GoodBye Morality

PROLOGUE

_________________________

Palma de Mallorca, Tuesday, 8th September 1987

She did not even dare consider the consequences of not recognizing him.

It was a simple enough task, but her future and that of her husband depended on her carrying it out.

She had carefully placed the small photo into the exact middle of page 250 in her paperback copy of Anita Brookner’s ‘A Misalliance’.

She looked at it again. Taken in an anonymous suburban street, it showed a tall, slim man wearing a single breasted grey suit and gold rimmed glasses which gave him a serious air. He looked to be in his forties. She had studied every detail so often, she felt she knew him.

Now she had positioned herself so that she could see everyone coming out of the customs area into the arrival hall. On the chair to her right she had placed a light blue scarf, and her handbag was on the left hand chair, so that it was impossible for anyone to sit next to her and catch a glimpse of the photograph. Her reading glasses were in her handbag but she managed without them, not wanting to put them on every time she looked at the photo. She hoped that anyone noticing her would think she was waiting for someone to join her. The way she was clenching her hands was the only sign of mounting tension.

She had dressed to look presentable but anonymous; deciding, after several changes, on a white pleated skirt and sleeveless jacket. A single strand of cultured pearls with matching earrings added to the classic understated look she wanted to create. Plain white shoes emphasised her slim, tanned legs. Her long blonde hair, hanging loose, framed an oval face free from make up save for pale lipstick and mascara. Large eyes of a clear cornflower, blue, held a hint of sadness.

From the screen in front of her she learned that the flight from London was due.

Tourists began spilling through the doors. She saw from their baggage slips that they had flown in on the plane she was awaiting and concentrated intently.

After fifteen minutes she could feel sweat begin to trickle down her back. Perhaps she had missed him? He should have been through by now....

Then she saw him.

She was in no doubt. He was wearing the same grey suit as in the photograph; carried a small suitcase and a large briefcase.

She picked up the scarf and handbag when he’d passed by and walked twenty yards behind him.

Then he turned round.

It was as if he had suddenly been reminded of something. He looked towards her for a moment, then turned away and continued walking quickly towards the swing doors leading to the taxi rank. Once outside, he approached the first free cab in line.

She followed at a discreet distance. She could see the large powerful Suzuki on the other side of the road; its rider, wearing a black helmet and leathers, leaning against it. She waved the scarf discreetly after the departing taxi, then tied it round her head. The headlights on the motorbike flashed for a second in acknowledgement. When the man’s taxi left the rank, the bike followed it.

The watching women went limp with relief. She had not messed up. She, Ann Dockett, had done exactly what was expected of her. She did not have to be involved any more. That he had turned round after passing her she regarded as a coincidence, it could not possibly be related to her. She was sure she had never seen him before.

Slowly, Ann walked to the airport car park. Her hands were trembling as she unlocked her car and sat in the driving seat waiting for her heart to stop racing. Finally she wiped her hands and face with a moist tissue, turned on the ignition and drove out on the motorway towards the centre of Palma. She arrived at Cala Vinas Bay about an hour later.

* * *

Ann Dockett could still be surprised, even after four months, by her own spacious top  floor apartment. It had an L shaped living room, two bedrooms, compact kitchen, white marble bathroom. The furniture was all white too, giving an impression of light and spaciousness. From the elegant balcony stretching the length of the apartment she had a clear view of the bay and secluded beach, the open sea and, to the left, the impressive Cala Vinas Hotel.

She had made the right decision by coming to Mallorca. In a completely new environment, away from Virginia Water, she might stand a better chance of coming to terms with what had happened. Still, she felt lonely and missed having someone close to her.

Elizabeth and Andrew had visited her for one week. Her daughter and son in law were the only people she could talk to frankly, except those involved in her work. And before she’d told Elizabeth they could come and stay, Ann had asked Sam O’Sullivan if the visit was a good idea. He’d told her he would check, but that it should not create any problems.

Elizabeth had asked endless questions about her mother’s finances, how she coped with her new life, her many trips to London. But Ann had told her nothing other than that the move to Mallorca was Paul’s express wish, and she herself had no regrets about having done it. In reality she still had no clear idea why she was paid £250 a week, given the use of this apartment, a car and as many visits to Paul as she wanted, for just eight or ten days’ work a month.

Now she opened the doors to the balcony and felt damp heat flood into the air conditioned room. Studying the deserted bay, Ann felt sad and lonely. Looking at the scene below her she sat down, wishing Paul could be here to share it with her.

* * *

Four days later, early in the morning, the door bell rang.

‘Hello, Ann.’ Sam O’Sullivan gave her his customary twinkling smile. He was wearing his black leathers, holding the visored black helmet under his arm.

‘Everything went well Tuesday. Thanks, you’re a star.’

