belmarsh prison.

As a policeman, you're meant to feel a
certain professional pride, almost pleasure, when you've been responsible for
banging up a career criminal, but this time Matthews felt no such pride, and
wouldn't until he got his hands on those diamonds. He was convinced Bryant hadn't
had enough time to sell them on and must have hidden them somewhere.

Detective Inspector Matthews had attempted to
make a deal with Bryant on more than one occasion. He even offered to downgrade
his charge to aggravated burglary, which carries a far shorter sentence,
but only if he pleaded guilty and told him where the diamonds
were. But Bryant always gave the same reply: 'I'll do my bird, guv.'

If Bryant wasn't willing to make a deal with
him, Matthews knew someone doing time in the same prison who was.

Benny Friedman, known to his fellow inmates
as Benny the Fence, was serving a sixyear sentence for handling stolen goods. A
burglar would bring him the gear and Benny would pay him 20 per cent of its
value in cash, then sell it on to a middle man for about 50 per cent, walking
away with a handsome profit.

From time to time Benny got caught and had to
spend some time in the nick. But as he didn't pay a penny in tax, was rarely
out of work and had no fears of being made redundant, he considered the
occasional spell in prison no more than part of the job description. But if the
police ever offered him an alternative to going back inside, Benny was always
willing to listen. After all, why would you want to spend more time behind bars
than was necessary?

'Drugs check,' bellowed the wing officer as
he pulled open the heavy door of Benny's cell.

'I don't do drugs, Mr Chapman,' said Benny, not
stirring from his bunk.

'Get your arse upstairs, Friedman, and sharpish.
Once they've checked your piss you can come back down and enjoy a well-earned rest.
Now move it.'

Benny folded his copy of the Sun, lowered himself
slowly off the bottom bunk, strolled out of his cell into the corridor and made
his way up to the medical wing. No officer ever bothered to accompany him while
he was out of his cell, as he never caused any trouble.

You can have a reputation, even in prison.

When Benny arrived at the medical wing, he was
surprised to find that none of the usual reprobates was waiting in line to be
checked for drugs. In fact, he seemed to be the only inmate in sight.

'This way, Friedman,' said an officer he didn't
recognize. Moments after he had entered the hospital, he heard a key being turned
in the lock behind him. He looked around and saw his old friend Detective
Inspector Matthews, who had arrested him many times in the past, sitting on the
end of one of the beds.

'To what do I owe this honour, Mr Matthews?'
Benny asked without missing a beat.

'I need your help, Benny,' said the
detective inspector, not suggesting that the old lag should sit down.

'That's a relief, Mr Matthews. For a minute
I thought you were being tested for drugs.'

'Don't get lippy with me, Benny,' said
Matthews sharply. 'Not when I've come to offer you a deal.'

'And what are you proposing this time, Mr Matthews?
A packet of fags in exchange for a serial killer?'

Matthews ignored
the question. 'You're coming up for appeal in a few months' time,' he said,
lighting a cigarette but not offering Benny one. 'I might be able to arrange
for a couple of years to be knocked off your sentence.' He took a deep drag and
blew out a cloud of smoke before adding, 'Which would mean you could be out of
this hell hole in six months' time.'

'How very thoughtful of you, Mr Matthews,' said
Benny. 'What are you expecting me to do in return for such munificence?'

'There's a con on his way to Belmarsh from the
Old Bailey. He should be checking in any moment now. His name's Bryant, Kevin
Bryant, and I've arranged for him to be your new cellmate.'

When the cell door was pulled open, Benny looked
up from his copy of the Sun and watched as Bryant swaggered into the cell.

The man didn't say a word, just flung his
kit bag on the top bunk. New prisoners always start off on the top bunk.

Benny went back to his paper while Bryant placed
a thin bar of white soap, a green flannel, a rough green towel and a Bic razor
on the ledge above the washbasin. Benny put his paper down and studied the new
arrival more closely. Bryant was every inch the armed robber. He was about five
foot five, stockily built, with a shaved head. He unbuttoned his blue-and-white
striped prison shirt to reveal a massive tattoo of a red devil.

Not much doubt which football team Bryant supported.
On the fingers of one hand were tattooed the letters HATE, and on the other, LOVE.

