A Prisoner of Birth Read online

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Wilson,’ he said. ‘My name is Ray Pascoe.’

  Beth smiled. ‘Danny liked you,’ she said.

  ‘And I admired him,’ said Pascoe, ‘but that’s not why I’m here. Allow me to carry that for you,’ he said, taking the box from her as they started to walk down the corridor. ‘I wanted to find out if you still intend to try to have the appeal verdict overturned.’

  ‘What’s the point,’ said Beth, ‘now that Danny’s dead.’

  ‘Would that be your attitude if he was still alive?’ asked Pascoe.

  ‘No, of course it wouldn’t,’ said Beth sharply. ‘I’d go on fighting to prove his innocence for the rest of my life.’

  When they reached the front gates Pascoe handed the box back to her and said, ‘I have a feeling Danny would like to see his name cleared.’

  40

  ‘GOOD MORNING, Mr Munro,’ said Danny, thrusting out his hand. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  ‘And you, Sir Nicholas,’ Munro replied. ‘I trust you had a pleasant journey.’

  Nick had described Fraser Munro so well that Danny almost felt he knew him. ‘Yes, thank you. The train journey allowed me to go over our correspondence once again, and reconsider your recommendations,’ said Danny as Munro ushered him into a comfortable chair by the side of his desk.

  ‘I fear my latest letter may not have reached you in time,’ said Munro. ‘I would have telephoned, but of course . . .’

  ‘That wasn’t possible,’ said Danny, only interested in what the latest letter contained.

  ‘I fear it’s not good news,’ said Munro, tapping his fingers on the desk – a habit Nick hadn’t mentioned. ‘A writ has been issued against you’ – Danny gripped the arms of his chair. Were the police waiting for him outside? – ‘by your uncle Hugo.’ Danny breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘I should have seen it coming,’ said Munro, ‘and therefore I blame myself.’

  Get on with it, Danny wanted to say. Nick said nothing.

  ‘The writ claims that your father left the estate in Scotland and the house in London to your uncle and that you have no legal claim over either of them.’

  ‘But that’s nonsense,’ said Danny.

  ‘I entirely agree with you, and with your permission I will reply that we intend to defend the action vigorously.’ Danny accepted Munro’s judgement, although he realized that Nick would have been more cautious. ‘To add insult to injury,’ Munro continued, ‘your uncle’s lawyers have come up with what they describe as a compromise.’ Danny nodded, still unwilling to offer an opinion. ‘If you were to accept your uncle’s original offer, namely that he retains possession of both properties along with responsibility for the mortgage payments, he will give instructions to withdraw the writ.’

  ‘He’s bluffing,’ said Danny. ‘If I recall correctly, Mr Munro, your original advice was to take my uncle to court and make a claim for the money my father borrowed against both houses, a matter of two million, one hundred thousand pounds.’

  ‘That was indeed my advice,’ continued Munro. ‘But if I recall your response at the time, Sir Nicholas – ’ he placed his half-moon spectacles back on the end of his nose and opened a file – ‘yes, here it is. Your exact words were, “If those were my father’s wishes, I will not go against them”.’

  ‘That was how I felt at the time, Mr Munro,’ said Danny, ‘but circumstances have changed since then. I do not believe my father would have approved of Uncle Hugo issuing a writ against his nephew.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said Munro, unable to hide his surprise at his client’s change of heart. ‘So can I suggest, Sir Nicholas, that we call his bluff?’

  ‘And how would we go about that?’

  ‘We could issue a counter-writ,’ replied Munro, ‘asking the court to make a judgement on whether your father had the right to borrow money against the two properties without consulting you in the first place. Although I am by nature a cautious man, Sir Nicholas, I would go as far as to suggest that the law is on our side. However, I’m sure that you read Bleak House in your youth.’

  ‘Quite recently,’ admitted Danny.

  ‘Then you will be acquainted with the risks of becoming embroiled in such an action.’

  ‘But unlike Jarndyce and Jarndyce,’ said Danny, ‘I suspect Uncle Hugo will agree to settle out of court.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘He won’t want to see his picture on the front page of the Scotsman and the Edinburgh Evening News, both of which would be only too happy to remind their readers where his nephew had been residing for the past four years.’

  ‘A point I had not taken into consideration,’ said Munro. ‘But on reflection, I have to agree with you.’ He coughed. ‘When we last met, you did not seem to be of the opinion that . . .’

  ‘When we last met, Mr Munro, I was preoccupied with other matters, and was therefore unable to fully grasp the significance of what you were telling me. Since then I have had time to consider your advice, and . . .’ Danny had rehearsed these sentences again and again in his cell, with Big Al playing the role of Mr Munro.

  ‘Quite so,’ said Munro, removing his spectacles and looking more carefully at his client. ‘Then with your permission, I will take up the cudgels on your behalf. However, I must warn you that the matter may not be resolved quickly.’

  ‘How long?’ asked Danny.

  ‘It could be a year, even a little longer, before the case comes to court.’

  ‘That might be a problem,’ said Danny. ‘I’m not sure there’s enough money in my account at Coutts to cover . . .’

  ‘No doubt you will advise me once you have been in touch with your bankers.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Danny.

  Munro coughed again. ‘There are one or two other matters I feel we ought to discuss, Sir Nicholas.’ Danny simply nodded, as Munro put his half-moon spectacles back on and rummaged among the papers on his desk once again. ‘You recently executed a will while you were in prison,’ said Munro, extracting a document from the bottom of the pile.

  ‘Remind me of the details,’ said Danny, recognizing Nick’s familiar hand on the lined prison paper.

  ‘You have left the bulk of your estate to one Daniel Cartwright.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Danny.

  ‘From that, am I to assume that you wish to reconsider your position, Sir Nicholas?’

  ‘No,’ said Danny, recovering quickly. ‘It’s just that Danny Cartwright died recently.’

  ‘Then you will need to make a new will at some time in the future. But frankly, there are far more pressing matters for us to consider at this moment in time.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Danny.

  ‘There is a key that your uncle seems most anxious to get his hands on.’

  ‘A key?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Munro. ‘It seems that he is willing to offer you one thousand pounds for a silver chain and key that he believes are in your possession. He realizes that they have little intrinsic value, but he would like them to remain in the family.’

  ‘And so they will,’ responded Danny. ‘I wonder if I might ask you in confidence, Mr Munro, if you have any idea what the key opens?’

  ‘No, I do not,’ admitted Munro. ‘On that particular subject your grandfather did not confide in me. Though I might make so bold as to suggest that if your uncle is so keen to lay his hands on it, I think we can assume that the contents of whatever the key opens will be worth far more than a thousand pounds.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Danny, mimicking Munro.

  ‘How do wish me to respond to this offer?’ Munro asked.

  ‘Tell him that you are not aware of the existence of such a key.’

  ‘As you wish, Sir Nicholas. But I have no doubt that he’ll not be that easily dissuaded, and will come back with a higher offer.’

  ‘My reply will be the same whatever he offers,’ said Danny firmly.

  ‘So be it,’ said Munro. ‘May I enquire if it is your inte