2006-07-30T13:19:00.000+01:00

7.The Banker

As Manchester’s splendid Gothic town hall clock struck 1995, unlike the noisy revellers partying outside, we had nothing to cheer about and lay in bed listening to the racket, as they set off more fireworks. Within the week, we would have a rocket of our own. Ripping open the envelope, as we stared, it was our summons to appear in court. Jim phoned Arthur and offering us a respite, the brief told him
“You’re not wanted for sentencing, it’s only to enter a plea. You’ll go down at the next hearing,” he verified.
Far from excited by the prospects of our mission, not only did it mean going on the run again, it meant an awful sacrifice and leaving behind our family of three cats. No way did we want to do it. It broke our hearts even to think or talk about it. What else could we do? We needed the evidence and had no choice. Quitting now meant ending my quest for justice. It meant betraying Mum and Dad.
Living under a cloud and not wanting to prolong it, the Channel Tunnel had just opened and opting to travel by it, we visited French Railways in Piccadilly and bought tickets to the south of France.
Our hands tied, nobody would have the cats and unable to do more, we had to ensure their rescue. I made many false starts and blinded by my tears, as I taped a large notice on a door, bold in red marker, it provided details of each cat’s age, health and of course, their names.
We needed to change our appearance, while I cut my hair short, dying it black, Jim reshaped his beard, we had good eyesight, but designer spectacles altered the shape of our faces. Our suitcases packed, double-checking all papers, I made sure that we carried no clue to our kosher ID. Almost all of our sterling exchanged for francs and all in place, we tried to sleep. Occupied by depressing thoughts, I had a bad migraine. During the night, as Smudge jumped onto the bed, confused and wanting to hug him, I didn’t know what to do. If I got too close to him now, my emotion must spill over. Jim lay awake with me all through the night. As Harriet lapped her milk, trying to open a cupboard, Tommy was up to his naughty tricks in the kitchen again. The alarum ended our torture.
Five in the morning on 5th January, leaping out of bed, neither one of us cared for breakfast. Matching our mood, still dark outside, when the clock struck six and time to leave, trying not to look, here and there, little furry bundles lay fast asleep. Leaving them a feast, we carried our cases outside; dropping mine by the front door and running back into the flat, the pain too much my tears saturating them. I buried my head, one-by-one, into their

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fur. Gently prising me from them, as Jim led me away, clinging to him for support, the saddest day, we will never forget it.
Silently closing the front door, for my sake, Jim tried to hide his sorrow. As we lugged the heavy cases to the lift, it took us to the ground floor and waving to a sleeping guard in the lodge, we left by the front entrance and hauled our baggage to a nearby public call box where Jim phoned for a minicab. Not long to wait, it took us into St Peter’s Square. Breaking the trail, we hailed a black cab and upon our arrival in Openshaw, we entered the safe house. Still more loose ends to tie before we could leave for France, about to open, Jim visited the Social Security office and promptly paid the balance of the loan that we had been compelled to accept weeks earlier. Jim told the surprised clerk that we had found jobs.
Alone in the house, as I stared out of a window, it began to rain. Black clouds, the deepening gloom matched my mood and shedding more tears for the cats, unable to have them, our babies. When Jim returned, we had a pressing schedule to meet. Pelham had likely posted watchers to ensure that we boarded the relevant trains. As Jim phoned for a taxi, I hauled our cases into the street as another black cab squealed to a halt. Feeling like a refugee, haunted and reliving Exodus, I shut the door on our last sanctuary.
At Piccadilly station, pausing by a post box, as I fished the letters from my bag, dropping a line to the Housing Association, I had enclosed the keys. I told them that unable to live in a house after all, we had returned to our old ways. I had addressed the second letter to Salford Council. Inside it was the key to the flat and making sure, I told them about the cats. My third letter gave us scant comfort, but we felt sure that the RSPCA would find our family good homes.
Once onboard a London bound Intercity, no appetite, though needing to sustain our strength, we forced down a snack during the long ride. As the train pulled into Euston, still feeling ill and dashing off to find a chemist, Jim left me on the platform. Missing him already, I could never go through with this madness alone.
Hailing a cab to Waterloo, about to board the Eurostar to Paris, our train due to depart at 15:53 precisely. Time to spare and some sterling still filling our pockets, using it up, we bought chocolate to combat the hunger pangs that we would have later. Converting the rest of the cash into French francs at a Bureau de Change and time to depart, we loaded a baggage trolley with our cases, wheeling it past all the barriers onto the platform.
Still feeling dejected and reading it for something to do, a glossy brochure, it claimed that we were among the first few passengers to try the new passage to Europe. As the train got under way, making us feel edgy, as a dounier pulled his gun, he arrested one terrified man. As he

approached us, sporting a police badge and a

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handlebar moustache, the French cop requested to see our false passports. Handing them to him, relieved, he soon gave them back. The Eurostar arrived at Paris Gare du Nord at 19:53. Our cases loaded onto another trolley and pushing it past gun-toting cops as we headed for a nearby rank, a taxi parisien sped us to the Gare de Lyon. Upon entering the station, I spotted a guard and quizzed him
“Ou sont les trains pour Nice, s’il vous plaît?”
“Vous avez vos billets?” He enquired.
As we shivered on the sub-zero platform, an icy breeze whipping my freshly shorn neck, I could scarcely believe that a single train journey could cast us from bleak winter to a fabulous oasis of sunshine. The guard pointed to a sign, which read ‘Trains Méditerranée.’
Scheduled to depart in nine minutes at 21:17, loading our cases, we soon found our reclining seats and stretching, as the train pulled out of the station, about to embark upon the last leg of our epic journey, it promised to take eleven hours to reach our destination. During a long night, fatigued, unable to sleep and vacant, we passed time staring out of the windows. Deep snow blanketed alluring French countryside, the train sped us past Christmas card scenes. So delightful villages, each one festooned in colourful twinkling lights wishing ephemeral travellers, Joyeux Noël!
Passing through Dijon and we made friends with an elderly French lady. As she plied us with coffee and petit-pains, the brew cold, it slaked our parched throats. When the train pulled into Marseilles St Charles, our old friend about to leave us, in voluble French, she ordered Jim to offload her enormous bags onto a chilly platform. When he had done, Jim told me that he had found them so heavy that they might have contained dead bodies for all he knew.
Down the line, the train reached the Naval port of Toulon and as we travelled along the coastline, the night air warmer now, elegant palm fronds and cute little pink maison replaced all trace of snow. Suddenly, amid vibrant cobalt sky, as the sun soared, so did our spirits, glimpsing a sapphire sea, as we voyaged past such dreamy resorts as St Tropez, Cannes, and Antibes and at last, the train pulled into Nice Ville at precisely 08:18. It had taken just over a day for us to reach the Côte d’Azur.
Leaving our luggage at the consigne, we made our way into the town to find an agence. A card in a window advertised cheap hôtel rooms. As curiosity grabbed us, used to watching the pennies, we decided to check it out. In a past life, Marie Antoinette’s maid, a royal bearing, if shabby now. As she approached us, I should think middle-aged. Elaborately, Madame gathered her faded silk scarf

