Next In Line

Chapter 30

Mr and Mrs Smith were the last passengers to board the aircraft. But few of their fellow travellers were fooled as they took their places in the back row, leaving four unoccupied seats in front of them.

She had told Ross she wanted to remain anonymous — ‘melt into the crowd’ were her exact words. But by wearing dark Gucci shades, a Chanel silk scarf and Louboutin high heels on a package holiday flight to Mallorca, she couldn’t have made herself more conspicuous. Ross had advised her against the whole idea, but she wouldn’t listen. It didn’t help him to relax when he spotted the snapper he’d recently thrown out of Chalabi’s home, sitting just a couple of rows in front of them. He wasn’t in any doubt that Jamil Chalabi must have told him which flight she’d be on.

When the plane landed at Palma de Mallorca, the other passengers remained in their seats. A hundred pairs of eyes stared out of the cabin windows as she disembarked from the rear exit. If anyone hadn’t realized she was on board, they certainly knew now. A Rolls-Royce was waiting for them at the bottom of the aircraft steps, two small Union Jacks fluttering on the front wings. Now the whole of Spain knew HRH the Princess of Wales was in town.

Ross took his place in the front seat, and glanced in the wing mirror to see his other problem hurrying down the aircraft steps. At least they would have an hour’s start on him. Once they’d sailed off into the sunset, he’d be none the wiser. Or had he already been told where the sun would set?

Motorcycle outriders escorted them through the airport’s private exit and on towards Palma, only stopping when they reached the port where Lowlander, Jamil’s private yacht, awaited them. Unusually, Diana didn’t address a single word to Ross during the journey, well aware he didn’t approve of her going on this holiday with Chalabi, after what had happened when she’d spent the weekend at his country home. Ross still hadn’t told her his side of the story.

The only concession he’d managed was to make sure Lady Victoria was also invited on the trip.

Ross had come to accept that the Princess was even more of a handful than Jojo, another young woman whose slightest whim he obeyed without question.

The car finally came to a halt beside the largest yacht in the harbour. Diana had leapt out before Ross even had a chance to open the back door. She ran up the gangway, where a man wearing a gold braided peaked cap was standing on the deck waiting to greet her.

As she threw her arms around him, Ross checked for photographers, and was relieved to find no sign of any. Her host introduced HRH to the captain, who saluted her before the senior steward accompanied the couple to the recently renamed ‘royal suite’ on a lower deck.

‘Any hope of getting out of here as quickly as possible?’ Ross asked after he’d introduced himself to the captain.

‘I’m afraid not, Inspector. We won’t be sailing until after dinner.’

‘Of course,’ said Ross. ‘Giving the snapper more than enough time to catch up with us,’ he muttered under his breath. He smiled for the first time when Victoria emerged from below deck wearing a light yellow summer frock and white sandals. She was obviously determined to enjoy the holiday.

‘I’m your tour guide, Inspector,’ she teased, before showing him around the yacht, which she described as a vulgar floating gin palace. Ross checked every inch of the vessel from the engine room to the crew’s quarters to the galley, where the chef was preparing dinner, and finally the helicopter pad perched high on the aft deck. Everything except the royal suite, which was locked from the inside.

Once Victoria had completed the tour, Ross began to think this just might turn out to be an enjoyable fortnight after all. But when they emerged back on deck he caught sight of the rogue photographer, standing on the dockside, taking pictures of everything in sight as he waited for the Princess to appear. He didn’t need to be back in Fleet Street; one particular picture desk would be waiting for his exclusive.

When Diana came up on deck a couple of hours later she was barefoot, wearing a white T-shirt and shorts, her high heels abandoned. She looked more relaxed and content than Ross had seen her for a long time. But he couldn’t help wondering how the Prince of Wales would react when his private secretary placed the papers on his breakfast table in the morning.

The Princess and Jamil sat down for dinner just as the sun began to set, but the photographer had already left by then, as he needed to catch the first edition before the presses began to roll.

Ross didn’t relax until he heard the engines turn over, followed by an order piped down from the bridge to the engine room, ‘Slow ahead.’ They eased away from the dockside and set course for a secluded bay where, the captain had assured him, no one would ever find them. Ross was pretty sure there was one person who would.

Ross was the last to go below deck, but not before he’d double-checked that all that could be seen in any direction was a calm sea with no other vessel in sight.

He walked quietly past the royal suite, no light coming from under the door, before retiring to his cabin on the same deck. Something he’d insisted on. He showered and climbed into bed, sinking down into the fresh crisp cotton sheets, his head resting on a feather pillow. If it hadn’t been for the quiet murmur of the engines, and the gentle movement of the boat, he wouldn’t even have known they were at sea.