Bryant finally glanced across at Benny. 'My name's
Kev.'

'Mine's Benny. Welcome to Belmarsh.'

'It's not my first time in the slammer,'
said Bryant. 'I've been here before.' He chuckled.

'Several times, actually. And you?' he asked
once he'd climbed up on to the top bunk and settled down.

'Fourth time,' said Benny. 'But then, I don't
like to hang around for too long.'

Bryant laughed for the first time. 'So what are
you in for?' he asked.

Benny was surprised that Bryant had broken one
of prison's golden rules: never ask a fellow con what he's in for. Wait for him
to volunteer the information. 'I'm a fence,' he replied.

'What do you fence?'

'Almost anything. But I draw the line at drugs,
and that includes marijuana, and I won't handle porn, hard or soft. You've got
to have some standards.'

Bryant was silent for some time. Benny wondered
if he'd fallen asleep, which would be unusual on your first day inside, even
for a regular. 'You haven't asked me what I'm in for,' said Bryant eventually.

No need to, is there?' said Benny. 'Your mugshot's
been on the front page of the tabloids every day for the past week. Everyone
at Belmarsh knows what you're in for.'

Bryant didn't speak again that night, but Benny
was in no hurry. The one thing you've got plenty of in prison is time. As long
as you're patient, everything will eventually come out, however secretive an
inmate imagines he is.

Benny didn't much like being in jail, but most
of all he dreaded the weekends, when you could be banged up for eighteen hours
at a stretch, with only a short break to collect an oily meal of spam fritters
and chips from the hotplate.

The screws allowed the prisoners out for a forty-five-minute
break in the afternoon.

Benny could choose between watching football
on television or taking a stroll around the yard, whatever the weather. He had
no interest in football, but as Bryant always went straight to the yard, he
settled for watching television. He was grateful for any break he could get in
this hastily arranged marriage, and if Bryant was ever going to say anything
about where the diamonds were, it was more likely to be in the privacy of their
cell than in the bustling, noisy, overcrowded yard where other prisoners could
eavesdrop.

Benny was reading an article about how the Italian
Prime Minister spent his weekends when Bryant broke into his thoughts. 'Why don't
you ever ask me about the diamonds?'

'None of my business,' said Benny, not
looking up from his paper.

'But you must be curious about what I've done
with them?'

'According to the Sun's crime correspondent,'
said Benny, 'you sold them to a middle man for half a million.'

'Half a million?' said Bryant. 'Do I look
that fuckin' stupid?'

'So how much did you sell 'em for?'

'Nothin'.'

'Nothin'?' repeated Benny.

'Because I've still got 'em, haven't I?'

'Have you?'

'Yeah. And I can tell you one thing. The
fuzz ain't never gonna find out where I stashed 'em, however hard they look.'

Benny pretended to go on reading his paper.

He'd reached the sports pages by the time Bryant
spoke again.

'It's all part of my retirement plan, innit?

Most of the muppets in this place will walk out
with nothin', while I've got myself a guaranteed income for life, haven't I?'

Benny waited patiently, but Bryant didn't utter another
word before lights out, four hours later. Benny would have
liked to ask Bryant just one more question, but he knew he couldn't risk it.

'What do you think about this guy
Berlusconi?' he asked finally.

'What's he in for?' asked Bryant.

Benny always attended the Sunday morning service
held in the prison chapel, not because he believed in God, but because it got
him out of his cell for a whole hour. The long walk to the chapel on the other
side of the prison, the body search for drugs -- by a female officer if you got
lucky -- the chance for a gossip with some old lags, a sing-song,
followed by a saunter back to your cell in time for lunch, were a welcome break
from the endless hours of being banged up.

Benny settled down in his usual place in the
third row, opened his hymn sheet and, when the organ struck up, joined in
lustily with 'Fight the good fight'.

Once the prison chaplain had delivered his regular
sermon on repentance and forgiveness, followed by the final blessing, the cons
began to make their way slowly out of the chapel and back to their cells.

'Can you spare me a moment, Friedman?' asked
the chaplain after Benny had handed in his hymn sheet.

'Of course, Father,' said Benny, feeling a
moment of apprehension that the chaplain might ask him to sign up for his confirmation
class. If he did, Benny would have to come clean and admit he was Jewish.