‘Come in, Sam. For a second I thought something was wrong. You usually phone me with instructions.’

‘I won’t stay,’ he said, bending down casually to pick up the post and the local English language newspaper. ‘But everything’s fine,’ he added as he handed her the letters. ‘You are needed to do an urgent trip to London.’ Without waiting for a reply he continued, ‘Here’s the air ticket and some money. Take this envelope to the address in London, have a day off, visit your husband and daughter. Come back Sunday. I understand you’re going on the yacht Monday?’

‘Yes, I’m looking forward to that. I could make us some coffee?’

‘Sorry, have to get on. Have a good weekend. I’ll see myself out.’

Ann did not notice that he had taken the local newspaper with him. In the lift he glanced at the front page story:

ENGLISH POLICE OFFICER DROWNED

IN SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.

DID YOU SEE HIM?

Underneath, in his chain store grey suit and gold rimmed glasses, was a photograph of the man from the airport.

With Sam gone, Ann was left in her empty flat for the umpteenth time trying not to think how different life would be if her husband were here. At least she was going to see him tomorrow. Why didn’t she feel more pleased at the thought?

If she’d been asked not so long ago, Ann would have said her life was boringly mundane.

Then, suddenly, it was as if a trap door had fallen open beneath her feet and she was precipitated into an uncertain world, plummeting between poverty and wealth, sex and power, fear and unimaginable rewards.

* * *

Ann arrived at Ford Open Prison in a taxi.

She handed in the visiting order and went into the waiting room overlooking the road and the parking lot. It was Sunday, a few minutes to 2 o’clock. Many expensively dressed and well groomed women were waiting, some with children. The women’s eyes never met and they hardly talked. Ann thought what a contrast it made to the long queue outside Brixton Prison, where despite the rain and cold most of the women had worn short skirts and high heeled shoes and chatted endlessly among themselves as they waited to visit their men.

As soon as she entered the visiting room Paul came eagerly towards her. He had put on more weight, she noted automatically, and the silver that had discreetly peppered his hair now streaked it liberally. But the light in his grey eyes as he took in every detail of her appearance was still the same. He was pleased to see her, proud of her trim figure in the designer dress. Ann was, as ever, a credit to him.

‘Lovely to see you, darling. Come on, let’s sit over here.’

He ushered her over to a low table with four comfortable chairs set around it.

‘You look great,’ he said, eyes fixed on her face. ‘You’ve got a real tan by now. How’s everything working out? I haven’t had a letter from you in ten days. If you hadn’t come this weekend, I would have asked to phone you.

Ann gave what she hoped was a carefree laugh. ‘Everything’s fine, Paul. Honestly.’

He studied her closely. ‘If there’s anything worrying you about this situation, for God’s sake tell me,’ he murmured in a low voice, squeezing her hand painfully tight. ‘I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.’

Gently she disengaged her hand. ‘I’m fine, Paul, honestly. I just wish you were there with me – I miss you so much that sometimes it hurts.’

She meant every word. He was her husband and being separated like this was hard for her. And yet, now that they were together, it was not easy for her to keep the conversation going. They lived in such different worlds these days. Paul talked inconsequentially for a while of his job as entertainment orderly, he’d taken up cricket, had just been elected chairman of the Gavel Club where the better educated among the prisoners met every Friday evening and made ten minute speeches.

‘Paul,’ she suddenly interrupted him, ‘there are two men sitting behind you who keep staring at us. One was thickset and short, and his hair thinning on top. The other was tall and thin and very straight backed looking like an Army officer.

‘Go and get us a cup of coffee and on the way have a look at them. Maybe it’s nothing to worry about and I’m just being paranoid.’

But when the men smiled broadly at her after Paul had left, and the podgy small one man fluttered his fingers at her in oddly affected wave, she knew she was not.

‘Just two of the chaps,’ Paul said when he got back. ‘They’re no problem, honestly. Friends in fact.’ But she noted that the smile he directed at them over his shoulder was ingratiating rather than warm.

Ann drank her coffee, glad of the distraction. These days their visits always ended the same way – in exhausted silence. When Paul and she had lived together in Virginia Water there had always been so much for them to talk about: his progress at the bank, the properties she was handling in her part time job at a local estate agent’s, their daughter Elizabeth, improvements to the house, their flat in Spain... But those were the days when Paul was a respected bank manager of the BCCI bank’s large branch in Regent Street, close to Oxford Street, a prominent Rotarian and stalwart of the local golf club. Those were the days when he was free to go wherever he wished, not confined to living in a converted Air Force building and walking endlessly round a prison cricket green.

These days only she was free to go when the officer shouted ‘visit’s over’. They would hug and kiss, just like the forty other couples in the room, and then, wistfully, he would stand and watch her leave before making for the door at the back of the room. She always tried to go with a last smile for him over her shoulder. He needed her to stay in control, depended on her calm and strength to bolster his.

