Next In Line

Chapter 14

During his undercover days at the Yard, Lamont had become used to waiting for hours on end for his quarry to appear. This evening he sat through the six o’clock news, a comedy game show, an episode of The Archers and a current affairs programme about the Falklands, before Christina reappeared in what he would have described as her glad rags. A bomber jacket covered in studs, a loose-fitting blouse with one button too many undone, faded jeans, ripped in all the right places, and a pair of high-heeled shoes completed an outfit she no doubt hoped made her look ten years younger.

She hailed a passing taxi and Lamont followed, making sure he kept his distance. But then, he already knew where she was going. When the cabbie turned into Jermyn Street, he parked across the road from his mark, knowing he couldn’t afford to nod off, as that would surely be the one moment when she reappeared. He settled down to listen to The World Tonight, while Christina made her way down the metal steps to one of London’s most fashionable nightclubs.

The maître d’ welcomed her with open arms, before accompanying his customer to her favourite alcove table. She didn’t need to peruse the cocktail menu, as a glass of champagne appeared moments later. Christina began to look around the room, her eyes settling on several young men, each with an even younger woman seated beside them.

Christina was sipping her second glass when she spotted him at the bar. He could have had any woman in the room, but they both knew she had something they didn’t. Their eyes met, and she raised her glass in a mock toast. He returned the compliment, slipped off his stool and strolled across to join her.

Ross watched Diana from a discreet distance, tucked behind a pillar at his usual table. She was sipping champagne with a man he didn’t know, but whose life story he’d have after one phone call in the morning. The man couldn’t have known her that long or he’d have realized she was teetotal, and only raised her glass whenever a toast was called. Ross couldn’t deny he was a good-looking guy, though he didn’t care for the ponytail. He also had to admit he’d never seen HRH looking so relaxed and happy, but he could hear his old Irish mother saying, ‘Mark my words, it will end in tears.’ Between courses the couple spent some time on the dance floor, and Ross recalled HRH once telling him she would rather have been a professional dancer than a Princess. But her dance instructor had told her she had a problem, ‘You’re too tall! You could work the cruises,’ he assured her, ‘but not the west end.’ She now worked both.

Ross glanced around the room and spotted Christina Faulkner seated on the other side of the dance floor. It wasn’t difficult to work out what her young companion was hoping to get in exchange for spending the night with a lonely, middle-aged woman. Ross wondered what the going rate was.

His gaze returned to his charge and her dancing partner, who were now holding hands below the table, while Mrs Faulkner’s latest already had his hand on her thigh. As Ross ate a house salad, and sipped a glass of water — very expensive water — he couldn’t help thinking about Jojo, who he’d promised to spend the weekend with. When the DJ changed the mood from pop to a ballad, Diana and her partner returned to the dance floor, where Ross didn’t like what he saw. He looked away, to see Christina’s head resting on her conqueror’s shoulder, while his hand moved lower and lower down her back.

Ross drank a black coffee and thought he’d much rather be sharing a chocolate nut sundae with Jojo at the zoo. His eyes returned to another zoo, where the animals had only one thing on their minds, while he thought about Jojo’s mother, the only woman he’d ever loved, and didn’t envy either Diana or Christina.

Lamont couldn’t miss the Princess of Wales as she left the nightclub just after midnight surrounded by a throng of photographers, with DI Hogan holding them back as he opened the car door to allow her to escape. God, how he hated the paparazzi.

Ross slipped into the front passenger seat, relieved that the Princess’s dinner companion was nowhere to be seen. The photographers continued flashing until the car had turned the corner, when they all headed back to Fleet Street hoping to catch the second edition.

It was another hour before Christina appeared with her young man, one hand having moved onto her denim-clad bottom, while he hailed a taxi with the other. Lamont kept his distance as he followed them back to her apartment and, after they’d disappeared inside, he settled down for another long wait. Long enough to contemplate what he might do when he got his hands on those two suitcases. He had no idea what was inside them, but Booth Watson’s threat suggested it might just be worth the risk.

DI Hogan dropped the Princess back at Kensington Palace, before leaving her to walk home. He wanted to clear his head while he considered the implications of what he’d witnessed that night.

As he was passing the Albert Hall he spotted a pink Porsche coming in the opposite direction. He was just thinking how tasteless it was when he caught sight of the driver, who was clearly heading in the direction of the palace. He made a note of the number plate. Was it his responsibility to report everything he’d seen to the commander, or should he mind his own business?

By the time he’d reached his little flat — Jo’s little flat — he’d made up his mind to tell William everything he’d seen, and let him decide whether or not to pass it on to the Hawk. It was, after all, way above his pay grade. He took a cold shower before going to bed, and fell asleep within minutes.

Sebastian pulled the sheet slowly back, slipped out of bed and placed both feet silently on the floor. After checking the steady breathing coming from the other side of the bed, he got dressed in the dark, something he was used to.

It hadn’t been difficult to spot the two large black suitcases, which were not very well hidden under the bed. He lowered himself to his knees and slowly pulled them out, pausing briefly to make sure he hadn’t disturbed her. He waited a few moments before gently dragging them across the carpet, his eyes never leaving the bed. They were far heavier than he had anticipated, which made him wonder what was inside. He stood up and tentatively opened the bedroom door — no creaks, no bedside light switched on. He didn’t even risk a sigh of relief.

