Джеффри Арчер - This Was a Man

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’ said Jessica, glaring at him.

Sebastian placed an arm around his daughter’s shoulder. ‘I promise I’ll be back in time to take you and your mother for a celebration dinner.’

‘I remember the last time you promised that, then flew off to another country. At least then it was to support an innocent man, not a crook.’

‘Desmond Mellor is only allowed visitors on a Saturday afternoon between two and three o’clock, so I wasn’t left with a lot of choice.’

‘You could have told him to get lost.’

‘I promise I’ll be back by five. Six at the latest. And as it’s your birthday, you can choose the restaurant.’

‘And in the meantime I’m expected to babysit Jake, and when Mom gets back, explain to her why you’re not around. I can think of more exciting ways of spending my birthday.’

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ said Seb. ‘I promise.’

‘Just don’t forget, Pops, he’s a crook.’

As Sebastian battled through the late morning traffic on his way out of London, he couldn’t help thinking his daughter was right. Not only was it likely to be a wasted journey, but he probably shouldn’t be having anything to do with the man in the first place.

He should have been taking Jessica to lunch at Ponte Vecchio to celebrate her sixteenth birthday, rather than heading for a prison in Kent to visit a man he despised. But he knew that if he didn’t find out why Desmond Mellor wanted to see him so urgently, he would be forever curious. Only one thing was certain: Jessica would demand a blow-by-blow account of why the damned man had wanted to see him.

There were about ten miles to go before Seb spotted the first signposts to Ford Open. No mention of the word ‘prison’, which would have offended the locals. At the barrier an officer stepped out of the small kiosk and asked his name. After ‘Clifton’ had been ticked off on the inevitable clipboard, the barrier was raised and he was directed to a patch of barren land that on Saturdays acted as a car park.

Once he’d parked his car, Seb made his way to the reception area, where another officer asked for his name. But this time he was also requested to provide identification. He produced his driving licence — another tick on another clipboard — and was then instructed to place all his valuables, including his wallet, watch, wedding ring and some loose change, in a locker. He was told firmly by the duty officer that under no circumstances was he to take any cash to the meeting area. The officer pointed to a notice screwed to the wall warning visitors that anyone found in possession of cash inside the prison could end up with a six-month sentence.

‘Forgive me for asking, sir,’ said the officer, ‘but is this the first time you’ve visited a prison?’

‘No, it’s not,’ said Seb.

‘Then you’ll know about vouchers, should your friend want a cup of tea or a sandwich.’ He’s not my friend, Seb wanted to say, as he handed over a pound note in exchange for ten vouchers.

‘We’ll refund the difference when you return.’

Seb thanked him, closed the locker door and pocketed the key along with his vouchers. When he entered the waiting room, another officer handed him a small disc with the number 18 etched on it.

‘Wait until your number is called,’ said the officer.

Seb sat on a plastic seat in a room full of people who looked as if this was just part of their daily routine. He glanced around to see wives, girlfriends, parents, even young children, who had their own play area, all with nothing in common except a relation, a friend or a lover who was locked up. He suspected he was the only person visiting someone he didn’t even like.

‘Numbers one to five,’ said a voice over the tannoy. Several of the regulars leapt up and hurried out of the room, clearly not wanting to waste a minute of their allocated hour. One of them left behind a copy of the Daily Mail , and Seb flicked through it to pass the time. Endless photographs of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer chatting at a garden party in Norfolk; Diana looked extremely happy, while the Prince looked as if he was opening a power station.

‘Numbers six to ten,’ crackled the tannoy, and another group made their way quickly out of the waiting room. Seb turned the page. Margaret Thatcher was promising to bring in legislation to deal with wildcat strikes. Michael Foot described the measures as draconian, and pronounced her policy as jobs for the boys, but not for the lads.

‘Numbers eleven to fifteen.’

Seb looked up at the clock on the wall: 2.12 p.m. At this rate, he’d be lucky to get more than forty minutes with Mellor, although he suspected the man would have his pitch well prepared and wouldn’t waste any time. He turned to the back page of the Mail to see an old photograph of Muhammad Ali jabbing his finger at reporters and saying, His hands can’t hit what his eyes can’t see . Seb wondered who came up with such brilliant lines — or was the ex-champ just brilliant?

‘Numbers sixteen to twenty.’

Seb rose slowly from his place and joined a group of a dozen visitors who were already chasing after an officer as he headed into the bowels of the prison. They were stopped and searched before being allowed to enter the visitors’ area.

Sebastian found himself in a large square room laid out with dozens of small tables, each surrounded by four chairs, one red, and three blue. He stared around the room but didn’t spot Mellor until he raised a hand. He’d put on so much weight Seb hardly recognized him. Even before Seb had sat down, Mellor gestured towards the canteen at the other end of the room and said, ‘Could you get me a cup of tea and a Kit Kat?’

Seb joined a small queue at the counter, where he handed over most of his vouchers in exchange for two cups of tea and two Kit Kats. When he returned to the table, he placed one of the cups and both chocolate bars in front of his old adversary.

‘So, why did you want to see me?’ Seb asked, not bothering with any small talk.

‘It’s a long story, but I don’t expect any of it will surprise you.’ Mellor took a sip of tea and removed the wrapper from a Kit Kat while he was speaking. ‘After the police found out Sloane and I were responsible for having your friend Hakim Bishara arrested, Sloane turned Queen’s evidence and stitched me up. I was sentenced to two years for perverting the course of justice, while he got away scot free. If that wasn’t enough, once I was inside, he managed to take control of Mellor Travel. Claimed he was the only man who could rescue the company while the chairman was in jail, and the shareholders bought it.’

‘But as the majority shareholder, you must still have overall control?’

‘Not of a public company, as you will have discovered when Bishara was banged up. They don’t even send me the minutes of the board meetings. But Sloane doesn’t realize I’ve got someone on the inside who keeps me well informed.’

‘Jim Knowles?’

‘No. That bastard dropped me the moment I was arrested, and even proposed Sloane for chairman. In exchange, Knowles became his deputy on an inflated salary.’

‘Cosy little arrangement,’ said Seb. ‘But you must have taken legal advice.’

‘The best. But they’d been careful not to break the law, so there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it. But you can.’

Seb sipped his tea while Mellor tore the wrapper off the second Kit Kat.

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Seb.

‘As you pointed out, Mr Clifton, I am still the majority shareholder of Mellor Travel, but I suspect that by the time I get out, those shares won’t be worth the paper they’re written on. But if I were to sell them to you for one pound—’