Waiting for the taxi to take her to the station, she felt confused. She knew that she had slightly over acted the role of dutiful wife. Oh, she still loved Paul, but since the day just a year ago when they had come to take him away, she no longer felt she knew him. It seemed to her that one day she was Mrs Ann Dockett, bank manager’s wife and pillar of the local community, and the next she was a different woman, living alone and precariously in a foreign country, not quite able to believe that the world she had once thought so predictable and safe was now barred to her forever.

PART ONE

MAY THE CHANGING WIND

BE GENTLE

CHAPTER ONE

_________________________

It was 5.30 in the morning of the 11th of October 1985 when the peace of Paul and Ann Dockett’s home in prim and proper Virginia Water was rudely shattered by the shrill ringing of the door bell, followed by a hammering on the front door, the French doors to the lounge and the kitchen simultaneously.

Ann looked at the clock in disbelief. Her first thought was that there had been an accident, possibly involving their daughter. She raced to the front door before Paul even reached the top of the stairs. A man in an impeccable Burberry raincoat pushed past her. Three others followed, one of whom flashed a warrant card and an official looking document.

‘I have here a warrant to search this house.’ He looked up at Paul, who had stopped halfway down the stairs. ‘Paul Dockett? I’m Detective Inspector Frank Robinson, Fraud Squad, Metropolitan Police.’

Paul’s face drained of colour. For a moment it seemed he would run back upstairs, but he obviously thought better of it and came down slowly to stand beside his wife and briefly put his arm around her.

‘Do you understand?’ The policeman sounded impatient.

‘Yes,’ Paul answered mechanically.

Seeing the woman’s bewilderment as she shivered beneath her flimsy housecoat, Inspector Robinson said more kindly, ‘Perhaps we could have a cup of tea? The search is going to take several hours, but we will go about it as considerately as possible.’

Methodically the police started to comb the living room. They delved into every drawer, dumping those contents which might possibly be of interest into clear plastic evidence bags. Paul’s briefcase was similarly emptied into a bag. Books were held upside down and shaken to see if anything fell out. Pictures were taken down, carpets rolled up and floorboards tested for hiding places. Cushions were flung from chairs which were then turned upside down and searched. When they’d finished, they started on the dining room and kitchen. By then the living room looked as if it had been vandalised.

Seeing his wife’s bewilderment turn to shock and distress at this violation of her home, Paul felt such shame he stood rooted to the spot. When she stretched out her hand to him, instead of reassuring her, he looked grimly ahead, his own hands clenched on his sides.

The police officers had now reached the bathroom. Paul felt as if he were going to vomit.

‘Boss!’ came a voice from upstairs.

Robinson walked into the hall. ‘Found anything?’

‘Come and have a look at this...’

Inspector Robinson disappeared upstairs but swiftly returned. The apologetic expression had faded from his face as he looked at them hard.

‘I’ll have to ask you both to accompany us to Holborn police station. Your names are on a foreign joint bank account which I have reason to believe contains money fraudulently obtained from the BCCI bank in Regent Street.’

When he started to read them their rights, black spots danced at the edges of Ann’s vision.

Half an hour later she and Paul were placed in separate cars and driven to Holborn for questioning. Robinson was astute enough to recognise from the outset that Ann’s shock and confusion were genuine and swiftly released her on police bail, indicating that it was unlikely that any further action would be taken against her.

Paul answered all the questions put to him, fully and frankly. It was no surprise to him when he was the same evening formally charged with defrauding his employers of £7 million, and at a hearing later the next day in Bow Street Magistrate Court, refused bail and remanded to Brixton prison.

Ann was allowed to visit him there, and despite his own debilitating depression at the situation he found himself in, Paul’s heart twisted with self pity and remorse as he saw the timid way she came into the visiting room. She could barely raise her eyes and take in the details of the squalid visiting area. It was thick with cigarette smoke and closely packed with other prisoners on remand and their laughing, joking or sobbing visitors and the vigilant warders.

‘Just tell me one thing, Paul,’ Ann said when she had sat down opposite him at a scratched and grubby table. ‘And please respect me enough not to lie.’

‘What is it?’ He forced himself to look her straight in the eye.

‘I can only cope with this if I know the truth.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Are you guilty?’

He opened his mouth, hesitated. Then he lifted his chin and said in a calm, low voice, ‘Yes, I am.’

* * *

For Paul Dockett, Nemesis arrived in the short, dapper, constantly smiling form of a man called Aaron Nicholstein. Coming into the bank, to open a deposit account, he was referred direct to the manager as the sum he wished to place with them was a substantial one.