‘Don’t get used to it,’ the Hawk had warned him, ‘or you’ll lose your edge.’ The last thing he did before switching off his bedside light was to look out of the port window to confirm one more time that no one was following them. No one was.

Lamont turned off the main road and followed a signpost pointing to a large storage facility near Gatwick.

Miles, now dressed in a dark grey suit, white shirt, highly polished black shoes and a striped tie, had completed the transformation from escaped prisoner to respectable businessman. He checked the bulging wallet in his inside pocket. It would be empty by the time he climbed into bed that night. But which bed would he be climbing into?

Lamont parked on the far side of a large removal van, so they could remain out of sight of prying eyes. He then made his way across to the nearest building and disappeared inside.

He reappeared a moment later and indicated with a nod that it was safe for Miles to join him. Inside, a squat heavily built man wearing brown overalls, an open-necked shirt and a baseball cap was standing in front of a large reinforced door with two large padlocks.

‘Reg,’ said Lamont, ‘this is Mr Booth Watson, who I told you would be coming to collect his paintings in person.’

‘I’ll need to see some ID.’

Miles took out his wallet and handed over £500 in cash, which quickly disappeared into a deep pocket. Identity established.

‘Sign here,’ said Reg, producing a transport authority form. ‘Then my lads can get started on the loading.’

After Miles had squiggled an indistinguishable signature on the dotted line, Reg touched his cap and announced, ‘We’ll see you in Lambeth in a couple of hours’ time, Mr Booth Watson, when...’

‘You’ll get the other five hundred, as promised,’ said Miles. ‘But not until the paintings are safely back in their old home.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Reg as he turned to unlock the security door.

Lamont and Miles returned to the car. Once Lamont was back behind the wheel, he checked his watch and said, ‘We’re going to have to get a move on if you’re hoping to be on time for your next meeting.’

Miles gave him a curt nod, but didn’t say anything other than to repeat, ‘Don’t break the speed limit.’

Lamont stuck to the inside lane as they headed towards London, all the time keeping an eye out for any police patrol cars. He didn’t want to draw up beside one at a traffic light and risk one of them being recognized. He moved into the centre lane as they continued on towards Hyde Park Corner. Although Lamont had driven the course the day before, he hadn’t been able to find a parking meter near the bank, and this wasn’t a day for leaving the get-away car on a double yellow line. He circled the bank and eventually found a meter about a hundred yards from the bank’s main entrance. A calculated risk.

Lamont fed the meter with enough coins to allow them a couple of hours, the maximum on offer; every minute of which they would need. As he began to walk towards the bank, Miles slipped out of the car and followed in his wake. They avoided the reception desk and joined a group of other grey suits who were stepping into a lift. Lamont pressed the button marked 5 and the door slid closed. It was clear to Miles that Lamont, like the experienced ex-policeman he was, had done his homework, to reduce the risk of surprises as far as possible. But Miles knew there would always be something he hadn’t anticipated.

When the lift door opened on the fifth floor, Lamont was the first out. He walked briskly down the corridor and knocked on a frosted glass door that announced ‘Mr Nigel Cotterill, Area Manager’. He didn’t wait for a response, although they were a few minutes early for their appointment. They might need those few minutes later.

If Mr Cotterill was surprised to see his erstwhile client, he didn’t show it, as he’d already had two meetings with Lamont and knew exactly what was expected of him.

Miles took a seat on the other side of the manager’s desk, while Lamont stood a pace behind him. Their roles reversed.

‘As Mr Lamont will already have told you,’ said Miles, ‘I require a new safe-deposit box, for which I will be the only keyholder.’

Cotterill nodded, opened a file on his desk, took out several documents and placed them neatly in front of one of the bank’s most important customers. Miles read each one carefully before penning his real signature on the bottom line.

‘What about my other request?’ he asked as he screwed the cap back on his fountain pen.

‘We are currently holding twenty-six million pounds in your name following the sale of your fifty-one per cent holding in Marcel and Neffe. But as you will be aware, the money is lodged in a client account so that Mr Booth Watson can withdraw funds on your behalf when required, or to cover his fees and expenses as your legal representative.’

‘How much has he taken out while I’ve been... since I last saw you?’

Cotterill glanced at the debit column. ‘Two hundred and forty-one thousand, seven hundred pounds,’ he said.

Miles didn’t comment, except to say firmly, ‘While I’m moving the contents of my old safe-deposit box to the new one, make sure that the full balance in the joint account is transferred to my private account, from which I will be the only person authorized to make withdrawals.’

‘I’ll have all the necessary forms ready for you to sign by the time you return,’ said Cotterill. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll ask our head of security to accompany you to the lower ground floor, and open the strongroom for you. The number of your new box is 178.’ He handed over a key, picked up the phone on his desk and dialled security.