Hidden in Plain Sight

22

‘Will all those involved in the case of the Crown versus Faulkner please return to court number one, as the jury is about to return.’

Sir Julian was doing up his fly buttons. Grace and Clare were having a coffee in the barristers’ room. Mr Booth Watson was writing an opinion on insider trading for a client in Guernsey, while Miles Faulkner was exchanging phone numbers with a woman he’d just met in the corridor.

They all began to make their separate ways back to court number one to hear the jury’s verdict. The journalists didn’t care which way the decision went. The Evening Standard already had two headlines set in store: BANGED UP, and ESCAPED AGAIN, and two articles to go with them, both written by the same journalist.

Faulkner returned to the dock, while everyone else took their places and waited for the judge to reappear. An anticipatory silence fell over the court as Mr Justice Baverstock made his entrance. Once he was seated, he nodded to the bailiff to indicate that the jury could return.

All eyes were fixed on the seven men and five women as they filed back into the jury box for the last time. They had chosen a matronly-looking middle-aged woman as their foreman. She’d squeezed into a tightly fitted suit, wore no jewellery, and little make-up. Sir Julian studied her closely, but could deduce little from her calm and professional demeanour. A headmistress or a hospital matron, certainly someone used to making decisions.

Once they had settled, the judge nodded to the clerk of the court. He rose from his place, took a pace forward and faced the jury.

‘Will the foreman please rise.’ The middle-aged lady stood up, and if she was at all nervous, there was no sign of it. ‘Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?’ the clerk enquired.

‘We have, My Lord,’ she said, looking up at the judge.

‘Do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty, of being in possession of an illegal substance, namely twelve grams of cocaine?’

Faulkner held his breath. Grace closed her eyes, while William stared directly at the accused.

‘Guilty.’

Hawksby and Lamont shook hands while several journalists sprang from their places and quickly left the court in search of the nearest phone. Clare hugged Grace as William made his way towards the Crown bench to join them. But the majority of those in court remained in their places, impatiently awaiting the judge’s final pronouncement.

‘Will the prisoner please stand,’ said the clerk once a semblance of order had been restored.

Faulkner rose unsteadily to his feet and gripped the sides of the dock, as he waited to learn his fate.

‘This has been a most unusual case, for several reasons,’ Mr Justice Baverstock began, ‘and I will require a little time to consider its full implications before I pass sentence. I would therefore ask all interested parties to return to this court at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, when I will pass sentence.’

‘My Lord,’ said Booth Watson, rising from his place. ‘Can I assume that my client will remain on bail overnight?’

Grace was about to leap up and object, when His Lordship said, ‘No, you cannot, Mr Booth Watson. He will be remanded in custody pending sentencing, because if I were to grant your request, I am not convinced your client would reappear in court tomorrow morning to hear my judgment.’

Booth Watson sank back in his place without further comment.

‘Take him down,’ said the clerk of the court.

Two policemen stepped forward, gripped Faulkner firmly by the arms, and led him downstairs to the cells.

‘All rise.’

William watched as Faulkner disappeared out of sight and could only wonder what must be going through his mind.

‘Congratulations, Grace,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

‘Thank you, Father. And there are several reasons why I couldn’t have done it without you.’

They both smiled.

‘I fear, young lady, that it will not be long before you take silk, and I will no longer be able to call upon your services as my junior. And thank you too, Clare, even if I suspect that in future you’ll be known as Caviar Clare. But congratulations to both of you on a famous victory.’

‘How long do you think the sentence will be?’ asked Clare, as they made their way out of court.

‘Pick a number,’ said Sir Julian, ‘and you’ll get it wrong.’

‘I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance you could influence the judge, BW?’ said Faulkner, as he sat down on the thin, hard mattress. ‘You managed it last time.’

‘No, I didn’t. It was the judge who influenced you,’ Booth Watson reminded him as he pulled up a chair. ‘I have hinted to the Criminal Appeal Office that as our prisons are so overcrowded they might consider a heavy fine more appropriate than a custodial sentence in this case, but so far the idea has fallen on deaf ears.’