Paul welcomed this promising new customer and made the usual enquiries about his background and current ventures, learning that Aaron was a Polish Jew who for the last thirty years had made his home in Paris, Rome and London. His firm, Nicholstein’s Developments, was a property company with considerable experience in green field sites and redevelopment work.

‘I have just two associates Steve Chaplin and Robert Crane – young, keen, hungry, with good practical backgrounds. I take care of the money end, Steve’s background is quantity surveying, and Robert’s our marketing genius.

‘For the time being I will just leave the money in your good hands. Place it in a holding account with good interest. It’s up to you.’ Nicholstein was evidently not in any hurry.

‘We have found a fantastic new site in Camden: an old brewery with water frontage, close to the High Street,’ he told Paul with obvious excitement two months later. ‘We envisage a fashionable warehouse conversion, thirty units, all shells – apart from the show flat to pull the customers in.

All the light and space of a Thameside conversion with none of that endless schlepping through the East End. Can’t fail!’

A loan application followed for the warehouse development. As security Aaron proposed both his own house in St. George’s Hill, Weybridge, which the bank’s surveyor estimated to be worth £2 million with only a small mortgage outstanding, plus the warehouse site in Camden. The loan was approved and the development went like clockwork, all units being sold within three weeks of the opening of the show flat.

After a few months Paul was approached again by Nicholstein’s for help financing a development near Marbella, and the bank’s Spanish branch was brought in to oversee the legal work and securities though the kudos for the new business remained Paul’s.

This time Nicholstein’s was handling the construction of a residential marina development. Paul took several trips over to check on the project, usually managing to spend an enjoyable afternoon at a local golf club afterwards. It was after one of these rounds, as he and his client relaxed over drinks and the dinner menu, that Aaron made his next proposal.

‘I’ve got something in mind, Paulie. I just hope you won’t be offended... The show flat at the Marina – in a couple of months it’ll have served its purpose and the boys and I were wondering whether you’d like to take it off our hands? I mean, strictly kosher of course. Wouldn’t want to put you in schtuck with the bank, would we? But the company’s made a killing on this development, as you very well know, and we can afford to be obliging to our friends. If we can continue to have the use of the flat for the next couple of months, or until the last one is sold, we thought thirty thou’ – no deposit, ten years’ repayment, easy terms.’

‘But that’s not enough! The cheapest flat at the development’s going for fifty thousand,’ Paul protested.

Aaron puffed his cheroot and for a moment thick blue smoke obscured his smiling face and keen black eyes. He said nothing.

It was a decisive moment for Paul. Until then it had been strictly a banker client relationship between them, but he realised that if he accepted this inducement, then somewhere along the line a favour would be asked. Could he grant it and still come up smelling of roses with the bank?

As if he could read Paul’s mind, Aaron hastened to reassure him: ‘This is strictly a private arrangement, naturally. No need for BCCI to hear of it. Use a company to buy it in. And speaking of the bank, I’ve a new proposal that your loan’s committee will jump at. A golf course in Surrey...’

So far as BCCI went, Nicholstein’s Developments never put a foot wrong. For each proposal they submitted, they always provided a detailed financial forecast from top notch accountants, supported by a legal assessment from a reputable City solicitor. The golf course was rubber stamped and shortly afterwards Aaron told Paul that someone important desperately wanted to buy a two bedroom marina flat, and was willing to offer £80,000 for one just like Paul’s... Maybe he could help them out? The sale was speedily concluded with Aaron acting as intermediary. When he handed over the cheque, drawn on a Gibraltar bank, he suggested that Paul might like to invest in Nicholstein’s for a short period.

It was strictly outside the bank’s code of practice for Paul to invest his own money with a client – but the company was doing so well, and no one was in a better position to appreciate that than Paul himself, who was one of the few people allowed to see the company’s internal monthly management accounts. With an inward qualm, he invested £40,000 with Nicholstein’s and banked the remaining £10,000 in a Spanish company account. His investment doubled in value in six months, whereupon he agreed to sink £90,000 into a shopping mall that the company was developing in Birmingham. The proceeds from that were such that his Spanish bank account was swiftly joined by others in Switzerland, America and the Cayman Islands, and when asked, Paul obligingly helped Aaron, Steve and Robert bank some of their profits out of the country too.

By now Nicholstein’s borrowing amounted to £6 million. For helping to arrange the latest tranche, Paul personally received a sweetener of £150,000. He bought another flat in Spain, installed a pool and expensive conservatory in his otherwise modest suburban Virginia Water home – he couldn’t move, it would be too obvious – and banked the rest abroad.

It seemed to him that the good times would just roll and roll...

And then, over lunch one day, Aaron asked him to help push through a top up of £1 million on the latest Spanish hotel development. There was some legal hold up on the site; a charge registered on it had turned up out of the blue despite BCCI’s Spanish branch supposedly checking it out. It had to be paid off right away, before construction could continue. The loan was sanctioned the same on a full guarantee from Nicholstein’s. Aaron’s house was mortgage free and valued at £3.5 million. No problem.

