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  Harry turned and walked back into the house as the journalists continued to holler their questions. Markham closed the door.

  * * *

  It was the first time Virginia had ever visited a prison, although over the years one or two of her chums had been incarcerated, and several others certainly should have been.

  In truth, she wasn’t looking forward to the experience. Mind you, it had solved one problem. She no longer had to pretend that Desmond Mellor had the slightest chance of being awarded a knighthood. “Sir Desmond” remained the fantasy it had always been.

  Unfortunately, it also meant that a regular source of income had dried up. She wouldn’t have considered visiting Mellor in prison if her bank manager hadn’t kept reminding her about her overdraft. She could only hope that Mellor was still capable of turning red into black, despite being behind bars.

  Virginia wasn’t altogether certain what Mellor had been charged with. But she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Adrian Sloane was involved somehow.

  She drove down to Arundel just after breakfast as she didn’t want anyone to spot her on the train or taking a taxi to Ford Open Prison. She was a few minutes late by the time she drove into the car park but then she’d never intended to be on time. Spending an hour surrounded by a bunch of villains wasn’t her idea of how to spend a Sunday afternoon.

  After she’d parked her Morris Minor, Virginia made her way to the gatehouse, where she was met in reception by a prison officer. Once she’d been searched, she was asked for proof of her identity. She handed over her driving license to show she was the Lady Virginia Fenwick, even if the photograph was out of date. The officer ticked her name off the authorized visitors’ list, then handed her a key and asked her to deposit all her valuables in a small locker, before she was politely warned that any attempt to pass cash to a prisoner during a visit was a criminal offense and she could be arrested and end up with a six-month jail sentence. She didn’t tell the officer that she was rather hoping it would be the other way around.

  Once she had been handed a key and placed her handbag and jewelry in the small gray locker, she accompanied a female officer down a long, fiercely lit corridor before being ushered into a sparsely furnished room with a dozen or so tables, each surrounded by one red and three blue chairs.

  Virginia spotted Desmond sitting on a red chair in the far corner of the room. She walked across to join him, her first sentence already prepared.

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Virginia said, as she took the seat opposite him. “And I’d just heard from his grace the duke of Hertford that your knighthood—”

  “Cut the crap, Virginia. We’ve only got forty-three minutes left, so let’s dispense with the platitudes and get down to why I needed to see you. How much do you know about why I’m in here?”

  “Almost nothing,” replied Virginia, who was just as relieved as Desmond that the case hadn’t been reported in the national press.

  “I was arrested and charged with perverting the course of justice, but not until Sloane had turned Queen’s evidence, leaving me with no choice but to plead guilty to a lesser offense. I ended up with an eighteen-month sentence, which should be reduced to seven on appeal, so I’ll be out in a few weeks’ time. But I don’t intend to sit around waiting until I’m released to get my revenge on that bastard Sloane, which is why I needed to see you.”

  Virginia concentrated on what he had to say, as she clearly couldn’t take notes.

  “This place is not so much an open prison,” continued Mellor, “as an extension of the Open University, with crime the only subject on the curriculum. And I can tell you, several of my fellow inmates are postgraduates, so Sloane isn’t going to get away with it. But I can’t do a lot about it while I’m still locked up in here.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help,” said Virginia, scenting another payday.

  “Good, because it won’t take much of your time, and you’ll be well rewarded.”

  Virginia smiled.

  “You’ll find a small package in…”

  * * *

  Only Harry seemed surprised by the press coverage the following morning. The newspapers were dominated by the one photograph they had of Babakov, standing next to Stalin. The inside pages reminded readers of the campaign Harry had been conducting on behalf of PEN for the past decade, and the editorials didn’t hold back on their demands that Brezhnev should set the Nobel Laureate free.

  But Harry feared the Russians would still procrastinate, secure in their belief that, given time, the story would eventually go away, to be replaced by another shooting star that caught the press’s fickle attention. But the story didn’t go away because the prime minister stoked the dying embers until they burst back into flame when he informed the world’s press that he would raise the subject of Babakov’s incarceration with the Soviet leader when they met at their planned summit in Moscow.

  At the same time, Giles put down several written questions to the Foreign Secretary and initiated an Opposition day debate in the Lords. But, he warned Harry that when it came to international summits, the mandarins would have arranged the agenda well in advance; the questions that would be asked, the replies that would be forthcoming and even the wording of the final press statement would have been agreed long before the two leaders posed for photographs on the opening day.

  However, Giles did get a call from his old friend Walter Scheel, the former West German foreign minister, to let him know the Russians had been taken by surprise by the worldwide interest in Babakov, and were beginning to wonder if releasing him wouldn’t be the easy way out, as few of their countrymen still had any illusions about how oppressive the Stalin regime had been. And prize or no prize, Uncle Joe was never going to be published in the Soviet Union.

  When the prime minister returned from Moscow four days later, he didn’t talk about the new trade agreement between the two countries or the proposed reductions in strategic nuclear missiles, or even the exciting cultural exchanges which included the National Theatre and the Bolshoi Ballet. Instead, Jim Callaghan’s first words to the waiting press as he stepped off the aircraft were to announce that the Russian leader had agreed that Anatoly Babakov would be released within a few weeks, well in time for him to attend the prize-giving ceremony in Sweden.

  An official from the Foreign Office called Harry at home the following morning to let him know that the Russians had refused to issue him with a visa so he could fly to Moscow and accompany Babakov to Stockholm. Unperturbed, Harry booked a seat on a flight that would arrive at Arlanda Airport shortly before the Russian jet landed, so they could meet up as Anatoly stepped off the plane.

  Emma reveled in Harry’s triumph, and almost forgot to tell him that the Health Services Journal had named the Bristol Royal Infirmary as its hospital of the year. In its citation, it highlighted the role played by Mrs. Emma Clifton, the chairman of the trustees, and in particular her grasp of the problems facing the NHS and her commitment to both patients and staff. It ended by saying that she would not be easy to replace.

  This only served to remind Emma that her time as chairman was drawing to a close, as you were not allowed to serve on a public body for more than five years. She was beginning to wonder what she’d do with her time now that Sebastian had agreed to take over as chairman of Barrington’s Shipping.

  * * *

  The following morning, Virginia boarded a train to Temple Meads. On arrival in Bristol she hailed a cab, and when the driver pulled up outside Desmond Mellor’s office a few minutes later, it was clear she was expected.

  Miss Castle, Mellor’s long-suffering secretary, showed her into the chairman’s office. Once she’d closed the door behind her and Virginia was alone, she carried out Desmond’s instructions to the letter. On the wall behind his desk was a large oil painting of stick figures dashing backward and forward. She took the picture down to reveal a small safe embedded in the wall, entered the eight-digit code she’d written down within moments of leav