Hidden in Plain Sight

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Stay put, DC Roycroft,” said the Hawk. “We can’t afford to compromise a UCO, and if the gear is being delivered to Rashidi’s slaughter somewhere in Brixton, that could help us fill in one of the last pieces of the jigsaw. I repeat, stay put.”

  William snatched the radio out of Jackie’s hand. “What if your UCO has been turned, sir? In that case we’ll be none the wiser as to the location of the factory, and we’ll have lost ten kilos of cocaine and a chance to put Tulip out of business.”

  “That’s just not possible,” said Jackie, almost shouting. “Ross would never switch sides,” she added, breaking a cardinal rule.

  “Perhaps your UCO is only telling us half the story,” said William calmly. “As you never stop reminding us, sir, there’s a vast amount of money involved with these drug cartels, which must be a temptation for even the most scrupulous officer.” This silenced Jackie, not least because she’d never heard anyone speak to the commander like that.

  “You’re quite right, DS Warwick,” said the commander equally calmly. “It’s possible that, as DC Roycroft and I are running this particular UCO, we’re too personally involved. I’ll leave the final decision to you, Bruce.”

  Lamont came back on the line immediately. “I don’t know the officer personally, sir, but he’s never let you down in the past, so there’s no reason to believe he’s suddenly changed sides. In any case, if they were to charge in, we might even put his life in danger. I’d advise we stand DS Warwick and DC Roycroft down. And another point, sir. It won’t help our colleagues if those are the two customs officers they have under surveillance.”

  “Good point. All the more reason for both of you to return to the Yard immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” said William, not sounding convinced.

  He and Jackie sat and watched as the Volvo drove onto the main road, and disappeared out of sight.

  “Thank you, Bruce,” said the commander as he switched off the radio and broke contact with Felixstowe.

  Once he had returned to his office, Hawksby picked up the phone on his desk and said, “Angela, do you have an empty Marlboro packet to hand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Could you bring it through?”

  Angela fished a packet out of a drawer, took it in to her boss, and left it on his desk without a word passing between them.

  Twenty minutes later, the commander picked up the phone again. “Angela, should anyone call, I’ll be out of the office for about thirty minutes.” He returned the silver paper to the empty cigarette packet before slipping it into an inside pocket. He then took the lift to the ground floor and headed in the direction of Westminster Cathedral.

  17

  The evening before the trial, Adrian and Maria were driven from Lincoln down the A1 back to London. They were booked into a small, discreet hotel not far from the Old Bailey. Two guards were stationed outside their room.

  Maria slept well, despite Adrian tossing and turning throughout the night as he went over his well-rehearsed responses to every one of Sir Julian’s questions, like a nervous actor waiting for the curtain to rise. Maria only had a walk-on part. As soon as Adrian stepped into the witness box, she would be driven to Heathrow, where she would check in and wait for him to join her.

  Sir Julian stayed at his flat in Lincoln’s Inn overnight. In the morning he rose early and went over his opening address one more time, making the occasional emendation, crossing the odd word out, even one whole paragraph. He then read it out loud, with only the morning chorus as his audience. They seemed to appreciate it.

  Booth Watson also rose early, and enjoyed a large breakfast before taking a taxi to the Old Bailey, arriving only half an hour before proceedings would commence. But then, he was unlikely to be on his feet until later that afternoon, as he suspected the Crown’s first witness would give evidence for at least a couple of hours before he had the chance to cross-examine him. Although he had prepared several traps to ensnare Mr. Heath, none of them looked all that promising, and he feared that if his client was found guilty on both charges, he would, with a four-year suspended sentence already hanging over him, be spending several Christmases doing cold turkey.

  He had dined with Miles at the Savoy the evening before, and found him remarkably calm, even resigned to his fate. But then he could never fathom out what really went on in that impenetrable mind.

