Purgatory: A Prison Diary Volume 2 (24 page)

I call Alison at the office for an update. She tells me that
the pressure has shifted onto KPMG to deliver an interim report, so as not to
keep me waiting until they’ve completed the full investigation which apparently
now includes some accusations Ms Nicholson has made against the Red Cross which
have nothing to do with me.
Can’t spare any more units, as I
have to speak to James tonight, so I say goodbye.

Football.
Wayland’s match against
RAF Marham is, to my surprise, still on. Not that I expect there would have
been many fighter pilots in the visitors’ team. We lose 4-3, despite Jimmy’s
scoring two goals. Three of our team
receive
red
cards, so Wayland ended up with only eight players on the field, having led 3-2
at half-time. By the way, all three players deserved to be sent off. As soon as
I return to my cell, I switch on the TV.

Most of the Muslim
world are
swearing allegiance to America, as they must all be fearful of retaliation.
Yasser Arafat even gives blood to prove his solidarity with the citizens of New
York. The prime minister continues to underline his support for the United
States, as he considers the atrocities in New York to be an attack on the
democratic world. I suspect he views this as his Falklands. Let’s hope it’s not
his Vietnam.

After supper Sergio convenes a board meeting. Item No. 1, he
confirms that the suitcase and contents have been delivered to his friend in
north London. Item No. 2. The emerald has arrived in London, with all the
correct paperwork completed. Item No. 3. A colleague of his brother’s will be
flying into London on Saturday, bringing with him the gold necklace, a
catalogue raisonne of Botero and four photos of Botero oils that are for sale.
He pauses and waits for my reaction. I smile.
It all sounds
too good to be true.

All the news programmes are replaying footage from every
angle of the American passenger jets flying into the twin towers of the World
Trade Center in New York. All the commentators are in no doubt that the US will
seek some form of revenge, once they can identify the culprit. Who can blame
them? It’s going to take a very big man to oversee this whole operation. President
Kennedy proved to be such a man when he was faced with the Cuban crisis. I only
hope that George W. Bush is of the same mettle.

I phone James. He tells me that he’s tired; he’s just
started his new job in the City. Because of the upheaval in the American market
they expect him to be at his desk by 7 am, and he doesn’t leave the office
until after 7 pm. However, he confirms over the phone that the emerald has
arrived, so out of curiosity I ask him what it looks like.

‘It looks magnificient, Dad,’ is his simple reply. ‘But I’ve
no idea if it’s worth ten thousand dollars.’

‘When are you hoping to see the expert?’

‘Sometime this weekend.’

I don’t ask any more questions as I wish to save my
remaining units for Mary.

Quite a lot seems to be happening this weekend. Mary will
visit Wayland on Friday.
liana
will have news of the
Botero paintings on Saturday. Sergio’s friend flies into London on Sunday, by
which time James should have a realistic valuation of the emerald. I only wish
I could read Monday’s diary now. Don’t even think about it.

It was a clear cold night, and for the first time two flimsy
blankets were not enough to keep me warm. I had to lie very still if I was not
to freeze. It reminded me of being back at boarding school. As two blankets are
the regulation issue, I shall have to speak to Darren about the problem. I’m
pretty confident he will have a reserve stock.

I watch breakfast television while eating my cornflakes. The
news coming out of Washington is that the State Department seems convinced that
it was, as has already been widely reported, Osama bin Laden who orchestrated
the terrorist attacks. We must now wait and see how George W. Bush plans to
retaliate.
The president’s description of the terrorists as
‘folks’ hasn’t filled the commentators with confidence.
Rudy Giuliani,
the Mayor of New York, on the other hand, is looking more like a world
statesman every day. When the report switches from Washington to New York, I am
surprised to observe a pall of smoke still hanging over the city. It’s only
when the cameras pan down onto the rubble that one is made fully aware of just
how long it will be before that city’s physical scars can be healed.

We’re banged up for an hour owing to officers’ staff
training.

Pottery.
I make my way quickly
across to the art class as I need to see Shaun, and find out if he now has all
the art materials he needs. I’m disappointed to find that he’s not around, so I
end up reading a book on the life of Picasso, studying in particular Guernica
which he painted in support of his countrymen at the time of the Spanish Civil
War. I know it’s a masterpiece, but I desperately need someone like Brian
Sewell to explain to me why.

Gym.
Completed my full programme,
and feel fitter than I have done for years.

Tagged onto the end of the news is an announcement that Iain
Duncan Smith has been elected as the new leader of the Conservative Party. He
won by a convincing margin of 155,935 (61 per cent) to 100,864 (39 per cent)
for Kenneth Clarke. A far better turnout than I had expected. Having spent
years trying to convince my party that we should trust our members to select
the leader, the 79 per cent turnout gives me some satisfaction. However, I
would have to agree with Michael Brown, a former Conservative MP who is now a
journalist with the Independent: a year ago you could have got odds of a
hundred to one against a man who hadn’t served in either Margaret Thatcher’s or
John Major’s governments – at any level – ending up as leader of the Tory party
in 2001.

I watch a special edition of Question Time, chaired by David
Dimbleby. I only hope the audience wasn’t a typical cross-section of British
opinion, because I was horrified by how many people were happy to condemn the
Americans, and seemed to have no sympathy for the innocent people who had lost
their lives at the hands of terrorists.

My feelings went out to Philip Lader, the popular former
American ambassador, as he found himself having to defend his country’s foreign
policy.

I fall asleep, angry.

Today is one of those days when I particularly wish I were
not in jail. I would like to be in the gallery of the House of Commons
following the emergency debate on the atrocities in America, and attending the
memorial service at St Paul’s.

