Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [53]
It didn’t take me long to discover that he was bright, cunning, manipulative and lazy—traits that are common among recidivists. Within days of arriving at a new prison, Doug could be guaranteed to have procured fresh clothes, the best cell, the highest paid job, and to have worked out which prisoners, and—more important—which officers he needed to get on the right side of.
As I spent a lot of my free time in the library—and it was rarely overcrowded, despite the prison accommodating over four hundred inmates—Doug quickly made me aware of his case history. Some prisoners, when they discover that you’re a writer, clam up. Others can’t stop talking. Despite the silence notices displayed all around the library, Doug fell into the latter category.
When Doug left school at the age of seventeen, the only exam he passed was his driving test—first time. Four years later he added a heavy goods license to his qualifications, and at the same time landed his first job as a lorry driver.
Doug quickly became disillusioned with how little he could earn, traipsing backward and forward to the south of France with a load of Brussels sprouts and peas, often returning to Sleaford with an empty lorry and therefore no bonus. He regularly fouled up (his words) when it came to EU regulations, and took the view that somehow he was exempt from having to pay tax. He blamed the French for too much unnecessary red tape and a Labor government for punitive taxes. When the courts finally served a debt order on him, everyone was to blame except Doug.
The bailiff took away all his possessions—except the lorry, which Doug was still paying for on a hire-purchase agreement.
Doug was just about to pack in being a lorry driver and join the dole queue—almost as remunerative, and you don’t have to get up in the morning—when he was approached by a man he’d never come across before, while on a stopover in Marseilles. Doug was having breakfast at a dockside cafe when the man slid on to the stool next to him. The stranger didn’t waste any time with introductions, he came straight to the point. Doug listened with interest; after all, he had already dumped his cargo of sprouts and peas on the dockside, and had been expecting to return home with an empty lorry. All Doug had to do, the stranger assured him, was to deliver a consignment of bananas to Lincolnshire once a week.
I feel I should point out that Doug did have some scruples. He made it clear to his new employer that he would never be willing to transport drugs, and wouldn’t even discuss illegal immigrants. Doug, like so many of my fellow inmates, was very right wing.
When Doug arrived at the drop-off point, a derelict barn deep in the Lincolnshire countryside, he was handed a thick brown envelope containing £25,000 in cash. They didn’t even expect him to help unload the produce.
Overnight, Doug’s lifestyle changed.
After a couple of trips, Doug began to work part-time, making the single journey to Marseilles and back once a week. Despite this, he was now earning more in a week than he was declaring on his tax return for a year.
Doug decided that one of the things he’d do with his new-found wealth was to move out of his basement flat on the Hinton Road and invest in the property market.
Over the next month he was shown around several properties in Sleaford, accompanied by a young lady from one of the local estate agents. Sally McKenzie was puzzled how a lorry driver could possibly afford the type of properties she was offering him.
Doug eventually settled on a little cottage on the outskirts of Sleaford. Sally was even more surprised when he put down the deposit in cash, and shocked when he asked her out on a date.
Six months later Sally moved in with Doug, although it still worried her that she couldn’t work out