Chapter 29

‘I’m going to recommend to the CPS that another two years is knocked off your sentence,’ said William, who had taken Faulkner by surprise by returning to see him in prison so quickly. Holbrooke had made it clear there wasn’t a moment to spare.

Rebecca began writing.

‘That means I’d be out of here by Christmas,’ said Faulkner with an undisguised smirk.

‘I’m not sure how you work that out,’ said William, unable to hide his surprise. ‘Neither of us can be sure how many years the judge will add to your present sentence when you appear before him at the Old Bailey in a few weeks’ time.’

‘Clearly you are unaware of the deal I’ve made with your father. He’s already agreed that if I plead guilty to the latest charges, the CPS will recommend a suspended sentence.’

William wanted to laugh out loud, but could see he wasn’t joking.

‘So if you get me two more years off my present sentence, that would bring it down to four, and if you then deduct the time I’ve already served, and my tariff is halved for good behaviour, I should, as I said, be out by Christmas.’

William couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What makes you think the CPS would be willing to drop all the charges against you? If historic precedence is anything to go by, absconding from prison usually leads to the original sentence being doubled, which means you’ll be lucky to be released before the end of the century.’

‘But as I’ve explained, I’ve made a deal with the CPS, which you seem to be unaware of. I suggest you have a word with your father.’

Rebecca kept writing.

‘Why would my father agree to drop the charges against you when it’s an open-and-shut case?’

‘In exchange for me not raising the subject of you and DI Hogan breaking into my home in Spain, stealing a Frans Hals, then bringing me back to England in my own plane, against my will.’

‘Do you have anything in writing to prove you made this deal?’ asked William.

‘I most certainly do,’ said Miles. He strolled across to the library counter, opened a drawer and, after searching through some papers, found what he was looking for. He handed the document across to William, who took his time reading it before passing it to Rebecca.

‘As you can see, Mr Faulkner, my father hasn’t signed this agreement.’

Miles noted that Warwick had addressed him as ‘Mr’ for the first time since he’d been in prison.

‘Yes, he has. That’s only a copy. BW has shown me the original and, I assure you, your father’s signature was on the last page.’

William said nothing, but one look at Miles made him realize he just might be telling the truth. ‘I’ll make some enquiries and come back to you,’ he eventually managed.

‘Meanwhile,’ continued Faulkner, ‘I’ve got a maniac living on my wing, who must have his suspicions as to who made it possible for “Rule Britannia” to reach the second verse.’

‘Mansour Khalifah was placed in solitary confinement earlier this morning,’ William reassured him, ‘and his small clique of followers have all been moved to different prisons. You’re in no immediate danger.’

‘And that’s all the reward I get,’ Faulkner paused, ‘for saving how many lives?’

Fair point, William wanted to say, but satisfied himself with, ‘I’ll come back tomorrow, Mr Faulkner, by which time I’ll have spoken to my father and Commander Hawksby.’

‘What about BW? Don’t forget he’s got the original document signed by your father.’

‘That’s assuming you’re telling the truth.’

‘Was I telling you the truth about what Khalifah had planned for the Last Night of the Proms? Because if I wasn’t, why was Tareq Omar found hanging from the railing outside my cell this morning?’


The front doorbell rang, and Beth wondered who it could possibly be at that time in the morning. The children were at school, it was Sarah’s day off, and she wasn’t expecting anyone.

She closed her Cheffins catalogue, walked out into the hall and opened the front door to find Christina standing on the doorstep, head bowed.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Beth. She knew only too well what the matter was, and had been wondering when Christina would finally turn up and admit it. Without another word, she took her through to the study. She didn’t offer her a coffee.

Christina stood silently for a few moments, looking up at the portrait above Beth’s desk, before bursting into tears. ‘How did you get hold of that?’ she managed between sobs.

‘Johnny van Haeften sold it for five thousand pounds to one of his regular customers who asked for it to be delivered to me. No prizes for guessing who that customer was.’