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about once bare shoulders. Trailing her next door, she led us into a derelict building.
Alleging that it was her hôtel. Oh la la the pong! Once inside, meeting an evil stench from the sewers. Climbing a flight of gnarled stone steps together and she led us along a shadowy corridor of many doors. As I wondered had they rebuilt the Bastille, Madame selected an antique rusting key and unlocking an ancient oaken door, as she pushed it creakily ajar, fusty odour assailed our nostrils. Not a gratifying sight. Mildewed paper drooped from stained walls, while faded oilcloth hardly concealed warped floorboards. Threadbare blankets and ancient iron beds probably did for Napoleon’s troops. In one corner, the single mod con, a rickety table struggled to grasp a plastic washbowl. Changing my mind, much worse than prison, I had seen strip-cells more homely. Striving to remain polite, I enquired
“Vous avez une chambre plus convenable, Madame?”
“Je sais un autre hôtel” discouraging us, she added “Mais les chambres peut-être sont moins convenables pour une femme.”
As Madame trailed us from the awful room, we waited in the corridor while she locked the door. Retracing our steps down the dreary staircase out into the sunny street, a few paces on and we approached a clone of the first heap.
Every bit as horrible, more stone steps led us up another grim passage and upon reaching the far end, Madame showed us into a dreadful greasy kitchen. Standing by a museum-piece cooker, stark naked save for a flimsy towel tied around his spreading belly, heedless of us, a blissful Gaul fried fish. Just off the kitchen, one lavatory served all sexes. We had found Orwell’s doss house. As Madame rapped upon a peeling door, behind it, an angry Quasimodo yelled
“Allez vous-en!”
“Ici, maintenant” shrieked Madame, adding,“Vous avez les clients!”
French farce at its finest. As weighty bolts drew back, in a fit of pique, Madame turned on her heel and as we watched, she flew down the passage. As he emerged from behind the door, dressed in a stained vest and baggy trousers. The Manager Indo-Chinese, offering us ingratiating smiles, in his fleshy arms, he nursed a large colander overflowing with fresh greens. As we made to leave, begging us to stay, dream on, the clown only insisted
“Many Americans come here, all time, many rich Americans – come stay!”
Standing only a couple of blocks from the world famous Negresco too, as we smartly retreated from the so-called hôtel, for us, a big surprise to dig up such a sleazy sty in fashionable Nice. Twice shy

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of postcards in windows and on the corner of avenue Georges Clemenceau, we found Viazur. Feeling more optimistic, as we entered bright modern premises, make-up and hair par Paris, a vivacious Italian, Madame Artiaco dripped designer labels. Bleary and scratchy, we sat by her desk. Madame guessed us Canadian, until I put her right. At once, selecting a pile of prospects, she soon found the ideal apartment for us. Just around the corner in avenue Jean Medécin, the main thoroughfare in Nice. A stroll from la plage, tout de suite, taking us to inspect it, Madame showed us around a tiny modern self-contained apartment replete with inviting patio.
Upon signing the contract, we paid a deposit and one month’s rent in advance. Seizing the proffered keys, we bid Madame au revoir. Summoning our flagging energy, back at la gare, we reclaimed our baggage and as Jim lugged two heavy cases, I brought up the rear with a third, dropping them in the flat. No rest for us, a terrible thirst, we still needed rations and looking for a store, France, they loved food, but as we searched les rues, trickier to find than we had imagined.
Soldes posters pasted everywhere, the January sales and the quarter bustled with bargain hunters. I would love to join them, but craving a cuppa and a bite to eat, we found only a crowded maze of parfumeries and haute couture. My head ached dully from fatigue, in a spin, would we never find one, to the rescue we spotted a Casino. Inside the food mart, we bought just enough to keep us going. Back at the apartment, our endurance drill over, Jim brewed coffee, yawning, I made the bed.
Next morning, wearing short denim shorts, as I joined him outside on the sunny patio for breakfast, Jim had donned his shades. A lovely day and forgetful why we were here, as we strolled down to the beach and kicked sand in the Riviera, ours a working holiday, Pelham had suggested to us that we visit a Jobcentre and gather evidence to sustain the tale that we had to tell upon our return to England.
Hand-in-hand, utterly carefree, as we ambled along the promenade des Anglais. Stealing kisses as we dallied under gently waving palm fronds, too soon, romance ended. Once inside the Jobcentre on route Grenoble, perfect for our proof, as he darted to a far wall, Jim harvested a basketful of leaflets.
Standing before a reception desk, I liked speaking French and made enquiries about suitable employment. The pleasing girl said un instant. True to her word and fetching a supervisor, she queried
“Vous voulez emploi à Nice?”
“Oui, mais nous sommes britanniques” I responded.
“Ah, that’s a little more difficult” she replied in a Canadian accent.

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“Mais pas impossible?”I persisted.
“Bien sûr! Perhaps for six months, you’ll have to take jobs you think stupid, in factories or hôtels, but only until you show that you’re serious about France.”
Taking a Sunbus back to the apartment, we toyed with the idea of abandoning the assignment and staying in France. Losing the cats had unsettled us and as we faced up to it, going to gaol no longer seemed like a good idea. Palm trees and sun, a beautiful country and culture, feeling liberated, we didn’t want to give it up. Too close to Britain and within the clutches of MI5, too easy to track us down, Pelham possessed all the details on our false passports.
In a rush, our emotion and guilt consumed us. A pair of softies, they had meant so much to us and releasing a heart-rending moan, Jim reduced us both to tears. Inflamed by desire, our passion spilling over, we made frantic love. France had displayed her beauty and warmth, now not the time to share it. A charming town, one day, we meant to return, presently, we knew why we were here. Needing a diversion, first heading back to the station, we bought tickets to England.
Treating ourselves to two days more in the town and pretending that we were tourists, we set off early next day. Intent on our mission, tracing the road signs to Monaco and climbing the corniche, we stared down upon it. A stunning coastline and la Baie des Anges in full glory overwhelmed us.
Heading downhill and admiring a fabulous flotilla of rich men’s yachts moored in the harbour near the old town, we enjoyed touring all the junk shops, seeking hidden treasure. As we haggled with an Arab pedlar, he tempted us with watches and gaudy trinkets. Needing no more to recall this journey, two little badges did for our souvenirs. Revelling in our mini break, alas, too quick and over, radiant memories, but still downcast, we repacked our cases.
One last time, as we admired a beautiful sunset, all alone on the beach with our thoughts, we watched, as a ferry on its way to Corsica, sailed the horizon. Making our promise to return, as Jim squeezed my hand, gazing at one another, we sealed our vow with a long lingering kiss.
On Saturday, 14th January, as Naylor had suggested, we sent a card to Pelham. It told him that we had returned to England ahead of schedule and not forgetting, we knew that the spymaster wanted us in the south. Too easy for him to fix my stay in the same prison as Asil Nadir’s banker, we had our own agenda to pursue and if he asked us, we would blame sadness for our bad memory. As the Eurostar pulled into Waterloo, taking a taxi to Euston, we caught an InterCity bound for Crewe. Changing trains once more, we reached Chester at eight in the evening.

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Apart from our brief stay at the Nuffield Hospital, we had never before stayed in the city and seeking her help at an English Tourist Board in the station, a nice, obliging young woman, recommended a bed and breakfast in Canadian Avenue.
Next day, we visited the Jobcentre in the town and afterwards had a date at the local Social Security office. I explained that we had left England to chase jobs in France. Staying in character, as he showed off a clutch of rail tickets and French Jobcentre leaflets to the intrigued clerk, appearing crestfallen, Jim claimed
“We’ve always relied on fairgrounds, but the jobs were drying up so we went to Nice to get work on their annual Carnaval…all those jobs had gone too.”
Difficult to find accommodation in Chester, we rented a dank basement flat in Brook Lane, in Newton. Providing him with our new northern address, we sent a short note to Pelham. He accepted it without comment. Meanwhile, I caught a nasty virus. Seriously worried about me, phoning a hospital, Jim asked a nurse for advice and as he lovingly cared for me, it took a few weeks, but my health slowly returned. In February, fit to leave my bed at last and needing a doctor, we fixed a date with Dr Rowe at Northgate Medical Centre.
Pelham had given me the name of a Dutch surgeon operating at a hospital in Amsterdam. As I explained to the doctor that my gender op had taken place in The Netherlands, if required, the surgeon would support my claim. Handing me a prescription, the doctor asked us for our NHS numbers. No problem, the Hart’s held new medical cards. Moving on from the flea infested flat, we tried a Housing Association in the city. They let us a flat in Blacon. Not Nice, though the property fine and in April, we moved to Thomas House in Meynell Place.
We felt depressed waiting for Special Branch to arrest us. They would give us no warning, it could happen any time. Unlike us, we began to quarrel. Existing as ‘sleepers’, we were supposed to put the arrest to the back of our mind and live life as if it were our own. In that case, a private mission, I meant to prove beyond all doubt that the NI numbers created for us by MI5 were indeed kosher and not open to argument. Employment would do it. I visited the Jobcentre and applied for a post with Haswell Brothers, an accountancy practice in the city. At the interview, impressed with my false legend, Mr Ierston suggested that we meet once more. He wished to discuss me with his partner. Overnight, second thoughts decided me to abandon the idea. Jim would feel bad if I had work and he didn’t. Ideally, we wished to work together.
All the agencies later, we heard nothing. Not giving up that easily, we explored our options at the Jobcentre. One scheme offered us hands-on training as Care Assistants. We joined the staff at a

