Next In Line

Chapter 10

‘In theory, this one should be an open-and-shut case,’ declared Sir Julian as he paced around his office clutching the lapels of his jacket as if addressing a jury. ‘However, in practice,’ he paused before continuing, ‘there are one or two anomalies the Crown is unable to ignore.’

Neither Grace nor Clare interrupted their leader while they took notes.

‘Let’s begin with the facts of the case. The defendant, Miles Faulkner, escaped from police custody while attending his mother’s funeral and, some months later, staged his own funeral to convince the police he was dead.’

‘Mrs Faulkner even offered to supply his ashes,’ said Clare, ‘but I explained to her that we haven’t yet mastered how to identify someone’s DNA from their ashes.’

‘Faulkner would have been well aware of that — otherwise he wouldn’t have offered them on a silver platter,’ said Sir Julian. ‘However, what he couldn’t have anticipated was a vigilant policewoman’ — he paused and looked down at the notes on his desk to check her name — ‘Detective Constable Rebecca Pankhurst,’ he continued, ‘who spotted Faulkner’s lawyer, Mr Booth Watson, in a departure lounge at Heathrow, waiting to board a flight for Barcelona. DC Pankhurst interrupted her own holiday so she could join him on that flight without him being aware of her presence. Thanks to the cooperation of the Spanish police,’ said Sir Julian, still perambulating, ‘Scotland Yard were able to track down Faulkner, who was living in a large, secluded country house a few miles outside the Catalan capital.

‘He might have evaded the police yet again had it not been for an equally resourceful Detective Inspector, who ironically ended up saving Faulkner’s life. However, that’s the point at which it stops being an open-and-shut case. I’ll leave you to bring us up to date, Clare,’ he said, before turning to his daughter, ‘while you, Grace, as my junior, can act as devil’s advocate and try to think like Booth Watson.’

‘I presume by that you mean devious and amoral, while exuding oily charm when it comes to addressing the jury.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ said Sir Julian.

‘I have already interviewed both DCI Warwick,’ began Clare, avoiding saying ‘your son’, ‘and DI Hogan. Hogan claims that while Faulkner was attempting to escape, he locked himself into his own safe and would have suffocated if he hadn’t come to his rescue.’

‘That much I believe,’ said Sir Julian. ‘But I fear the rest of Hogan’s story sounds less credible. However, please continue.’

‘DI Hogan went on to report that Faulkner was still alive but unconscious when he pulled him out of the safe. With the help of a Lieutenant Sanchez of the Spanish national police, who performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, Faulkner regained consciousness and asked to be taken back to London so he could consult his own doctor. He then fainted.’

‘That’s the bit I find less convincing,’ said Sir Julian, ‘and I’m sure Booth Watson will find several holes in DI Hogan’s evidence once he gets him in the witness box — and will then grandstand when it comes to how it was possible for Hogan to commandeer Faulkner’s private jet, and then fly him back to London without his express permission.’

‘But Inspector Hogan was able to supply us with the name of Faulkner’s physician in Harley Street,’ said Grace.

‘I suspect that Hogan is a risk-taker, who took a punt on Harley Street and got lucky.’

‘Unfortunately, neither Lieutenant Sanchez nor DCI Warwick were able to confirm the exchange between Faulkner and Hogan,’ continued Clare, ‘and, at the time, they took Hogan at his word. It wasn’t until they’d got Faulkner back to England, and he was locked up once again, that DCI Warwick began to consider the consequences of their actions.’

‘We should remember,’ said Grace, ‘that Faulkner was responsible for the tragic death of the Inspector’s wife, so Hogan’s judgement might well have been, to use a legal term, temporarily impaired.’

‘Booth Watson won’t be bothering with temporarily, once he gets Hogan into the witness box,’ said Sir Julian. ‘He’ll start by raising the subject of kidnapping, which I don’t think you’ll find is recommended procedure in the Metropolitan Police handbook.’

‘And that will be before he turns his attention to the theft of a Frans Hals self-portrait, worth at least half a million,’ added Grace, ‘that the general public will have the chance to view at an exhibition to be opened by the Princess of Wales.’

‘An exhibition that will take place at the Fitzmolean Museum,’ said Clare, ‘where coincidentally DCI Warwick’s wife just happens to be the keeper of pictures.’

‘Booth Watson won’t consider it a coincidence, and you can be sure that “the keeper of pictures” will be words he repeats ad nauseam while addressing the jury,’ said Sir Julian. ‘Is there any good news?’

‘That problem could well resolve itself as the trial doesn’t begin until after the exhibition has closed,’ said Clare, ‘and the painting will have been returned to its rightful owner.’

‘Whoever that might be,’ said Sir Julian, the lines on his forehead creasing to reveal deep furrows. ‘But how does that help our cause?’

