Hidden in Plain Sight

by Jeffrey Archer

  “And how do you propose to do that?” asked Sir Julian.

  “By replacing the opening batsman,” said Grace, as the phone on his desk began to ring.

  He picked it up and listened to the caller for some time before he said, “Yes, I can see how that changes the situation, Desmond. Thank you for keeping me informed.”

  “What changes the situation?” asked Grace, after he’d put the phone down.

  “Adrian Heath’s dead.”

  * * *

  “The other side have made us an offer,” said Booth Watson.

  “After Heath’s evidence this morning, that’s hardly surprising,” said Faulkner. “But you may as well tell me what it is before I dismiss the offer out of hand.”

  “They’ll drop the charge of intent to supply, if you’ll plead guilty to possession.”

  “What will the damage be?”

  “A million-pound fine, and a two-year suspended sentence.”

  “That might be tempting if I didn’t think the jury is going to find me not guilty on both charges.”

  “Possibly,” said Booth Watson, “but why take the risk?”

  “Because the odds are now heavily stacked in my favor, so you can tell Sir Julian Warwick QC to get lost.”

  “I’d advise against that, Miles, especially as I won’t be putting you on the stand.”

  “Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Except twelve grams of cocaine.”

  “Which you can tell them Lamont planted.”

  “You know that’s not going to wash, and the jury won’t fall for it either. Lamont is a long-serving police officer with an unblemished record, and in my experience, juries tend to like the plain-speaking Scotsman, which is why I don’t intend to cross-examine him.”

  “But you will after you’ve read this,” said Faulkner, handing his silk a thick brown envelope.

  Booth Watson took his time reading its contents before asking, “How did you get hold of this?”

  “It’s all a matter of public record,” said Faulkner, “if you know where to look.”

  * * *

  “Am I to understand, Sir Julian, that you wish to make a statement on behalf of the Crown?” inquired Mr. Justice Baverstock.

  “That is correct, m’lud. With your permission, the Crown will be dropping the first charge on the indictment, namely intent to supply. However, we still intend to proceed with the second charge, that of possession of a controlled substance, namely twelve grams of cocaine.”

  The judge raised an eyebrow, as he had been privy to the advice the DPP had given Sir Julian to drop both charges and beat an expeditious retreat. He was surprised that such a normally cautious man would ignore such sage opinion.

  “So be it, Sir Julian. Then you may call your next witness.”

  “I call Detective Superintendent Lamont.”

  * * *

  The first thing William did on arriving back at the Yard later that evening, was to ask the commander if there was any news about Paul.

  “It’s not good, I’m afraid,” said Hawksby. “He had a collision with another motorbike on his way back from the airport, and both of them ended up in hospital.” William looked anxious. “But Paul got off pretty lightly, just a few cuts and bruises, and he should be discharged in a couple of days. Tulip unfortunately broke a leg, and won’t be leaving the hospital for some time.” The flicker of a smile appeared on the commander’s face.

  “Has he been arrested for Heath’s murder?”

  “Yes. The murder squad took care of that, and they’ll post a guard outside his room night and day.”

  “Then I’ll complete my report, and leave it on Superintendent Lamont’s desk before I leave tonight.”

  “Good,” said the Hawk. “Bruce was sorry that he couldn’t help you out, but at short notice, he was asked to give evidence at Faulkner’s trial.”

  “How did he get on?”

  “Couldn’t have done better. In fact, I’d be surprised if Booth Watson bothers to cross-examine him in the morning. It will only give him yet another chance to repeat the question, if Faulkner didn’t put those drugs in the statue, who did?”

  “Did the Crown raise the subject of the twenty-pound note?”

  “No. I have a feeling they’re saving that bombshell for when Sir Julian cross-examines Faulkner.”

  “That’s assuming he gets the chance,” said William. “If Faulkner doesn’t go into the witness box, my father won’t be allowed to present it as new evidence.”

  “Strange,” said the Hawk. “It’s so unlike Sir Julian to take such a risk.”

  “But it’s not unlike his daughter,” said William.

  “Then let’s hope they don’t both live to regret it.”

  * * *

  William unlocked the door, hoping that a quiet evening at home with his wife would help put the image of Adrian Heath’s dead body out of his mind. But when he stepped into the hall, he was greeted by a tearful, pregnant Beth, who threw her arms around him and clung on tightly.

  “Now I know what Josephine Hawksby meant when she told me the thing she most dreaded was the day when her husband didn’t come home.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” said William, trying to reassure her.

  “But to see your friend butchered in that way, and you helpless to do anything about it.”

  “How did you find out?” asked William.

  “The story’s been leading the news programs all evening, and Jackie rang to tell me you were the first officer on the scene.”

  “I was, but I’ll be fine,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing.

  “You don’t look fine,” said Beth, as she started to remove his bloodstained shirt, only to be reminded of another scar from an earlier encounter in his career. But she feared this one would be mental, not physical. “I wish you’d called me.”

  “Not that easy when you’re in the middle of a murder investigation. Lamont wasn’t available, so I was left in charge.”