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nursing home only twenty minutes walk from the flat. Two weeks later, unable to tolerate it, we quit the home. A bloody shame for its residents, like skeletons hidden in the cupboard. They seldom had visitors. Some lay in bed wanting to die, while others spent the end of their days aimlessly shuffling up and down corridors. Reminiscent of prison, too heavy on the dosage, it made them zombies and unless we moved on, we would end up like them.
In July, continuing our search for jobs, we tried to get on a course run by the Royal British Legion, it offered suitable applicants careers in security. Jim made enquiries, but he found that the scheme had long since closed. Our spirits trailing somewhere behind us, trudging back to the flat in silence, I urged Jim
“We can still do it!”
“But we’ve got no background,” he moaned. “Some security firms check back twenty years.”
“I was told never to give up” still hopeful, I added, “Let’s set our mind to it.”
During the next few weeks, we tried every security firm in the district. As our hard work paid off, in the last week of August, we received an impromptu visit from the regional manager for Shorrock Guards. As his colleague, Bill Boiling, joined him in the flat, Cyril Fletcher, openly admitted
“I’m desperate, we need officers to fill vacancies in Ellesmere Port, we need people who can start work the day after tomorrow.”
As they invited us to talk about our background, we told them that we had spent most of our life in Holland. As Bill asked us for our old address, I responded
”De Rivier Boderij – it’s a farm in a place called Bovenkerkerweg.”
“Can you help me with the spelling?” appealed Bill, appearing very perplexed.
“Why did you return to England?” probed Cyril.
I claimed that my uncle had since died from a heart attack and talked about a fictitious EU directive, which had closed down our imaginary farm. Of course, they wanted to see some evidence of our ID. Jim handed him our false passports. Pulling a face, Bill queried
“Is that all you’ve got?”
“We could take only what we could pack into our cases,” explained Jim.
Supporting Jim, I showed off our new NI Numbercards in the name Hart, they settled the issue. As Bill noted the serial numbers on our ID, Cyril cried
”You’ve got the jobs!”

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Next day, giving us a lift in his car, Cyril drove us to his regional headquarters in Wrexham. Measured for uniforms and issued with security ID passes, shortly, we visited our sites. Jim had to guard Ellesmere Port Warehouse and nearby, in Little Stanney, I was to guard Parkman Engineering. The company impressed me; they built bridges in Arab nations.
As we checked out our travel arrangements, they posed a big snag, local public transport didn’t run when we needed it, forcing us to cycle to work. Taking our last trek by the canal together as we fed the ducks and swans and admired passing narrow boats. Upon entering the city centre, we bought a bag of nuts and visited the squirrels in the park. Finally, upon entering Halfords we bought two Peugeot mountain bikes. We hadn’t cycled in years, setting off on a trial run, as I watched him, Jim did well. When it came to my turn, wobbling downhill, I had a problem at the bottom. As he spotted my glum face, Jim asked me what was wrong.
“My bum’s sore” I whimpered.
Next morning, 1st September, we hit the road at six. Still dark and worse, then the heavens opened. An awful thunderstorm, as we battled on, two miles more and the deluge died, replaced now by cruel gales. Exhausted, it forced me to rest. As he rode up behind me, admitting my fatigue, worried about him, I asked Jim
“Are you up to this?”
“We can always turn back and tell Cyril, we couldn’t manage it...”
“Let’s go when you’re ready” I told him, “I can’t give up that easily!”
As raindrops dripped off the tip of my nose, I warned you that we were softies. Taking out his hankie, as Jim wiped away the droplets, a sweet moment it made me feel like a little girl and as we kissed, Jim told me
“I love you.”
Our muscles bulging, we cycled twenty miles each day, often getting drenched in torrential downpours as we fought biting gusts. We wanted a car. Unable to use our real ID, it meant that I would have to take a second driving test to gain a new licence. More than twenty years since my first examination, I must have picked up a few bad habits and needed lessons from Alwyn at ABC. On 1st November, I really enjoyed taking my test in Chester, especially when the examiner told me
“Well done, Mrs Hart – you’ve passed!”
A real bargain at £350, we bought an Austin Montego saloon. This time, I had no worries about fraudulently altered discs. Still a sore point, I’ll bet the DVLA had my records – and more. Taxing and insuring the car that night, we drove to work in comfort.

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Wonderful to feel part of society and to hold a respectable job, nice flat and now a car, delighting him and us, Cyril declared that he had never seen smarter officers and I had even foiled a burglary.
One week after Diana appeared in Panorama on the BBC to talk about three in her marriage, three in ours too. On the morning of 27th November, Jim answered heavy banging upon our front door, for him and Mrs Hart, it was over, and as two big Special Branch officers stormed into the flat, they promptly arrested us under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.
They whisked us to Chester police headquarters and at once, admitting guilt and our real ID, checking their computer, the local cops soon found the warrants for my arrest, nothing showed up for Jim. As they forgot about the passport offences, well it was only a pretext to arrest us; I climbed into the back of a van, about to deliver me to Altrincham police station. Ignoring his protests, Jim begged them to arrest him. Instead, the cops threw him out of the station.
Calling a minicab and Jim asked the driver to take him to Manchester. Upon his arrival in Altrincham, finding the police station closed to the public, undaunted, as Jim mooched about outside the building trying to break in, finished watching his peculiar antics on a monitor, one copper showed up at the scene and promptly asked Jim to explain himself. Obliging, as he pulled open his jacket and pointed to his security pass, still pinned to his shirt, Jim told the constable
“I’m PC Hart I’m here to see one of your prisoners.”
A natural, he had missed his way. Like me born to be a spy, thinking Jim a cop, as the real policeman invited him into the station, another cop led me from my cell. All alone and we shared some thirty passionate minutes together. A sergeant gatecrashed our party and as Jim gave himself up, the red-faced cops looked ill when they realised the error of their ways.
Next day, as we shared the dock, promising to sentence us at the next hearing, the judge remanded us to prison. As two Group 4 guards led us away, we spent our last minutes together in private. Sharing a tearful embrace, time moved fast and carted off to gaol, Jim went to Strangeways; I ended up back at Risley.
Ferried back to Manchester Crown Court on 8th December, once reunited in the dock, cuddling and kissing for all we were worth, Jim’s grim barrister told us to behave. Staring directly at us, as the judge entered court and claimed his throne, after my experience of injustice, I had little respect for gowns and wigs. However, the beak still watching us and I’m a lady after all, more decorous, holding hands, as we gave him our full attention, ruining our composure, my counsel crowed