‘If only I’d taken your advice, BW, and refused to be cross-examined, we’d be having dinner at the Savoy this evening.’

This was one of those rare occasions when Booth Watson didn’t offer an opinion, personal or professional.

‘Four million?’ repeated Christina.

‘Possibly more,’ said Mr Nealon. ‘I have two or three clients on my books who’ve been looking for a property like this for some time, and once it’s been advertised in all the glossy magazines and journals, who knows how much it might fetch?’

‘That sounds promising,’ said Christina.

‘So, would you like me to put it on the market, Mrs Faulkner?’

‘Yes, but not until I’m no longer Mrs Faulkner, which shouldn’t be too long now.’

‘All rise.’

Mr Justice Baverstock entered his fiefdom for the last time in the case of the Crown v. Faulkner. He placed a thick red-leather folder marked EIIR on the bench in front of him, sat down and adjusted his red robes before looking down on the court and waiting for everyone to settle. He placed a pair of half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose and nodded to the clerk.

‘Will the prisoner please rise?’

Faulkner stood up and faced His Lordship. It was clear for all to see that he hadn’t slept the previous night.

The judge opened the red folder, looked down at his handwritten words and began to deliver his judgment.

‘There is no doubt in my mind, Mr Faulkner, that you are a ruthless, unprincipled and amoral man, who lacks any sense of decency or decorum, and who, because of your wealth and status, feels you are above the law. With this in mind, and remembering the seriousness of the offence, you are sentenced to serve six years in prison.’

Grace wanted to leap in the air, but somehow managed to control herself, while several of those around her could not. From the look on Sir Julian’s face it was clear that he did consider his daughter’s behaviour appropriate, but didn’t comment.

‘But, given the circumstances,’ continued the judge once he’d regained everyone’s attention, ‘I have decided to suspend the sentence and fine you one million pounds, over and above any legal costs involved in this trial, which you will also bear.’

Faulkner wanted to leap in the air and cry hallelujah, although he was surprised to see his advocate didn’t appear to share his relief but continued to sit there, looking po-faced.

‘However,’ the judge continued, as he turned a page, ‘I have been reminded you are currently serving a four-year suspended sentence for a previous offence of fraud. Mr Justice Nourse, who presided over the trial, made it clear that should you commit another crime during your probationary period, however minor, you would automatically be sentenced to serve four years in a maximum-security prison with no remission, and as I have no authority to override that decision, you will now carry out that sentence.’

Faulkner collapsed back into his chair, and placed his head in his hands.

‘And because of that previous judgment, I am advised by the Crown Prosecution Service I have been left with no choice but to add the six years I have prescribed to the original four, so that your sentence will now be for ten years.’

Mr Justice Baverstock closed his red folder and once again nodded to the clerk of the court. The uproar was such that few people heard the clerk say, ‘Take the prisoner down.’

Sir Julian uncorked a bottle of champagne and began to pour glasses for his victorious team.

‘How many jars of caviar did you manage to retrieve?’ asked Clare.

‘The jury polished off both of theirs,’ said Grace. ‘Claimed they needed to sample the evidence. Booth Watson’s has gone missing, and I don’t expect to see Faulkner’s again. But the judge kindly returned his.’

‘That’s going to cost you more than you’ve earned as my junior on this case,’ said Julian, handing her a glass of champagne.

‘Won’t the DPP cover the cost?’ said Clare. ‘After all, we did win the case, despite their learned advice.’

‘Not a hope. But the good news is that Faulkner will have to stump up the Crown’s costs, as the judge ruled that all the legal expenses were to be paid by him.’

Glasses were immediately raised in an unlikely toast to ‘Miles Faulkner’.

‘And a toast to Grace, who secured the verdict,’ said Sir Julian, raising his glass a second time.

‘To Grace!’ they all cried, following suit.

‘Coupled with the name of Adrian Heath,’ said William, ‘who supplied us with the vital clue that brought the bastard down.’