  “I know. Jackie filled me in on the gory details.” Only the details she wanted you to hear, thought William. “How did Adrian’s girlfriend react?” she asked.

  William didn’t reply.

  “Is this one of those occasions when I shouldn’t ask any more questions?” said Beth.

  “Yes,” said William quietly. “Not least because I’m not sure I made the right decision.”

  19

  “Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Mr. Booth Watson?”

  “Yes, m’lud, but I won’t be taking up too much of the court’s time.”

  He remained standing while Superintendent Lamont made his way back to the witness box.

  “Superintendent, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that you’re still under oath.” Lamont didn’t respond, but stood glowering at his adversary like a boxer waiting for the bell so the first round could begin.

  “For the record, superintendent, can I assume that’s a yes?”

  Lamont reluctantly nodded. First round to Booth Watson.

  “During your evidence yesterday afternoon, in answer to my learned friend, you repeated ad nauseam that if my client did not conceal the drugs found in the statue at his house, then who did?”

  “And I will be happy to repeat it again, Mr. Booth Watson, if you feel it might speed up proceedings.”

  No doubt who’d won the second round, thought William.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, superintendent. However, what I would like to know is how many police officers invaded Mr. Faulkner’s home in the middle of the night?”

  “I couldn’t be sure of the exact number.”

  “Despite the fact that you were in charge of the operation?”

  “Fifteen, possibly twenty.”

  “In fact, the number was twenty-three, if you include all the officers from the drugs squad, the laboratory analysts, the drivers, and even a photographer, not to mention a couple of sniffer dogs. One might have been forgiven, superintendent, for thin
king my client had stolen the Crown Jewels.”

  Lamont didn’t respond, but the jury weren’t in any doubt who had won the third round.

  “Is it possible that one of those officers could have concealed the drugs in the statue without your knowledge?”

  “Impossible,” said Lamont, fighting back.

  “By that, do you mean you can personally vouch for every last one of them, even the ones you didn’t realize were there?”

  “Of course I can’t,” snapped Lamont. “However, I can assure the court they were all, without exception, first-class professionals, carrying out the job they were trained to do.”

  “Would you describe Detective Superintendent Jeremy Meadows as a first-class professional, who carried out the job he was trained to do?”

  Lamont hesitated, clearly caught off guard, as another of Booth Watson’s punches landed, this one below the belt.

  “Take your time, superintendent, and please don’t be offended if I remind you that you are still under oath.”

  Sir Julian rose to his feet. “M’lud,” he said acidly, “I’m struggling to grasp the relevance of these questions, and where they are leading.”

  “Be assured, m’lud,” said Booth Watson, clearly unmoved, “that will soon become crystal clear.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Booth Watson,” interjected the referee, “as I have some sympathy with Sir Julian’s view. Would you kindly come to the point?”

  “I shall do everything in my power to oblige, Your Lordship.” Booth Watson turned his focus back on Lamont, who still hadn’t replied. “Do you need to be reminded of the question, superintendent?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Then I await your answer with interest.”

  “Yes, I would describe Detective Superintendent Meadows as a consummate professional, and I was proud to be a member of his team.”

  “A consummate professional? May I ask what rank you held when you were so proud to be a member of his team?”

  “I was a detective sergeant in the murder squad, carrying out an investigation into the death of a notorious East End crime boss.”

  “Did that case come to court?”

  Lamont nodded.

  “Once again, superintendent, the court will need to know for the record if that was a yes.”

  “Yes,” replied Lamont curtly.

  “And what verdict did the jury come to on that occasion?”

  “Not guilty,” said Lamont.

  “And can you recall, superintendent, the vital piece of evidence that caused the jury to reach that verdict?”

  Booth Watson continued to stare at the witness.

  “If you can’t, I’d be happy to jog your memory.” He waited for some time before saying, “Defense counsel, in that case, was able to prove that a gun had been planted on the suspect. Perhaps you could tell the court who planted that weapon on an innocent victim, superintendent?”

  “Detective Superintendent Jeremy Meadows,” said Lamont in a voice that did not reach the back of the court.

  “And what became of Detective Superintendent Meadows following that incident?”

  “He resigned from the force and was later sent to prison.”

  “Where is all this leading, Mr. Booth Watson?” asked the judge, as Sir Julian rose to his feet.

  “I suspect we’re about to find out, m’lud,” said Booth Watson, ignoring Sir Julian.

  “And as you have told us, superintendent, you were one of the officers serving on that case.”

  “I had that honor.”

  “Honor? But this was a case in which a senior police officer planted a gun on an innocent man in order to dishonestly secure a conviction.”

  “And less than a month after that man was found not guilty, he murdered another innocent victim.”

  “So you approved of your boss’s action?” said Booth Watson.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t need to. Tell me, superintendent, are you an advocate of ‘noble cause corruption’?” Booth Watson waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. “Perhaps the time has come for you to satisfy the court’s curiosity as to the role you played on that occasion. Following the conviction of your boss, the honorable Detective Superintendent Meadows, a tribunal was set up to investigate whether anyone else on the team was implicated in the crime. Under oath you admitted that as an impressionable young detective sergeant, it was possible you might have turned a blind eye. Could you tell the court what the tribunal decided was the appropriate punishment in your case?”

