Джеффри Арчер - And Thereby Hangs a Tale

‘While she walks away with a cool seventy million dollars,’ said Joni.

‘Having sacrificed thirty million to ensure she would never have to appear in court,’ said Haskins as he placed the will back on his desk. ‘Clever woman, Ms Lynn Beattie, and that wasn’t even her real name.’

The judge looked down at the defendant and frowned.

‘Kevin Bryant, you have been found guilty of armed robbery. A crime you clearly planned with considerable skill and ingenuity. During your trial it has become clear that you knew exactly when to carry out the attack upon your chosen victim, Mr Neville Abbott, a respected diamond merchant from Hatton Garden. You held up the security guard at his workshop with a shotgun, and forced him to open the strongroom where Mr Abbott was showing a dealer from Holland a consignment of uncut diamonds he had recently purchased from South Africa for just over ten million pounds.

‘Thanks to outstanding police work, you were arrested within days, although the diamonds have never been found. During the seven months you have spent in custody you have been given every opportunity to reveal the whereabouts of the diamonds, but you have chosen not to do so.

‘Taking that fact, as well as your past record, into consideration, I am left with no choice but to sentence you to twelve years in prison. However, Mr Bryant, I would consider a reduction to your sentence if at any time you should change your mind and decide to inform the police where the diamonds are. Take the prisoner down.’

Detective Inspector Matthews frowned as he watched Bryant being led down to the cells before being shipped off to Belmarsh prison. As a policeman, you’re meant to feel a certain professional pride, almost pleasure, when you’ve been responsible for banging up a career criminal, but this time Matthews felt no such pride, and wouldn’t until he got his hands on those diamonds. He was convinced Bryant hadn’t had enough time to sell them on and must have hidden them somewhere.

Detective Inspector Matthews had attempted to make a deal with Bryant on more than one occasion. He even offered to downgrade his charge to aggravated burglary, which carries a far shorter sentence, but only if he pleaded guilty and told him where the diamonds were. But Bryant always gave the same reply: ‘I’ll do my bird, guv.’

If Bryant wasn’t willing to make a deal with him, Matthews knew someone doing time in the same prison who was.

Benny Friedman, known to his fellow inmates as Benny the Fence, was serving a six-year sentence for handling stolen goods. A burglar would bring him the gear and Benny would pay him 20 per cent of its value in cash, then sell it on to a middle man for about 50 per cent, walking away with a handsome profit.

From time to time Benny got caught and had to spend some time in the nick. But as he didn’t pay a penny in tax, was rarely out of work and had no fears of being made redundant, he considered the occasional spell in prison no more than part of the job description. But if the police ever offered him an alternative to going back inside, Benny was always willing to listen. After all, why would you want to spend more time behind bars than was necessary?

‘Drugs check,’ bellowed the wing officer as he pulled open the heavy door of Benny’s cell.

‘I don’t do drugs, Mr Chapman,’ said Benny, not stirring from his bunk.

‘Get your arse upstairs, Friedman, and sharpish. Once they’ve checked your piss you can come back down and enjoy a well-earned rest. Now move it.’

Benny folded his copy of the Sun , lowered himself slowly off the bottom bunk, strolled out of his cell into the corridor and made his way up to the medical wing. No officer ever bothered to accompany him while he was out of his cell, as he never caused any trouble. You can have a reputation, even in prison.

When Benny arrived at the medical wing, he was surprised to find that none of the usual reprobates was waiting in line to be checked for drugs. In fact, he seemed to be the only inmate in sight.

‘This way, Friedman,’ said an officer he didn’t recognize. Moments after he had entered the hospital, he heard a key being turned in the lock behind him. He looked around and saw his old friend Detective Inspector Matthews, who had arrested him many times in the past, sitting on the end of one of the beds.

‘To what do I owe this honour, Mr Matthews?’ Benny asked without missing a beat.

‘I need your help, Benny,’ said the detective inspector, not suggesting that the old lag should sit down.

‘That’s a relief, Mr Matthews. For a minute I thought you were being tested for drugs.’

‘Don’t get lippy with me, Benny,’ said Matthews sharply. ‘Not when I’ve come to offer you a deal.’

‘And what are you proposing this time, Mr Matthews? A packet of fags in exchange for a serial killer?’

Matthews ignored the question. ‘You’re coming up for appeal in a few months’ time,’ he said, lighting a cigarette but not offering Benny one. ‘I might be able to arrange for a couple of years to be knocked off your sentence.’ He took a deep drag and blew out a cloud of smoke before adding, ‘Which would mean you could be out of this hell hole in six months’ time.’

‘How very thoughtful of you, Mr Matthews,’ said Benny. ‘What are you expecting me to do in return for such munificence?’

‘There’s a con on his way to Belmarsh from the Old Bailey. He should be checking in any moment now. His name’s Bryant, Kevin Bryant, and I’ve arranged for him to be your new cellmate.’

When the cell door was pulled open, Benny looked up from his copy of the Sun and watched as Bryant swaggered into the cell. The man didn’t say a word, just flung his kit bag on the top bunk. New prisoners always start off on the top bunk.

Benny went back to his paper while Bryant placed a thin bar of white soap, a green flannel, a rough green towel and a Bic razor on the ledge above the washbasin. Benny put his paper down and studied the new arrival more closely. Bryant was every inch the armed robber. He was about five foot five, stockily built, with a shaved head. He unbuttoned his blue-and-white striped prison shirt to reveal a massive tattoo of a red devil. Not much doubt which football team Bryant supported. On the fingers of one hand were tattooed the letters HATE, and on the other, LOVE.

Bryant finally glanced across at Benny. ‘My name’s Kev.’

‘Mine’s Benny. Welcome to Belmarsh.’

‘It’s not my first time in the slammer,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ve been here before.’ He chuckled. ‘Several times, actually. And you?’ he asked once he’d climbed up on to the top bunk and settled down.

‘Fourth time,’ said Benny. ‘But then, I don’t like to hang around for too long.’

Bryant laughed for the first time. ‘So what are you in for?’ he asked.

Benny was surprised that Bryant had broken one of prison’s golden rules: never ask a fellow con what he’s in for. Wait for him to volunteer the information. ‘I’m a fence,’ he replied.

‘What do you fence?’

‘Almost anything. But I draw the line at drugs, and that includes marijuana, and I won’t handle porn, hard or soft. You’ve got to have some standards.’

Bryant was silent for some time. Benny wondered if he’d fallen asleep, which would be unusual on your first day inside, even for a regular. ‘You haven’t asked me what I’m in for,’ said Bryant eventually.

‘No need to, is there?’ said Benny. ‘Your mugshot’s been on the front page of the tabloids every day for the past week. Everyone at Belmarsh knows what you’re in for.’

Bryant didn’t speak again that night, but Benny was in no hurry. The one thing you’ve got plenty of in prison is time. As long as you’re patient, everything will eventually come out, however secretive an inmate imagines he is.