‘Adrian Heath,’ they all repeated, as they raised their glasses a third time.

‘Good news,’ said Barry Nealon. ‘We’ve had an offer of five million for Limpton Hall.’

‘Five million?’ repeated Christina in disbelief. ‘But that’s way above the asking price.’

‘It most certainly is,’ said Nealon, ‘and the buyer’s solicitors have offered to pay a deposit of half a million if you’d be willing to take the property off the market immediately.’

‘What do you recommend?’

‘I would advise you to accept the offer. Not least because the buyer has agreed that if he doesn’t complete the purchase within thirty days, he will forfeit his deposit, so I can’t see a downside.’

‘Who’s the “he”?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Nealon. ‘The transaction has been conducted by his solicitor.’

Within a week of his arrival at Pentonville, prisoner number 4307 had been moved into a single cell. After a fortnight, he had his own table in the canteen, and no one else was allowed to join him unless they were invited. After three weeks, he was taken off latrine-cleaning duties and appointed an orderly in the library, where he wasn’t troubled too much by the other inmates. By the end of the month, he had his own time slot in the gym, with a personal trainer who charged by the hour. By the time another month had passed, he’d read War and Peace, A Tale of Two Cities, The Count of Monte Cristo, and lost a stone. He’d never been fitter, or better read.

During the third month, the Financial Times was delivered to his cell just after eight every morning, along with a cup of tea, not a mug. But his biggest coup took a little longer to achieve: access to his own phone for fifteen minutes a day, thirty on Sundays.

His weekend visitors — he was only allowed two, like every other inmate — were not friends or relatives but business associates, as he had no time to waste on frivolous matters. Once a fortnight he was entitled to spend an hour with his legal adviser. He was the only one who could afford such a luxury on a regular basis. He instructed Booth Watson to put in an appeal for a retrial on the grounds that the original trial should have been thrown out as Adrian Heath was unable to give further evidence. Appeal rejected. His second appeal was against the length of his sentence, on the grounds that it was excessive for such a minor offence. He hadn’t yet heard back from the CPS. He then applied to be moved to an open prison, on the grounds that he had no history of violence. This too was rejected. He finally wrote to the Home Secretary, demanding that his sentence be halved for good behaviour. He didn’t even receive an acknowledgement of his letter.

He had surprised Booth Watson at their first meeting, a rare feat, when he instructed him to put in an offer for Limpton Hall, with a solicitor he’d never used before.

‘I didn’t realize it was on the market,’ admitted Booth Watson.

‘It isn’t,’ Faulkner had replied. ‘And it will be off the market by next week. I also want you to get in touch with Mr Davage at Christie’s, and make it clear you will be bidding for any of my pictures should they come up for auction.’

‘What makes you think she’ll put them up for sale?’

‘Christina won’t have any choice in the matter,’ said Faulkner. ‘If she carries out her plan to buy the dream property in Florida, she’s bound to put her account in the red.’

‘And the pictures?’

‘The walls of Limpton Hall will be empty long before then, along with her bank account.’

Booth Watson was a man who knew when to stop asking questions he didn’t want to know the answer to. He was relieved when SO Rose returned to tell him their hour was up.

If the prison authorities had been more diligent, they would have taken a greater interest in 4307’s reading matter, and in one particular prisoner who regularly walked around the yard with him — and the offence he’d been convicted for.

‘Sign here, here and here,’ said Sir Julian, as he handed Mrs Faulkner his pen.

‘So, it’s finally all over,’ said Christina once the ink had dried. ‘Frankly I’m surprised Miles agreed to part with his precious paintings, considering he’s always loved them more than me. Still, he’ll be able to buy them all back when they come up for auction, although I’ll make sure they don’t come cheap.’

Sir Julian raised an eyebrow.

‘I’ll have a bidder in the room making sure they all go way above the auctioneer’s estimate,’ explained Christina.

‘In which case you will be breaking the law, Mrs Faulkner, which I would strongly advise against.’