  “I was demoted from detective sergeant to constable, and spent two years back on the beat, before I was reinstated to my former rank.”

  “So, after an independent tribunal had assessed your honesty and integrity, it recommended that you be demoted.”

  “After which I was reinstated.”

  “And you’re now asking the jury to believe you’re a reformed character?”

  “We all make mistakes,” said Lamont. “Some of us learn from them.”

  “Indeed we do,” said Booth Watson. “But the jury will want to know if you’ve learned not to turn a blind eye when you can’t secure a conviction by honest police work.”

  Lamont stared defiantly at the defense counsel, but Booth Watson didn’t flinch.

  “Were you the officer in charge of the case when my client was falsely accused of stealing a Rembrandt, which he had in fact recovered for the Fitzmolean Museum at great personal expense?”

  “The jury decided he’d illegally held on to the painting for seven years,” said Lamont, getting back up off the canvas, “and the judge gave him a four-year suspended sentence for fraud, and fined him ten thousand pounds.”

  “Well done,” whispered Sir Julian. “Now it’s on the record.”

  Booth Watson dodged the onslaught. “Just answer the question, superintendent. Were you in charge of the case?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “And was that yet another example of noble cause corruption?”

  Sir Julian was quickly on his feet. “I must object, m’lud. The superintendent is not on trial in this case.”

  “I agree, Sir Julian. Move on, Mr. Booth Watson.”

  Booth Watson turned a page of his notes. “Finally, superintendent, may I ask how long it took you on the night of May the seventeenth, to drive from the entrance gates of my client’s property to the front door of his home?”

  “About a minute, a minute and a half.”

  “How interesting. Because when I carried out the same exercise a week ago, it only took me forty-two seconds. But then it’s possible you weren’t in a hurry.”

  Lamont reeled back.

  “And how long did it take for the butler—who will give evidence if required, m’lud—to open the front door and let you in, after you’d kept your finger pressing the bell?”

  “A minute, possibly two.”

  “So, no more than three, possibly four, minutes in all before you and twenty-two highly trained officers burst into my client’s home looking for drugs. And after searching for more than two hours, all they could come up with was one Ecstasy tablet and a couple of marijuana cigarettes.”

  “But later we found—”

  “‘Later’ being the key word. But how much later, I’m bound to ask. Were you the first officer to enter Limpton Hall, superintendent?” said Booth Watson, changing tack.

  “Yes,” said Lamont, sounding puzzled.

  “And where was my client at the time?”

  “Standing at the top of the stairs.”

  “And how was he dressed?”

  “He was wearing a red silk dressing gown.”

  “So after you’d rung the front doorbell, he somehow managed to get twelve wraps of cocaine into a statue inconveniently placed near the front door, rush back upstairs, change out of his dinner jacket, put on his pajamas and a red silk dressing gown—thank you for that fascinating detail, superintendent—and still found time to be standing at the top of the stairs
waiting for you when you charged in, all in under three minutes?”

  Lamont didn’t respond.

  “The Keystone Cops couldn’t have come up with a better story,” said Booth Watson, looking directly at the jury.

  “It’s my belief that the defendant had concealed the twelve wraps of cocaine in the statue before our arrival, with the intention of distributing them among his guests later that evening. We just got our timing wrong.”

  “It’s my belief that you got your timing right, and having failed to come up with anything incriminating after searching my client’s home for more than two hours, someone carried out your orders and conveniently planted the drugs in the statue.”

  “That’s a ridiculous suggestion,” said Lamont, trying to control his temper.

  “Would it also be ridiculous to suggest that, not for the first time in your career, you chose to turn a blind eye when false evidence was planted by one of your colleagues in an attempt to secure a conviction?”

  “Quite ridiculous,” came back Lamont, almost shouting.

  “Possibly a young, impressionable detective sergeant who wanted to please the officer in charge of the investigation?”

  “Even more ridiculous,” said Lamont, his voice rising with every word.

  “A detective sergeant who just happened to know exactly where the drugs were, because that’s where he’d planted them?”

  “That’s a scurrilous accusation, My Lord,” said Sir Julian, leaping to his feet.

  “Especially when the detective sergeant in question just happens to be the son of the Crown’s leading counsel.”

  Sir Julian would have responded, but he wouldn’t have been heard above the outburst that followed, when several people turned around to look at William, who was unable to hide his anger.

  The judge waited for the clamor to die down before he frowned at the defense counsel, and said, “I do hope, Mr. Booth Watson, that you have some proof of these random accusations, otherwise I shall have no choice but to advise the jury to ignore your words and ask you to be more circumspect in future.”

  “Perhaps they wouldn’t have been random accusations, My Lord, had Sir Julian allowed Detective Sergeant Warwick to give evidence from the witness box under oath rather than his boss.”