long sentence. “This man looks out on the world through a window of tears,” he told the judge. “I beseech your lordship not to put bars across that window a second time.” The applause from the gallery was so thunderous that the judge had to instruct the bailiffs to clear the court before he could respond to Sir Matthew’s plea.
“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.
Cheap at Half the Price*
Women are naturally superior to men, and Mrs Consuela Rosenheim was no exception.
Victor Rosenheim, 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 divorce 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 Rosenheim 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 Faberge 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
“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