‘How come?’

‘You would have formed a cartel with no other purpose than to force up the price for your own advantage, and, be assured, your husband will have already worked that one out.’

‘Ex-husband,’ she said, looking at the recently signed papers.

‘Not until he’s also signed the annulment,’ said Sir Julian.

‘What choice has he been left with, now he’s locked up in prison?’

‘With hours to think about little else except what you’re up to. And nothing would please him more than for you to end up in jail for breaking a law you didn’t even know existed. In fact, I suspect this would be one of those rare occasions when Booth Watson would be happy to appear on behalf of the Crown.’

‘Then I’ll have to be satisfied with what they raise at auction.’

‘I think that might be advisable, Mrs Faulkner, and don’t forget you have already had an offer of five million for Limpton Hall, and I’ve had it confirmed that the £500,000 has been deposited with the other side’s solicitors.’

‘Which will make it possible for me to put down a deposit on my dream house in Florida on the same terms.’

‘When are you thinking of moving to the States?’

‘As soon as the paintings have been sold. Christie’s have valued the collection at around thirty million, and will be picking them up next week, ready for their spring sale. The timing couldn’t be better.’

‘Are you confident that they’re all originals, and not copies?’ asked Sir Julian. ‘Something your ex is well capable of arranging.’

‘I’m certain. They’ve all been authenticated by the relevant experts at Christie’s. Otherwise I would never have signed the divorce papers.’

‘And where will you live once Limpton Hall is sold?’

‘In our apartment in Eaton Square. It’s only got a few months left on the lease, but that should be more than enough to see me through before I take up residence in Florida.’

‘Then everything is settled, unless there is anything else you need to seek my advice on?’

‘Yes. I have a gift for your daughter-in-law, or to be more accurate, the Fitzmolean. It’s my way of saying thank you for all your family has done for me.’

She picked up a Sainsbury’s carrier bag by her side, took out a small painting, and held it up for Sir Julian to admire. He stared in awe at The White Lace Collar by Vermeer, the masterpiece Beth had raved about after having tea with Christina at Limpton Hall.

‘That’s extremely generous of you,’ he said. ‘But are you sure you’re willing to part with such a valuable painting?’

‘Quite sure,’ said Christina. ‘After all, there are seventy-two more where that came from.’

The phone was ringing on his side of the bed, but he didn’t manage to grab it before a heavily pregnant Beth had turned over and groaned.

‘Sorry,’ he whispered, as he picked it up. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Hawksby.’

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Get yourself to Battersea heliport as quickly as possible, DS Warwick. A car will be with you in a few minutes’ time. Don’t keep me waiting.’

‘Anything I ought to know, sir?’

‘It’s snowing,’ said the Hawk before the line went dead.

William put the phone down and quickly threw on yesterday’s clothes, before kissing Beth, which elicited a second groan, as he headed for the door.

‘Where are you off to at this time in the morning, caveman?’

‘I wish I knew,’ he said, and had closed the bedroom door before she could ask any more questions he couldn’t answer. As he opened the front door a squad car was pulling up outside.

‘Morning, sarge,’ said a familiar voice as the car drove off through the falling snow.

‘Morning, Danny. Any idea what’s going on?’

‘Above my pay grade. All I know is that I’ve got to get you to Battersea heliport sharpish, where you’ll meet up with Commander Hawksby.’

Danny sped off down Royal Hospital Road, blue light flashing, but no siren. ‘Wouldn’t want to wake the neighbours, would we?’

‘Or Beth,’ said William, as he thought about his pregnant wife. Not long now.

There wasn’t much traffic on the road at that time in the morning, so Danny didn’t need to perform his usual box of tricks, though William still had to cling on to the dashboard whenever he took a corner, as if they were on a vast skid-pad.

‘I bet the Hawk’s already standing there waiting for us,’ said William, as they shot across Battersea Bridge and took a sharp right.

‘Sitting, actually, sarge, in the back of the helicopter.’

