Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [68]
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.”
The Alibi
“He 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