Jeffrey Archer - A Prisoner Of Birth

"We've already had several calls this morning with offers for your site, including one of eight million. What do you want me to do about Mr. Payne?"

"You'll be getting a call from him making an offer of six million. You will accept his offer," Danny said before the voice could comment, "on two conditions."

"Two conditions," repeated the voice.

"He must deposit six hundred thousand with the bank before close of business today and he must also pay the full amount before the minister makes her announcement in ten days' time."

"I'll call you back once he's been in touch," said the voice.

Danny looked down at a prison yolk. "Molly, could you boil me another couple of eggs?"

SPENCER CRAIG LEFT chambers at five o'clock, as it was his turn to host the quarterly Musketeers' dinner. They still got together four times a year despite the fact that Toby Mortimer was no longer with them. The fourth dinner had become known as the Memorial Dinner.

Craig always used outside caterers so that he didn't have to worry about preparing the meal or the clearing up afterward, although he did like to select the wine himself, and to sample the food before the first guest arrived. Gerald had rung him earlier in the day to say that he had some exciting news to share with the team that could change their whole lives.

Craig would never forget the previous occasion when a meeting of the Musketeers had changed their whole lives, but since Danny Cartwright had hanged himself, no one had ever referred to the subject again. Craig thought about his fellow Musketeers as he drove home. Gerald Payne had gone from strength to strength in his firm, and now that he had been selected for a safe Conservative seat in Sussex, he looked certain to be a Member of Parliament whenever the Prime Minister called the next election. Larry Davenport appeared more relaxed recently, and had even paid back the ten thousand pounds Craig had lent him a couple of years ago, which he hadn't expected to see again; perhaps Larry also had something to tell the team. Craig had his own piece of news to share with the Musketeers this evening, and although it was no more than he had expected, it was nevertheless gratifying.

The briefs had picked up again as he continued to win cases, and his appearance at the Danny Cartwright trial was becoming a hazy memory that most of his colleagues could hardly recall-with one exception. His private life remained patchy, to say the least: the occasional one-night stand, but other than Larry's sister, there was no one he wanted to see a second time. However, Sarah Davenport had made it all too clear that she wasn't interested, but he hadn't given up hope.

When Craig arrived back at his home in Hambledon Terrace, he checked the wine racks to find he had nothing worthy of a Musketeers' dinner. He strolled to his local on the corner of the King's Road and selected three bottles of Merlot, three of a vintage Australian Sauvignon and a magnum of Laurent Perrier. After all, he had something to celebrate.

As he walked back to the house carrying two bags full of bottles, he heard a siren in the distance, which brought back memories of that night. They didn't seem to fade with time, like other memories. He had called Detective Sergeant Fuller, then run home, stripped off his clothes, had a quick shower without allowing his hair to get wet, dressed in an almost identical suit, shirt and tie, and been back sitting at the bar seventeen minutes later.

If Redmayne had checked the distance between the Dunlop Arms and Craig's home before the opening of the trial, he might have been able to plant even more doubt in the jurors' minds. Thank God it was only his second case as a leader, because if he'd been up against Arnold Pearson he would have checked every paving stone on the route back to his home with a stopwatch in his hand.

Craig had not been surprised by how long it had taken DS Fuller before he walked into the pub, as he knew he would have far more important problems to deal with in the alley: a dying man, and an obvious suspect covered in blood. He would also have no reason to suspect that a complete stranger could have been involved, especially when three other witnesses corroborated his story. The barman had kept his mouth shut, but then he'd been in trouble with the police before, and would have made an unreliable witness, whichever side he appeared for. Craig had continued to purchase all his wine from the Dunlop Arms and when the bills were sent at the end of each month and didn't always add up, he made no comment.

Once he'd returned home, Craig left the wine on the kitchen table and put the champagne in the fridge. He then went upstairs to shower and change into something more casual. He'd just returned to the kitchen and started uncorking a bottle when the doorbell rang.

He couldn't remember when he'd last seen Gerald looking so buoyant, and assumed it must be because of the news he'd called about that afternoon.

"How are you enjoying the constituency work?" Craig asked as he hung up Payne's coat and led him into the drawing room.

"Great fun, but I can't wait for the general election so I can take my place in the Commons." Craig poured him a glass of champagne and asked if he'd heard from Larry lately. "I popped round to see him one evening last week, but he wouldn't let me inside the house, which I thought was a little strange."

"The last time I visited him at home the place was in a dreadful state," said Craig. "It might have been no more than that, or perhaps just another boyfriend he didn't want you to meet."

"He must be working," said Payne. "He sent me a check last week for a loan I'd given up on long ago."

"You too?" said Craig as the doorbell rang a second time.

When Davenport strolled in to join them, all the swagger and self-confidence seemed to have returned. He kissed Gerald on both cheeks as if he were a French general inspecting his troops. Craig offered him a glass of champagne, and couldn't help thinking that Larry looked ten years younger than when he'd last seen him. Perhaps he was about to reveal something that would upstage them all.

"Let's begin the evening with a toast," said Craig. "To absent friends." The three men raised their glasses and cried, "Toby Mortimer."

"So who shall we drink to next?" asked Davenport.

"Sir Nicholas Moncrieff," said Payne without hesitation.

"Who the hell is he?" asked Craig.

"The man who's about to change all our fortunes."

"How?" asked Davenport, unwilling to reveal the fact that Moncrieff was the reason he'd been able to pay back the money he'd borrowed from them both, as well as several other debts.

"I'll tell you the details over dinner," said Payne. "But tonight I insist on going last, because this time I'm confident that you won't be able to trump me."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Gerald," said Davenport, looking even more pleased with himself than usual.

A young woman appeared in the doorway. "We're ready when you are, Mr. Craig."

The three men strolled through to the dining room recounting their days at Cambridge, the stories becoming more exaggerated by the year.

Craig took his place at the head of the table as portions of smoked salmon were placed in front of his two guests. Once he had tasted the wine and nodded his approval, he turned to Davenport and said, "I can't wait any longer, Larry. Let's hear your news first. You've clearly had a change of fortune."

Davenport leaned back in his chair and waited until he was certain he had their undivided attention. "A couple of days ago I had a call from the BBC, asking me to drop into Broadcasting House for a chat. That usually means they want to offer you a small part in a radio play with a fee that wouldn't cover the taxi fare from Redcliffe Square to Portland Place. But this time, I was taken out to lunch by a senior producer, who told me that they were going to write a new character into Holby City , and I was their first choice. It seems that Dr. Beresford has faded in people's memory…"