‘Of course he is,’ said William, as they passed through the front gate of the heliport. He jumped out of the car as it skidded to a halt, nearly losing his balance as he sloshed through the snow to the waiting helicopter. He dived into the back.

‘Good morning, sir,’ William said, as he strapped himself in.

‘A perfect morning for what I have in mind, DS Warwick,’ responded the commander as the rotor blades began to spin. ‘As you’re about to find out.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Wrong question. It’s not where we’re going that’s important, but what we’re looking for. So keep your eyes peeled.’

‘Any clues?’ asked William, as the helicopter rose into the sky, and he looked back over his shoulder to see the House of Commons covered in snow, looking like a Christmas card.

‘Not if you’re hoping for your next promotion.’

The helicopter banked left and headed south-east, leaving Westminster behind them.

‘Any observations you want to share with me?’ asked the Hawk after a few minutes.

‘We’re flying over Wandsworth, Southwark and Brixton,’ said William. ‘So we must be looking for tower blocks, and one in particular?’

‘You’re halfway there,’ said the commander, as the pilot made a smooth 180-degree turn, before heading back towards Brixton. ‘So, what’s unusual about this morning?’

‘It’s snowing heavily,’ said William, but didn’t add, so what?

‘You’re so sharp, DS Warwick, you could peel an apple.’

They flew over Battersea Bridge for a second time, but William was still none the wiser, although the commander clearly knew exactly what he was looking for, as his eyes remained focused on the buildings below.

After the pilot had turned back for a third time and took a slightly different route, the Hawk suddenly declared, ‘There it is, staring us both in the face.’

‘There’s what?’ said William, as the helicopter swooped down to hover for a moment above one particular tower block.

‘Take a closer look, DS Warwick, and tell me what you see. Or more important, what you don’t see.’

William stared through the falling snow and then suddenly let out a yelp of triumph. ‘Got it!’

‘What have you got, DS Warwick?’

‘The roof that isn’t covered in snow.’

‘And what does that tell you?’

‘Has to be above a drugs factory where they’re growing cannabis.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the rising heat from the massive arc lights inside is melting the snow the moment it settles.’

‘In one. So now we’ve discovered where Rashidi’s slaughter is, we can move on to the more difficult challenge of how we get inside without him realizing we know his most closely guarded secret.’

A job for your UCO, thought William, but didn’t offer his opinion as the helicopter headed back to Battersea. If he had mentioned it, the commander would have agreed with him, although he wouldn’t have told him he had an appointment with Marlboro Man later that morning.

‘What’s it going to cost me?’

‘In and out, clean job, five grand cash should do it,’ his fellow prisoner said, as they continued their slow perambulation around the yard. ‘But it won’t be possible if anyone else is on the premises.’

‘Then it will have to be on a Friday,’ said Faulkner. ‘That’s the housekeeper’s day off when she visits her mother in Sevenoaks. They have lunch together and go to the local cinema, before she spends the evening at her mother’s house. She’s rarely back at the Hall much before eleven.’

‘You seem remarkably clued-in about her movements, remembering we’re banged up in here.’

‘Although my ex-wife has sacked most of the staff, she’s kept my chauffeur on. He’s currently receiving two pay packets a week, and I pay both of them.’

‘How do I get paid?’

‘Makins, who used to be my butler, will be waiting at the Hall next Saturday evening. He has another job to do for me during the day, so if your man turns up at around seven, he’ll receive the first thousand.’

‘And the rest?’

‘You’ll get that when it’s clear for all to see that the job’s been done.’

They shook hands. The only way a contract can be closed in prison. A long buzzer sounded, and the prisoners began to drift out of the yard and make their way slowly back to their cells.

‘And the young man?’ said Faulkner before they went their separate ways. ‘Don’t forget we’ll need his services the night before.’

‘Got the ideal person for the assignment. But that will cost you another grand.’

‘I’ll need to make a phone call this evening,’ Faulkner murmured as he passed the duty officer.

‘No problem, Mr Faulkner. I’ll come and get you around seven o’clock.’