  Grace took the tube to the Central Criminal Court, aware that her father wouldn’t want to be distracted before he rose to address the jury. She accepted that as his junior, hers was a supporting role, ready to assist should a point of law arise or to check any statement the defense claimed as fact, as she couldn’t allow Booth Watson to ambush her father while he was in full flow. At a more menial level, she even had to make sure his glass of water was always half full, and not half empty. Grace was more than happy to act as her father’s junior, and although she didn’t mention it to anyone, even Clare, she hoped he would allow her to cross-examine one of the less important witnesses.

  Like his QC, Miles Faulkner enjoyed a hearty breakfast, having taken an early run around the park. His park. BW had told him he was unlikely to be called to give evidence until after all the Crown’s witnesses had been heard, and only then if he was convinced it would assist his cause. At the moment BW wasn’t convinced that anything would assist his cause.

  His chauffeur dropped him outside the Old Bailey, where he found himself surrounded by a pack of journalists and photographers who had been wondering if he’d even turn up, as he clearly could afford to sacrifice a million pounds to remain a free man. He swaggered toward them, giving the photographers more than enough time to take as many snaps as they wanted, which only convinced the reporters he must be confident he would be leaving in the same car he’d arrived in.

  Court number one at the Old Bailey was packed long before Mr. Justice Baverstock entered his workplace at ten o’clock that morning. He bowed to the packed courtroom and took his seat in the center of the raised podium. On the Crown’s bench, Sir Julian was making sure that the pages of his opening statement were numbered and in order. Grace had already double-checked, and they were.

  Booth Watson was slumped at the other end of the bench, a yellow pad resting on his knee, pen already poised in case Sir Julian made even the slightest error. His junior, Mr. Andrews, sat attentively by his side, waiting to pick up any tidbits his leader might have missed.

  Miles Faulkner stood in the dock, dressed once again in a Savile Row suit and sporting an Old Harrovian tie. He smiled at the seven men and five women as they filed into the jury box, but only one of them glanced in his direction.

  The judge waited for the jury to be sworn in, and once he was satisfied that everyone was settled he nodded to the clerk of the court, who rose and read out the two indictments on the charge sheet, before looking up at the defendant and asking portentously, “How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty,” declared Faulkner on both counts, sounding amazed that anyone might doubt his word.

  “You may be seated,” said the clerk.

  Once Faulkner had taken his place, Mr. Justice Baverstock turned his attention to the Crown’s leader. “Are you ready to deliver your opening statement, Sir Julian?” he asked.

  “I am indeed, m’lud.” He rose from his place, and tugged at the lapels of his long black gown before firmly gripping the sides of the stand on which his statement rested.

  “M’lud,” he began, “I represent the Crown in this case, while my learned friend, Mr. Booth Watson QC, appears on behalf of the defense.” The two men reluctantly exchanged perfunctory bows. “There are two counts on the indictment, My Lord, that relate to the possession and supply of an illegal substance, in this case, cocaine. On the evening of Saturday, May the seventeenth this year, the defendant was found to be in possession of a large quantity of the drug while hosting a dinner party for nine other guests. But it is not only what took place at the dinner party that night that will be of interest to th
e jury. Of even more significance is what happened before Mr. Faulkner’s first guest arrived.” He looked up to see that the jury were hanging on his every word.

  “A few minutes after seven that evening, a man arrived at Mr. Faulkner’s home to keep an appointment he had made some days before. On arrival, that man, Mr. Adrian Heath, was escorted through to the defendant’s study in order to conduct a business transaction. He provided Mr. Faulkner with twelve grams of cocaine in exchange for eight hundred pounds in cash. The price was above the going rate, but Mr. Faulkner was a customer who demanded only the best. In this case, ninety-two-point-five percent pure, as an expert witness will later testify.

  “Once the deal was closed and Mr. Heath had been paid—and we will produce the cash as evidence—he drove back to London, from where he was immediately taken, in the highest secrecy, to a safe house, because Mr. Faulkner was unaware that Adrian Heath was a police informant.”

