Next In Line

Chapter 36

‘Whenever you’re dressed up like a matinée idol,’ said Beth, ‘you’re either off to court or seeing your father.’

‘Both,’ said William as she straightened his tie.

‘Who’s in the dock?’

‘Miles Faulkner. He’s about to find out how many more years he’s going to have to spend in jail.’

‘I know your team run a book on the outcome of any trial they’re involved in. So when do you think he’ll be released — 2003? 2004? 2005?’

‘That will depend on how he pleads.’

‘But even if he pleads guilty,’ said Beth, ‘he escaped from custody, faked his own death and went on the run. Surely the judge will have to take that into consideration.’

‘True. But if the jury decide he was unlawfully abducted from his home in Spain, and taken to England against his will without an extradition order, it could be me who ends up in the dock.’

‘I promise to visit you in jail,’ said Beth. ‘From time to time, as I’m rather busy at the moment.’

‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said William. ‘Booth Watson will also claim that I removed a valuable painting from Faulkner’s house in Spain without his permission, brought it back to London and gave it to you.’

‘Loaned it to me,’ said Beth defiantly. ‘I can prove I’d already agreed with Booth Watson to return it the day the Hals exhibition closes, which I did, meaning you only borrowed the painting and had every intention of returning it to its rightful owner.’

‘But who is the rightful owner?’ asked William.

‘Christina. And she’s already agreed that the Fitzmolean can add it to their permanent collection.’

‘I suspect Booth Watson will dispute that,’ said William, ‘and claim that it belongs to his client.’

‘Which at least proves you never intended to steal the portrait in the first place.’

‘A nice point of law,’ said William, ‘as I’m sure my father would eloquently opine in my defence. But the judge might not agree with him, and you can be certain Booth Watson will keep reminding the jury, not to mention the press, that prosecuting counsel is my father, and perhaps the wrong man’s in the dock.’

‘That would be a pity,’ said Beth, ‘because I was looking forward to celebrating our wedding anniversary at Lucio’s this evening and it might not be quite as easy to book a table at Belmarsh.’

‘Where are you off to, my darling?’ asked Sebastian as he helped Christina on with her coat.

‘The theatre.’

‘At nine o’clock in the morning?’

She laughed as Sebastian opened the front door of her apartment.

‘The curtain rises at the Old Bailey at ten, but I’ll be taking my seat in the stalls long before then.’

As they walked towards the lift, Christina added, ‘The judge on this occasion will be played by Mr Justice Sedgwick, who will have to decide the fate of the lead actor, Mr Miles Faulkner. My ex may well be giving his farewell performance in front of an audience of twelve members of the public who hopefully, when the foreman is asked to deliver their verdict, will only utter one word.’

‘But if Miles pleads guilty,’ said Sebastian as they stepped into the lift, ‘there’ll be no need for a jury.’

‘Not Miles’s style,’ replied Christina as they stepped out onto the ground floor. ‘He’d rather go down all guns blazing than admit defeat. In fact, I have to confess I almost feel sorry for him.’

‘I can’t think why,’ said Sebastian. ‘After all, he tricked you out of your half of his art collection and then stole the ten million he paid you for it. Ten million that would have kept us in champagne and caviar for the rest of our lives.’

‘Don’t forget that Miles could be spending the rest of his life in a confined space with only bread and water to sustain him, while I’ll still have the apartment and an income of two thousand alimony a week, as well as the occasional bonus from my partnership with Beth Warwick,’ said Christina as they left the building and her chauffeur pulled up outside the front door. ‘So you don’t have anything to complain about.’

As the Mercedes moved off, she waved goodbye to Sebastian, having finally decided that he’d passed his sell-by date.

‘Your usual, sir?’ asked the head waiter as Booth Watson handed him back the menu.

‘No. As I won’t have time for lunch, I think I’ll order the full English breakfast.’

The waiter gave him a slight bow.

Booth Watson settled back to read The Times as another waiter poured him a cup of steaming black coffee. His eyes settled on an article informing its readers that the Crown v Miles Faulkner would open in court number one at the Old Bailey that morning. He was pleased that Mr Justice Sedgwick had been chosen to preside over the case, as he was not a man who believed in clemency. Booth Watson was quietly confident that his client would be spending several more years in prison, which would look like a triumph for Sir Julian, as he himself would graciously acknowledge before telling his old rival that he’d decided enough was enough, and the time had come for him to take off his wig, hang up his gown and settle down in the country. He just wouldn’t tell him which country.

Once his client had been safely shipped back to Belmarsh, Booth Watson would carry out his well-planned exit strategy. First, he would contact Art Removals Ltd and instruct them to go to Gatwick Storage, pack up Miles’s art collection and ship it to Hong Kong. He would tell them he was in no particular hurry, as he had other matters to deal with before he left the country. Not least, he would need to make several visits to Miles’s bank in Mayfair, as his Gladstone bag could only hold £100,000 at a time. So it would take a little time for him to remove the final ten million from the safe-deposit box. Perhaps he would have to take two Gladstone bags in future.

