“You have to appreciate, Mr. Booth Watson,” said Lamont, “that we were acting in good faith on information received.”
“Clearly from an unreliable source, which I think you’ll agree, superintendent, is becoming a hallmark of your investigations when dealing with my client.”
Lamont tried to remain calm.
William looked up the number in his pocket diary and began to dial. He started to pray, and to his relief, the call was answered a few moments later.
“Who’s this?” a voice demanded.
“William Warwick. I apologize for disturbing you at this time of night, Christina, but an emergency has arisen and I have a feeling you’re the one person who might be able to help.”
“You’re lucky to catch me, William. I’ve only just walked in after enjoying a rather lengthy getting-to-know-you dinner. Let me guess, it has to be Miles who’s causing you so much trouble. How can I help?”
William hurriedly explained the problem he was up against, and when she supplied him with the answer, he felt a complete fool, because it had been staring him in the face the whole evening.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll give you a call in the morning and let you know how it all worked out.”
“Not too early,” said Christina. “My dinner companion is considerably younger than I am.”
William laughed for the first time that evening. “Have a good time,” he said before replacing the receiver. He took a moment to compose his thoughts, and was about to leave the room when he once again spotted the rolled-up twenty-pound note on the desk, which now made him feel more confident. He picked it up and left Faulkner’s study to head back down the corridor toward the hall.
“Well, look who’s rejoined us,” said Booth Watson as William reappeared. “None other than our newly appointed sergeant—I do apologize, detective sergeant. Not for much longer, I suspect.” Only Faulkner laughed.
“Well, detective sergeant,” said Booth Watson, glancing dismissively at the twenty-pound note William was holding. “Apprehended one of the Great Train Robbers, have we?”
“Far better,” said William without explanation, as he placed the note in a plastic bag and labeled it Evidence. He then strolled slowly over to the bust of Faulkner. “Only someone with an oversized ego would allow such a grotesque object to be seen in a house full of masterpieces,” he said, turning to Faulkner.
“I hope you have another job lined up, detective sergeant,” said Booth Watson, “because I have a feeling your days as a police officer are numbered.”
“No, I haven’t,” William replied. “But it shouldn’t be too difficult to get a job identifying fake works of art.” He lifted the bust off its stand.
“Put that down!” yelled Faulkner. “It’s extremely rare!”
“Unique, I would hope,” said William. “But if that’s what you want, Mr. Faulkner, I’m only too happy to oblige.” William allowed the bust to slip from his fingers and crash onto the marble floor, where it shattered into a hundred pieces.
Everyone stared, not at what was left of the broken statue, but at a dozen small paper wraps, each containing a white substance, that lay strewn across the floor.
The dogs’ tails began to wag excitedly, while the photographers immediately set about their task. Once they’d finished, a dozen officers began to gather up the evidence.
“I suspect it doesn’t get any purer than this,” said a senior drugs officer, holding up one of the bags. “I’ll get this lot back to the lab for testing, superintendent, and have a report on your desk first thing on Monday morning.”
Lamont stepped forward, thrust Faulkner’s arms behind his back, and handcuffed him. “I’ve been looking forward to this for some time, Mr. Faulkner,” he said. Booth Watson made a note. “I’ll leave you to do the honors, DS Warwick.”
William walked up to Faulkner and stood directly in front of him. He was so nervous he nearly forgot the words of the caution.
“Miles Faulkner, I am arresting you on suspicion of being in possession of a Class A substance with an intent to supply. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence.”
He accompanied the prisoner out of the house, and bundled him into the back of a waiting squad car. He couldn’t resist waving good-bye as he was driven away.
Lamont picked up the phone in the hall and began dialing. “I think I’ll take your advice, Mr. Booth Watson,” he said with a smile, “and give Commander Hawksby a call to tell him about my spectacular triumph.”
14
When William and DC Adaja entered the small interview room in the basement of Scotland Yard, they found Adrian Heath already seated on the other side of the table. He looked anxious, and displayed none of his usual self-confidence.
“Is Faulkner safely out of the way?” were his first words, even before the two police officers had sat down.
“For the time being, yes,” said William. “He’s currently locked up in a local police station, but will be applying for bail on Monday afternoon, and the magistrate may well release him from custody, which means he could be out there looking for you long before the trial takes place.”
“He will be,” said Heath, “even if he’s locked up. What are you going to do about it?”
“All in good time,” replied William. “First, we need to ask you some questions, and your answers will determine how much help we’re willing to offer you.”
“But I kept my side of the bargain,” protested Heath, who began to shake uncontrollably.
“You did indeed,” said William. “But there’s one thing that still puzzles me. After you supplied Faulkner with twelve wraps of cocaine, you say he handed over eight hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes.”
“Yes, but first he opened a wrap, cut a line, and snorted it through one of the notes to test the quality, and only after he was satisfied did he finally hand over the cash.”
“But when the police picked you up after you’d left the house, Mr. Heath,” said DC Adaja, “you were only in possession of seven hundred and eighty pounds.”
