A Prisoner of Birth

"I certainly will," said Danny as he rose to leave. "Thank you, professor."

Once he was back in the corridor, Danny began running toward the entrance. As he charged through the front doors, he was relieved to see Big Al waiting by the car.

Danny mulled over Professor Mori's words as Big Al drove along the Strand and through The Mall on his way to Notting Hill Gate. He continually broke the speed limit as he didn't want the boss to be late for his appointment. Danny made it clear that he'd rather pay a speeding fine than spend another four years in Belmarsh. It was unfortunate that Big Al drew up outside the probation office just as Ms. Bennett stepped off her bus. She stared through the car window as Danny tried to conceal himself behind Big Al's hulking frame.

"She probably thinks ye huv robbed a bank," said Big Al, "and I'm the getaway driver."

"I did rob a bank," Danny reminded him.

Danny was made to wait in reception for longer than usual before Ms. Bennett reappeared and beckoned him into her office. Once he was seated on his plastic chair on the opposite side of the formica table, she said, "Before I begin, Nicholas, perhaps you can explain whose car you arrived in this afternoon?"

"It's mine," replied Danny.

"And who was the driver?" asked Ms. Bennett.

"He's my chauffeur."

"How can you afford to own a BMW and have a chauffeur when your only declared source of income is a student grant?" she asked.

"My grandfather set up a trust fund for me, which pays out a monthly income of a hundred thousand pounds and-"

"Nicholas," said Ms. Bennett sharply, "these meetings are meant to be an opportunity for you to be open and frank about any problems you are facing so that I can offer you advice and assistance. I am going to allow you one more chance to answer my questions honestly. If you continue to act in this frivolous manner, I will have no choice but to mention it in my next report to the Home Office, and we both know what the consequences of that will be. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Ms. Bennett," said Danny, recalling what Big Al had told him when he had faced the same problem with his probation officer. "Tell them what they want tae hear, boss. It makes life so much easier."

"Let me ask you once again. Who owns the car you arrived in this afternoon?"

"The man who was driving it," said Danny.

"And is he a friend? Or do you work for him?"

"I knew him when I was in the army, and because I was running late, he offered me a lift."

"And can you tell me if you have any source of income other than your student grant?"

"No, Ms. Bennett."

"That's more like it," said Ms. Bennett. "You see how much more smoothly everything goes when you cooperate? Now, is there anything else you want to discuss with me?"

Danny was tempted to tell her about his meeting with the three Swiss bankers, take her through the property deal he was trying to put together, or let her know what he had in mind for Charlie Duncan. He settled on, "My professor wants me to enter for the Jennie Lee Memorial Prize essay competition, and I wondered what your advice would be."

Ms. Bennett smiled. "Do you think it will enhance your chances of becoming a teacher?"

"Yes, I suppose it might," said Danny.

"Then I would advise you to enter the competition."

"I am most grateful, Ms. Bennett."

"Not at all," she replied. "After all, that's what I'm here for."

***

Danny's unplanned late-night visit to Mile End Road had rekindled those glowing embers that lifers call their demons. Returning to the Old Bailey in broad daylight would mean that he had to face an even greater challenge.

As Big Al swung the car into St. Paul 's Yard, Danny looked up at the statue perched on top of the Central Criminal Court: a woman was attempting to balance a pair of scales. When Danny had flicked through his diary to see if he was free to have lunch with Charlie Duncan, he had been reminded how he had planned to spend that morning. Big Al drove past the public entrance, swung right at the end of the road and made his way around to the back of the building, where he parked outside a door marked Visitors' Entrance.

Once Danny had been cleared through security he began the long climb up the steep stone steps that led to the galleries that overlook the different courts. When he reached the top floor, a court official wearing a long black schoolmaster's gown asked him if he knew which court he wished to attend.

"Number four," he told the officer, who pointed down the corridor to the second door on the right. Danny followed his instructions and made his way into the public gallery. A handful of onlookers-family and friends of the accused, and a few of the simply curious-were seated on a bench in the front row peering down into the court. He didn't join them.

Danny had no interest in the accused man. He had come to watch his adversary performing on his home ground. He slipped into a place in the corner of the back row. Like a skilled assassin, he had a perfect sighting of his quarry as he went about his business, while Spencer Craig would have had to turn around and stare up into the gallery if he were to have any chance of seeing him, and even then Danny would appear as an irrelevant speck on his landscape.

Danny watched every move Craig made, much as a boxer does when sparring with an opponent, looking for flaws, searching for weaknesses. Craig displayed very few to the untrained eye. As the morning progressed, it became clear that he was skillful, cunning and ruthless, all necessary weapons in the armory of his chosen profession; but he also appeared willing to stretch the elastic of the law to breaking point if it would advance his cause, as Danny had already learned to his cost. He knew that when the time came to face Craig head on, he would have to be at his sharpest, because this opponent wasn't going to lie down until the last breath had been knocked out of him.

Danny felt that he now knew almost everything there was to know about Spencer Craig, which only made him more cautious. While Danny had the advantage of preparation and the element of surprise, he also had the disadvantage of having dared to enter an arena that Craig considered to be nothing less than his birthright, whereas Danny had only inhabited the same terrain for a few months. With every day that he played his role it became more of a reality, so that now, no one he came across ever doubted that he was Sir Nicholas Moncrieff. But Danny remembered that Nick had written in his diary that whenever you face a skillful enemy, you must lure him off his own ground, so that he does not feel at ease, because that is when you have the best chance of taking him by surprise.

Danny had been testing his new skills every day, but getting himself invited to a closing-night party, giving the impression that he was a regular customer at the Dorchester, fooling a young estate agent who was desperate to close a deal and convincing a theatrical producer that he might invest in his latest production, were simply the opening rounds of a long competition in which Craig was undoubtedly the number-one seed. If Danny were to lower his guard even for a moment, the man strutting his hour upon the courtroom floor below would not hesitate to strike again, and this time he would make sure that Danny was sent back to Belmarsh for the rest of his life.

He had to lure this man into a swamp from which he could not hope to escape. Charlie Duncan might be able to help him strip Lawrence Davenport of his adoring fans; Gary Hall could even cause Gerald Payne to be humiliated in the eyes of his colleagues and friends; but it would take far more to ensure that Spencer Craig would end his legal career, not sitting in judgment on the bench wearing a wig and red gown while being addressed as m'lord, but standing in the dock being convicted by a jury of his fellow citizens on a charge of murder.