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“I feel lucky today, I think you’ll only get two and a half years.”
Arthur had promised us that we would receive at least four years. Nobody knew MI5 ran this show. In the event, the judge gave Jim ten months, I got fifteen with ‘good behaviour’ like Pelham pledged, we would serve only half that time. Not a bad stick, going to plan, as I made custodial history, the judge decreed
“You’ll go to a women’s prison.”
As Jim returned to Strangeways, I ended up back in Risley. No more a Remand Centre it had lost its wicked repute. Nowadays it housed two separate gaols, one designated for women, the other for young offenders.
About to set a legal precedent, we verified it with Francis Gilmore at the BBC. He agreed that Jim was right to moan about Auntie’s News Online website. Back in 1998, it stated that another woman like me, trapped in the wrong body, made legal history when she was thought to be the first of our kind to go to a women’s prison. Moreover, like me, found guilty of embezzlement, in her case, the judge showed mercy and told her that since she faced physical danger in prison, he gave her time to pay back the money. Unlike me, she didn’t pay it back. Even then, not in truth a women’s prison, she went to a small unit in a men’s gaol. Thinking about it now, I’m impressed, MI5 must have gone to loads of trouble to fix the terms of my imprisonment and keep it quiet until now.
As I lingered in reception with a crowd of other women, one screw told me that the governor wanted a word. Nice woman and special treatment, she told me to take a seat and moaned that Risley was overcrowded, offering me her apologies, she declared that the only empty single-cell she had right now was in the hospital. I could live with that. More brightly, she added
“It’s only for the first week, we’ve put a TV in your room. As soon as I can fix it, you’ll go to Windsor House, our upmarket ladies quarters.”
The rules, they had to search me. Unconcerned nowadays, happy with my body and when the female screw told me to strip, proud of my figure, better than hers, I gave her an eyeful. Next day, the PMO invited me into his surgery. When I got a whiff of his powerful aftershave, he didn’t know that we had met before. In those days, he called me a man and refused to let me have my œstrogen. How times change, today he found me sexy. Dapper, about 50, sporting gel dressed silvering hair. These days not much surprised me. I still had to get my head around this. Fancying himself as a lady-killer, he told me to pay him a visit if I felt horny. A novel seduction and flashing his smarmy smile, he assured me
“You know, ladies get lonely in prison. Women miss their partners and crave sexual relief. Don’t let lesbians tempt you – see me about it.”

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“I’ll handle it,” I told him “I’m saving myself for a special man.”
“You have nice breasts” he observed, “Are they implants?”
Flattered by his medical opinion, I told him that they’re for real and turning down his offer to look at them, I asked him about my œstrogen. He responded
“Of course, that’s no problem…”
Two days more and I moved to Windsor House. Giving the screws a chance to assess their attitude and behaviour, cons usually waited forever for a place on the privileged wing, even then they still had to pass an interview and after it, they faced another long haul before a cell fell empty. As I settled into my new home, issued with duvet, rug, curtains, real crockery, the pick of the best-paid jobs, I even had a special pass, which let me wander about without escort.
At the end of the year, the regime relaxed for everyone and dressing me up in a long green dress and lurid make-up, as one nurse videoed us, we put on a show. Lots of fun, me the star, I played the Wicked Witch in a pantomime. Two weeks into 1996 and I had a visit from a Probation Officer based in Manchester. Colin knew about my previous in men’s prisons, enquiring into my current progress, I told him that I felt fine. About 45 and kind, he told me
“I’m old-fashioned, I like to offer practical help.”
Taking the guy at his word, I implored Colin to enter our former flat at Chester and retrieve whatever was left of our stuff. He readily agreed to take care of the matter. Meanwhile, as Jim moved from Manchester to Kirkham, an open prison in Lancashire, in February, granted a visit, he came to see me. Looking so thin that I hardly knew him, shocked, I cried
“Why are you doing this to yourself – you’ve got me worried!”
“Now I know you’re okay,” Jim promised me “I can eat.”
Ignoring watching screws, holding hands throughout, we never stopped kissing. The visit renewed our strength. One week later, Colin had bad news, our flat had been burgled and adding insult to injury, the cops at Chester only believed that Jim was the culprit. They phoned the prison and asked him where he was on the night of the break-in. Angry, Jim retorted
“I was here” he swore “In prison!”
As March breezed in, I received another note from Pelham. Printed on Brown and Company paper, once more in cipher. About to yield a foregone result, Mrs Forsyth’s mock trial nearly over, he told me to work my ticket. I had enjoyed being head girl in the kitchen. Hanging up my whites, in prison cons must put up and shut up its part of the punishment. Seeking out a sour screw,

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she never liked me. Only being honest, as I launched into a heated tirade about the poor hygiene in the kitchen, she had me thrown off Windsor House. On the incident sheet, she reported that I had refused to take no for an answer…I could live with that.
Expressing his approval for my principled stand, a small world and you must remember him, we met in Liverpool prison. Unforgettable, a captain now dressed in his smart blue Jewish Brigade uniform, Rabbi Norman turned up at Risley. Discreet, we said nothing about the old days; once more enjoying wonderful chats together, we soon put the world to right. Norman agreed to visit Jim at Kirkham. Not my only trip down memory lane, I had to visit the dentist. His surgery located in the young offenders gaol, as a screw escorted us, I joined a bunch of other girls and found myself back in the old male hospital wing. Like flashbacks, as images rushed before my eyes, my former cell and the dreadful strips these days housed not cons, but supplies. When the dentist clocked my pallor, he put it down to fear of him and his chair, not that, the past still haunts me.
They soon shipped bad girls out of Risley. Moving me to the hospital, my ploy working nicely, while awaiting my transfer, I met a pregnant Muslim girl called Lubna. Drawing her out, I found that she was Tunisian and suicidal. Having a chat in her mother tongue, I still liked speaking French. Using it to good effect, we soon sorted her problem and making me cry, when she told him, her Syrian boyfriend told her to thank the Jewish girl.
When Colin visited me once more, he said that a thief had stolen our car and crashed it beyond repair. At least, he had managed to recover some of our things and unknown to him, evidence of our mission from the flat. Colin claimed it odd, he never knew the secret behind my weird transfers. Cons usually did their time in a prison near their home or the court that sent them down. All my connections northern I had no links then with the south, that failed to stop me. On 15th March, as a governor checked it out, no mistake, about to be transferred to Holloway in London, the S/O told me to expect a U-turn within the week. As I boarded a mini-bus, still nobody knew that MI5 mapped my route.
When we reached London, one screw led me to a shared-cell, refusing to enter I demanded my own room and told her to check my file. In the office, as I peeped over her shoulder, the transfer sheet read ‘single cell only.’ Pelham had promised to fix it. I needed privacy not just for my comfort, but also to help me concentrate on Asil Nadir’s banker. Placing me on ‘D’ Wing, a reception landing, as a rule, most cons remained there less than a week. Once assessed, the screws allocated women to different wings, but policy didn’t apply to me.
Slopping out now part of my past, like Risley, these days I had a nice loo in my freshly painted cell. It looked out onto lovely

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gardens and as a pair of mallards splashed in a pond, ignoring them, a lazy tortoiseshell cat basked in the sunshine on the lawn. When the painters had finished the cell next door, arriving just seven days after me, I had a neighbour, the card on the door read ‘TW3272 FORSYTH’
Next morning, finding a table in the canteen, as I grabbed breakfast, rumours rife, as girls gossiped, mostly teenagers, many felt sorry for her. I think the banker would have found it amusing. Not everybody’s cup of tea, some didn’t like her. I overheard at least one woman moan
“I don’t feel fucking sorry for ‘er, all la-di-da, I’ll bet she’s fucking loaded.”
Near choking on my cornflakes, I found it hilarious. The story went that the new con was a Madam and when an MP visited her brothel, she kidnapped him. The truth nearly as bizarre, as everyone stared at her, appearing shell-shocked, the banker fetched in her tray. Pelham had kept the promise that he had made in my car. Accused of laundering £440,000 for Asil Nadir and Mr Justice Tucker had misdirected the jury to find Elizabeth Forsyth guilty.
Next morning, as I joined all the other girls in the exercise yard, no horses and for sure no opera here. Standing alone, appearing lost, Mrs Forsyth cut a forlorn, if slightly rotund figure. A feisty Scot aged about 60, not a bottle blond hair out of place. Drawn to me, her eminent Home Counties enunciation music to my ears. As she drew my attention, as I knew she must, the banker stopped me.
“Do you mind? You seem like a nice girl, I’m Elizabeth, may I walk with you?”
As we fell into step together, I loved her smart crimson tunic with shiny gold buttons. The banker began by telling me about her trial. Professing to know little about Asil Nadir, I wished to hear her side of the story. Insisting that she was innocent, I had done that. As it all came back, furious, Elizabeth stormed
“It was trial by proxy – I’m being punished in Asil’s place!”
A note to Pelham told him all was well, soon after, as he fixed my final transfer, on 19th April, to my relief leaving Holloway, the screws herded women about like cattle. I ended up at Cookham Wood in the Kent countryside. It once housed Moors Murderer, Myra Hindley. A lot like an open prison, cons moved about freely inside the gaol. As I sorted the profile, my Jewish creed, funny accent and foreign manner fooled all cons and screws alike, everyone thought me Israeli. As Pelham fixed it for her too, struggling down a corridor, as she dragged her lot behind her, Elizabeth’s things bagged not in Gucci, but humble black bin