Once he’d got the two bags out of the bedroom, he closed the door quietly behind him. He avoided switching on a light, and as he moved slowly across the room, he banged his shin on the corner of a low glass table. He collapsed onto a sofa, somehow managing not to cry out. No light appeared below the bedroom door, but he still didn’t move for some time. The only noise to accompany his breathing was the relentless ticking of a grandfather clock. He set off again, making his way even more cautiously as he pulled the two cases towards the front door. He removed the security chain, slowly turned the latch and poked his head out into the dimly lit corridor. After checking both ways, he pushed the suitcases out into the corridor and quietly pulled the door closed behind him, the only sound a sharp click.

He wheeled the two suitcases towards the lift, not daring to breathe that deep sigh of relief until the doors slid closed. When they opened again on the ground floor, he already had a well-rehearsed line should the night porter question him — Mrs Faulkner will be down in a few minutes. We’re off to her home in Surrey.

Lamont had told him where her country home was.

Sebastian crossed the hall to see the porter was beyond asking questions, slumped at his desk and quietly snoring. A copy of the Racing Post was open by his side. When he stepped out onto the pavement, a car’s headlights flashed a couple of times before the driver got out, and walked to the back of the car. He pulled the two heavy suitcases across the empty street, and Lamont helped him lift them up into the boot.

Lamont slammed the boot shut, took a thick envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Sebastian. Moments later he was back behind the wheel, and took off before he’d even fastened his seatbelt.

It was some time before the young man was able to hail a passing cab. But he couldn’t complain — it wasn’t often he got paid twice for a night’s work. As the taxi pulled away, he glanced up at the bedroom window, which was still shrouded in darkness, and thought he would have enjoyed having breakfast with Christina.

Lamont was speculating about what might be in the two suitcases now safely locked in his boot. He gave it a second thought, but not a third when he noticed another car was following him.

Twenty minutes later the barrier outside Middle Temple was raised, but not before the guard had checked the registration number against the one Mr Booth Watson had given him. As Lamont drove slowly across the square, bump after bump, he could see a light shining from the head of chambers’ office. He brought the car to a halt, and checked in his rear-view mirror to make sure he was no longer being followed. Satisfied, he got out, opened the boot and lifted the cases onto the pavement, before entering the building and humping them slowly up the stone staircase, one step at a time. When he finally reached the second floor, he found Booth Watson waiting for him on the landing.

Lamont wheeled the two cases into his office but, before he could ask, Booth Watson handed him a thick brown envelope and said, ‘Goodnight, Superintendent.’ He didn’t add, I won’t be needing your services again.

After Lamont had closed the door behind him, Booth Watson locked it, walked over to the window and watched as the black Volvo made its way back across the square. He didn’t move until the barrier had gone down and the car was out of sight.

He sat down in his chair and licked his lips as he stared at the two suitcases. He’d already decided what he was going to do with the ten million, and his disappearance had been planned like a military operation. Miles Faulkner had taught him a great deal over the years.

A taxi had been booked to take him to Heathrow at six o’clock that morning. He checked his watch. Just over an hour’s time. At the airport, he would board a private jet for Hong Kong. That hadn’t come cheap, but it would cut down the chances of bumping into anyone he knew while carrying luggage that he couldn’t let out of his sight. Once he touched down in the protectorate, he would be met by a senior executive of a private bank that didn’t pick up clients after midnight. Well, not for less than ten million. A security van would deliver the two cases to the bank, while the senior executive would drop Booth Watson off at an unfashionable hotel.

After the money had been deposited, he would fly South African Airways, business class, to Cape Town, where he would stay overnight in an airport hotel, but only overnight. The following morning American Airways would take him to San Francisco, where he would board a shuttle bus to Seattle, his final destination. No one would find him there, least of all a man who was going to spend the next fourteen years in jail.

He glanced across the square to see a taxi coming to a halt by the barrier. He’d have just one look before asking the driver to carry the two cases downstairs. He unzipped one of the bags, and could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he stared down at the neatly stacked contents. Row upon row of paperback books were crammed next to each other. He clumsily unzipped the second case, to discover it was full of hardbacks. An envelope marked ‘Personal’ addressed to ‘Miles Faulkner, prisoner No.0249’ had been placed on top of them. He tore it open and read the short, handwritten note.

Booth Watson fell on his knees and threw up as the taxi drew up outside number 5 Fetter Chambers. The cabbie turned off the engine and waited for his passenger.

‘What time did you turn up at the bank?’ asked Grace.

‘A few minutes after five,’ said Sir Julian, his eyes lighting up as Clare placed a plate of eggs, bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and sausage in front of him on the kitchen table.

‘I thought banks closed at four on a Friday afternoon.’

‘They do,’ said Sir Julian, unscrewing the top of a bottle of HP sauce. ‘But as I’ve been with Barclays for over forty years, and have never once been overdrawn’ — neither of them doubted it — ‘they were only too happy to make an exception.’

‘What did they do,’ asked Clare, ‘when you presented them with two suitcases?’

‘Locked them in a strongroom for the weekend, and gave me a receipt in the name of Mrs Christina Faulkner.’

‘Weren’t you tempted to take a quick peek inside?’ asked Clare.

‘Certainly not,’ said Sir Julian as he tucked into his breakfast. ‘That wasn’t part of my brief.’

‘I can’t quite visualize you in a chauffeur’s uniform, Dad,’ said Grace.

‘Including the peaked cap!’ volunteered Clare.

‘It gets worse,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I had to park on a double yellow line outside the bank, and ended up with a parking ticket.’

‘I’m sure Mrs Faulkner will be happy to reimburse you,’ said Clare, making a note under expenses.

‘You have to promise me not to tell your mother what I’ve been up to.’

‘Do you mean the day job?’ said Grace, grinning.

‘No, I mean what I had for breakfast.’