Next In Line

Chapter 3

The captain of Faulkner’s yacht felt something wasn’t quite right when he double-checked their course. That same feeling had lingered ever since the beginning of the voyage, when he’d watched in disbelief as the staff from the villa had loaded all the paintings onto his yacht, before placing them in the hold. As there was no sign of the boss, he didn’t lift a finger to assist them.

‘Will Mr Faulkner be joining us?’ he’d asked, when Booth Watson came onto the bridge.

‘No,’ said Booth Watson. ‘He’s been unexpectedly detained. But his instructions couldn’t have been clearer.’

Captain Redmayne didn’t believe him, as he’d never known Mr Faulkner to be parted from his art collection. He had been warned several times that if the boss wanted to leave in a hurry, he wouldn’t risk going by car, or boarding his own plane, as long as there was the slightest chance of him being arrested. That was why the yacht always had to be ready to set sail at a moment’s notice. So where was he? That was a question the captain didn’t bother to ask Booth Watson, as he thought it unlikely he’d get an honest answer. ‘So where is our next port of call?’ had been his only question.

Booth Watson had already considered several alternatives, but accepted that he’d have to take the odd risk. He’d eventually said, ‘Anywhere on the south coast of England where the customs officials aren’t averse to receiving a bonus for not checking the cargo too carefully.’

Captain Redmayne looked uncertain, as that was not the destination Mr Faulkner had expressly told him would be their next port of call, should they have to make an unscheduled departure. He wanted to protest, but accepted he didn’t have the authority to disobey the boss’s representative on earth.

‘I know the ideal port,’ Captain Redmayne had eventually said, ‘and can even give you a name. But be warned, you’ll need a thousand pounds in cash if you expect a rubber stamp to land on all the right documents.’

Booth Watson had glanced at the Gladstone bag that rarely left his side. If you worked for Miles Faulkner long enough, you always carried enough cash to cover such eventualities. As they’d sailed out of the secreted inlet, he didn’t once look back on the carnage he’d left behind.

When Booth Watson had arrived at Faulkner’s villa the previous day, Collins the butler had told him anxiously that Miles was locked in his safe, and had been there for at least three hours. Booth Watson had concluded that Miles must surely be dead; it would be impossible to survive that long locked inside the safe, there simply wouldn’t be enough air.

That was when the idea first crossed his mind. However, he had waited another hour, and only then given the order to pack up his client’s legendary art collection, and store it in the yacht’s hold.

He was confident that, if they could set sail before the Spanish police turned up at the villa, they would open the safe only to discover the man they had an arrest warrant for was dead. What must have been a long and painful death, thought Booth Watson, but he didn’t shed a tear as he paced up and down Faulkner’s study, his eyes rarely leaving the safe.

After yet another hour had crept by, he grew more confident that Miles couldn’t possibly have survived. During the next hour he began to form a plan and, by the time the clock struck six, he was ready to move. He would return to England, store the paintings in a safe place, and, as he still had his client’s — late client’s — power of attorney, he would systematically transfer all the assets from his several banks to an off-shore account in Hong Kong that he’d set up years ago. Something else Miles had, by example, taught him.

Next, he would put all three of Miles’s substantial properties up for sale and, as he wasn’t in a hurry, could expect them to fetch a fair market price. He’d then get in touch with the Chinese collector who had recently approached him about buying the collection, only to be firmly rebuffed by Miles. But he would explain to Mr Lee that, due to his client’s sad passing, his executor (him) would be willing to reconsider the sale of his works if the price was right. The only problem might turn out to be Miles’s ex-wife Christina, who once she discovered what he’d been up to would undoubtedly demand her cut. Perhaps she would like to own a luxury yacht he would no longer have any use for?

He would then allow a few weeks to pass before letting it be known around the Inns of Court that he was thinking about retiring and, once the inquest was over, he would quietly leave the country without giving a forwarding address.

Miles Faulkner strolled into the prison canteen, unaware of what his lawyer was up to on the high seas. He was pleased to see Tulip, his old cellmate, sitting at their usual table.

‘Morning, boss,’ said Tulip as Miles took the seat opposite him.

A prison guard poured Miles his morning coffee, as if he’d never been away, and he took a sip before he began to read an article in the Daily Telegraph. The report was bad enough, but the accompanying photograph of his nemesis, DCI Warwick, sharing a joke with the Princess of Wales, only served to remind him who had been responsible for putting him back behind bars.

Tulip, Miles’s eyes and ears in the jail, had tried to remove all the newspapers from the prison canteen before Miles came down to breakfast, as almost every one of them carried the same photograph on its front page.

To make matters worse, the Telegraph’s royal correspondent went on to describe Warwick as ‘the outstanding young officer who had recently been responsible for putting the escaped felon Miles Faulkner back in prison’. The Sun — the most popular newspaper in every prison — had added ‘where he belongs’. Miles tossed the paper aside, well aware that he was about to give the press an even bigger story. But all in good time.

‘I could always arrange to have him snuffed out, boss,’ said Tulip, pointing at the photo.

‘No,’ said Faulkner firmly. ‘I intend my revenge to be more permanent.’

‘What could be more permanent than death?’

‘Being thrown out of the police force,’ said Faulkner. ‘Being charged with kidnap and theft, and having to spend the rest of your life in disgrace,’ he added as a screw placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. He paused. ‘If we get lucky, he might even end up here.’

‘Good one, boss. But how do you plan to pull that off?’

‘When my trial comes up at the Bailey, I have a feeling the jury will be fascinated to learn the lengths Warwick and Hogan went to in order to smuggle me out of Spain without an extradition order. I can assure you, Booth Watson will repeat the words “bounty hunters” again and again during his opening and closing remarks.’

‘Have you spoken to your brief since you were nabbed?’ asked Tulip.