Three days later Aaron called Paul and asked him to come to Nicholstein’s office that afternoon.

Paul had visited the exclusive offices in Mill Street, Mayfair, on several occasions, but this time they seemed strangely quiet. At just gone five the place had a deserted air. There was no receptionist behind the desk in the anteroom; the flower arrangement on the pedestal table was wilted and dead. Aaron sat on the edge of a leather covered sofa, impatiently drumming his fingers on its arm. He jumped to his feet on seeing Paul.

‘Listen,’ he said, in a voice quite unlike his usual amiable tones. ‘You’ve helped us considerably over the last few years and we’ve looked after you financially. I thought you might appreciate a warning. Everything is going to blow up in the next few days.’

‘Wh what do you mean?’ asked Paul in a shaky voice.

‘The guarantee for one million we gave for the land in Spain isn’t worth the paper it’s written on. I sold the St. George’s Hill house privately some days previously, which you will discover when you try to register the guarantee. The company is now empty, only a shell. The shares aren’t worth the paper they are written on. None of the loans secured on other assets will be repaid either. All the documents you were given within the last two weeks were forged: solicitors’ letters, architect’s declaration, share certificates, land registry forms... everything.’

With a sinking lurch of his stomach Paul realised that the bank was down £7 million, and that every ounce of blame for it would land back at his door. The bastards had set him up for this right from the start.

Aaron seemed to be changing shape before his eyes. The once round and ruddy face with a habitual genial expression looked pale and severe now, though there was a glimmer of something that could almost be pity in those dark, deceptive eyes.

‘You – you filthy bastards! You and your crooked friends have ruined me... How could you?’

‘If so we regret that,’ Aaron said smoothly. ‘Steven, Robert and I are civilised men, and on a personal level we liked you, Paul. But we are part of a very powerful organisation which has financed this enterprise. If we don’t repay their investment in us... let’s just say, our credit would be terminated. With utmost prejudice.’

‘I’ll go to the police,’ Paul blustered, though even as he said it he knew he could never bring himself voluntarily to confess his own criminal actions.

Aaron shook his head sorrowfully. ‘No, Paul, that would be a mistake. You know the way the system works. Banks will do anything... cover up anything...to avoid upsetting their investors. It would be much smarter for you to tell your bosses what I have just told you – that Nicholstein’s has defaulted and vanished without trace. With any luck everything will be quickly hushed up without the police even being involved. And if they are, how were you to know the whole thing was a sham from day one? It was, after all, very skilfully done.’

‘Because I took your money!’

Aaron raised his eyebrows. ‘And how will anyone find out about that?’ He began to sound irritated. ‘We’re the only ones who know, and none of us is likely to say anything.’

He stepped closer. He was only a small man but suddenly he looked distinctly menacing.

‘Unless you are stupid enough to go to them, you could come out of this relatively unscathed.’

Paul was silent. Aaron was right, damn him. If Paul claimed he had made an error of judgment in trusting Nicholstein’s then the worst that could happen would be his dismissal for incompetence. And he had getting on for £200,000 banked offshore to say nothing of the Spanish flat...

The other man continued: ‘If it blows up in your face, do what you can to make it easy on yourself. We’ll be long gone and they’ll never trace us under these or any other names. If you need our help, we won’t forget our debt to you. We’ll monitor your situation, and if we can, we’ll help, you’ll see. Trust me on that.’

Paul laughed bitterly. He was still laughing, bent double and with tears running down his face, when Aaron stepped lightly round him and left the building, bound for Heathrow.

Paul wanted desperately to confess but two things kept him back: shame at revealing his own pitiful gullibility, and fear that his shady financial dealings would be uncovered.

A few days later Head Office rang to make the announcement that his branch had been chosen for a random audit. He could expect the bank’s investigative control team sometime later that day. Paul did not believe it was random and went straight home after receiving the call, claiming he had a cold. It was just bad luck. There was no time for him to take the initiative and explain. On Monday morning, the police raided his house. The notebook with the foreign bank accounts details, found by the police in spite of being carefully taped under the bathtub, made any defence impossible.

Far worse than the shame of this was realising for the first time the terrible price his beloved wife would have to pay for his own deceit and wrongdoing.

Paul came to trial on February 21st 1986, and despite the practised pleadings of his QC, was sentenced to seven years in prison for conspiracy to defraud.

Two hours later he arrived at Wandsworth Prison from the Old Bailey. The inmates working on reception treated all new arrivals badly on principle. All had to learn the prison hierarchy, and the sooner the better for everyone. Paul’s regulation uniform was two sizes too large, he had no socks and his shoes no laces.

