Twelve Red Herrings (10 page)

“His lordship
obviously needs a little time to think,” Matthew explained under his breath as
he passed me in the dock. After much deliberation in his chambers, Mr. Justice
Lampton settled on three years. Later that day I was sent to Ford Open Prison.

After
considerable press comment during the next few weeks, and what Sir Matthew
described to the Court of Appeal as ‘my client’s unparalleled affliction and
exemplary behaviour’, I ended up only having to serve nine months.

Meanwhile,
Jeremy had been arrested at Addenbrookes Hospital by Allan Leeke, Deputy Chief
Constable of Cambridgeshire.

After three days
in a heavily guarded ward he was charged with conspiracy to pervert the course
of public justice, and transferred to Armley Prison to await trial. He comes
before the Leeds Crown Court next month, and you can be sure I’ll be sitting in
the gallery following the proceedings every day. By the way, Fingers and the
boys gave him a very handsome welcome. I’m told he’s lost even more weight than
he did trooping backwards and forwards across Europe fixing up his new
identity.

Rosemary has
also been arrested and charged with perjury.

They didn’t
grant her bail, and Donald informs me that French prisons, particularly the one
in Marseilles, are less comfortable than Armley – one of the few disadvantages
of living in the south of France.

She’s fighting
the extradition order, of course, but I’m assured by Matthew that she has
absolutely no chance of succeeding, now we’ve signed the Maastricht Treaty. I
knew something good must come out of that.

As for Mrs.
Balcescu – I’m sure you worked out where I’d seen her long before I did.

In the case of
Regina v. Alexander and Kershaw, I’m told, she will be giving evidence on
behalf of the Crown. Jeremy made such a simple mistake for a normally
calculating and shrewd man.

In order to
protect himself from being identified, he put all his worldly goods in his
wife’s name. So the striking blonde ended up with everything, and I have a
feeling that when it comes to her cross-examination, Rosemary won’t turn out to
be all that helpful to Jeremy, because it slipped his mind to let her know that
in between those weekly .phone calls he was living with another woman.

It’s been
difficult to find out much more about the real Professor Balcescu, because since
Ceausescu’s downfall no one is quite sure what really happened to the
distinguished academic.

Even the
Romanians believed he had escaped to Britain and begun a new life.

Bradford City
have been relegated, so Donald has bought a cottage in the West Country and
settled down to watch Bath play rugby. Jenny has joined a private detective
agency in London, but is already complaining about her salary and conditions.
Williams has returned to Bradford and decided on an early retirement. It was he
who pointed out the painfully obvious fact that when it’s twelve o’clock in
France, it’s only eleven o’clock in Britain.

By the way, I’ve
decided to go back to Leeds after all. Cooper’s went into liquidation as I
suspected they would, the new management team not proving all that effective
when it came to riding out a recession. The official receiver was only too
delighted to accept my offer of 250,000 for what remained of the company,
because no one else was showing the slightest interest in it. Poor Jeremy will
get almost nothing for his shares. Still, you should look up the new stock in
the F.T. around the middle of next year, and buy yourself a few, because
they’ll be what my father would have called ‘a risk worth taking’.

By the way,
Matthew advises me that I’ve just given you what’s termed as ‘inside
information’, so please don’t pass it on, as I have no desire to go back to
jail for a third time.

WOMEN ARE NATURALLY SUPERIOR TO
MEN,
and Mrs. Consuela Rosenhelm was no exception.

Victor Rosenhelm,
an American banker, was Consuela’s third husband, and the gossip columns on
both sides of the Atlantic were suggesting that, like a chain smoker, the
former Colombian model was already searching for her next spouse before she had
extracted the last gasp from the old one. Her first two husbands – one an Arab,
the other a Jew (Consuela showed no racial prejudice when it came to signing
marriage contracts) – had not quite left her in a position that would guarantee
her financial security once her natural beauty had faded.

But two more
ciivorce settlements would sort that out. With this in mind, Consuela estimated
that she only had another five years before the final vow must be taken.

The Rosenheims
flew into London from their home in New York – or, to be more accurate, from
their homes in New York.

Consuela had
travelled to the airport by chauffeur-driven car from their mansion in the
Hamptons, while her husband had been taken from his Wall Street office in a
second chauffeur-driven car.

They met up in
the Concorde lounge at JFK. When they had landed at Heathrow another limousine
transported them to the Ritz, where they were escorted to their usual suite
without any suggestion of having to sign forms or book in.

The purpose of
their trip was twofold. Mr. Rosenheim was hoping to take over a small merchant
bank that had not benefited from the recession, while Mrs. Rosenheim intended
to occupy her time looking for a suitable birthday present – for herself.

Despite
considerable research I have been unable to discover exactly which birthday
Consuela would officially be celebrating.

After a
sleepless night induced by jetlag, Victor Rosenhelm was whisked away to an
early-morning meeting in the City, while Consuela remained in bed toying with
her breakfast. She managed one piece of thin unbuttered toast and a stab at a
boiled egg.

Once the
breakfast tray had been removed, Consuela made a couple of phone calls to
confirm luncheon dates for the two days she would be in London. She then
disappeared into the bathroom.

Fifty minutes
later she emerged from her suite dressed in a pink Olaganie suit with a dark
blue collar, her fair hair bouncing on her shoulders. Few of the men she passed
between the elevator and the revolving doors failed to turn their heads, so
Consuela judged that the previous fifty minutes had not been wasted. She
stepped out of the hotel and into the morning sun to begin her search for the
birthday present.