  Booth Watson made his first note—agent provocateur.

  “Later that evening,” continued Sir Julian, “the police raided Mr. Faulkner’s home in the country and despite a desperate attempt to hide the evidence, thanks to an outstanding piece of police work by a young detective sergeant, the drugs were discovered inside a statue—” he paused—“a statue of Mr. Faulkner himself.”

  One or two members of the jury couldn’t resist a smirk.

  “The Crown,” Sir Julian continued, “will not only produce the twelve grams of cocaine, and the eight hundred pounds Mr. Faulkner paid to the dealer, but Mr. Heath himself will confirm the role he played on this occasion. And as if that were not enough to condemn this man,” he said, pointing to the defendant, “the Crown will also call two expert witnesses, namely Superintendent Lamont, the head of the elite drugs squad at Scotland Yard…”

  Booth Watson made a second note, Why not Warwick?

  “… and Dr. Ruth Lewis, an eminent member of the government’s Advisory Council on the Misuse of Drugs.” Looking somber, Sir Julian turned to face the jury and said finally, “The Crown is confident, members of the jury, that after you have heard all the evidence in this case, you will find there is only one possible verdict, namely that the defendant, Miles Faulkner, is guilty on both counts.”

  Faulkner looked more closely at the jury as Sir Julian resumed his seat. They were all staring at the Crown’s representative, and had they been asked to deliver a verdict there and then, the expression on their faces rather suggested Faulkner would have been hanged, drawn, and quartered before dawn. Booth Watson had warned him the worst moment of a trial for any defendant is immediately following the Crown’s opening submission.

  “Thank you, Sir Julian,” said Mr. Justice Baverstock. “Perhaps this would be a suitable time to take a short break, after which you may call your first witness.”

  He then rose from his place, bowed, and left the court.

  “Where’s Heath?” demanded Sir Julian before he’d even sat back down.

  “Under police protection in a cell on the ground floor,” said Grace. “I’ll pop down and warn him he’ll be on shortly.”

  “And his girlfriend?”

  “As soon as Heath is on the stand she’ll be driven to the airport. A car is standing by to take Heath there to join her the moment he steps down.”

  “I think the case might well be over by stumps this evening,” said Sir Julian. “Once Heath has spelled out the details of what took place in Faulkner’s home that night, I suspect Booth Watson will do his damnedest to make a plea bargain on behalf of his client.”

  “And how will you respond?” asked Grace.

  “My junior has already prepared a rather uncompromising statement that I shall deliver word for word.”

  * * *

  “Well, that was lethal,” said Faulkner, leaning down from the dock to talk to his silk. “Sir Julian Warwick looked as if he couldn’t wait to get Heath on the stand.”

  “Nor can I,” said Booth Watson. “He’s a flawed individual, and I intend to take him apart limb by limb. I remain confident of getting you off the more serious charge of supplying, although possession will still be a problem.”

  “The police planted the gear as revenge for their abject failure in the missing Rembrandt case,” said Faulkner.

  “I won’t be mentioning the Rembrandt case,” said Booth Watson. “It would only enable the Crown to inform the jury that you’re serving a four-year suspended sentence for fraud. They’re not allowed to mention any previous convictions unless we raise the subject first. However, three of your dinner guests are willing to swear under oath that no one was offered so much as a joint, and a fourth will testify that he’s never known you to take a drug in your life.”

  “Then he can’t have known me very long,” said Faulkner.

  * * *

  “You may call your first witness, Sir Julian,” said Mr. Justice Baverstock, after he’d returned from the short recess.

  “Thank you, m’lud. I call Mr. Adrian Heath.”

  Booth Watson studied the Crown’s star witness with interest as he entered the court. He was smartly dressed, looking more like a City whiz kid than a reformed drug addict. Heath gave William a nervous smile as he made his way to the witness box, but he didn’t even glance at Faulkner as he passed him in the dock. He delivered the oath with enough confidence for Booth Watson to be reminded that it wasn’t the first time he’d been in a courtroom.