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liners. Spotting me at once, as we embraced, 8th May and laughing, she joked
“Oh my friends will be impressed when I tell them over dinner…I’ve done bird in Holloway and Cookham Wood don’t you know!”
As I freed her from her burden and led Elizabeth to her cell, no 5-star luxury here, but to her credit, she made the best of it. Once a pale shadow, now a tough nut and buzzing with energy, more active than a teenager, I must admit Elizabeth reminded me of Mum. Once more, near neighbours, the banker’s new pad a lot better than her last. Still not the Dorchester, cheering her up, I told her Cookham was far better than Holloway. Though fit, not as strong as I once was after my ops and dropping her things onto the bed, my reward, a copy of Elizabeth’s book. Just published and making an ideal prop, letting it slip out of the bag, I picked it up and read the beguiling title, ’Who Killed Polly Peck?’
An account of the assassination of Asil Nadir and his PPI Empire, Elizabeth told me to take it. I did and a revelation, it laid bare truths Pelham had kept from me. A few days on, as I returned the book to her, taking it from me and about to sign it, as she found her pen, Elizabeth asked me
“What would you like me to write?”
“Your signature’s enough Elizabeth, leave my name, it changes every so often.”
As Elizabeth autographed her account, still thinking about my strange remark, meant to prick her curiosity, it had achieved the desired effect. As she handed the book back to me, tentative, then thrilled and looking me in the eye, she told me
“I think perhaps you can help me, I think, I think you’re Israeli secret service, oh what are they called, yes that’s it. – The Mossad!”
As Elizabeth too, thought me Israeli, it helped her to trust me. Not stupid, she knew that MI5 would never hire a foreigner to trap her. Content, how could I be a plant? Her eyes gleaming sure that she was right, Elizabeth demanded paper and pen. Handing them to her, as I watched, quickly sketching a rough map and once finished, Elizabeth showed me all the shipping routes Israel might share in a trade alliance with Turkey and the TRNC. As she looked for my support, I told her that it would be great if we could include Palestine too. Summing up, not just me, many more would agree, she remarked
“Isn’t it wonderful what women achieve when they put their heads together!”
Jim regained his freedom later than planned. Kirkham gaol attracted feral cats into its grounds on the look out for leftovers

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and taking pity, I felt proud of him, as Jim wrote and told me everyday that he had fed them scraps from the kitchen. As he described their pussycat antics to me, we still missed them. One day, as a spiteful screw caught Jim in the act. Maliciously splashing a kettle of scalding water over one cat, he made Jim boil. No Solomon, the governor judged Jim, not the screw guilty and added 14 days to his sentence. Europe has since outlawed the right of governor’s to repeat such abuse. By no means all Kirkham screws like that, Jim missed his mate, Mr Mac.
As Jim caught a train to Manchester, true to his word, Colin handed him all the things that he had salvaged from our old flat in Chester. Catching a train to Kent, only a transitory base, a taxi driver helped Jim find a bedsit in Maidstone. Making the other girls jealous, I held a stack of visiting orders and entitled to three dates per week, each one lasted two hours. It led Elizabeth to believe that we used them to pass messages to the Mossad. No pleasure in deceiving her and in every other respect, I acted with due integrity. A font of revelation, one fine sunny day, as we sat together on the grass in a corner of the exercise yard, Elizabeth handed me a cluster of fragrant lavender. A bank holiday every day now for her and nought else to do, the banker hunted for lucky clover. Bored, just for a lark, as I closed my eyes, showing off, I bragged
“Oh, they’re easy to find – just watch me!”
No cheating and keeping my eyes closed, I stretched my right arm behind my back and plucked something from a large clump sitting on the ground by my bum. Not another MI5 plant, no bugs on it. Opening my eyes, unable to trust my vision, in my palm staring back at me, amazing, only a four-leaf clover. As she witnessed my find, enthralled and taking the wrapper off her new phone card, Elizabeth jotted down upon it the date, before passing it over to me. As I placed the clover into the plastic sachet, keeping it safe, I still have it. Telling me a tale, Elizabeth related to me a story about one of her pals, Jenny Pitman, the famed racehorse trainer. She recalled that Jenny liked to rub four-leaf clover on the muzzle of her horses to bring them luck. The secret out, now we know why her stable enjoyed great success at the races. As we chatted, Elizabeth told me
“I rather like astrology, not the rubbish you see in the papers. I’ve had a proper chart prepared!”
Staggered to discover that a banker of Elizabeth’s illustrious stature, relied on the stars to predict her fortune, I had no time for horoscopes. As we returned to her cell, resourceful and using up all the milk that I had saved for her. Elizabeth had been busy making cottage cheese again. As I sat on her bed with my coffee, once she had seated herself by her crowded table, an old-fashioned typewriter sat upon it, making room and shifting the

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radio that she used to listen to Classic FM. Reading aloud from her chart, until now, a secret, Elizabeth revealed
“It says here that during my time in prison, I shall meet an extraordinary girl with black hair, the outcome of our meeting will be exceptional.”
“Really, that’s weird” I told her taken aback, quick, I added “Its so true!”
Enjoying her humour, the banker fun, we shared limitless natters. Missing all of her friends and family, Elizabeth told me so much about them, I felt that I knew them. One wall in her cell had vanished under a collage of photos depicting loved ones, Van cats and scenes of Northern Cyprus, not to mention the snap of Nadir. Elizabeth used our chats to unburden herself. Hiding nothing, she let me read her post. Apart from fan mail from ne’er do wells proposing marriage, next to a big bag of press clippings, sat a huge batch of letters that she had received from her lawyer. Based in Manchester, Peter Krivinskas also then acted for Nadir. Peeved by his poor progress, she began to doubt his ability to win her High Court appeal and even considered finding a new lawyer. As her trusted confidante, Elizabeth shared with me many secrets. Exploiting her to good purpose, I aimed to unravel the truth behind the rise and fall of Asil Nadir.
Rarely apart, as I joined Elizabeth for yet another lap around the exercise yard, some girls had gained the wrong idea. One day, as we passed her by, thinking us a pair of dykes, as one woman called out to us, she queried
“Are you two an item, are you married?”
Oh, the shame, shocked by the rampant lesbian behaviour in prison, Elizabeth soon put her right. Far removed from her jet set lifestyle, the banker went in to watch the Monaco Grand Prix. The telly room always full of cons watching soap, heedless of them, Elizabeth switched channels. As Damon Hill’s Williams racing car filled the screen, no argument, they knew better and simply trooped out.
12th July marked my release, sharing fond farewells with Elizabeth the night before, we swapped cards and kisses. Busy on her trusty typewriter, the banker produced a full list giving names, addresses and phone numbers, for her mother, daughter and son. It included Nadir’s codename and details of how and where to get him. It felt awful leaving her in gaol, apart from posing in the yard, like some glamorous Sultana in her kaftan, my best memory of Elizabeth, had to be when we played rounders. As she swung the bat, missing the ball, all the girls laughed when her voluptuous boobs followed through.
As the main gate drew back, my eyes fixed upon an old oak tree, tied around its mammoth trunk a big yellow ribbon! As Jim poked