‘I’d always intended to split the profit with you,’ said Christina, with a Girl Guide look on her face.

‘That’s the last thing you intended to do,’ said Beth, no longer able to hide her anger.

‘I’ve lost every penny because of my stupidity,’ Christina admitted as she collapsed into the nearest chair. ‘But then I should have realized Miles would use his knowledge of the art world to get the better of me.’

‘And his knowledge of your ravenous appetite for money.’

Christina didn’t attempt to defend herself.

‘However, you haven’t quite lost every penny,’ said Beth, ‘because van Haeften asked me to give you the five thousand pounds. Just a pity you couldn’t read Dutch, something I expect Miles considered a risk worth taking.’

Christina looked as if she were trying to summon up the courage to say something, before finally blurting out, ‘I’m so sorry, Beth, but five thousand won’t be enough. I need the hundred thousand back that I invested in your company,’ she eventually managed, unable to look Beth in the face.

Beth sat down at her desk and wrote out a cheque for £127,000.

‘Why so much?’ asked Christina after Beth had handed it over.

‘It includes the profit we made on the recent sale of a Warhol in New York, when we were still partners.’

‘But that would mean you won’t be able to carry on with your business?’

‘I’ll get by,’ said Beth, ‘although there are one or two opportunities I’ll be sorry to miss out on. By the way, Christina,’ she added, taking the portrait of Henry VIII off the wall. ‘Don’t leave without your latest boyfriend.’

‘I never want to see the damn man again,’ replied Christina, spitting out the words. ‘I deserve the same fate as Anne Boleyn.’

‘I think that’s what Miles had in mind. But if you don’t want Henry, I’ll leave him on the wall to remind me in future only to take advice from friends I can trust.’

‘Will you ever forgive me?’

Beth didn’t reply as she put Henry back on the wall.

‘Who can blame you?’ Christina eventually managed.

‘I’ll never forget your generosity and support when I most needed it,’ said Beth. ‘But that doesn’t mean I could ever trust you again.’

Beth turned to face Christina and was once again taken by surprise when she tore the cheque in half and handed it back to her.

‘If I can’t be your friend, at least I can be your partner.’


‘It wouldn’t stand up in court,’ said Sir Julian, after he’d read the pleading in judgment a second time.

‘Why not?’ asked William.

‘The document hasn’t been signed, so all Booth Watson would have to say is that it was the initial proposal his client had insisted on, although he’d made it clear to him at the time it had little or no chance of succeeding, with which any judge would concur. BW would go on to claim that Faulkner later accepted his advice and signed the most recent agreement in the presence of a senior prison officer, which stated that if he pleaded guilty his sentence would be reduced by two years, which is in line with the CPS’s recommended policy in such cases. I can hear Booth Watson saying that he finally convinced his client that a sentence reduction of two years was the best he could hope for given the circumstances.’

‘In which case, Faulkner wouldn’t hesitate to tell the court what Booth Watson had been up to behind his back.’

‘Who are they more likely to believe?’ asked Sir Julian. ‘A man currently serving a sentence for fraud and absconding from prison, or one of the leading counsels at the bar?’

‘But if Booth Watson was found to have misrepresented his client, he’d have so much to lose.’

‘But so much to gain if he pulled it off,’ said Sir Julian. ‘Think about it, my boy. BW isn’t far off retirement, and he knows where all the bodies are buried, including one of the finest art collections in private hands. So if Faulkner were to end up spending the next fourteen years in prison, he could live a life of luxury during that time. BW might not even be around to face the music by the time Faulkner is finally released. And you can’t kill a dead man.’

William thought about his father’s words for some time before saying, ‘Could you make an application to see the judge in chambers and express your concerns?’

‘I could. But I can assure you he won’t change his mind about the length of the sentence, unless I have some fresh evidence to present.’

‘There’s something else you ought to know about,’ said William.