The door to his cell was slammed behind him. The 8’ by 6’ space he found himself in was painted dark blue but, incongruously, there were white stars painted on the ceiling.

Someone was lying on the bottom bunk. The huddled figure gave no indication that he was even aware of another presence. Paul dumped his few things on the top bunk and hauled himself up after them.

That night was the worst he had ever spent – worse even than his first night on remand in Brixton. Then at least there had been the faint hope that his brief would get him off lightly.

Next morning he received a post card, unstamped, unsigned but correctly addressed, even down to his prison and cell numbers. It had obviously escaped the censoring process, and contained only the cryptic message:

‘WILL IMPROVE YOUR ACCOMMODATION’.

A week later, at seven, his cell door was unlocked by a warder. ‘You’re a lucky bleeder, Dockett. Start packing your gear. You’re off to the Hilton of Her Majesty’s Prison Service, Ford Open Prison in West Sussex.’

* * *

Paul stepped out of the ‘meat wagon’ into bright sunlight. He had to blink to convince himself that what he was seeing was real: neat wooden huts to the right of a large cricket green, red brick buildings to the left, and a sign over reception which read ‘Welcome’.

A man in a blue prison overalls rode up to the group of new arrivals on an old bike. ‘Hi there! The reception officer will see you when he’s had his lunch. I’ll get you some sandwiches.’ He pedalled off, whistling.

An hour later Paul and his companions were dressed in uniforms which fitted and then taken to the induction hut where they would stay for the first week, before being allocated permanent places. By four o’clock they had been told the prison rules and shown around.

The dining hall buzzed with conversation and laughter, a far cry from Wandsworth where Paul had picked up his food on the ground floor and taken it to his cell on the third landing, eating with the cell door locked, in utter silence, except for his cell mates’ endless belching and farting. Here the prisoners waited patiently, chatting amiably, before selecting what they wanted to eat, taking their food on a tray to a table in the large dining hall, and sitting with friends.

Afterwards Paul and a man called Tom, who had also come from Wandsworth, took a walk round the cricket pitch, unable to believe their good fortune. They sat on a bench and watched other inmates strolling leisurely past as if it were a Sunday afternoon in the park.

‘Are you Paul Dockett?’

He looked up in surprise to see two men in front of him, one tall and lantern jawed, the other short and overweight. For a moment he was reminded of Laurel and Hardy. ‘We’d like a word with you. In private.’

Tom got up straight away, threw Paul a quizzical look and walked off quickly.

‘Do I know you?’ Paul asked nervously.

‘I’m Harold and this is Jeffrey.’ The tall man spoke in an upper class accent. His uniform fitted him perfectly, as if it had been exclusively tailored. By contrast, the smaller man’s trousers were loose, flapping round his ankles. He had a well trimmed moustache and rather protuberant eyes which stared at Paul without blinking, making him feel uneasy.

‘It’s a bit of a change, isn’t it?’ Harold went on. ‘However, when you’ve been here a while you’ll find the novelty wears off and it becomes just another prison. I’m going to tell you what you can do to make things easier for yourself.’ He sat himself down next to Paul, smiling at him.

‘I’m not sure I understand?’

‘You don’t need to understand. Just do as we say and you can live quite comfortably here.’ Harold beamed at Paul while Jeffrey continued staring at him. ‘Let me put you in the picture. There’s nothing that goes on in this place we don’t know about. Both Jeffrey and myself are old hands here. If you do as I suggest, you’ll have no problems with the screws. Most of them are just whiling away the time until they can draw their pensions. As long as we don’t interfere with them, they don’t interfere with us. We run the whole show. You’re one of the lucky ones, Paul. You’ve been singled out for special treatment.’

‘Why?’

‘Has no one told you by now not to ask questions?’ Even though Harold was still smiling, Paul sensed a threat under the words. He noticed that no one passed by without making some form of acknowledgement to his companions, who were obviously held in high regard.

‘Let me put your mind at rest.’ Jeffrey spoke at last, sitting down on the other side of Paul. His voice was soft but unexpectedly deep. He put his hand on Paul’s thigh; it was small and perfectly manicured. There was something mannered, almost feminine in his movements.

As if reading Paul’s mind, he said, ‘Harold doesn’t share my interest in young men. He’s married with two daughters and a house three miles from here, which is handy, as Ford is a second home to us. We’re guests here every twelve years, on average. Specialists in long firm operations all over the world. That’s when a company is built up – or, more usually, taken over – which has a good trading history. It pays its bills slowly but regularly. Then suddenly it increases its buying of all kinds of products and soon afterwards goes into liquidation, leaving a string of unpaid suppliers. We’ve sold off its assets the week before, naturally.’