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out his head from behind it, running towards each other, like you see in corny old movies, we kissed and cuddled for all we were worth!
We moved out of the bedsit in Maidstone, he had not forgotten, Pelham warned us to stay in Kent and dropping a line to Elizabeth, I gave her our new address in Gillingham. More letters later and in my next note to her, still following my MI5 instructions, a spot of prearranged sabotage. Dubious about my motive, when I requested ‘Polly Peck documents’ from her, Elizabeth stopped writing. Pelham paid us a visit. Calling to the flat in the evening, on 15th November, as he perused my correspondence with the banker. Unlike our date in Salford, no pince-nez, his sight miraculously fine now. Happy with his plot, the spymaster reported
“Mrs Forsyth expends her energies on legal matters, her appeal’s due soon.”
Bored in Gillingham, after Nice, we fancied life by the sea. On 28th December, we moved to a ground floor flat situated at, 4 Park Street in Dover. Nothing more happened until 3rd February 1997. Joining Jim, as we visited the Jobcentre again and signed on the dole, leaving the premises moments later, outside in the street, we met Pelham again. As we fell into step with him, the spymaster announced
“Mrs Forsyth’s been released. I’m certain she’ll feel euphoric, take advantage, I want you to resume contact with her.”
Within the week, we had posted a letter to Elizabeth from France. Pelham said a French postmark might add intrigue, we reckoned him desperate. Anyhow, as Jim joined me on the crossing, we took a ferry to Calais and my letter posted, once back in Dover, we sent a copy to Pelham.
Just like Chester, fed up with life on the dole, we needed an interest and taking a tour management course, many spies do, we trained as couriers and on 7th May, sailing across the Channel together onboard the Pride of Dover, enjoying the little ceremony, French Connexion presented us with our certificates.
Next day, we had a visitor. As he entered into the flat, Naylor held two mobile phones. He had secured the first phone inside a black leather case clipped onto his trouser belt. He clutched the second phone in his right hand, as he placed it on our coffee table, unable to sit for the bulge in his slacks, as he took it out, he showed us a chunky plug-in charger for the second mobile. Wearing a plain brown T-shirt and taking a pew by the table in the lounge, Naylor began
“Nadir’s mug will be on television again in a few days in The Cook Report with Forsyth, we’ll get them to do a sequel then we’ll rubbish it.”

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“How do we do that?” I enquired, startled.
“I want you to watch The Cook Report, seven days later, I want you to write to Roger Cook, the programme’s presenter. Tell him you possess information which will blow his mind about Nadir and MI5!”
“What?” I cried in disbelief, “You can’t be serious?”
“I’m deadly serious” he assured me “Say nothing about the Hart’s, Mr Pelham is still Brown. Generally, the Cook team chase conmen, this latest report centres on a silly allegation made by the SFO about some villain claiming that Nadir tried to bribe his trial judge. None of that matters now.”
An outrageous plan, Naylor told us to expose nearly all of the MI5 assignment. He assured us that everything, which we had achieved for the Security Service was circumstantial and quite impossible to prove. Not so sure about that myself. I asked him what did we do, if the Cook team wanted to film us. He directed
“Just do it, it’s a huge story, the Cook team will love it. There’s just one snag, they won’t be happy without proof. We’ll need a stooge, find a private detective, we might need him to masquerade as a spy.”
“That’ll be difficult,” I promised, querying, “How do we pay him?”
“I’ll reimburse you later” he pledged ”Stick to cash deals, we need no receipts.”
“What do we get out of this?” probed Jim.
“Just keep drawing benefit for now. Don’t worry, we’ll work out an attractive package later” winding up, Naylor pledged, “Forsyth enjoys publicity, she must jump at the chance to appear in another Cook Report with Nadir.”
As he took out his notebook and pen, scribbling a few lines, Naylor ripped out the page and handing me the scrap, it was the address and phone number of the SIS HQ. Outlining that he kept funny hours and was there just about anytime, whenever we phoned him, he told us that we had to ask for John Naylor. Picking up the mobile phone, which he had placed on the table earlier and showing me how to use it, plain, no manufacturers markings, like the Mossad, MI6 preferred their own gadgets. Nearly finished, Naylor told me
“Its number will show on our switchboard. Don’t try phoning anyone else with it. It’s programmed, you can only receive calls through the SIS.”
As I took the mobile from him, he warned me to keep it hidden. Pointing to the charging device, he warned me to avoid letting the battery run low. Naylor told me that my landline number was

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enough. I must never include my address on any letter that I sent to him. A couple of days later, we received a letter from Pelham.
Dated 9th May and bearing the MI5 crest, Regnum Defende, it read as follows. ‘Dear Mr and Mrs Frank, On behalf of the Security Service, I wish to thank you both for your collaboration within operational matters. The case has been passed to the Secret Intelligence Service. Hereinafter, Mr J Naylor will proceed with the case. T Pelham, for the Director General.’
Unable to hang onto the letter, when he knew about it, Naylor insisted that we hand it over to him, too late, we had taken a photocopy. Pelham and Naylor were unaware that while I waited for the next phase of the operation to commence, I had pursued a mission to uncover the truth behind the demonisation of Asil Nadir. The tycoon’s troubles began soon after he met Nelson Ledsky from the US State Department. It was December 1989 when they held their talk. Gorbachev had just ended the Cold War, costing many spies their jobs – mine was in the making. The end of the Soviets meant Pelham and Naylor had to find alternative work, what happened next must have inspired them. As Ledsky pressed Nadir to exert his influence in the Levant and back a US plan, to end the Cyprus problem, unfair on his fellow Turkish-Cypriots and Nadir refused to support it. As he too became an enemy of American foreign policy, sources in Ankara warned Nadir that he was about to face possible ruin. A politically motivated conspiracy and in charge of the Nadir case, as he operated in unison with MI5, it had to be Robert Wardle, a ‘senior SFO source’ leaked malicious rumours to the media. Today’s Jackal bears no rifle, enough to assassinate him, the rumours branded Nadir a fraudster and as a classic smear campaign ensued, media hype created a huge scandal.
Now that he had prepared the ground, Wardle had the ammunition he needed. On 19th September 1990, as he raided Nadir’s personal property firm, Elizabeth Forsyth then chaired South Audley Management. The raid on SAM produced no evidence. No matter, Wardle instigated a second raid. He knew that bad publicity must destroy Nadir’s empire. As Wardle tipped off the media beforehand, on 30th October, he raided Polly Peck International in Berkeley Square. A bleak day on the Stock Exchange, as PPI prices went free-fall, once more, the SFO found no wrongdoing, however, Nadir’s integrity now in tatters, it destroyed him.
As Wardle invented 66 indictments of fraud and theft, more drama unfolded at the Old Bailey. As the Man from Del Monte appeared before Mr Justice Tucker, he binned 40 of the charges against Nadir. Wardle panicked. He instructed Robert Owen QC, prosecuting counsel for the SFO to introduce a false bribery allegation before the judge. He failed to inform the judge, that not

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proven, the Metropolitan Police were still investigating the allegation, which soon turned out to be a scam.
The villain behind the scam, used various aliases, in this case, he called himself Michael Francis and claimed that he could corroborate his allegation with taped evidence that would incriminate Nadir. He led the police a merry dance. Francis claimed that the evidence was in Switzerland. When he arrived in Zurich, he told accompanying police officers, that they could not join him; he must obtain the evidence alone. He resurfaced one week later, claiming that his efforts to retrieve the evidence had proved unsuccessful. In the event, the police flew him to Zurich once more, he disappeared for several more days, before returning empty handed. It soon became clear to the police that their witness was a conman. Indeed, at that time, Francis faced charges relating to other matters, relying on the ruse that he was helping the SFO gave him excellent mitigation, it reduced the punishment for his latest crimes from imprisonment to a fine.
When prosecuting counsel for the SFO drew the court’s attention to the bribery scam, the nature of the allegation forced the judge to suspend the court and step down from the hearings. It was alleged that Nadir had offered a £3.5 million bribe to the judge for the return of his passport. On the basis of a bizarre claim made by a career criminal, Nadir, his counsel, Anthony Scrivener QC, Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner Wyn Jones and the judge, stood accused of perverting the course of justice.
When the police confirmed that the bribery allegation was a scam, prosecuting counsel made a grovelling apology to the judge and confessed that the SFO had not found any credible evidence for the allegation. As the judge admonished him, he told the barrister that he was wrong – the SFO had no evidence.
The SFO had timed the introduction of the allegation, just as the judge had binned the 40 charges, which Wardle had pinned on Nadir and just as the tycoon was about to seek to vary his bail conditions and ask for the lawful return of his passport to allow him to return to Northern Cyprus to recover evidence vital to his defence. Very suspicious, the introduction of the allegation resembled a devious tactic designed to pervert the course of justice. Wardle caused the hearings to be disrupted in such a manner that they denied Nadir justice. It is clear that the only way, by which he may now extricate himself from his highly suspect position, is to allow Nadir to return to the United Kingdom free from the threat of remand in prison as he awaits trial.
As he answered spurious accusations that he had ‘pocketed millions’, Nadir found a forensic specialist, an accredited expert witness, a man listed and used by the SFO, to examine his accounts for any signs of forgery. Wardle rejected the expert's

