Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (26 page)

When they
checked Angela’s events book, they discovered that Henry had always taken
responsibility for counting the cash, and signed the receipt. Her bank account
was then picked over by a bunch of treasury vultures, and found to be only
£11,318 in credit, a sum that had showed very little movement either way for
the past five years. When DS Seaton reported back to Miss Blenkinsopp, she
seemed quite content to believe that the right man had been apprehended. After
all, she told the detective, a St. Catherine’s gal couldn’t possibly be
involved in that sort of thing.

With the murder
hunt still in progress, and the drugs stash not yet unearthed, the chief
superintendent sent down an instruction to close the St. Catherine’s file.
They’d made an arrest, and that was all that would matter when they reported
their annual crime statistics.

Once the
Treasury solicitors had accepted that they couldn’t trace any of the missing
money, Henry’s solicitor managed to broker a deal with the CPS. If he pleaded
guilty to the theft of £130,000, and was willing to return the full amount to
the injured parties concerned, they would recommend a reduced sentence.

“And no doubt
there are mitigating circumstances in this case that you wish to bring to my
attention, Mr. Cameron?” suggested the judge as he stared down from the bench
at Henry’s Silk.

“There most
certainly
are,
m’lord
,”
replied Mr. Alex Cameron QC as he rose slowly from his place. “My client,” he
began, “makes no secret of his unfortunate addiction to gambling, which has
been the cause of his tragic downfall.

However,” Mr.
Cameron continued, “I feel confident that your lordship will take into account
that this is my client’s first offense, and until this sad lapse of judgment he
had been a pillar of the community with an unblemished reputation.

Indeed, my
client has given years of selfless service to his local church as its honorary
treasurer, to which you will recall,
m’lord
, the
vicar bore witness.”

Mr. Cameron
cleared his throat before continuing. “
M’lord
, you
see before you a broken and penniless man, who has nothing to look forward to
except long lonely years of retirement. He has even,” added Mr. Cameron,
tugging at his lapels, “had to sell his flat in
Wandsworth
in order to repay his creditors.” He paused. “Perhaps you might feel, in the
circumstances,
m’lord
, that my client has suffered
quite enough and should therefore be treated leniently.” Mr. Cameron smiled
hopefully at the judge, and resumed his seat.

The judge
looked down at Henry’s advocate, and returned his smile. “Not quite enough, Mr.
Cameron. Try not to forget that Mr. Preston was a professional man who violated
a position of trust. But first let me remind your client,” said the judge,
turning his attention to Henry, “that gambling is a sickness, and the defendant
should seek some help for his malady the moment he is released from prison.”
Henry braced himself as he waited to learn how long his sentence would be.

The judge
paused for what seemed an eternity, as he continued to stare at Henry. “I
sentence you to three years,” he said, before adding, “
take
the prisoner down.”

Henry was
shipped off to Ford open prison. No one noticed him come and no one noticed him
go. He led just as anonymous an existence on the inside as he had outside. He
received no mail, made no phone calls and entertained no visitors. When they
released him eighteen months later, having completed half his sentence, there
was no one waiting at the barrier to greet him.

Henry Preston
accepted his £45 discharge pay, and was last seen heading toward the local
railway station, carrying a Gladstone bag containing only his personal
belongings.

Mr. and Mrs.
Graham Richards enjoy a pleasant, if somewhat uneventful retirement on the
island of Majorca. They have a small, front-line villa overlooking the Bay of
Palma, and both of them are proving to be popular with the local community.

The chairman of
the Royal Overseas Club in Palma reported to the AGM that he considered he’d pulled
off quite a coup, convincing the former finance director of the Nigerian
National Oil Company to become the club’s honorary treasurer. Nods, hear-hears
and a sprinkling of applause followed. The chairman went on to suggest that the
secretary should record a note in the minutes, that since Mr. Richards had
taken over the responsibility as treasurer, the club’s accounts had been in
apple-pie order.

“And by the
way,” he added, “his wife Ruth has kindly agreed to organize our annual ball.”

“H
e
got away with
murder, didn’t he?” said Mick.

“How did he
manage that?” I asked.

“Because if two
screws say that’s what happened, then that’s what happened,” said Mick, “and no
con will be able to tell you any different. Understood?”

“No, I don’t
understand,” I admitted.

“Then I’ll have
to explain it to you, won’t I?” said Mick. “There’s a golden rule among
cons–never have sex with a mate’s tart while he’s banged up. It’s all part of
the code.”

“That might be
a bit rough on a young girl whose boyfriend has just been given a lengthy
sentence because then you’d be sentencing her to the same number of years
without sex.”

“That’s not the
point,” said Mick, “because Pete made it clear to Karen that he’d wait for
her.”

“But he wasn’t
going anywhere for the next six years,” I suggested.