‘No. I’ve phoned his office several times during the past week, but all his secretary said was he’s abroad and she would let him know I’d called the moment he returns. That rather suggests he’s still in Spain, wrapping up any loose ends. However, for the time being I’ve got an even more pressing problem to deal with.’

‘What could be more pressing than preparing for your trial?’

‘My ex-wife,’ said Faulkner, almost spitting out the words as a guard refilled his coffee. ‘God only knows what Christina will get up to now I’m out of the way.’

‘My sources tell me she’s spending your money like there’s no tomorrow,’ said Tulip. ‘She regularly dines at the Ritz, shops on Bond Street while indulging a string of toyboys who keep taking her for a ride.’ He looked furtively at Faulkner. ‘She could end up having an unfortunate accident on her way to Bond Street?’ he suggested. ‘The traffic gets very busy during shopping hours, boss.’

‘No,’ said Faulkner firmly. ‘At least not until the trial’s over, if I’m going to convince the jury I’m a reformed character and was unlawfully arrested. So, for the next few months I need to be like Caesar’s wife — “above suspicion”.’

Tulip looked puzzled.

‘However, I intend to make sure Christina ends up penniless long before the case comes to court, and Warwick will be lucky to get a job as a security guard at the Fitzmolean,’ he added as he pushed his eggs and bacon to one side.

‘What about Inspector Hogan?’

‘You can dispose of him as and when you please. But be sure to make it memorable,’ said Miles, once again looking at the front page of the Telegraph. ‘As I plan to end up with more than a shelf in the Black Museum.’

‘That was Lieutenant Sanchez of the Barcelona police,’ said the Hawk as he put down the phone. ‘He said Booth Watson boarded Faulkner’s yacht soon after his men had turned up.’

‘Interesting,’ said William. ‘Where’s the yacht heading?’

‘It was last seen rounding the Bay of Biscay — Interpol have kept a close eye on it.’

‘So Booth Watson must be on his way back to England, under the illusion that his client was still locked up in the safe when he left, and couldn’t possibly have survived.’

‘You could be right, William, because Sanchez also said the only thing left hanging on the walls were the hooks, so he must have removed all the paintings.’

‘In which case, sir, may I suggest we alert the coastguard to keep a look out for him, so we can be waiting on the dockside long before he enters territorial waters.’

‘Good thinking,’ said the Hawk as he picked up the phone.

‘Mrs Christina Faulkner is on line one, Sir Julian,’ said his secretary.

‘Put her through,’ her lawyer said reluctantly. Although he didn’t care much for Mrs Faulkner, he always enjoyed their encounters. She’d made life difficult for his son over the years, and he knew William was concerned about Christina’s friendship with his wife Beth, but she was like a good novel, and you could never be sure how it would end — the twists came when you least expected them.

‘Good morning, Mrs Faulkner,’ he said, ‘how can I be of assistance?’

‘My ex-husband is back in jail, Sir Julian, as I feel sure you already know.’

‘I had heard as much.’

‘What you may not know is that his yacht is heading for England with Mr Booth Watson aboard, as well as one hundred and ninety-one oil paintings of not unknown provenance.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’

‘Because Miles’s butler rang me last night to tell me the yacht set sail from Barcelona over a week ago and asked me if I knew how to get in touch with Miles.’

‘What else did he tell you?’ asked Sir Julian as he picked up a pen and began to make notes.

‘BW has not only removed all of Miles’s paintings, but also ordered the butler to put his home in Spain on the market.’

‘And has he?’

‘No way. In fact, once he realized that Miles was still alive, and back in prison in England, he’s been desperate to get in touch with him, which is why he ended up calling me.’ She paused. ‘And then who do you think called me in the middle of the night?’

Sir Julian didn’t respond, well aware that Mrs Faulkner couldn’t wait to tell him.

‘None other than the yacht’s captain.’ Christina didn’t give a reason, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist asking...

‘And what did he have to say for himself?’ enquired Sir Julian, finally giving up.

‘They are on their way back to England, Christchurch to be precise, and anticipate docking imminently.’

‘Once again I’m curious to know why he would call you, of all people?’

‘I’m the lesser of two evils,’ declared Christina. ‘In fact, Captain Redmayne distrusts Booth Watson so much I think that, if he was given half a chance, he’d throw him overboard.’

That would solve all our problems, thought Sir Julian, but kept his counsel.

‘So if you were able to contact the harbourmaster at Christchurch and find out when the yacht’s due to dock,’ suggested Christina, ‘we could be standing on the quayside waiting to greet the eminent QC, leaving him little choice but to return my half of the paintings, as agreed in my divorce settlement — which you drafted.’

It always fascinated Sir Julian that Miles and Christina were two of the same kind, and he wasn’t even sure which one of them was the more devious. However, he had to admit that sinking Booth Watson and Miles Faulkner at the same time was tempting to say the least.

‘I think that might be possible, Mrs Faulkner,’ said Sir Julian, still keeping her at arm’s length.

‘If you could let me know when the yacht has entered territorial waters, the captain assured me that would give us at least a couple of hours to make sure we can get there in time to give him a right royal welcome.’

It always amused Sir Julian that Mrs Faulkner assumed he would be available at the drop of a hat (her hat), but he had to admit she was far more interesting than the tax avoidance case he was currently prosecuting in the high court, which his daughter Grace was more than capable of handling. Although he would never admit it, he couldn’t wait to find out how Booth Watson intended to explain to Faulkner — who had probably been trying to get in touch with him for the past ten days — why he had brought his pictures back to England and put his house in Spain on the market without consulting him.

However, Sir Julian was well aware he would have to be prepared for another surprise, as his old rival Booth Watson was every bit as cunning as Christina, and would happily play one against the other if it suited his cause.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said, before putting down the phone.