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independent report, when it established that no fraud or theft had taken place that the 'missing money' had not been stolen by Nadir, merely transferred to Unipac, a PPI subsidiary, therefore a legitimate use of corporate funds. Nadir had wanted his passport in order that he could obtain the evidence. Before then, when Nadir let it be known that he possessed proof that would clear his name, upon his discovery that the evidence was in Northern Cyprus, resembling another dubious ploy, Wardle rejected the accounts and forensic expert’s opinion of them on the lame excuse that the SFO could not accept them as admissible evidence for the UK still did not then recognise the sovereignty of Northern Cyprus.
In despair, Wardle’s bribery scam made Nadir realise that he was the victim of a conspiracy. The odds of him receiving justice in Britain then slim; the SFO had destroyed his pre-trial hearings. Even after prosecuting counsel had apologised, he continued to refer to the scam during the proceedings. Such references made before a jury must taint Nadir. Due to the stress that he had undeniably suffered, his health failing, Nadir escaped to Northern Cyprus. The scam not presented to the media until Nadir had left the UK, by then the damage done, a fait accompli, unaware until months later of the facts, predictably, as speculation flourished, the media declared that Nadir’s sudden departure was proof of his guilt. A reluctant fugitive, as his friend, Peter Dimond piloted the tycoon out of Britain to Northern Cyprus, at least Nadir was free from extradition and therefore, more injustice.
During his famous resignation speech made in the House of Commons, former Northern Ireland Secretary Michael Mates condemned Wardle and his tactics and called for an inquiry. The MP was compelled to resign his Cabinet post when the media hyped a story that he had given Nadir the gift of a watch inscribed with the advice ‘don’t let the bastards grind you down’.
Apart from persecuting Nadir and his family, Wardle was also behind the false incarceration of Elizabeth Forsyth. An innocent woman, she suffered 10-months in gaol due to his allegations. Elizabeth suffered further persecution when more recently, HM Revenue & Customs alleged that they possessed a witness willing to testify that they had seen Elizabeth deposit a huge sum of money at a branch of Natwest Bank in Essex. Absurdly, HM Revenue & Customs argued that Elizabeth was a key member of a drug trafficking ring. The outlandish case fell apart when the so-called witness withdrew the purported evidence. The farce cost the British taxpayer £16 million. One must conclude that Wardle’s actions in regard to Nadir and Mrs Forsyth are malicious and the product of a vicious politically motivated conspiracy; I played a part in the plot to expose it.

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As we pursued Naylor’s instructions, using Yellow Pages, Jim compiled a long list of private detectives, taking up all the morning to phone them, apparently, little demand for gumshoes in Kent most had gone bust. Nonetheless, as his hard work paid off, Jim told me that he had been chatting to a detective in Ramsgate named Peter Kerry and had fixed a date for us to meet him in a few days time.
On 13th May, that evening Jim joined me in front of the television to watch the latest Cook Report. As Naylor had forecast, the story revolved around the career criminal, Francis, he had claimed that he possessed proof that Nadir had bribed his judge. As he distorted the true meaning of the original document, the villain had obtained it from his equally crooked girlfriend. It later transpired that they had conspired together as they planned the bribery allegation. Claiming that he was a police informant, as the Cook Reporters interviewed Francis, he waved his dodgy document in front of the camera. A sexed-up forgery, but as he pursued his own MI5 directives, SFO Director Robert Wardle accepted it as evidence. As The Cook Report ended, it showed Asil Nadir instructing his lawyers to claim a cool £2 billion from the British Government for the loss of his empire
On 19th May, meaning to visit Peter Kerry, we caught a train to Ramsgate. A sunny afternoon it boded well. On foot, as we made for the detective’s house in Oakdene Road, an anonymous, semi-detached property in a quiet corner, it was ideal, precisely the sort of place where a real spy might choose to live. As we approached the house, Jim rang the bell. As he answered the door, dressed in a plain white T-shirt, blue jeans and tall if a little stout, Kerry asked us to take seats in his lounge. Leaving us alone, he promised
“I’ll be with you in a minute.”
As Kerry ran upstairs, in one corner of the room, I noticed his video collection and selecting one cassette from a tall stack, the title amused me, The Ipcress File, a fictional spy yarn by Len Deighton, a great movie, it starred Michael Caine. Jim spotted an expensive Japanese keyboard and suspended on a hanger on the back of a door, I spied a chic blue dress. Not his size, too small, it suggested that Kerry shared the house. Hurrying downstairs and returning to the room, he told us
“Sorry, my office is upstairs, I’ve just finished a call with a client.”
Fidgeting with his clipboard and pen, as he sat facing us on the comfortable sofa, Kerry began the meeting by taking our names and contact details. Always best to stick close to the truth, on the phone, Jim had told him that we were on the dole hoping to found fresh careers as private detectives, he unveiled
“I was in security, Olivia, was in the secret service.”
“You don’t mean MI5?” cried Kerry, intrigued.

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“No we don’t” owning up, I told him “We mean the Mossad.”
Knock out, Kerry blurted that he was looking for agents to cover a major pop concert in Israel. He claimed that for just two weeks work, we could make £8,000 apiece. A check of his watch and grumbling, he disclosed that he was expecting a client, thinking twice about his fees, he admitted many failed to keep their date.
“You’re struggling a bit then?” quizzed Jim.
“I play the keyboard in a band to make ends meet” admitted Kerry, “We play the pubs around Ramsgate. Sandra’s a hairdresser, I don’t like her working.”
“How old are you, Peter?” enquired Jim.
“I’m 29” he told us.
“What do you want out of life, Peter?” I queried.
“I’d like to write songs” he revealed, looking wistful.
“You know how to contact us,” Jim told him, rising to leave, he added “We’ll get off before your client turns up, they should be here soon.”
“I don’t think she’s coming now,” admitted Kerry, as he led us to the door.
Later the same day, using the mobile he had loaned me, I told Naylor, that we had found the perfect stooge. Per my instructions, I posted a brief note to Roger Cook at Central Television and on 27th May, as Jim answered the landline, a familiar voice, the caller announced
“This is Roger Cook, may I speak with Françoise Étoile?”
For 30 years Britain’s leading, surely most beaten-up investigative journalist, as he doorstepped me, the indomitable presenter knew me by an old cover name that I had used when writing to Elizabeth when she was still in prison. As I took the telephone from Jim, Roger asked me if I was willing to talk to his researcher. He promised me that David Alford would call me in ten minutes. Like the title of his book, Dangerous Ground, as both of us headed towards it, Roger told me
“My programme’s forced a few characters to crawl out of the woodwork.”
On Thursday afternoon, 29th May and David Alford visited our flat. Boiling hot, a real scorcher today, the Cook Reporter pulled his red Sierra estate into our drive, parking it in front of the flat. Stiff and a great relief to climb out, he cried
“Ooh, that’s better!”
Shirtsleeves, chinos, silvery temples made him look older than thirtysomething. Handsome, chin determined, eyes keen. An all