‘Mrs Christina Faulkner has signed an affidavit stating that the painting belongs to her,’ replied Clare, ‘and she therefore has the right to loan it to whomever she pleases.’

‘Unfortunately, we won’t find out which side that woman is on,’ said Grace, ‘until she enters the witness box, and that’s not a risk I’d be willing to take while BW has more to offer her than we do. And in any case, by then it may be too late.’

‘I fear you’re right,’ said Sir Julian. ‘And we’re already on shaky ground when it comes to defending our position, as Booth Watson will undoubtedly point out when he joins us for a preliminary consultation’ — he checked his watch — ‘in about twenty minutes’ time.’

‘I have a feeling,’ said Grace, ‘that he’ll be only too happy to make a deal that will allow him to get Faulkner off the hook, remembering that he stayed in contact with him after his escape from prison, and even played the conductor at his orchestrated funeral.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ added Sir Julian. ‘But will it be enough to stop him raising the subjects of kidnap and theft?’ He paused for a moment before he picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. ‘I’ve already made a wish list for us to consider,’ he declared, ‘were we in his shoes.’

‘So have I,’ said Clare, extracting a sheet of lined yellow paper from the agreed bundle.

‘Good, then let’s compare notes,’ said Grace.

‘One,’ began Sir Julian, ‘BW will demand that the case be heard in open court so all the damning evidence concerning Chief Inspector Warwick will be in the public domain. And by that, I mean on the front pages of every tabloid newspaper, because if there’s one thing the press enjoy more than being responsible for putting a criminal behind bars, it’s having a go at the police.’

‘Judges aren’t influenced by the red-tops,’ said Grace.

‘But juries are,’ countered Sir Julian. ‘And don’t forget not many of them read the Guardian.’

‘But—’ began Grace.

‘Therefore,’ he continued, taking over from his daughter before she could offer an opinion. ‘Don’t be surprised if BW advises Faulkner to plead guilty to a lesser offence in exchange for a suspended sentence.’

‘Unlikely,’ said Grace. ‘If that were to happen, the press would want to know the reason why he’d got off so lightly.’

‘Two,’ said Sir Julian, ‘for not raising the subject of a stolen painting, he will demand his client’s current sentence be halved to four years, which would mean with good behaviour he’d be released in about a year’s time.’

‘Hogan should have left him in the safe,’ muttered Clare, before putting another tick on her list.

Sir Julian ignored the comment before summing up. ‘So, what we’re looking at is the Crown calling for the judge to double Faulkner’s sentence to sixteen years for absconding from prison, while the defence will be pushing for us to drop the latest charges in exchange for not raising the subject of kidnap and theft, while at the same time halving Faulkner’s present sentence if he’s willing to plead guilty, thus ensuring nothing gets into the press. So what have we got to offer,’ he continued, ‘to prevent that from happening? Because at the moment, frankly I can’t come up with a whole lot.’

‘As I mentioned,’ said Grace, ‘Booth Watson has one or two of his own problems that he certainly won’t want raised in open court.’

‘Rehearse your argument as if you were addressing the jury,’ instructed Sir Julian, gripping the lapels of his jacket before setting off on another circuit.

‘If Booth Watson attended Faulkner’s staged funeral in Geneva, as DCI Warwick will confirm he did, and later flew to Barcelona to see him, as witnessed by DC Pankhurst, he must have known all along that Faulkner was still alive, which means, under the 1967 Criminal Law Act, he was aiding and abetting a fugitive. If we can prove that, the police would have no choice but to open a preliminary investigation into his conduct, the results of which they’d pass on to the CPS and the Bar Council. That could result in Booth Watson being struck off, and even arrested for criminal conspiracy, which would make him ineligible to defend Faulkner, or anyone else for that matter.’

Sir Julian considered this for a few moments before saying, ‘Much as I dislike the man, let’s hope we don’t have to stoop that low.’

‘Even if we did,’ said Clare, ‘I feel confident BW will stoop even lower.’

Ross sat silently in the front passenger seat of the Jaguar while the Princess and Lady Victoria Campbell chatted happily in the back. He tried not to show how nervous he was, remembering this was his first official outing with the Princess.

He had already visited the Dorchester earlier that morning to liaise with the forward recce officer. Together they’d walked the course, so HRH couldn’t take a single step in any direction he hadn’t anticipated, and after that the sniffer dogs carried out their own form of surveillance.

The FRO briefed the hotel’s manager to expect a VIP visitor without naming them, while warning everyone that if any details were to leak, the event would be cancelled or moved to another venue at a moment’s notice. That usually ensured everyone involved kept their mouth shut.

Ross had joined them when they’d checked HRH’s designated route in and out of the building, while at the same time considering if any alternative was available, should an emergency arise. He’d also requested a private room be put aside with a landline, in case HRH wanted to make a personal call, as well as a rest room for her use only.