Consuela began
her quest in New Bond Street. As in the past, she had no intention of straying
more than a few blocks north, south, east or west from that comforting
landmark, while a chauffeur-driven car hovered a few yards behind her.

She spent some
time in Asprey’s considering the latest slimline watches, a gold statue of a
tiger with jade eyes, and a Faberg egg, before moving on to Cartier, where she
dismissed a crested silver salver, a platinum watch and a Louis XIV long-case
clock.

From there she
walked another few yards to Tiffany’s, which, despite a determined salesman who
showed her almost everything the shop had to offer, she still left
empty-handed.

Consuela stood
on the pavement and checked her watch. It was 12.52, and she had to accept that
it had been a fruitless morning.

She instructed
her chauffeur to drive her to Harry’s Bar, where she found Mrs. Stavros
Kleanthis waiting for her at their usual table. Consuela greeted her friend
with a kiss on both cheeks, and took the seat opposite her.

Mrs. Kleanthis,
the wife of a not unknown shipowner – the Greeks preferring one wife and
several liaisons – had for the last few minutes been concentrating her
attention on the menu to be sure that the restaurant served the few dishes that
her latest diet would permit.

Between them,
the two women had read every book that had reached number one on the New York
Times bestseller list which included the words ^”youth’, ‘orgasm’, ‘slimming’,
‘fitness’ or ‘immortality’ in its title.

“How’s Victor?”
asked Maria, once she and Consuela had ordered their meals.

Consuela paused
to consider her response, and decided on the truth.

“Fast reaching
his sell-by date,” she replied.
“And Stavros?’

“Well past his,
I’m afraid,” said Maria. “But as I have neither your looks nor your figure, not
to mention the fact that I have three teenage children, I don’t suppose I’ll be
returning to the market to select the latest brand.” Consuela smiled as a
salade nioise was placed in front of her.

“So, what brings
you to London – other than to have lunch with an old friend?” asked Maria.

“Victor has his
eye on another bank,” replied Consuela, as if she were discussing a child who
collected stamps. “And I’m in search of a suitable birthday present.”

“And what are
you expecting Victor to come up with this
time ?
”
asked Maria. “A house in the
country ?
A thoroughbred
racehorse ?

Or perhaps your
own Lear jet?”

“None of the
above,” said Consuela, placing her fork by the half-finished salad. “I need
something that can’t be bargained over at a future date, so my gift must be one
that any court, in any state, will acknowledge is unquestionably mine.’

“Have you found
anything appropriate yet?” asked Maria.

“Not yet,”
admitted Consuela. “Asprey’s yielded nothing of interest, Cartier’s cupboard
was almost bare, and the only attractive thing in Tiffany’s was the salesman,
who was undoubtedly penniless. I shall have to continue my search this
afternoon.” The salad plates were deftly removed by a waiter whom Maria
considered far too young and far too thin. Another waiter with the same problem
poured them both a cup of fresh decaffeinated coffee. Consuela refused the
proffered cream and sugar, though her companion was not quite so disciplined.

The two ladies
grumbled on about the sacrifices they
were having
to
make because of the recession until they were the only diners left in the room.
At this point a fatter waiter presented them with the bill – an extraordinarily
long ledger considering that neither of them had ordered a second course, or
had requested more than Evian from the wine waiter.

On the pavement
of South Audley Street they kissed again on both cheeks before going their
separate ways, one to the east and the other to the west.

Consuela climbed
into the back of her chauffeur-driven car in order to be returned to New Bond
Street, a distance of no more than half a mile.

Once she was
back on familiar territory, she began to work her way steadily down the other
side of the street, stopping at Bentley’s, where it appeared that they hadn’t
sold anything since last year, and moving rapidly on to Adler, who seemed to be
suffering from much the same problem. She cursed the recession once again, and
blamed it all on Bill Clinton, who Victor had assured
her
was the cause of most of the world’s current problems.

Consuela was
beginning to despair of finding anything worthwhile in Bond Street, and
reluctantly began her journey back towards the Ritz, feeling she might even
have to consider an expedition to Knightsbridge the following day, when she
came to a sudden halt outside the House of Graff. Consuela could not recall the
shop from her last visit to London some six months before, and as she knew Bond
Street better than she had ever known any of her three husbands, she concluded
that it must be a new establishment.

She gazed at the
stunning gems in their magnificent settings, heavily protected behind the
bulletproof windows. When she reached the third window her mouth opened wide,
like a newborn chick demanding to be fed. From that moment she knew that no
further excursions would be necessary, for there, hanging round a slender
marble neck, was a peerless diamond and ruby necklace.

She felt that
she had seen the magnificent piece of jewellery somewhere before, but she
quickly dismissed the thought from her mind, and continued to study the
exquisitely set rubies surrounded by perfectly cut diamonds, making up a
necklace of unparalleled beauty.

Without giving a
moment’s thought to how much the object might cost, Consuela walked slowly
towards the thick glass door at the entrance to the shop, and pressed a
discreet ivory button on the wall. The House of Graff obviously had no interest
in passing trade.

The door was
unlocked by a security officer who needed no more than a glance at Mrs.
Rosenheim to know that he should usher her quickly through to the inner
portals, where a second door was opened and Consuela came face to face with a
tall, imposing man in a long black coat and pinstriped trousers.

“Good morning,
madam,” he said, bowing slightly. Consuela noticed that he surreptitiously
admired her rings as he did so.

“Can I be of
assistance?” Although the room was full of treasures that might in normal
circumstances have deserved hours of her attention, Consuela’s mind was focused
on only one object.

“Yes. I would
like to study more closely the diamond and ruby necklace on display in the
third window.”