“He must have forgotten to put the one he used for snorting back in the pile.”
“This one?” said William, holding up the twenty-pound note he’d found on the desk in Faulkner’s study.
“If you say so,” said Heath. “Now when do I get my money?”
William handed over two cellophane packets containing Heath’s latest addiction—cash.
“And don’t forget the eight hundred you took off me. That’s also mine.”
“That’s now part of the Crown’s evidence,” said Paul. “But we’ll make sure you’re properly compensated.” He paused. “That’s assuming you continue to keep your side of the bargain. You’ll get the full amount back the moment the trial is over.”
“So, what happens next?” asked Heath.
“You’ll appear as the Crown’s principal witness when Faulkner comes up for trial in about six months’ time,” said William. “You’ll be questioned in the witness box, and be expected to tell the truth under oath. No more and no less.”
“I’ve written out the statement you volunteered earlier,” said Adaja. “DS Warwick and I have witnessed it, so all you have to do is sign it.”
“Before I do, I want to know what I’m getting in return.”
“Ten thousand pounds in cash, two one-way tickets to Rio de Janeiro for you and Miss Maria Ruiz—”
“Business class. Plus a passport under a new name.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Adaja.
“What about the six months before the trial takes place? I’ll be a sitting duck if I’m found roaming around without police protection,” said Heath.
“We can do better than that,” said William. “You and Maria will enter our witness protection program, and be housed at a secret location. After you’ve given your evidence, you’ll be driven straight to Heathrow. So, while Faulkner is in a Black Maria on his way to Pentonville, you
and Maria will be flying business class to Rio.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Heath. “That man’s found more ways to escape than Houdini.”
“The choice is yours,” said William. “Sitting duck or safe house?”
“Put like that, I don’t have a lot of choice. So where do I go from here?”
“There’s a car outside waiting to take the two of you to the safe house.”
“Where’s that?”
“Even I don’t know,” said William.
* * *
“If you’ll come with me, sir,” said the desk sergeant, “I’ll take you to see your client.”
The officer led Booth Watson down a dimly lit brick-walled corridor, past a couple of cells, before stopping outside a door with a young constable stationed outside. The sergeant selected a key from his chain, unlocked the heavy door and pulled it open. The two officers stood aside to allow the senior silk to enter. The constable closed the door behind him and remained in his place, while the sergeant returned to his desk.
Booth Watson found his client seated on the end of the bed, clearly impatient to see him. He was still dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing at the party on Saturday night but he now looked tired, disheveled, and badly in need of a shave.
“Get me out of here,” Faulkner mumbled, before his counsel had spoken a word.
“Good morning, Miles,” said Booth Watson, as if this was a normal consultation taking place in his Middle Temple chambers. He sat down on the other end of the bed, placed his briefcase to one side and an overnight bag on the other.
“I’ve spent the night in this hellhole,” said Faulkner, not displaying his usual bravado. “I’ve already been booked in, fingerprinted, and questioned. So I’m bound to ask, what’s the point of you?”
“Did they question you under caution?” asked Booth Watson, ignoring the outburst.
“Yes. But as I didn’t say a word, all they’ve got is a lot of questions, and no answers.”
“Good,” said Booth Watson, pleased his client had carried out his instructions to the letter.
“What happens now?”
“We’re up in front of the magistrate tomorrow afternoon, when I’ll be making an application for bail on your behalf.”
“What are my chances?”
“Depends who’s on the bench. If it’s a local councilor who’s looking for fifteen minutes of fame, you’ll be placed on remand. However, if it’s one of the more experienced JPs, you’re in with a chance. We’ll find out soon enough.”
“And if the application fails?”
“I’m afraid you’ll be detained in prison while the Crown prepares its case.”
“How long could that take?”
“Six or seven months, but don’t waste any time worrying about that. Just try to focus on your bail application.”
“What will I be expected to do once I’m in the magistrates’ court?”
“Not a lot, other than to state your name and address.”
“That’s it?”
“Not quite. It’s important that you look like a decent law-abiding citizen, and not as if you’ve just emerged from a drunken orgy. So I took the liberty of picking up a change of clothes from your home that I felt would be more appropriate for the occasion.” He opened the overnight bag and laid out on the bunk a dark blue suit, white shirt, a pair of pants and socks, and an old Harrovian tie. He finally placed a monogrammed washbag by the side of the toilet.
“I’m going to need a damn sight more than that if I end up inside.”
Booth Watson didn’t tell him that he’d already packed a larger suitcase for that eventuality, which he’d left in his office.
“The next time you’ll see me, Miles, will be in court,” said Booth Watson as he stood to leave. “If the magistrate should ask you anything, don’t forget to call him sir.” He banged on the door, which didn’t have a handle on the inside, and waited for it to be opened to allow one of them to escape.
* * *
“I have to be in court by two o’clock,” said William, as he sat down opposite his father and began unloading his tray.
