When he got her note, Gabe burst into tears.
More money followed, gifts of hundreds from classy London friends (almost all women), tiny donations of a few quid from old mates back in Scotland that again brought tears to Gabe’s eyes. These people have nothing. They can’t afford to help me. But here they are, trying. His mother, Anne, who had not heard from Gabe in almost two years, sent him fifty pounds stuffed into a card that said, simply: I love you. No mention of the fact that he was in prison. Not one word of a reproach.
I love you, too, Mam. One day, I’ll repay your faith in me.
Day by day, as the money trickled into his life and the drugs trickled out of it (he was almost off the methadone now), Gabe’s natural optimism and faith in human nature revived. Claire, his first London sugar mommy, was a lawyer. “I know a great criminal guy, Angus Frazer. He owes me a favor or twenty. Let me see what kind of deal I can do for you.”
Marshall Gresham was impressed.
“I’ll tell you what, kid. You either have the biggest knob in Scotland, or you’re a charming little bastard. You fleeced every one of these birds, but here they are falling over their knickers to ’elp you out.”
Angus Frazer was not quite as brilliant a lawyer as Claire had made him out to be.
He was at least five times better.
A handsome Old Etonian with a hooked nose and regal bearing, Angus Frazer could play judges the way that Gabe McGregor could play women. When Angus Frazer finished his summing-up, the appeals-court judge was starting to think that perhaps Gabe shouldn’t be in prison at all. Perhaps the Walthamstow home owner whose skull had been crushed should be the one doing time? After all, it was he who had wantonly derailed the life of this bright, promising, determined young man. A young man whose glamorous ladyfriends packed the court’s public gallery like hopefuls at a Hollywood casting call.
Gabe’s sentence was reduced to ten years, the minimum possible for his offense. Angus Frazer told him: “You’ve already served four. With good behavior, you’ll be out in another three.”
Three years! Only three more years! To the new Gabe, it was nothing. Thirty-six months.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Frazer. You do understand, I can only pay half your fees today.”
Angus Frazer smiled. He was a wealthy man, not usually given to doing favors for ex-junkies. But in Gabe’s case, he was glad Claire McCormack had twisted his arm. There was something about the boy…it was hard to put into words. But Gabe McGregor made Angus Frazer feel glad to be alive.
“Don’t worry about it, Gabe. You’ll pay me back one day, I’m sure.”
Yes, sir, I will. On my father’s grave, I’ll pay you back ten times what I owe you. One day.
Marshall Gresham was inside for fraud.
“So, how much money did you steal, then?”
It was the sort of question Marshall would only have tolerated from Gabe McGregor. The two men had become fast friends.
“I didn’t steal any money, Gabriel. That’s why I’m appealing my conviction. I rearranged quite a bit.”
“How much?”
Marshall allowed himself a small smile of pride.
“Two hundred and sixty million.”
Gabe was silent for a full minute.
“What business are you in, Marshall?”
“Property.”
Another minute’s silence.
“Marshall?”
“Hmm?”
“I think I’d like to learn the property business. Will you teach me?
“Why, Gabriel!” Marshall Gresham’s twinkly blue eyes sparkled even more brightly than usual. “I’d be delighted.”
Suddenly thirty-six months felt like thirty-six minutes.
There was so much to learn, and so little time. Indeces, interest rates, prices per square foot, building costs, planning law. It went on and on and on and for Gabe it was like learning not only a new language, but a whole new way of thinking.
Marshall Gresham told him: “A lot of things have changed in the markets these past few years. All this new Internet money.” He shook his head disgustedly. “People have lost their ’eads. Don’t listen to anyone who tells you that the fundamental market forces are any different than what they’ve always been.”
Gabe nodded silently, drinking in Marshall’s advice. It was his new drug. He couldn’t get enough of listening to the older man’s voice. Every word from Marshall Gresham’s lips sounded like money, like hope. Gabe’s future made flesh.
“Location. That’s the key. If I were going into this game fresh, from scratch, I’d stay out of London.”
Gabe was silent, but his face said why?
“Overinflated. Too many bleeding Poles. And Russians. Too many barriers to entry. To be honest, I’d forget the U.K. altogether. And America. You want a market that’s still up-and-coming. Get in on the ground floor, like I did.”
Get in on the ground floor.
Yeah, sure. But where? And with what?
Marshall Gresham made it sound so easy.
Marshall was right about the Wormwood Scrubs library. Look past its linoleum floors and filthy, chipped Formica tables; past the well-thumbed Dick Francis novels and fashion-model autobiographies-My Life: The Untold Story, by Misty Holland. Who on earth read that crap?-and a world of infinite possibilities was there for the taking.
A lot of cons took Marshall Gresham’s route and went straight for the law books. Some had even done open-university degrees while inside. Others lost themselves in fiction, an escape of sorts from the grim reality of prison life. For Gabe, whenever he wasn’t wading through books on real estate and business, it was history he turned to. Specifically the history of his famous forebear, Jamie McGregor.