twelve pounds a week, when you can sell a packet like that for five hundred pounds-they obviously think it's worth it. The only reason why we were put through such a rigorous search is because of what Toby's in for."
"If Toby takes much longer our time will be up before he even makes an appearance," said Payne, looking down at a cup of tea that had gone cold.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir." An officer was standing by Craig's side. "I'm afraid Mortimer has been taken ill, and won't be able to join you this afternoon."
"Bloody inconsiderate," said Craig as he rose from his place. "The least he could have done was to let us know. Typical."
***
"Bang up! Everyone back in your cells immediately, and I mean immediately!" bellowed a voice. Whistles were blowing, klaxons were blaring and officers appeared from every corridor and began herding any stray prisoners back into their cells.
"But I have to report to education," protested Danny as the cell door was slammed in his face.
"No today, Danny boy," said Big Al, lighting a cigarette.
"What was that all about?" asked Nick.
"It could be wan ay many things," said Big Al, inhaling deeply.
"Like what?" asked Danny.
"A fight couldae broken oot on another wing, which the screws think might spread. Someone could even huv attacked a screw-God help the bastard. Or a dealer might have been caught handin' over some gear, or a prisoner couldae torched his cell. Ma bet," he offered, but not before he'd exhaled a large cloud of smoke, "is that someone's gone and topped himself." He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette onto the floor. "Ye cin take your choice, because only wan thing's fur certain-we willnae be opened up again for at least another twenty-four hours, until it's been sorted."
Big Al turned out to be right: it was twenty-seven hours before they heard a key turning in the lock.
"What was that all about?" Nick asked the officer who opened their cell door.
"No idea," came back the regulation response.
"Someone's topped himself," said a voice from the next cell.
"Poor bastard, must have discovered it was the only way out of this place."
"Anyone we know?" asked another.
"A druggie," said another voice, "only been with us for a few weeks."
***
Gerald Payne asked the man at the porter's lodge in Inner Temple to direct him to Mr. Spencer Craig's chambers.
"Far corner of the square, sir. Number six," came back the reply. "You'll find his office on the top floor."
Payne hurried across the square, keeping to the path, obeying the notices that firmly announced, Keep off the grass. He had left his office in Mayfair as soon as Craig had phoned to say, "If you come to my chambers around four, you won't be suffering any more sleepless nights."
When Payne reached the other side of the square, he climbed the stone steps and pushed open a door. He stepped into a cold, musty corridor with stark white walls adorned with old prints of even older judges. At the far end of the corridor was a wooden staircase, and attached to the wall was a shiny black board on which was painted boldly in white a list of names indicating the members of chambers. As the porter had told him, Mr. Spencer Craig's chambers were on the top floor. The long climb up the creaking wooden staircase reminded Payne how badly out of shape he'd become-he was breathing heavily long before he reached the third floor.
"Mr. Payne?" inquired a young woman who was waiting on the top step. "I'm Mr. Craig's secretary. He's just phoned to say that he's left the Old Bailey and should be with you in a few minutes. Perhaps you'd care to wait in his office?" She led him down the corridor, opened a door and ushered him in.
"Thank you," said Payne as he stepped into a large room, sparsely furnished with a partner's desk and two high-backed leather chairs, one on either side.
"Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Payne, or perhaps a coffee?"
"No, thank you," said Payne, as he looked out of a window overlooking the square.
She closed the door behind her, and Payne sat down facing Craig's desk; it was almost bare, as if no one worked there-no photos, no flowers, no mementoes, just a large blotting pad, a tape recorder and a bulky, unopened envelope addressed to Mr. S. Craig and marked "Private."
A few minutes later Craig came bursting into the room, closely followed by his secretary. Payne