‘Is that your signature?’ asked William, turning to the last page of the agreement.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Faulkner. ‘And although you have no reason to believe me, Superintendent, I can assure you it’s the first time I’ve ever seen this document.’

‘I do believe you,’ said William, to Miles’s surprise. ‘And perhaps more importantly, so does my father.’

‘So what’s he going to do about it?’

‘He’s already made an appointment to see the trial judge, when I suspect he’ll be the first Prosecuting Counsel ever to plead clemency on behalf of a defendant.’

‘Perhaps he’ll manage to get another couple of years off my sentence, so I end up only serving six? Big deal!’

‘My father intends to make it clear to the judge,’ William continued, ignoring the riposte, ‘that the information you supplied about the planned suicide attack at the Albert Hall unquestionably saved countless lives.’

‘If that’s all you have to offer,’ said Miles, ‘I may as well plead not guilty, and take you down with me.’

‘My father will also leave the judge in no doubt about the consequences of your changing your plea to not guilty, not only for DI Hogan and myself, but for the reputation of the Metropolitan Police Service.’

‘That should get me another couple of years off my sentence. So now I’m down to four, while you’ll no doubt be promoted to Chief Superintendent, for the role you played in saving those countless lives.’

‘I think you may be pleasantly surprised,’ said William. ‘But you’re going to have to trust me, and plead guilty if we’re to fool BW.’

‘How could I possibly turn down such a tempting offer?’ said Miles. ‘Especially as I’ll still be stuck in here with no more than a fifty-fifty chance of even making it to the trial alive. Even you can’t keep Mansour Khalifah locked in solitary for ever.’

‘As a demonstration of good faith,’ said William, ‘the police will not put up any objection should you apply to be moved to an open prison. But—’

‘With you, Superintendent, there’s always a but. I can’t wait to hear what it is this time.’

‘Should you attempt to escape again, I’ll come after you with every resource at the Met’s disposal, and when DI Hogan and I eventually catch up with you — and believe me we will — we wouldn’t bother with the niceties of extradition treaties. This time my father won’t be asking for another eight years to be added to your sentence, but demanding life imprisonment. I have a feeling the judge will agree with him, whatever Booth Watson comes up with in mitigation.’

Miles didn’t speak for some time before he eventually said, ‘I’ll accept your deal, Superintendent, as long as you can assure me that you’ve also got BW in your sights, now you’re fully aware of what he’s up to.’

‘It can only be a matter of time before he’s disbarred,’ said William, with considerable feeling. ‘Because let’s face it, that man’s his own worst enemy.’

‘Not while I’m alive, he isn’t,’ said Miles.


When Faulkner reached the front of the queue at the canteen servery, he took his time selecting a glass of milk, two fried eggs, some baked beans and a slice of toast that wasn’t burnt. He carried the laden tray slowly back to his table, but just as he was about to sit down, he stumbled and dropped the tray. The plate smashed into several pieces, and his breakfast was scattered over the stone floor.

A dozen prisoners came rushing to his aid.

‘No, thank you,’ said Faulkner, when one of them offered to get him a second helping. ‘I’m not feeling too well. I think I’ll visit the infirmary and pick up some paracetamol.’

He left the canteen, satisfied that over a hundred inmates and several officers had witnessed the incident, and headed for the prison hospital, which would be open for business in a few minutes. On the way he passed at least a couple of dozen other prisoners going to breakfast. Most stood aside to give him room, but at least another dozen noticed he was heading for the infirmary.

There was already a long queue of prisoners in the waiting room. They fell silent as Miles made his way to the front, where he greeted Matron warmly.

‘Good morning, Miles,’ she replied to one of the few inmates she ever addressed by his first name. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

‘A dizzy spell, matron. And a slight headache. I wonder if I could trouble you for a couple of paracetamol?’

‘Of course. I’d also suggest that you lie down for a couple of hours until you feel better. I’ll give you a chit excusing you from work today.’

‘Thank you, matron. I think I’ll take your advice.’

