A Prisoner Of Birth - By Jeffrey Archer Page 0,136

beige suit, green shirt and a yellow tie. Gary Hall would never have been offered for a position at the Banque de Coubertin. He opened his briefcase and took out a file. "I think I have all the information you require, Sir Nicholas," said Hall, flicking open the cover. "Number one hundred and forty-three Mile End Road -used to be a garage, owned by a Mr. George Wilson, who died recently." The blood drained from Danny's face as he realized just how far the ramifications of Bernie's death had extended; a single incident that had changed so many lives.

"Are you feeling all right, Sir Nicholas?" asked Hall, looking genuinely concerned.

"Yes, I'm fine, just fine," said Danny, quickly recovering. "You were saying?" he added as a waiter placed a hot chocolate in front of him.

"After Mr. Wilson retired, the business was carried on for a couple of years under a man called..." Hall referred to his file, though Danny could have told him. "Trevor Sutton. But during that time the company ran up considerable debts, so the owner decided to cut her losses and put it up for sale."

"Her losses?"

"Yes, the site is now owned"-he once again checked his file-"by a Miss Elizabeth Wilson, the daughter of the previous owner."

"What's the asking price?" said Danny.

"The site is approximately five thousand square feet, but if you are considering making an offer, I could do a survey and confirm the exact measurements." 4,789 square feet, Danny could have told him. "There's a pawnshop on one side, and a Turkish carpet warehouse on the other."

"What's the asking price?" repeated Danny.

"Oh, yes, sorry. Two hundred thousand, including fixtures and fittings, but I'm fairly confident you could pick it up for a hundred and fifty. There hasn't been much interest shown in the property, and there's a far more successful garage trading on the other side of the road."

"I can't afford to waste any time haggling," said Danny, "so listen carefully. I'm prepared to pay the asking price, and I also want you to approach the owners of the pawnshop and the carpet warehouse, as I intend to make an offer for their properties."

"Yes, of course, Sir Nicholas," said Hall writing down his every word. He hesitated for a moment. "I'll need a deposit of twenty thousand pounds before we can proceed."

"By the time you get back to your office, Mr. Hall, two hundred thousand pounds will have been deposited in your client account." Hall didn't look convinced, but managed a thin smile. "As soon as you know about the other two properties, call me."

"Yes, Sir Nicholas."

"And I must make one thing clear," said Danny. "The owner must never find out who she is dealing with."

"You can rely on my discretion, Sir Nicholas."

"I hope so," said Danny, "because I found I couldn't rely on the discretion of the last company I dealt with, and that's how they lost my business."

"I understand," said Hall. "How do I get in touch with you?" Danny took out his wallet and handed him a freshly minted embossed card. "And finally, may I ask, Sir Nicholas, which solicitors will be representing you in this transaction?"

This was the first question Danny hadn't anticipated. He smiled. "Munro, Munro and Carmichael. You should only deal with Mr. Fraser Munro, the senior partner, who handles all my personal affairs."

"Of course, Sir Nicholas," said Hall, rising from his place once he had written the name down. "I'd better get straight back to the office and talk to the vendor's agents."

Danny watched Hall as he scuttled away, his coffee untouched. He was confident that within the hour the whole office would have heard about the eccentric Sir Nicholas Moncrieff, who clearly had more money than sense. They would undoubtedly tease young Hall about his wasted morning, until they discovered the £200,000 in the client account.

Danny flicked open his mobile phone and dialed the number. "Yes," said a voice. "I want two hundred thousand pounds to be transferred to the client account of Baker, Tremlett and Smythe in London."

"Understood."

Danny closed the phone and thought about Gary Hall. How quickly would he discover that Mrs. Isaacs had wanted her husband to sell the pawnshop for years, and that the carpet warehouse only just about broke even, and Mr. and Mrs. Kamal hoped to retire to Ankara so that they could spend more time with their daughter and grandchildren?

Mario placed the bill discreetly on the table by his side. Danny left a large tip. He needed to be remembered. As