The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [215]
Within a month Williams had supplied us with photographs and life histories of all the staff working on the estate, along with descriptions of everyone who visited Rosemary—even the local priest, who came hoping to collect a donation for French aid workers in Somalia.
The cook: Gabrielle Pascal—no English, excellent cuisine, came from Marseilles, family checked out. The gardener: Jacques Reni—stupid and not particularly imaginative with the rose beds, local and well known. Rosemary’s personal maid: Charlotte Merieux—spoke a little English, crafty, sexy, came from Paris, still checking her out. All the staff had been employed by Rosemary since her arrival in the South of France, and they appeared to have no connection with each other, or with her past life.
“Ah,” said Hackett as he studied the picture of Rosemary’s personal maid. I raised an eyebrow. “I was just thinking about Williams being cooped up with Charlotte Merieux day in and day out—and more important, night in and night in,” he explained. “He would have made superintendent if he hadn’t fooled around so much. Still, let’s hope this time it turns out to our advantage.”
I lay on my bunk studying the pictures of the staff for hour after hour, but they revealed nothing. I read and reread the notes on everyone who had ever visited Villa Fleur, but as the weeks went by, it looked more and more as if no one from Rosemary’s past, other than her mother, knew where she was—or if they did, they were making no attempts to contact her. There was certainly no sign of Jeremy Alexander.
I was beginning to fear that she and Jeremy might have split up, until Williams reported that there was a picture of a dark, handsome man on a table by the side of Rosemary’s bed. It was inscribed: “We’ll always be together—J.”
During the weeks following my appeal hearing I was constantly interviewed by probation officers, social workers, and even the prison psychiatrist. I struggled to maintain the warm, sincere smile that Matthew had warned me was so necessary to lubricate the wheels of the bureaucracy.
It must have been about eleven weeks after my appeal had been turned down that the cell door was thrown open, and the senior officer on my corridor announced, “The governor wants to see you, Cooper.” Fingers looked suspicious. Whenever he heard those words, it inevitably meant a dose of solitary.
I could hear my heart beating as I was led down the long corridor to the governor’s office. The prison officer knocked gently on the door before opening it. The governor rose from behind his desk, thrust out his hand, and said, “I’m delighted to be the first person to tell you the good news.”
He ushered me into a comfortable chair on the other side of his desk, and went over the terms of my release. While he was doing this I was served coffee, as if we were old friends.
There was a knock on the door, and Matthew walked in, clutching a sheaf of papers that needed to be signed. I rose as he placed them on the desk, and without warning he turned around and gave me a bear hug. Not something I expect he did every day.
After I had signed the final document Matthew asked: “What’s the first thing you’ll do once they release you?”
“I’m going to buy a gun,” I told him matter-of-factly.
Matthew and the governor burst out laughing.
The great gate of Armley Prison was thrown open for me three days later. I walked away from the building carrying only the small leather suitcase I had arrived with. I didn’t look back. I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the station, as I had no desire to remain in Leeds a moment longer than was necessary. I bought a first-class ticket, and phoned Hackett to warn him I was on my way. During the short wait for the next train to Bradford I savored a breakfast that wasn’t served on a tin plate, and read a copy of the Financial Times that had been handed to me by a pretty salesclerk and not a petty criminal. No one stared at me on the train—but then, why should they, when I was sitting in a first-class carriage and dressed in my new