“Faulkner’s bail application?” asked Sir Julian, picking up his knife and fork. “I wouldn’t want to put money on which way that will go.”
“He ought to be safely locked up until the trial takes place.”
“Possibly, but unfortunately you won’t have any influence on that decision, whereas Booth Watson will.”
“More’s the pity,” said William. “That man should be sharing the same cell as Faulkner.”
“Behave yourself. Try to remember you’re lunching at Lincoln’s Inn, where we’re all meant to treat each other as brothers.” William had to smile. “By the way, when you were at Limpton Hall, were you able to establish if Faulkner’s art collection are still all originals, or has he replaced them with copies as his wife fears?”
“All I can tell you is that while my colleagues were searching Faulkner’s home for drugs, I took a close look at as many of the paintings as I could.”
“And?”
“I’m not an expert, but I’d say every one was an original. They must be worth a small fortune.”
“That’s good to hear, because along with the house and the flat in Eaton Square, they’re due to be handed over to my client as part of her divorce settlement. Mrs. Faulkner told me that, with one exception, she’ll be putting the entire collection up for auction as soon as the decree absolute has been granted. She’s convinced that Miles will want to buy them all back for far more than he’d be willing to pay her.”
“Cunning woman,” said William.
“To do her justice,” said Sir Julian, “which is difficult at times, Mrs. Faulkner has agreed to donate a Vermeer to the Fitzmolean. The museum has Beth to thank for that.”
“Another cunning woman.”
“Which reminds me,” said Sir Julian. “Your sister will be representing the Crown at the magistrates’ court this afternoon, and opposing Faulkner’s bail.”
“Does that mean she’ll get the main gig?”
“If you’re referring to the trial, my boy, not a chance. They’ll want a QC of equal standing to take on Booth Watson and cross-examine Faulkner. In fact, the Department of Public Prosecution rang me this morning and asked if I’d consider representing them on this occasion. Desmond Pannel reminded me that I owed him a favor, so I told him I’d sleep on it.”
“If you agreed to take the case, you could appoint Grace as your junior.”
“Not if I want to win.”
“Father, they’re already talking about her becoming a QC.”
“I don’t approve of women QCs.”
“Wait until you come up against her, then you might change your mind.”
* * *
The magistrates’ court at Guildhall, which usually dealt with drunk and disorderlies, shoplifters, and the occasional application for a liquor license, was packed long before Mr. Joseph Lanyon OBE JP and his two colleagues took their places on the bench that Monday afternoon.
Mr. Lanyon looked down into the well of the court and feigned not to be intimidated by the presence of some of the most distinguished barristers in the land, along with their solicitors, a bevy of Fleet Street reporters, and a public gallery so packed that the clerk had informed him there’d been a queue outside the courtroom when he’d arrived that morning.
The magistrate looked across at the defendant standing in the dock. A tall, handsome man with a fine head of wavy fair hair that added to the film-star looks the press so often referred to. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, and navy-blue tie with thin white stripes, making him look more like a successful stockbroker than a man facing a serious drugs charge.
Mr. Lanyon nodded to the court bailiff who turned to face the defendant and said firmly, “Will the prisoner please stand?”
Faulkner rose unsteadily from his place and gripped the rails of the dock.
“For the record, will the def
endant please state his full name and current address?”
“Miles Adam Faulkner, Limpton Hall, Hampshire, sir,” he said, looking directly at the magistrate, with an assurance that belied his true feelings.
“You may sit down.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Faulkner, having delivered the seven words Booth Watson had prescribed.
“No doubt you wish to apply for bail, Mr. Booth Watson,” said the magistrate, turning to face the defendant’s legal team.
“I do indeed, sir,” said Booth Watson, heaving himself up from the bench. “I would like to begin by reminding the court that my client has an unblemished record—”
“Forgive me for interrupting you so early in the proceedings, Mr. Booth Watson, but am I not right in thinking that your client is currently serving a four-year suspended sentence for a previous fraud charge?”
“He is indeed, sir. However, I can assure you that he has carried out the court’s directive to the letter. I would also point out, with respect, that my client has pleaded not guilty to the present charge, and as he has no previous record of violence, and is a man of considerable means, he could hardly be described as a danger to the public. I find it hard to believe that the Crown would even consider opposing this bail application.”
“What do you say to that, Ms. Warwick?” asked the magistrate, turning his attention to the other end of the bench.
Grace rose slowly from her place.
“The Crown will most certainly be opposing this application, on several grounds. As you rightly reminded the court, Mr. Lanyon, the accused is currently serving a four-year suspended sentence on a charge of fraud. However, that is not the sole reason why the Crown opposes bail. As my learned friend has pointed out, his client is a man of considerable means, but what he failed to tell you is that he is no longer domiciled in this country, but has recently become a tax exile, and spends most of his time in Monte Carlo. So I would suggest, sir, that in view of the fact that he owns both a private jet and a yacht, the likelihood of his absconding should be taken into consideration.”
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