Paul sat unmoving, conscious of Jeffrey’s hand on his leg, while Harold explained about the various prison jobs Paul could apply for, and which of these carried extra benefits. There were also activities such as poker, backgammon, gambling on horses.

‘The best job is that of cinema and entertainment orderly. You get to see as many films as you want and the screw in charge of entertainment is a regular bloke. Sounds good, eh? You aren’t usually offered that job until you’ve been here at least a year. It’s yours if you want it.’

Paul nodded, bemused. Jeffrey squeezed his knee then removed his hand.

‘Right. So that’s settled.’ All the while Harold chatted, he was still graciously acknowledging the deferential greetings of passers by. ‘Now, the next thing is your accommodation. We’ve arranged for you to get a single room when you come out of induction on the VIP side. If we can help you in any other way, just let us know.’

Paul hesitated. Now the time had come, he was not sure if he was up to the task of clearing the air. He moved a few inches away from Jeffrey and took a deep breath.

‘What is it you want in return?’ There was silence. He tried again. ‘You must want something from me. What?’

‘We have a proposition,’ Harold said calmly.

‘What kind of proposition?’

‘A business proposition.’

‘I think I’d better hear it before I accept any favours.’

‘We need loads of information about BCCI’s and other large accounts. We need your help to find a way to get these large companies send us a cheque so we can see how the cheque is printed and the exact signatures. Maybe you can have a think about how we do that. Names of payees. Dates when statements are sent. Cheque clearing routines. Detailed information about the bank’s daily routine. Also, some gen on staff and computers would be of interest.’

‘I see.’ Paul had foreseen something along these lines. This information would be vital for some form of bank fraud, but on a more massive scale than anything he’d been involved in.

Jeffrey said, ‘None of this will be traced back to you. It might be years before any of this information is put to use. And in the meantime we take care of the lovely Ann, your wife. The bank’s foreclosing on your house and she wouldn’t like bed and breakfast, would she? We’d offer her a flat in Majorca and two hundred fifty pounds a week in return for a little light work – nothing strenuous. And not illegal.’

‘Who’s behind all this?’ Paul was gaining confidence now he knew he had something they wanted. ‘How do you know so much about me? Who do you work for?’

‘We are mere intermediaries, self employed entrepreneurs, who are financed by our masters,’ Jeffrey put in. ‘Believe me, you don’t need to know any more.’

Paul felt a sudden tension in the air as Harold and Jeffrey awaited his reply. For a moment he had completely forgotten that he was in prison here and not at a business meeting. But did he have any option but to agree? Could he walk away from this proposition, as they had said, and still keep a cushy job and an easy life? Looking at the way Jeffrey clasped and unclasped his meaty hands, and the wide berth which the other inmates gave Harold, despite his charming manners and patrician looks, Paul sensed that to go against these men would only lead to more trouble.

What real choice was left to him?

His course was already decided.

‘How do I know,’ he said slowly, ‘that if I do as you say, your people – whoever they are – will keep their side of the bargain?’

‘Because you’ve already seen them in action,’ Harold assured him benevolently. ‘Like our good friend Aaron Nicholstein, we wouldn’t work for them if they didn’t keep their promises. You have a good think.’

* * *

A week later, Ann arrived for a visit. Paul had to broach the Mallorca proposal soon, but didn’t know how to begin.

‘You must have gone stark raving mad!’ she said, in disbelief when he’d finished. ‘After what we’ve both been through? No, Paul, I’m not getting involved. Keep me out of your sordid business deals!’ She pushed back her chair and walked off.

It was only at the end of the third visit that Ann, reduced to tears as she told him of her imminent homelessness after being forced to sell the house and forfeit the proceeds, reluctantly agreed to go to Mallorca and see the promised apartment. The next day her air ticket, hotel booking and £300 in cash arrived by courier.

Seeing his wife’s face on her next visit, some of Paul’s worries lifted. She had enjoyed the trip and was full of enthusiasm for the apartment, and appreciative of the kindness and courtesy shown by her guide in Mallorca, Sam O’Sullivan. Her attitude had altered so much that they were able to talk more freely.

‘I’m still worried about what they want you to tell them,’ she said. ‘It’ll obviously be used for illegal purposes...’

‘But no one will know I had anything to do with it. We’re already caught up in this, Ann. And we’ve lost so much... I can’t bear to think of you moving into some scruffy bedsit – not when there’s all this on offer.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘And what else can they do to me, after all – put me in prison?’

‘I’m scared, though,’ Ann said bleakly. ‘But – the flat was gorgeous and I loved Mallorca... Sam said I’d only need to do a few days work a week for his boss. I could cope so much better out there. Paul...’

And so he had swallowed the bait. His wife moved to Mallorca in April and Paul agreed to work for them – whoever they were. He was doing it for Ann, he told himself.