She handed him two paracetamol, a glass of water and a slip of paper. After he had swallowed the pills and pocketed the chit, he gave her another warm smile, before making his way back past the long line of inmates and out of the surgery to carry out the second part of his plan. At least another twenty prisoners had overheard their conversation and, more importantly, Matron’s sage advice.

Once he was outside, he glanced at his watch. Still thirty minutes before he could make his move. He headed back towards C block rather than in the direction of the library, where his deputy already knew he wouldn’t be reporting for work that morning. If anyone should ask, he’d tell them Miles was resting in his cell on Matron’s advice.

On reaching his block, he reported to the duty officer, explained why he would not be going to work, and showed him the chit Matron had given him.

‘I’ll make sure no one disturbs you, Mr Faulkner,’ said the young officer. ‘I hope you feel better tomorrow.’ Miles was pleased to see him make a note of the time in his logbook.

Miles made his way slowly up to the second floor before walking to his room at the far end of the corridor, known as the penthouse suite. Once inside, he closed the door and took his time changing into his gym kit, before pulling on his prison-issue jeans and a thick grey sweater. He paused to look out of the window, and reflected on the events of the past month. Warwick had been as good as his word: within days of their meeting, he’d been transferred to Ford open prison, where he’d quickly established with both the officers and his fellow inmates that if they needed a bob or two for any small luxuries that were normally difficult to obtain, he was a man who understood about supply and demand.

Miles had the only room in the block that overlooked the South Downs. He’d acquired it after its previous occupant found £50 in his canteen account. Another £50 ensured that the chief librarian was happy to become his deputy and do most of the donkey work, while he read the morning papers and made or received the occasional phone call — another privilege for which cooperative guards were suitably rewarded.

It was during a call from Lamont earlier in the week that he discovered Booth Watson had visited his bank twice in the past month and, even more worrying, had moved his treasured art collection from CFAS in Nine Elms to a warehouse on an industrial estate near Gatwick airport. Ever since Miles’s meeting with Mai Ling, he had known it could only be a matter of time before...

By the time Lamont next phoned, Miles had a plan in place and explained in detail the role he would be expected to play. It would be another week before he could put his plan into action. After Warwick’s warning, he was only too aware of the risk he would be taking.

Miles stared intently out of the window, watching, waiting. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the local Hare and Hounds cross-country club appeared on their morning run, the Hares striding out in front, followed by the Hounds trying to catch up with them, and finally came the also-rans, bringing up the rear.

When the first runner appeared on the horizon, Miles slipped out of his room and checked up and down the corridor before locking his door. A wing cleaner who was standing guard at the top of the staircase gave him the thumbs up. Miles made his way down the stairs to the ground floor, pushed open the fire escape door and jogged across to a clump of trees a few yards outside the prison grounds. He stripped off his sweater and jeans, hid them under a bramble bush he’d selected the week before, and waited for the also-rans to make an appearance. He knew he had to choose his moment carefully, because the seventy yards between the prison boundary and the path was the most likely time when one of the guards could spot him.

As the next group of runners came into view, he jogged across the dangerous ‘no man’s land’ and fell in behind them while making no attempt to catch them up. He hoped to be nothing more than another dot on the landscape.

The group turned left when they reached the main road, while Miles turned right. After a couple of hundred yards he spotted a blue Volvo parked in a layby, its engine running.

He opened the back door, slid inside and lay flat on the back seat as the car sped off. He didn’t move until the prison was out of sight.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Lamont, without looking around.

‘Morning, Bruce,’ Miles replied, sitting up and pulling a freshly ironed white shirt over his gym vest. ‘Is everything ready?’

‘They’re all waiting for you. Time is our only problem,’ he added as he pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

‘Don’t break the speed limit,’ Miles warned him as he slipped off his shorts and pulled on a pair of grey flannel trousers. ‘Don’t forget, if we’re stopped by the police, I won’t be the only person going back to prison.’

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