  Sir Julian greeted him with a warm smile. “For the court’s record, Mr. Heath, would you please state your full name and your current address?”

  “Adrian Charles Heath, 23 Ladbroke Grove, London W10.”

  Booth Watson suspected that was his mother’s address.

  “Mr. Heath, can you confirm that in the past you were a drug addict?”

  “In the past, yes I was, Sir Julian. But now, thanks to the support of a very special young woman who stood by me during my rehab, that’s all behind me, and we plan on getting married in the near future.”

  “I’m sure we all wish you every happiness,” said Sir Julian, turning to smile at Booth Watson, who showed no signs of joy. “Well, perhaps not all of us,” he added, eliciting a smile from one or two members of the jury. Sir Julian accepted that he had to get his next question on the record, so that Booth Watson couldn’t spring it as a surprise during his cross-examination.

  “And you were, Mr. Heath, for a short period of time a drug dealer?”

  “For a very short period. And then only when I was desperate for cash to pay for my addiction.”

  “And that is also now happily behind you.”

  “Yes, sir, I can assure you that I haven’t had anything to do with drugs for over six months, and I’ll never return to that way of life again.”

  “That does you great credit, Mr. Heath. And you now feel it is no more than your civic duty to give evidence concerning the last transaction you were involved in.” Heath nodded and bowed his head while Booth Watson made another note. “Did you, on the evening of May the seventeenth this year, drive down to Limpton Hall in Hampshire to keep an appointment with the accused, Mr. Miles Faulkner?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “Do you see him in the court today?”

  “Yes, I do.” Heath pointed to the man sitting in the dock, and then quickly turned away.

  “What time was your appointment with the defendant?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  “And were you on time?”

  “I may have been a few minutes late, but the butler took me straight through to Mr. Faulkner’s study where he was waiting to see me.”

  “And he seemed keen to close the deal?”

  “The door hadn’t even closed before he asked me if I’d been able to get my hands on the merchandise he’d requested. I told him that I had, and handed a packet to him for inspection.”

  “Is that customary in such transactions?”

  “Yes, sir. He wanted to be sure the gear was of the highest quality. So he insisted on trying a sample
.”

  “And did he?”

  “Yes, he tasted a small amount of the product and seemed well satisfied.”

  “Did he indeed? What happened next?”

  “He paid me the eight hundred pounds in cash we’d agreed on, thanked me, and said he hoped we’d do business again.”

  “And after that?”

  “He asked me to accompany the butler downstairs, where I handed the goods over to his chef.”

  Sir Julian paused for a moment. “To his chef?” he repeated.

  “Yes. Mr. Faulkner told me he’d been instructed to set out ten portions on a silver platter for himself and his guests.”

  “Did the chef seem surprised?”

  “No, sir, but then I assumed he’d dealt with Fortnum and Mason in the past.”

  Sir Julian looked down at his questions, but there was no mention of Fortnum and Mason in his notes. He glanced at Grace, who looked as surprised as he did.

  “Are you telling the court that you picked up a consignment of the purest cocaine from Fortnum and Mason?”

  “No, sir. The goods I picked up from Fortnum’s that morning at Mr. Faulkner’s request were a dozen jars of the finest Royal Beluga caviar.”

  Some of those in the court began to laugh, while others simply looked bemused. The judge frowned as he glared down at the witness.

  Sir Julian paused for some time before asking, “Are you telling the court that you did not supply any drugs to Mr. Faulkner on this occasion?”

  “On this occasion, or any other occasion, for that matter,” said Heath. “In fact, it was the first time I’d ever met him.”

  Grace passed her father a hastily written note.

  “May I ask what you’ve been doing for the past six months, Mr. Heath?”

  “I’ve been living in a safe house in Lincoln while assisting the police with their inquiries, for which I’m to be paid ten thousand pounds.”