Cometh the Hour (The Clifton Chronicles 6)

“Then let me once again refresh your memory, Mr. Bishara. According to Mr. Collier, he found ten thousand pounds in cash in your overnight bag.”

A gasp went up around the court. More than the annual income of most of those sitting on the jury, was Sebastian’s first thought.

“Why would a respectable banker, with an impeccable reputation, need to be carrying ten thousand pounds in cash in his overnight bag, when to quote you”—he once again checked his notes—“but then I was only staying for the weekend.”

“In Africa, Mr. Carman, not everyone has a bank account or a credit card, so the local custom is often to settle transactions in cash.”

“And I imagine that would also be the custom if you wanted to buy drugs, Mr. Bishara?”

Gray was quickly on his feet again.

“Yes, yes. I withdraw the question,” said Carman, well aware that he’d made his point. “Presumably, Mr. Bishara, you are aware of the maximum amount of cash you are permitted to bring into this country?”

“Ten thousand pounds.”

“That is correct. How much did you have in your wallet when you were detained by Mr. Collier?”

“A couple of hundred pounds perhaps.”

“So you must have known you were breaking the law. Or was that just another calculated risk?” Bishara didn’t respond. “I only ask, Mr. Bishara,” said Carman turning to face the jury, “because my learned friend Mr. Gray laid great emphasis on the fact that you were”—he looked down at his notes—“once again, I quote, ‘a highly intelligent, sophisticated banker, who regularly closes large deals that need to be calculated to the last decimal point.’ If that is the case, why were you carrying at least £10,200, when you must have known you were breaking the law?”

“With respect, Mr. Carman, if I had been trying to buy thirteen ounces of heroin when I was in Lagos, by your calculation I would have needed at least twenty thousand pounds in cash.”

“But like a good banker,” said Carman, “you could have closed the deal for ten thousand pounds.”

“You may well be right, Mr. Carman, but if I had done so I wouldn’t have been able to bring the ten thousand back, would I?”

“We only have your word that you took just ten thousand out.”

“We only have your word I didn’t.”

“Then let me suggest that a man who isn’t squeamish about trying to smuggle thirteen ounces of heroin into this country wouldn’t give a second thought to taking out the necessary funds to—how shall I put it?—close the deal.”

Mr. Gray bowed his head. How many times had he told Hakim not to take on Carman, however much he riled him, and never to forget the wily QC was playing on his home ground.

The Cheshire cat grin reappeared on Carman’s face as he looked up at the judge and said, “No more questions, my lord.”

“Mr. Gray, do you wish to reexamine the witness?”

“I have a few additional questions, my lord. Mr. Bishara, my learned friend went to great lengths to suggest that even when you play backgammon, you are, by nature, a gambler. Can I ask what stakes you play for?”

“A hundred pounds a game, which, if my opponent loses, he must donate to the charity of my choice.”

“Which is?”

“The Polio Society.”

“And if you lose?”

“I pay one thousand pounds to the charity of my opponent’s choice.”

“How often do you lose?”

“About one game in ten. But then, it’s a hobby, Mr. Gray, not a profession.”

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Mr. Bishara, how much money would you have made if you’d been able to dispose of thirteen ounces of heroin?”