Once everything had been covered to his satisfaction, he’d asked the manager if anyone had been sacked recently, someone who might have a grievance they’d want to air in public in the hope it would ruin their day. The last thing Ross double-checked was to confirm there would be an escape vehicle hovering at the rear of the building, with a doctor on board and a driver who enjoyed cutting corners, just in case they needed to leave sharpish.

A second advance team would have gone over everything again after Ross had left, and would have already arrived earlier that morning — not that you’d have noticed them keeping a jaundiced eye on anyone or anything that looked out of place, while a member of the public couldn’t have got past the front door without an invitation card, plus personal ID with an up-to-date photograph — which, Ross had been reliably informed, had once stopped Billy Connolly joining HRH for lunch.

And despite all the preparation, they still knew there was always the possibility that something might arise they hadn’t considered, which would mean standard procedure would be thrown out of the window. If that were to happen, Ross would be expected to make what the pros called a thinking-on-your-feet decision. It was a protection officer’s worst nightmare, because on that one decision alone, your whole career might be judged. Princess Anne’s PPO had made an instant decision when the royal car was attacked in the Mall by terrorists — but luckily for him, and for her, he got it right. He was awarded the George Cross, promoted and ended up being the Queen’s personal protection officer. But Ross was still hoping something like that would never occur on his watch.

As the car approached the Dorchester, Ross could see a large crowd had gathered on the pavement outside, keenly awaiting the arrival of the Princess. When they drew up at the ballroom entrance, Ross jumped out and opened the back door for his charge. As Diana stepped out she was greeted with cheers and popping flashbulbs.

Ross had been warned by his predecessor that the next few minutes, when she would stop and chat to members of the public, were always the most fraught for any protection officer. He scanned the crowd. Ninety-nine per cent of them would be harmless, but he was only interested in the other one per cent: someone who wasn’t waving or cheering; someone he recognized from the mugshots back at the Yard which were indelibly etched on his memory; someone hoping to make it onto tomorrow’s front pages. That handful of people who were classified as ‘fixated individuals’ — the fanatics, the deluded, or even a passionate republican who wanted to express their opinion to a captive audience.

The Princess was met on the pavement by Sir Magdi Yacoub, the eminent Professor of Cardiothoracic Surgery at Imperial College, whose work she’d supported for many years.

After welcoming the Princess, Sir Magdi guided her into the hotel, where a long line of carefully selected supporters and volunteers had been patiently waiting for the past half hour. Diana took her time chatting to each one of them as she progressed slowly down the line, finally to be presented with the obligatory bouquet of flowers by a young nurse. She accepted them with a gracious smile before handing them to her lady-in-waiting. She spent the next twenty minutes mingling with some of those who hadn’t been chosen to stand in line.

Ross continued to watch carefully for anyone who stepped into her path or clung on to her hand for a little too long. Despite having carried out a recce of the site earlier that morning, he knew he couldn’t afford to relax even for a second.

A gong sounded just before one o’clock. The toastmaster stepped forward and, with a booming voice worthy of a sergeant major, invited the guests to make their way through to the dining room as luncheon was about to be served.

The Princess hung back until everyone had left the room except Sir Magdi, who was waiting for the toastmaster to make a further announcement.

‘Please be upstanding for Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales, accompanied by your chairman, Sir Magdi Yacoub.’

Four hundred guests rose and applauded the Princess all the way to the top table, and no one sat down until she had taken her place. Not for the first time Ross thought how difficult it must be not to allow such unbridled adoration to go to one’s head.

His eyes continued to move restlessly around the crowded room of chattering guests who couldn’t hide their excitement at being there. He was asked a couple of times if he’d like to sit down and have some lunch, but politely declined, preferring to remain in the wings, just a few steps away from his charge. He hoped he would never have to walk out onto the centre of the stage and play a leading role.

While Diana enjoyed her smoked salmon and chatted to her neighbours on the top table, Ross watched the waiters vigilantly. In Russia, they would be considered the biggest threat.

Once the last plate had been cleared away and coffee served, the speeches began with the chairman’s introduction about the charity’s work, before he welcomed the guest of honour. The toastmaster placed a small lectern on the table in front of the Princess, and her lady-in-waiting handed her the speech, which she’d seen for the first time that morning; just enough time to add one or two personal comments.

The guests listened to Diana’s words with rapt attention, laughed at her jokes and, when she sat down, they rose as one to give her a standing ovation few politicians would ever experience. Not for the first time, Ross wondered if she ever thought about how different her life would have been if she hadn’t married the Prince of Wales.

