Next In Line

Chapter 12

Faulkner used the daily exercise break productively.

Tulip had fixed a meeting with the one person who could make it happen. Reggie the pimp, sentenced to five years for importuning young boys for personal gain.

‘How can I be of assistance, Mr Faulkner?’ Reggie asked as they strolled around the exercise yard together. Two heavily built prisoners in front of them, and a couple more a few paces behind, ensured that the boss wasn’t interrupted.

‘I need a male prostitute for Friday evening,’ said Faulkner. ‘He has to be all things bright and beautiful.’

‘It will be quite difficult to smuggle one into the prison, Mr Faulkner, even with your contacts.’

‘Not for me, moron. It’s for my wife.’

‘Sorry, guv, misunderstood you. So what will my boy be expected to do?’

‘My wife always goes to Tramp on Friday evening, hoping to pick up someone she can later take home. I need one of your more experienced lotharios to oblige, and make sure he gets invited back for the night.’

‘I know someone she won’t be able to resist,’ said Reggie. ‘Goes by the name of Sebastian.’

‘That’s the beautiful part,’ said Miles. ‘Now for the bright bit, which could prove more of a challenge. If he’s done the first part of his job properly, he’ll have to stay put until she falls asleep. That’s when he’ll really start to earn his money. Somewhere in my wife’s apartment will be two black Tumi suitcases. They’ll be fairly large, so they shouldn’t be difficult to locate. Once he’s got them, he’ll find a man waiting outside the apartment to pick them up. So, what’s the damage?’

‘Shall we say a couple of grand, Mr Faulkner?’

Faulkner nodded and the two men shook hands — the only way of closing a deal in prison, and heaven help anyone who even thought about breaking the unwritten contract.

‘Consider it done,’ said Reggie as the five-minute hooter blasted, the sign that the prisoners should return to their cells. ‘Dare I ask what’s in them suitcases?’ he asked, as they left the yard.

‘No,’ said Faulkner. ‘But if your boy fails to hand them over, don’t even think about going into a shower on your own.’

Booth Watson waited for his secretary to leave the room before he looked up the private number and began dialling.

‘Warwick,’ said a voice on the other end of the line.

‘It’s Booth Watson, Julian. Just wanted to let you know I’ve consulted my client and, to my surprise, he has agreed to your terms.’

‘He’s willing to plead guilty to all the charges in exchange for two years being knocked off his sentence?’ said Sir Julian, but didn’t add, I don’t believe you.

‘I advised him against it, of course, which won’t surprise you.’

Sir Julian was surprised, but kept his counsel.

‘I did everything in my power to dissuade him, but he’d already made up his mind.’ One sentence too many — that only convinced Sir Julian that Booth Watson wasn’t telling the truth. ‘So, if you’ll go ahead and draw up an agreement, I’ll arrange for him to sign it. Pity,’ Booth Watson added. ‘I was looking forward to crossing swords with you again.’

That much Sir Julian did believe.

‘I’ll come back to you,’ he said, ‘as soon as the CPS have given their seal of approval.’

‘I look forward to hearing from you, Julian. We must have lunch sometime. The Savoy, perhaps.’

Another unnecessary sentence that gave the game away, thought Sir Julian as his secretary entered the room.

‘Tell me, Miss Weeden, am I dreaming?’ he asked as he put the phone down.

‘I don’t think so, Sir Julian,’ said his secretary, looking puzzled.

‘In which case, please ask Ms Warwick and Ms Sutton to join me immediately for an urgent consultation.’

‘Mrs Faulkner and I will be coming out of the bank at around five o’clock,’ said Booth Watson. ‘She’ll have two large suitcases with her, which no doubt her chauffeur will place in the boot of the car, a dark blue Mercedes J423 ABN.’ Lamont made a note. ‘As all the banks will have closed for the day, she’s likely to be driven straight home.’

‘What if the chauffeur just drops her off, and she leaves the bags in the boot of the car for him to take care of?’

‘Unlikely. I don’t think Mrs Faulkner will be willing to let the money out of her sight. She won’t feel safe until it’s inside her apartment.’

‘Why don’t I grab the bags as they’re being taken out of the car boot?’ asked Lamont.

‘Can’t risk it. We’ll have to be more subtle than that. The chauffeur will probably carry the bags into her apartment block, and don’t forget the porter will be standing by the door. And I’ve checked, he’s six foot two, and has a broken nose, so I don’t think so.’

‘So how do I get my hands on the two cases?’

‘Mrs Faulkner will probably return to the flat around midnight, after spending the evening at Tramp. She will be accompanied by what she imagines to be her latest conquest, a plant called Sebastian, who will in fact be our man. You will be waiting outside in your car until he comes out in the early hours with the suitcases, which he’ll hand over in exchange for this.’ Booth Watson pushed a thick brown envelope across the desk.

‘What do I do with the suitcases?’

‘Bring them straight back here to my chambers.’

‘But it might be three or four o’clock in the morning,’ said Lamont.

‘I don’t give a damn what time it is. Just get them here as quickly as you can. Your payment will be strictly cash on delivery.’

Lamont picked up the package and rose to leave, assuming the meeting was over.

‘And don’t think about looking inside those suitcases,’ Booth Watson warned him. ‘Or even consider short-changing the man who hands them over, because three of us know exactly how much is in that envelope, and one of them is Miles Faulkner.’

‘I think I’ve worked out what BW is up to,’ said Sir Julian, once his daughter and Clare had settled.

‘Which is more than I have,’ said Grace.

‘First, you have to ask yourself why Faulkner would be willing to go along with our proposal that if he pleads guilty all he will get in return is two years knocked off a sixteen-year sentence. Have either of you worked that one out?’

Clare raised a hand like a swot at the front of the class. Sir Julian nodded.

‘Booth Watson knows if the case comes to court, the judge might ask him a question that would not only get him disbarred, but could cause him to end up in jail himself.’

‘And what is that question?’

‘When did you first realize that Mr Miles Faulkner was still alive?’

‘He’d bluff and prevaricate,’ said Sir Julian, ‘and claim he didn’t know until after Faulkner had been arrested, and he was as surprised as any of us.’

‘BW’s well capable of ditching Faulkner,’ said Grace, ‘if it means saving his own skin.’

‘But how will he explain what he was doing at Faulkner’s home outside Barcelona on the day he was arrested?’ asked Claire.

‘Representing the interests of his client, Mrs Faulkner, by making an inventory of her late husband’s possessions,’ suggested Sir Julian.

‘But what if the court requested to see Booth Watson’s diary as evidence?’ came back Clare.

‘You can be sure that BW keeps at least two diaries,’ said Sir Julian. ‘But if you’re so clever, perhaps you can tell me how Booth Watson is going to get Faulkner to sign an agreement that ensures his client spends the next fourteen years in jail?’

‘That’s been puzzling both of us,’ admitted Clare. ‘I’d certainly like to be a fly on the wall when BW next visits Faulkner in prison.’

‘There’s another question that’s even more intriguing,’ said Grace. ‘Why does Booth Watson want Faulkner to spend the next fourteen years in jail?’

‘Because he knows where the bodies are buried, would be my guess,’ said Sir Julian.

‘The bodies?’

‘Rembrandt, Vermeer, Monet, Manet, Picasso, Hockney...’