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over tan and the hint of a paunch suggested that he enjoyed the good life. Cool in the lounge and once seated, Jim did the honours and sorted coffee. Prompting me, David began
“I believe you have a story to tell me.”
“MI5 planted me in prison to befriend Asil Nadir’s banker, Elizabeth Forsyth” I responded.
“Uhhh!” gasped David, startled.
Gaping at me for several seconds more, as he searched my face, David wasted time. Nothing gave me away, I had told him the truth. At last, as he reclined on the sofa listening to my tale, I portrayed my life from childhood. Once finished and David realised that he had left his briefcase in the car. Leaving us alone, he dashed outside to fetch it and upon his return, at once diving into his case, David found his notebook and beginning a fresh page, he demanded dates, names and places. While Jim made more coffee, no break for me, puzzled, David quizzed
“You must hate MI5, why did you agree to work for them?”
“No, we didn’t agree” I explained “They had told us too much, they would have harmed us if we’d refused” and a fib, I added “But we’re free from them now.”
“I suppose Elizabeth can verify everything you’ve told me about her is true?” pondered the journalist.
For answer, I showed him the letters that Elizabeth had written to me when she was still in Cookham Wood. As he glanced quickly through them, David asked me if I would let him take copies. Jim volunteered, visiting a local newsagent’s, as he photocopied them, hooked, David told me
“This story’s so bizarre – it has to be true!”
Leaving the flat together, we joined David out on the drive where he presented me with his card. Apart from his name and the green Carlton Television logo, it exhibited two phone numbers. Directing us never to call his landline, David told us that we had to use his mobile number. As his car finally disappeared from our drive, an exhausting session, our meeting had endured three hours.
Inside the flat, I called Naylor. Asking me to hold the line, the operator claimed that she was having trouble putting me through. Seldom out of the building, I felt sure that MI6 diverted some of my calls to a different number. Anyhow, suddenly connected, I assured Naylor that David wished me to pick up where I had left off with MI5. In response, he told me to fix a reunion with Elizabeth in Dover and on 17th June, at one in the afternoon, climbing out of her car, Elizabeth called out
“You’re blond!

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Mine came out of a bottle too. I had missed her, welcoming Elizabeth into our humble flat, eager to meet him, the banker appeared charmed by Jim’s company. After lunch, as instructed, I launched a bogus sub-plot into our chat.
“MI5 wanted me to lead an Israeli delegation to the TRNC to discuss a possible trade alliance. It was a scam, no Israelis, they’d have been SAS troops.”
As Elizabeth’s jaw dropped, telling her more fibs, I claimed that the SAS meant to overpower Nadir’s bodyguards and drag him off to Greece. It left the banker speechless and horrified. A killer punch line, I explained that still not too late, if Nadir agreed, like we had seen him catch villains on the telly, if Roger Cook’s team filmed the event, he could expose the fake delegation. It decided the issue. Elizabeth pledged to get me a letter from Nadir expressing his approval to meet the delegation in Northern Cyprus.
“When I receive it, I’ll contact my handler, I’m sure that things will then start moving” I assured her.
“I’ll keep Asil abreast of your progress” pledged Elizabeth, “He’ll reward you for your efforts – he’ll see to it that you live royally!”
While Elizabeth drove home to Essex, I called Naylor and informed him that the banker wished the delegation to go ahead, delighted, he told me to phone David and explain that I couldn’t use the Brown address in Manchester again, from now on, I had to use an MI5 post box in London.
Next day, using a public call box, I had warned David that MI5 routinely tapped my landline. Relaying to him my new instructions and a few days later, phoning me again, Naylor directed me to call David and explain that Brown wanted Jim and me to visit the SFO headquarters in Elm Street in London. Meant to prevent David from asking me to wear a hidden microphone, I had to warn him that Brown was meeting me at the SFO and might want me searched. Before he ended his call, Naylor told me
“You’re to see Robert Wardle, he’s responsible for the Nadir case. I’ll get him to send you something in the post to confirm the date.”
The meeting with Wardle was more fabrication to keep David hooked. That evening, I visited another call box and phoned the journalist. He was thrilled by our date at the SFO and told me that he had checked out the post box number, ecstatic, he divulged that the address that I had given him was classified. Warning David that MI5 must be watching me, I told him that they would become very suspicious if I kept using a telephone box to talk to him. They would believe that I was hiding intelligence from them. As I rejoined Jim, waiting for me outside the box, I told him that David had promised to provide us with a mobile phone, until then, we had to use the box. David pledged to phone me at noon on

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26th June. As I waited in the box for his call, the phone rang. At once picking it up, I moaned
“Elizabeth keeps on urging me to wear a mike when I visit the SFO. I can’t do it, David, Brown will be there – I’ll be searched!”
“If Brown wasn’t there” he admitted, disappointed, “I’d have wanted you to tape the meeting.”
As I had deduced, the microphone clearly David’s scheme all along, frustrated, he accepted that we had to avoid trying anything that risked the story. It was okay for him to wait outside the SFO in his car to film Jim and me when we visited their building and two days more, as we opened our post, giving us directions to their office, the SFO had sent us a small map, the time and date of our rendezvous with Wardle handwritten upon it. On 3rd July, upon arriving in London, a black cab dropped us near Elm House where we spotted David sat in his car parked in the street by the SFO entrance.
As David covertly filmed us enter the building, once inside it, we approached a reception desk where a security guard duly issued us with visitor passes. Shortly, all pinstripes and silvery hair, Robert Nelson looked about 60. Full of olde worlde charm and sorry, lamenting that the SFO lifts were awfully slow, reaching the floor we wanted, Nelson led us along a dowdy corridor, at the far end, he ushered us into a dull, if capacious office. We took seats by a large, plain desk, and grey suit, matching his features, as he scurried into the room, a quick handshake and as he pulled up a chair, joining us at the table, then only Assistant Director, he began
“Good afternoon, I’m Robert Wardle.”
Facing us across the table, maybe 50, his hair thinning, Wardle dropped a blank sheet of paper onto the desktop and set his pen beside it. He had joined the SFO at its inception in 1988 and a flawed history; many had condemned the activities of the so-called fruadbusters. Their incompetence had thrived. A charisma-free zone, brusque and short of a personality, the glorified brief began
“I understand you have information about Asil Nadir.”
“We’re friends with Elizabeth Forsyth” I replied.
“How did you meet her?” He quizzed.
“In prison I’m afraid” I admitted.
“Ah!” exclaimed Wardle, finding my response significant.
I warned him not to draw false conclusions. Divulging that Elizabeth believed I could fix it for an Israeli trade delegation to visit Asil Nadir in Northern Cyprus, keeping a straight face, per

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my brief, I suggested that we might use the occasion to send in the SAS to kidnap the tycoon. A frosty smile, Wardle murmured
“I think not, eh…why did Mrs Forsyth believe your story?”
“She thinks I’m with the Mossad” I responded making him blink.
The real wind up came next, as eccentric as the first, it was important to deliver it with equal subtlety. Staring him out, I claimed Elizabeth had confided in me that Nadir planned a clandestine visit to the UK to hold a secret press conference. I said that the tycoon aimed to seriously embarrass the Government. Alarmed and taking me seriously now, he copied it down. Dropping the pen, Wardle admitted
“I’ll be much more interested if you can get closer to him, if you could gain eyeball contact” Wardle suggested “Perhaps if Nadir offered you a job with his security staff…as it is your reports are second-hand.”
“Please, don’t look at me” begged Nelson, as I gazed in his direction. Raising his hands in mock fear, too true, he exclaimed, “I’m just a boring accountant!”
Returning my attention to Wardle, we had a deal. The summit concluded, as we traipsed back along the drab corridor, his head in another world and a tennis fan, Nelson declared that he had bad news, unveiling that Henman had lost his match, he assured us that Rusedski had won through to the next round.
As Jim joined me, David still filming us in the street outside, not Wimbledon, as MI6 players, our next venue was Naylor’s dangerous ground.

© COPYRIGHT OLIVIA FRANK ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

NAKED SPYGIRL Chapter Seven