“You’re missing
the point, Jeff. It’s the code and, to be fair to the tart, by all accounts
Karen was as good as gold for the first six months and then she came off the
rails. Truth is,” said Mick, “Pete’s best mate Brian had already had sex with
Karen, but that was before she became Pete’s girl, on account of the fact that
they’d all been at secondary modern together. But that didn’t count because
Karen stopped whoring around once she’d moved in with Pete. Understood?”

“I think so,” I
said.

“Mind you, the
rule doesn’t apply to Pete on account of the fact that he’s a man. It’s only
logic, isn’t it, because men are
different.
We’re
lions, they’re lambs.”

Lionesses would
have seemed more appropriate. However, I confess I didn’t voice my opinion at
the time. “Still,”

Mick continued,
“
the
code is clear. You don’t have sex with a mate’s
tart while he’s banged up.”

I put my pen
down and continued to listen to the Gospel according to St. Mick–another
burglar who was in and out of prison as if the building had revolving doors. I
decided to abandon any attempt to write my daily diary. It was clear Mick was
on a roll and nothing was going to stop him–certainly not me. And as the door
was locked and I couldn’t escape, I decided to take down his words.

But first a
little background.

Mick Boyle was
my cell mate at Lincoln, and serving his ninth sentence during the past
seventeen years, all for burglary. “I may be a tea-leaf,” he proclaimed, “but I
can’t be doing with violence. Don’t approve,” he added, clearly attempting to
capture the moral high ground. He told me that he had six children that he knew
of, by five different women, but had had little or no contact with any of them
since. I must have looked surprised, because he added, “Don’t worry yourself,
Jeff,
they’re all taken care of by the Social.”

“If you want
pussy,” Mick continued, “there’s quite enough going spare without having sex
with your best mate’s tart; after all, most of us are in and out, in and out,”
he repeated, laughing at his own joke.

Mick’s friend
Pete Bailey–the hero or the villain in this tale, according to your
viewpoint–had been charged with aggravated robbery, which covers a multitude of
sins, especially if you ask the court–after you’ve been found guilty–to take
into consideration one hundred and twelve similar offenses.

“Result?
Pete gets six years in the slammer.” Mick paused to
draw breath.

“Mind you, he
still killed his best mate while he was inside and got away with it, didn’t
he?”

“Did he?” I
asked, showing a little more interest.

“Yeah, he sure
did. Mind you, he knew he’d only have to serve three years on account of the
fact that he was always on his best behavior, whenever he was inside,” said
Mick. “Logic, isn’t it? So after fifteen months in Wakefield–awful nick–they
sent him off to
Hollesley
Bay open prison in Suffolk,
didn’t
they
, to finish off his sentence. Bloody
holiday camp. See, the theory is,” continued Mick, “an open prison is meant to
prepare you for returning to society. Some hope. All Pete did was spend his
time in the prison library reading through back copies of
Country Life,
supplied by some do-gooder, so he could work out in
advance which houses he was going to rob the moment he got out. Now another
rule in an open prison,” continued Mick, “is that you’re entitled to a visit
once a week, not like the once a month you get in closed conditions; that is as
long as you’re enhanced, and not been put on report for at least a month.”

“Enhanced?” I
ventured.

“That’s when a
con’s been on good behavior for at least three months. When he’s enhanced he
gets all sorts of privileges, like more time out of his cell, better job, even
more pay in some nicks.”

“And how do you
get put on report?”

“That’s easy
enough. Swear at a screw, turn up late for work,
fail
a drugs test. I was once put on report for nicking an orange from the kitchen.
Diabolical liberty.”

“So was your
friend Pete ever put on report?” I asked.

“Never,” Mick
replied. “Good as gold, wasn’t he, because he wanted a visit from his tart.
Well, he does his three months, works in the stores, keeps his nose clean, and
bob’s your uncle, he’s enhanced. Following Saturday his tart turns up at the
nick to pay him a visit.

“In open
prisons, visits are held in the biggest room available, usually the gym or the
canteen. And you have to remember, security isn’t like a closed nick, with
sniffer dogs and CCTV cameras following your every move, so you can behave
natural when you’re with your tart.”

He paused.
“Well, within limits. I mean you can’t have sex like they do in Swedish
prisons. You know–what do they call it?”

“Conjugal
visits?”

“Well,
whatever,
it’s
sex, and we don’t allow it. Mind you, a
screw will turn a blind eye–when a con puts his hand up a tart’s skirt, but
then I remember in one prison...”

“Pete,” I
reminded him.

“Oh, yeah, Pete.
Well, Karen came to visit Pete the
following Saturday. All’s going well until Pete asks about his best mate,
Brian. Karen clams up, doesn’t say a word does
she
,
then turns bright red.