It was finally the turn of the charity’s auctioneer to coax money out of the guests. He offered them everything from a box at the Royal Albert Hall for the Last Night of the Proms, to a couple of debenture seats for the women’s semi-finals at Wimbledon. After the last item had come under the hammer, he announced that the auction had raised £160,000 for the charity, which was greeted with further loud applause. The Princess leant across and whispered something in the auctioneer’s ear.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, returning to the microphone. ‘Her Royal Highness has agreed to sign your tablecloths for any generous person who will donate one thousand pounds to the charity.’

Several hands immediately shot up, and Ross accompanied the Princess as she moved from table to table, signing the white linen cloths, and a number of napkins — for £500 — using a black felt-tip pen supplied by her lady-in-waiting.

When she finally returned to the top table, the auctioneer announced that the charity had benefited by a further £42,000, making a grand total of £202,000 which would benefit disadvantaged children in need of heart surgery.

Once again, the audience rose to their feet, the sign it was time for the Princess to leave. Ross stepped forward and cleared a path to ensure she had an uninterrupted journey back to the main entrance. As she passed the auctioneer she whispered, ‘Thank you, Jeffrey, it never fails.’ The auctioneer bowed, but didn’t comment. During his time in the Met, Ross had often witnessed blatant deception, but never at a royal level. As the Princess stepped outside, the flashbulbs once again began to pop, while Ross continued to scan the crowd, some members of which had hung around for hours, hoping for a second glance.

Ross then witnessed one of those personal touches that made Diana so popular with the public. She spotted someone she recognized as having been there when she’d first arrived, and stopped to chat to them. Ross didn’t relax until she finally climbed into the back of the car, where Victoria was waiting for her.

The Jaguar moved slowly off, allowing Diana to continue waving until the last well-wisher was out of sight, when she breathed a deep sigh of relief.

‘Two hundred and two thousand, ma’am. Not bad,’ said Victoria as the car speeded up and two police outriders, their lights flashing and shrill whistles blasting at every junction, cleared the path for her smooth return to Kensington Palace.

‘What next?’ Diana asked.

‘Nothing else today, ma’am,’ said Victoria. ‘You can relax this evening and enjoy Blind Date with Cilla Black.’

‘Perhaps I should enter?’ she said wistfully.

Ross had quickly come to realize that Diana never wanted to relax. The rush of adrenaline she experienced at these public functions was what kept her going. He still hadn’t told William that he’d yet to meet the Prince of Wales.

‘It’s good of you to join us, BW,’ said Sir Julian, after Booth Watson arrived a few minutes late for their meeting, which didn’t surprise the home team. ‘I think you already know my junior, who assisted me when you and I crossed swords during Faulkner’s first trial.’

‘You needn’t look forward to the same result this time, young lady,’ said Booth Watson, giving Grace a patronizing smile and receiving a curt nod in return.

‘And my instructing solicitor for this case,’ Sir Julian continued, ignoring the barb, ‘will be Clare Sutton.’ Booth Watson barely acknowledged her before taking his seat on the other side of the table. ‘I thought it might be useful to have a preliminary discussion now that the trial date has been set.’

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Booth Watson, taking the Crown by surprise. ‘That’s assuming you have something worthwhile to offer that I can take back to my client for his consideration.’

‘Not a great deal,’ admitted Sir Julian, unwilling to reveal his hand. ‘We will be recommending that the judge doubles Mr Faulkner’s present sentence to sixteen years, which I doubt will come as a surprise to you. However,’ he continued before Booth Watson could respond, ‘Mr Justice Cummings has agreed to knock two years off the sentence if your client pleads guilty, which would save the court considerable time and expense.’

The three of them waited for the volcano to erupt, but no lava appeared.

‘I will put your offer to my client,’ said Booth Watson, ‘and let you know his response.’

‘Are there any mitigating circumstances that you would like us to consider at this juncture?’ asked Grace, delivering a well-prepared line.

‘None that I can think of, Ms Warwick,’ came back the immediate reply. ‘But should anything arise following my consultation with Mr Faulkner, you’ll be the first to hear.’

Once again, Sir Julian was taken by surprise, and it was a few moments before he responded. ‘Well, if there’s nothing more to discuss, BW, we’ll wait to hear back from you in the fullness of time.’

‘That’s good of you, Julian,’ said Booth Watson, rising from his seat. ‘I’ll be seeing my client towards the end of the week, and will be back in touch as soon as I’ve received my instructions.’

Sir Julian reluctantly stood and shook hands with his rival as if they were old friends before accompanying him to the door, where he said, ‘I look forward to hearing from you, BW.’

Clare waited until after the door had been closed before she said, ‘What’s he up to?’

‘One of two things,’ said Sir Julian. ‘He’s either keeping his powder dry until after he’s consulted Faulkner, which seems to me the most likely explanation, unless—’ The two of them waited for him to complete the sentence. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m unwilling to believe that even BW would sink that low...’