As Miles had stolen the money from his ex-wife, who in Booth Watson’s opinion had more than enough to live on, he felt able to justify the transfer from one account to another, without losing any sleep. By the time he’d removed the last fifty-pound note, he would turn his attention to Miles’s art collection — about to become his art collection — which should by then have been shipped to Kowloon, where Mr Lee would be free to inspect it at his leisure, before transferring a further hundred million dollars to another bank account that Booth Watson had recently opened.

Once the transaction had been completed, he would fly out to Hong Kong, before continuing a long, circuitous journey that would end up in Seattle. He’d already placed a large deposit on a magnificent penthouse apartment with a view over Puget Sound, and intended to complete the transaction once the judge had passed sentence.

Booth Watson had recently acquired a new identity, complete with a false passport, and had opened several bank accounts around the world. Amazing what Miles had taught him over the years.

‘Take the prisoner down,’ he mumbled as a plate of eggs, bacon, mushrooms and beans was placed in front of him.

BW picked up his knife and fork, ready for the attack.

Tulip put down his plastic fork.

‘Will you be pleading guilty or not guilty?’ he asked as Miles took a seat on the other side of the table.

Faulkner had been driven back to Belmarsh from HMP Ford to spend the night in London before his trial opened at the Old Bailey. The morning hadn’t begun well, as he’d been told to join the end of the queue for breakfast, only to discover that his usual table was already occupied.

He thought about Tulip’s question. ‘I still haven’t made up my mind. I can’t decide who I distrust more, Booth Watson or Superintendent Warwick.’

‘They’re as bad as each other,’ said Tulip, mopping up the remains of his baked beans with a slice of stale bread. ‘So you’ll just have to choose between the lesser of two evils.’

‘You’re a lot of help,’ said Miles.

A warder he didn’t recognize approached him, placed a hand firmly on his shoulder and said, ‘Let’s be havin’ you, Faulkner. Wouldn’t want to keep the judge waiting, would we?’

He pushed his untouched breakfast to one side, and wasn’t surprised to see Tulip grab it. He made his way back to his cell, where he took his time dressing for the occasion: a smart navy blue suit that hadn’t been worn for nearly a year, a freshly ironed shirt and an Old Harrovian tie that made him look more like a company director than a man who could be spending the next decade in jail.

He was checking his tie in the small steel mirror screwed to the wall when two guards marched into his cell, thrust his arms behind his back and handcuffed him. They clearly didn’t know who he was. They led him down a green brick corridor, passing through several security gates before eventually emerging into a deserted courtyard and the cold light of day. The final gate to be opened would be a wooden one which led to the outside world.

‘Look forward to seeing you this evening, Faulkner,’ said one of the warders, unhelpfully, as they handed him over to three large policemen who looked as if they hoped he would try to escape.

They bundled the prisoner towards a waiting car, his feet hardly touching the ground, before they shoved him onto the back seat. A muscle-bound officer sat on either side of him, while the third took the front passenger seat. The doors automatically locked before the car set off, and two motorcycle outriders made sure there would be no unnecessary stops on the way to the Bailey. They weren’t taking any chances this time.

Miles sat silently in the back seat throughout the journey, still contemplating how he would plead. He was no nearer to making a decision by the time the little motorcade drove through the prisoners’ entrance to the Bailey and parked in the back yard.

Another three policemen were waiting to accompany him to a small, dimly lit cell in the basement, and there was no suggestion that his handcuffs would be removed. After they’d slammed the door behind him, he sat bolt upright on the end of the narrow bed, not wanting to lie down for fear of creasing his suit. The only reading matter was messages daubed on the wall by previous occupants: The fuzz stitched me up; I’m innocent... He’d had even more time to consider his plea when the heavy door finally opened, his handcuffs were removed, and he was led up a flight of stone steps into the dock.

He sat down on a rickety wooden chair flanked on either side by an armed guard as they all waited for the judge to make his entrance.

Booth Watson was sitting in his usual place on the counsels’ bench, checking his opening remarks, while Sir Julian Warwick leant back, arms folded, consulting his junior. Miles glanced to his left and noticed Christina sitting alone at the back of the court, clearly hoping this would be the last time she would ever see him. All she lacked was a pair of knitting needles while she waited for the guillotine to drop.

He switched his attention to the other side of the court, where Commander Hawksby was sitting next to Superintendent Warwick. Miles thought Warwick looked nervous, no doubt wondering how he would plead. He wouldn’t have to wait much longer to find out.