Maybe, one day, it would lead to his finding out who lay behind his downfall. That weighed more and more heavily on his mind and he’d made himself a solemn promise: they might have pulled him down but he was not completely out, not by a long chalk. He was going to make them sorry they had ever picked on him to be their fall guy. Sooner or later, he’d have his day with them.

CHAPTER TWO

_________________________

Mallorca, Thursday, 7th of May 1987

Only two police officers, one from Scotland Yard, the other in Denmark, knew more about Erick Elgberg than Sam O’Sullivan.

Sam had worked for Elgberg for ten years, the last few of them on Mallorca. This was surprising for a man who had never previously had a proper job.

Sam had been born on a small farm in Tipperary. He had never known his father and his mother died when he was sixteen. His two elder brothers wanted to make a living on the farm, which left Sam with no prospects in Ireland. He decided to try his luck in London.

After a few months of hand to mouth living, it became clear to him that his options were limited. He knew he had to take a permanent job, either as a mini cab or van driver or possibly a labourer, while trying to get an education of some sort. Or he could do favours for the characters he was regularly introduced to by his landlord.

He started doing odd jobs for small time villains. The income was good and the work suited him perfectly. He never asked what was in the various parcels he had to deliver and never opened any to find out. He was regarded by his employers as trustworthy and able to handle himself in a tight spot.

One day he was told to drive to Amsterdam to deliver a small parcel. He regarded it as a routine trip. After entering the port in Dover, he was asked by the police to park the car and go to a small office on the first floor inside the departure building.

A few minutes later he was arrested for handling stolen goods. The parcel contained jewellery. He did not tell the police the names of his employers or the destination of the parcel, guessing that a rival gang had informed the police.

He was advised by the duty solicitor in Dover to plead guilty, which he did. The magistrate, who understood that the case was not worth wasting time over, sentenced him a month later to six months imprisonment.

On the day of his release from Wormwood Scrubs, Sam was approached outside the prison by a bearded man wearing a flamboyant bow tie, who said someone wanted to offer him a permanent job.

The same afternoon he met his new employer in The Loose Box wine bar in Brompton Road, Knightsbridge. Sam liked Erick Elgberg right away and took the job, which he was told was a combination of chauffeur, minder and general handyman. Sam had never heard of Elgberg before they met and knew better than to ask who the bearded man was who had introduced them.

Erick was always courteous. When they were alone, they were on first name terms and Sam appreciated the fact that his employer always had time for him, listened to him and sometimes even took his advice. Erick gave him various books to read, from business textbooks to the latest best seller, and when Sam had finished they discussed the contents. Sam understood that this was his boss’s way of shaping him to fit into the organisation. Far from resenting this Sam was now Erick’s man and totally loyal to him.

Today he was on his way to pick up the new member of staff, Ann Dockett, and take her to Erick’s house. They had not as yet met and Ann’s mind was buzzing with questions about her new employment but when Sam did not say anything she felt she should do the same. He obviously preferred to avoid the topic of the coming interview, so they spoke about the island, the weather, London.

When they reached the small village of Punta Verger, he turned off the main road. A mile further on he turned again and drove along a dusty track. Ann felt increasingly nervous and wished she could arrive in a presentable state and not covered in dust.

‘It’s not your usual sort of house,’ Sam explained at last. ‘It started life as a cave. It was built into the cliffs by some wealthy Germans who wanted to make it into a club, but they couldn’t get planning permission in the end. The place was up for sale for a long time before Mr Elgberg bought it and made it into what it is today. He spent millions on it.’ It’s quite unique.’

Gradually he lessened speed. ‘You can only properly see it from the sea, and even then you wouldn’t really notice it if it weren’t for the harbour and the yacht.’ He changed down into a lower gear and drove very slowly. The track had disappeared completely.

They had stopped at a barrier, beside which was a small wooden hut. A man waiting outside walked towards them.

Sam hung out of the window. ‘Hi there. How are you today?’

‘No better for seeing you, you Irish git,’ the man growled, peering into the car. Ann shrank back from the battered face thrust close to her. ‘Open the briefcase,’ he ordered. Ann obeyed.

‘I’ve got to deliver her to Mr Elgberg as fresh as a daisy,’ Sam warned.

The man grunted and raised the barrier while Sam revved the car and pulled away in a cloud of dust. He drove on until they reached a large carport, underneath which stood several cars.

‘We have to take a lift down to the house.’ He helped Ann out. She saw a small concrete building at the end of the carport. As they approached, a heavy metal door opened automatically and a uniformed security guard stepped out. They followed him inside the building which contained a desk and a bank of television screens.

The guard ordered Ann to open her briefcase. Fumbling with the locks, she again obeyed. It was empty except for a few pens, a writing pad and spare sunglasses. After a brief glance, the guard shrugged