The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [211]
I smiled. For the first time in my life I was delighted to learn that the tax man had his nose in my affairs.
Sir Matthew promised he would report back if anything new came up. “Goodnight, Richard,” he said as he left the interview room.
Another first.
It seemed that everyone else in the prison was aware that Chief Superintendent Hackett would be paying me a visit long before I was.
It was Dave Adams, an old jailbird from an adjoining cell, who explained why the inmates thought Hackett had agreed to see me. “A good copper is never ‘appy about anyone doin’ time for somethin’ ’e didn’t do. ‘ackett phoned the governor last Tuesday, and ’ad a word with ’im on the Q.T., accordin’ to Maurice,” Dave added mysteriously.
I would have been interested to learn how the governor’s trusty had managed to hear both sides of the conversation, but decided this was not the time for irrelevant questions.
“Even the ‘ardest nuts in this place think you’re innocent,” Dave continued. “They can’t wait for the day when Mr. Jeremy Alexander takes over your cell. You can be sure the long termers’ll give ’im a warm welcome.”
A letter from Bradford arrived the following morning. “Dear Cooper,” the chief superintendent began, and went on to inform me that he intended to pay a visit to the jail at four o’clock the following Sunday. He made it clear that he would stay no longer than half an hour, and insisted on a witness being present throughout.
For the first time since I’d been locked up, I started counting the hours. Hours aren’t that important when your room has been booked for a life sentence.
As I was taken from my cell that Sunday afternoon and escorted to the interview room, I received several messages from my fellow inmates to pass on to the chief superintendent.
“Give my best regards to the Don,” said Fingers. “Tell ’im ’ow sorry I am not to bump into ’im this time.”
“When ’e’s finished with you, ask ’im if ’e’d like to drop into my cell for a cuppa and a chat about old times.”
“Kick the bastard in the balls, and tell ’im I’ll be ’appy to serve the extra time.”
One of the prisoners even suggested a question to which I already knew the answer: “Ask ’im when ’e’s going to retire, ’cause I’m not coming out till the day after.”
When I stepped into the interview room and saw the chief superintendent for the first time, I thought there must have been some mistake. I had never asked Fingers what the Don looked like, and over the past few days I had built up in my mind the image of some sort of superman. But the man who stood before me was a couple of inches shorter than me, and I’m only five feet ten. He was as thin as the proverbial rake and wore pebble-lensed horn-rimmed glasses, which gave the impression that he was half blind. All he needed was a grubby raincoat and he could have been mistaken for a debt collector.
Sir Matthew stepped forward to introduce us. I shook the policeman firmly by the hand. “Thank you for coming to visit me, Chief Superintendent,” I began. “Won’t you have a seat?” I added, as if he had dropped into my home for a glass of sherry.
“Sir Matthew is very persuasive,” said Hackett, in a deep, gruff Yorkshire accent that didn’t quite seem to go with his body. “So tell me, Cooper, what do you imagine it is that I can do for you?” he asked as he took the chair opposite me. I detected an edge of cynicism in his voice.
He opened a notepad and placed it on the table as I was about to begin my story. “For my use only,” he explained, “should I need to remind myself of any relevant details at some time in the future.” Twenty minutes later, I had finished the abbreviated version of the life and times of Richard Cooper. I had already gone over the story on several occasions in my cell during the past week, to be certain I didn’t take too long. I wanted to leave enough time for Hackett to ask any questions.
“If I believe your story,” he said, “—and