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‘If my contact confirms that its shop value is twenty thousand, then I’ll buy it,’ I tell him. ‘If not…’ Sergio looks up and frowns. ‘Purchase the emerald,’ I continue, ‘and have it sent to London. I’ll need proper certification, but if my valuer says he can sell me a stone of the same quality at the same price or cheaper, it will all have been a waste of your time, and I’ll return the stone to Colombia at my expense.’
‘My whole reputation rests on this one stone?’ Sergio asks.
‘You’ve got it,’ I tell him.
DAY 44 - FRIDAY 31 AUGUST 2001
8.21 am
Breakfast. I eat my cereal out of a china bowl, my toast on a plate and drink my milk from a mug. Mary has selected the plate and bowl from the Bridgewater collection and the beaker - a garish object covered in the American stars and stripes - was a gift Will brought back from the States.
When I’ve finished my breakfast I fill my washbasin with hot water and Fairy Liquid, allowing my newly acquired treasures to soak while I go off in search of Mr Meanwell. The block’s senior officer has been off for two days, so was unaware that David had been released six days early, and that his cell on the enhanced wing has suddenly become available. He’ll let me know what he’s decided later today.
I return to my cell and find a gathering of West Indians in the corridor. They’ve come to say farewell to a prisoner who is leaving this morning, having served six years of a nine-year sentence for armed robbery - his first offence.
Most of you reading this will have already formed a picture of him in your mind, as I would have done only a couple of months ago. A young black thug who’s better off locked up, and who will probably beat up some other innocent person the moment he’s released and be back in prison within a year.
In fact, he is thirty-two years old, five foot eight, slim and good-looking. He was the one who politely asked if he could read my newspapers every evening. And he has used his six years productively. First to pass his GCSEs (five) and two years later A levels in English and History.
No sooner has he departed than Jules appears in the corridor carrying a plastic bag full of his worldly goods. He is taking over Steve’s cell. He tells me that the past week has not been a happy one because he’s had to share our old cell with a heroin addict who was injecting himself two, sometimes three times a day.
8.45 am
On Friday mornings the gym is taken over by the special needs group. They’re an enthusiastic bunch who, despite their problems, bring a range of skills and boundless energy to everything they do. Les performs well on the rowing machine (1,000m in ten minutes), while Robbie enjoys lifting weights and Paul prefers to run. But when it comes to the game of catchball that we always play at the end of any session, Robbie can catch anything that comes his way. He could, and would, happily field in the slips for England.
All of them are chatterboxes, and demand answers to their endless questions. Do you have a father? Do you have a mother? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Are you married? Do you have any children? By the end of the hour’s session, I am physically and mentally exhausted, and full of admiration for their carer, Ann, who spends every waking moment with them.
At the end of the session, I watch them leave, chatting, laughing and - I hope - happier. There, but for the grace of God…
2.54 pm
Mr Nutbourne opens the cell door. ‘You’re moving again, Jeffrey,’ he says. ‘You’ve been allocated David’s old cell on the enhanced spur.’ He winks.
Thank you,’ I reply, and prepare for my ninth move in six weeks. The whole process takes less than an hour, because on this occasion I’m assisted by a local removal company: Darren, Sergio and Jimmy Ltd.
My new cell is on the ground floor with the enhanced prisoners. Number seventeen is opposite Darren’s cell, who has Steve (conspiracy to murder and librarian) on one side, and Jimmy (Ecstasy courier, captain of everything) on the other. The officers describe it as the grown-up spur, and personally select who will be allowed to reside there. To have made it in three weeks is considered quite an achievement, although Darren managed it in four days.
The cells are exactly the same size as in any other part of the prison, but the table on which I’m now working is far larger (four feet by two). I also have an extra cupboard for my possessions, which seem to grow as each day passes, not unlike when you’re on holiday.
5.00 pm
Once I’ve completed my move, I join Darren and Sergio for a walk in the exercise yard. I stop halfway round to watch Shaun sketching Dale. He is still proving to be a restless model, but despite this Shaun is producing a good likeness of him.
6.00 pm
After supper I call Mary (my new spur has a phone of its own, which any self-respecting estate agent would describe as ‘an added amenity’). She’s full of news, some good, some not so good. The police confirm that they will not be presenting their report on the Simple Truth until they’ve read the findings of the KPMG report. This won’t be handed in to the Red Cross for at least another two, perhaps three weeks. Mary tells me that the police reply to Tony Morton-Hooper’s letter was not unhelpful, and she hopes that once the KPMG report is finished, it will only be a matter of days before they move me to an open prison.
I use the remainder of my twenty units catching up with all things domestic, particularly what is happening at the Old Vicarage. When the phonecard flicks out, indicating I have only thirty seconds left, I promise to call again on Sunday. Don’t forget, I no longer have an endless source of cards.
As soon as I replace the receiver, Sergio takes over the phone. He has the advantage of being able to hold a conversation in a language no one else on the spur can eavesdrop on, but the disadvantage of needing at least five phonecards every time he dials home.
6.50 pm
When Sergio has finished his call, he joins me in my cell. Now that we’re on the same spur, it’s no longer necessary for me to try and pretend I’m learning Spanish - he’s just another prisoner from across the corridor.
Sergio’s brother has selected four emeralds for consideration. He confirms they range in price from ten to fifteen thousand dollars. Once he has made the final choice, I will await a valuation from my expert. His brother claims that any one of the gems would retail on the London market at around $20,000. If this proves to be accurate, then I’ll be happy to purchase the selected gem and give it to Mary as her Christmas present. Ah, you’ve finally discovered why I’m going to all this trouble.
8.15 pm
