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  ‘Yes, m’lady,’ said Mr Dexter, trying not to sound exasperated.

  ‘Can I take it that those are your client’s instructions?’

  Mr Dexter glanced down at Bob, who didn’t even bother to offer an opinion.

  ‘And Mrs Abbott,’ she said, turning her attention back to Fiona’s solicitor, ‘I want your word that your client will not back down from such a settlement.’

  ‘I can assure you, m’lady, that she will comply with your ruling,’ replied Fiona’s solicitor.

  ‘So be it,’ said Mrs Justice Butler. ‘We will adjourn until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, when I will look forward to considering Mrs Radford’s two lists.’

  Carol and I took Bob out for dinner that night – a pointless exercise. He rarely opened his mouth to either eat or speak.

  ‘Let her have everything,’ he finally ventured over coffee, ‘because that’s the only way I’m ever going to be rid of the woman.’

  ‘But your aunt wouldn’t have left you her fortune if she’d known this would have been the eventual outcome.’

  ‘Neither Aunt Muriel nor I worked that one out,’ Bob replied with resignation. ‘And you can’t fault Fiona’s timing. She only needed another month after meeting my dear aunt before she accepted my proposal.’ Bob turned and stared at me, an accusing look in his eyes. ‘Why didn’t you warn me not to marry her?’ he demanded.

  When the judge entered the courtroom the following morning all the officials were already in place. The two adversaries were seated next to their solicitors. All those in the well of the court rose and bowed as Mrs Justice Butler resumed her place, leaving only Mrs Abbott on her feet.

  ‘Has your client had enough time to prepare her two lists?’ enquired the judge, as she stared down at Fiona’s counsel.

  ‘She has indeed, m’lady,’ said Mrs Abbott, ‘and both are ready for your consideration.’

  The judge nodded to the clerk of the court. He walked slowly across to Mrs Abbott, who handed over the two lists. The clerk then walked slowly back to the bench and passed them up to the judge for her consideration.

  Mrs Justice Butler took her time studying the two inventories, occasionally nodding, even adding the odd ‘Um’, while Mrs Abbott remained on her feet. Once the judge had reached the last items on the lists, she turned her attention back to counsel’s bench.

  ‘Am I to understand,’ enquired Mrs Justice Butler, ‘that both parties consider this to be a fair and equitable distribution of all the assets in question?’

  ‘Yes, m’lady,’ said Mrs Abbott firmly, on behalf of her client.

  ‘I see,’ said the judge and, turning to Mr Dexter, asked, ‘Does this also meet with your client’s approval?’

  Mr Dexter hesitated. ‘Yes, m’lady,’ he eventually managed, unable to mask the irony in his voice.

  ‘So be it.’ Fiona smiled for the first time since the case had opened. The judge returned her smile. ‘However, before I pass judgement,’ she continued, ‘I still have one question for Mr Radford.’ Bob glanced at his solicitor before rising nervously from his seat. He looked up at the judge.

  What more can she want? was my only thought as I sat staring down from the gallery.

  ‘Mr Radford,’ began the judge, ‘we have all heard your wife tell the court that she considers these two lists to be a fair and equitable division of all your assets.’

  Bob bowed his head and remained silent.

  ‘However, before I pass judgement, I need to be sure that you agree with that assessment.’

  Bob raised his head. He seemed to hesitate a moment, but then said, ‘I do, m’lady.’

  ‘Then I am left with no choice in this matter,’ declared Mrs Justice Butler. She paused, and stared directly down at Fiona, who was still smiling. ‘As I allowed Mrs Radford the opportunity to prepare these two lists,’ continued the judge, ‘which in her judgement are an equitable and fair division of your assets –’ Mrs Justice Butler was pleased to see Fiona nodding her agreement – ‘then it must also be fair and equitable,’ the judge added, turning her attention back to Bob, ‘to allow Mr Radford the opportunity to select which of the two lists he would prefer.’

  ‘IF YOU WANNA FIND out what’s goin’ on in this nick, I’m the man to ’ave a word with,’ said Doug. ‘Know what I mean?’

  Every prison has one. At North Sea Camp his name was Doug Haslett. Doug was half an inch under six foot, with thick, black, wavy hair that was going grey at the temples, and a stomach that hung out over his trousers. Doug’s idea of exercise was the walk from the library, where he was the prison orderly, to the canteen a hundred yards away, three times a day. I think he exercised his mind at about the same pace.

  It didn’t take me long to discover that he was bright, cunning, manipulative and lazy – traits that are common among recidivists. Within days of arriving at a new prison, Doug could be guaranteed to have procured fresh clothes, the best cell, the highest-paid job, and to have worked out which prisoners, and – more important – which officers he needed to get on the right side of.

  As I spent a lot of my free time in the library – and it was rarely overcrowded, despite the prison accommodating over four hundred inmates – Doug quickly made me aware of his case history. Some prisoners, when they discover that you’re a writer, clam up. Others can’t stop talking. Despite the silence notices displayed all around the library, Doug fell into the latter category.

  When Doug left school at the age of seventeen, the only exam he passed was his driving test – first time. Four years later he added a heavy goods licence to his qualifications, and at the same time landed his first job as a lorry driver.

  Doug quickly became disillusioned with how little he could earn, traipsing backwards and forwards to the south of France with a load of Brussels sprouts and peas, often returning to Sleaford with an empty lorry and therefore no bonus. He regularly fouled up (his words) when it came to EU regulations, and took the view that somehow he was exempt from having to pay tax. He blamed the French for too much unnecessary red tape and a Labour government for punitive taxes. When the courts finally served a debt order on him, everyone was to blame except Doug.

  The bailiff took away all his possessions – except the lorry, which Doug was still paying for on a hire-purchase agreement.

  Doug was just about to pack in being a lorry driver and join the dole queue – almost as remunerative, and you don’t have to get up in the morning – when he was approached by a man he’d never come across before, while on a stopover in Marseilles. Doug was having breakfast at a dockside cafe when the man slid on to the stool next to him. The stranger didn’t waste any time with introductions, he came straight to the point. Doug listened with interest; after all, he had already dumped his cargo of sprouts and peas on the dock-side, and had been expecting to return home with an empty lorry. All Doug had to do, the stranger assured him, was to deliver a consignment of bananas to Lincolnshire once a week.

  I feel I should point out that Doug did have some scruples. He made it clear to his new employer that he would never be willing to transport drugs, and wouldn’t even discuss illegal immigrants. Doug, like so many of my fellow inmates, was very right wing.

  When Doug arrived at the drop-off point, a derelict barn deep in the Lincolnshire countryside, he was handed a thick brown envelope containing £25,000 in cash. They didn’t even expect him to help unload the produce.

  Overnight, Doug’s lifestyle changed.

  After a couple of trips, Doug began to work part-time, making the single journey to Marseilles and back once a week. Despite this, he was now earning more in a week than he was declaring on his tax return for a year.

  Doug decided that one of the things he’d do with his new-found wealth was to move out of his basement flat on the Hinton Road and invest in the property market.

  Over the next month he was shown around several properties in Sleaford, accompanied by a young lady from one of the local estate agents. Sally McKenzie was puzzled how a lorry d