Watching television this afternoon, I find myself agreeing
with almost everything the prime minister says in his speech to the House. Iain
Duncan Smith responds in a dignified way, leaving the PM in no doubt that the
Opposition is, to quote IDS, ‘shoulder to shoulder’ on this issue. It is left
to George Galloway and Tam Dalyell to express contrary views, which they
sincerely hold. I suspect it would take a nuclear weapon to land on their
constituencies – with Osama bin Laden’s signature scribbled across it – before
they would be willing to change their minds.

The service at St Paul’s sees the British at their best and,
like Diana, Princess of Wales’ funeral, it strikes exactly the right note, not
least by the service opening with the American national anthem and closing with
our own.

I am pleased to see Phil Lader sitting amongst the
congregation. But it is George Carey, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who rises
to the occasion. He delivers an address that leaves no one in any doubt how he
feels about the terrorists, but also expresses the view that this is a time for
cool heads to make shrewd judgements, rather than macho remarks demanding
immediate retaliation.

Visit. Mary is among the first through the door into the
visitors’ room.

Her news is not good, and she doesn’t try to pretend
otherwise. KPMG are going at a snail’s pace, making it clear that they have no
interest in my plight, and will deliver their report when they are good and
ready. They are hoping to interview me on Monday week, so it looks as if I’ll
be stuck at Wayland for at least another month. I feel sure that is not what
Sir Nicholas Young, the CEO of the Red Cross, intended when he instigated an
internal enquiry, even if it will delight Emma Nicholson. Mary has so obviously
done everything she can to expedite matters, but, as she says, it’s an
accountant’s duty to leave no piece of paper unturned.

We discuss our appeal. Mary describes it as our appeal,
partly, I think, because she was so offended by Mr Justice Potts aiding and
abetting Mrs Peppiatt when she was in the witness box, while in my view not
affording Mary the same courtesy when she was put through a similar ordeal.

We talk about the boys, how admirably they are coping in the
circumstances, and the fact that Will is desperate to see me before he returns
to New York. Thank God he wasn’t in Manhattan this week. Mary reports that my
adopted sister, Elizabeth, is alive and well. Elizabeth had been at work in the
city when she heard the explosion and looked out of her window to see the
flames belching from the World Trade Center.

There is a restrained announcement over the intercom asking
all visitors to leave. Where did the time go? I feel guilty about Mary. I’ve
been unable to hide my disappointment about KPMG’s lack of urgency. She
couldn’t have been more supportive during this terrible time in my life, and
heaven knows what state I would be in without her love and friendship.

I call David and ask him to drive to Sale in Cheshire on
Monday and pick up a package which is being flown in from Colombia that
morning.

No gym on Saturday, so I make sure I’m standing by the gate
when exercise is called. To my surprise Dale is seated in the corner of the
yard having his portrait finished. As I pass, he mumbles something about how
much trouble he would have been in had he failed to show up two weekends in a
row. When I return to my cell after forty-five minutes’ hard walking, Darren
tells me that we probably covered about three miles. I push open my heavy door
to find my cell is spotless. The room has been swept, cleaned and the floor
polished by Darren’s latest recruit, all for £1. No problems with the minimum
wage at Wayland, especially when you can only pay in Mars bars, tobacco or, if
it’s a big deal, a phonecard.

Mr Meanwell calls me into his office to let me know that an
envelope containing the rules of backgammon has been opened and sent down to
reception. It will not be returned to me until I leave Wayland, as the item is
on the prohibited list.

‘How can the rules of backgammon be on the prohibited list?’
I ask.

The rules came in book form,’ he explains, and shrugs his
shoulders.

If they had been in a magazine, could I have had them?’ I
enquire. He nods.

Early bang up.
I channel hop so I
can keep watching the latest news from Manhattan. I am moved by the sight of
the New Yorkers on the streets applauding their firemen as they drive back and
forth to the World Trade Center. Americans have a tremendous sense of
patriotism and awareness of the country they belong to. It must have been the
same in Britain during the last war.

Not a lot to report except Sergio is nervous about leaving.
He will be deported in twelve days’ time and we haven’t yet received a
valuation for the emerald. He’s also waiting to hear about the second package
which contains the gold necklace, and can’t wait to see the photographs of the
Boteros, as well as the catalogue raisonne.

I spend a long time reading the papers, and feel the
coverage of all that has taken place in America this week elicited the very
highest standards of journalism from the British press, not always the case on
a Sunday.

The news is still all about New York, where Mayor Giuliani
appears to be emulating his hero, Mayor La Guardia. Everything had gone wrong
for Rudy Giuliani this year. He stood down from the Senate race against Hillary
Clinton when he was diagnosed with cancer, and he then moved his mistress into
Gracie Mansion to face the wrath of his popular wife and the Big Apple’s press;
in fact to quote the New York Times, ‘he seems to have lost the plot’. And
then, without warning, the city he loves is attacked by terrorists and all the
talents boredom disguises suddenly return.

When I stood for Mayor of London, I spent a week in New York
shadowing Giuliani as he went about his daily work, and quickly discovered that
he has real power and a real budget to back it up. The truth is that Giuliani
runs New York in a way Ken Livingstone can never hope to govern London. Tony
Blair’s dream of emulating the Americans with mayors in all our major cities
would have been admirable, if only he allowed the mayor to be backed up with
finance and executive power. Livingstone can huff and puff, but in the end only
Blair can blow the house down.

Pottery.
Out of boredom I begin, to
Anne’s surprise, to work on a flowerpot. Or that is what I’ve told my fellow
inmates it’s going to be. First you take the putty, run a circle of steel
through it to cut off a smaller chunk and then roll it out to produce a long
thin worm-like shape. You then twist the long thin worm into a circle and
several long worms later all placed on top of each other and you have a pot, or
thaf s the theory. An hour later I have a base and five long worms. The blessed
release bell clangs.