Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [19]
Mario was released from North Sea Camp at nine o’clock on Monday, 1 September.
As he walked out of the front gate, he found Tony seated behind the wheel of his Ferrari, waiting to pick his father up. Three hours later Mario was standing at the front door of his restaurant to greet the first customer. Several regulars commented on the fact that he appeared to have lost a few pounds while he’d been away on holiday, while others remarked on how tanned and fit he looked.
Six months after Mario had been released, a newly promoted deputy supervisor decided to cany out another spot-check on Marco Polo’s laundry. This time Dennis turned up unannounced. He ran a practiced eye over the books, to find that Mario’s was now sending only 120 tablecloths to the laundry each day, along with 300 napkins, despite the fact that the restaurant appeared to be just as popular. How was he managing to get away with it this time?
The following morning Dennis parked his Skoda down a side street off the Fulham Road once again, allowing him an uninterrupted view of Mario’s front door. He felt confident that Mr. Gambotti must now be using more than one laundry service, but to his disappointment the only van to appear and deposit and collect any laundry that day was Marco Polo’s.
Mr. Cartwright drove back to Romford at eight that evening, completely baffled. Had he hung around until just after midnight, Dennis would have seen several waiters leaving the restaurant, carrying bulging sports bags with squash racquets poking out of the top. Do you know any Italian waiters who play squash?
Mario’s staff were delighted that their wives could earn some extra cash by taking in a little laundry each day, especially as Mr. Gambotti had supplied each of them with a brand-new washing machine.
I booked a table for lunch at Mario’s on the Friday after I had been released from prison. He was standing on the doorstep, waiting to greet me, and I was immediately ushered through to my usual table in the corner of the room by the window, as if I had never been away.
Mario didn’t bother to offer me a menu because his wife appeared out of the kitchen carrying a large plate of spaghetti, which she placed on the table in front of me. Mario’s son Tony followed close behind with a steaming bowl of Bolognese sauce, and his daughter Maria with a large chunk of Parmesan cheese and a grater.
“A bottle of Chianti classico?” suggested Mario, as he removed the cork. “On the house,” he insisted.
“Thank you, Mario,” I said, and whispered, “by the way, the governor of North Sea Camp asked me to pass on his best wishes.”
“Poor Michael,” Mario sighed, “what a sad existence. Can you begin to imagine a lifetime spent eating toad-in-the-hole, followed by semolina pudding?” He smiled as he poured me a glass of wine. “Still, maestro, you must have felt quite at home.”
Don’t Drink
the water
“If you want to murder someone,” said Karl, “don’t do Iit in England.”
“Why not?” I asked innocently.
“The odds are against you getting away with it,” my fellow inmate warned me, as we continued to walk round the exercise yard. “You’ve got a much better chance in Russia.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” I assured him.
“Mind you,” added Karl, “I knew a countryman of yours who did get away with murder, but at some cost.”
It was Association, that welcome 45-minute break when you’re released from your cell. You can either spend your time on the ground floor, which is about the size of a basketball court, sitting around chatting, playing table tennis or watching television, or you can go out into the fresh air and stroll around the perimeter of the yard—about the size of a football pitch. Despite being surrounded by a twenty-foot-high concrete wall topped with razor wire, and with only the sky to look up at, this was, for me, the highlight of the day.
While I was incarcerated at Belmarsh, a category A high-security prison in southeast London,