A clock struck the hour and, on the tenth chime, a door opened at the back of the court and Mr Justice Sedgwick appeared in a long red gown and a grey wig. Everyone in the court stood and bowed to His Lordship, a referee none of the players would have considered arguing with for fear of being sent off. He returned the compliment before placing a red folder on the bench in front of him, and taking his place in a high-backed leather chair. Once settled, he rearranged his gown and, looking down from on high, acknowledged first Sir Julian and then Mr Booth Watson, before nodding to the clerk of the court to confirm that proceedings could begin.

The clerk was dressed in a black gown, which gave him the air of a Victorian schoolmaster. He rose from his place and walked slowly across the court to carry out his most important duty of the day.

Coming to a halt in front of the dock, he said in a stentorian voice that echoed around the chamber, ‘Will the prisoner please stand.’

Miles rose to his feet, but his legs were so shaky he had to grip the railing in front of him. Once he’d steadied himself, the clerk continued. ‘Mr Miles Faulkner, you are charged with absconding from prison, illegally leaving the country under a false name, using a forged passport and faking your own death. How do you plead? Guilty, or not guilty?’

Everyone in the court was looking at the defendant, with the exception of Booth Watson, who stared straight ahead of him. It was that single gesture that caused Miles to change his mind once again. He looked directly up at the judge and said, ‘Guilty.’

Sir Julian thought he heard a sigh of relief coming from the other end of the bench, but it was drowned out by the uproar that followed, while several journalists rushed out of the courtroom and headed for the nearest phone.

The judge waited for the clamour to die down before he opened the folder in front of him and considered the written statement he had completed only moments before entering the court. Earlier that morning he had been advised by the Director of Public Prosecutions that if the defendant pleaded not guilty, and the jury decided otherwise, he should follow the recommended procedure and double the defendant’s previous sentence. That decision had now been taken out of his hands.

‘I have given considerable thought to the sentence I am about to impose,’ he began, looking directly at the accused.

Miles wondered if it was too late to change his plea, while Booth Watson allowed the hint of a smile to cross his lips.

‘I have taken into consideration,’ continued the judge, ‘the facts that not only have you pleaded guilty, thus saving the court considerable time and expense, but even more importantly, that after you escaped from prison you returned to England of your own free will, gave yourself up to the authorities, and loaned a valuable painting to the Fitzmolean Museum, which I understand you have since agreed can be added to its permanent collection.’

Miles didn’t react, while Booth Watson looked surprised. Christina simply smiled and nodded.

The judge paused and turned a page before proceeding. ‘Recently, other matters have been brought to my attention that I was unaware of until I received a visit from the Attorney General. Following that meeting, I am persuaded there are substantial mitigating circumstances that will have some bearing on the length of your sentence. However, it would not be appropriate for me to mention those circumstances in open court. For that reason, I shall now invite the clerk to clear the court of anyone not directly involved in this case.’

It was some time before the jury, a few disgruntled members of the press, and those seated in the public gallery had all made their way reluctantly out of the court, some of them unable to hide their disappointment.

The judge did not speak again until the clerk had locked the door to court number one, and bowed to His Lordship to indicate that he could proceed with his judgment.

‘I have also taken into consideration,’ continued the judge, ‘the commendable role you played in assisting the police in preventing a terrorist attack, which undoubtedly resulted in several lives being saved, while at the same time putting your own life in danger.

‘Your precipitous actions also resulted in the police being able to prevent a further crime of national importance which could have caused considerable embarrassment for the government as well as the Metropolitan Police. Thanks to that intervention, the criminals involved are now in police custody. With that in mind, I will be imposing a sentence of eight more years’ — Faulkner was about to protest until he heard the words — ‘but, given the circumstances, that term will be suspended. However, should you be foolish enough to reoffend during that time, those eight years will be added to any further sentence, with no remission. Do I make myself clear?’ the judge added, looking directly at the prisoner.

‘Yes, m’Lud,’ replied Faulkner, his legs suddenly steady.

The judge paused and turned another page of his red folder. ‘The prison authorities have also brought to my attention your exemplary behaviour while in custody at Belmarsh, and more recently at Ford open prison, where you carried out the role of prison librarian.’ William allowed himself a smile. ‘Therefore, your original sentence will be halved, so you can expect to be released in three months’ time.’

Christina leapt up from her place at the back of the court and headed for the exit, aware she had only a few weeks before Miles could seek revenge.

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ said the clerk, barring her path, ‘but I am not permitted to unlock the door until His Lordship has completed his judgment.’

‘Sir Julian,’ said the judge, looking down at the prosecution counsel. ‘I would fully understand if you felt it necessary to lodge an appeal against my judgment on behalf of the Crown.’

To the judge’s surprise, Sir Julian rose slowly from his place, bowed, and said, ‘I accept your judgment, m’Lud, without question.’

‘I am grateful, Sir Julian,’ said the judge, before turning his attention to an ashen-faced Booth Watson, who looked as if he did want to appeal against His Lordship’s judgment, and would have done so had he not been counsel for the defence.

Booth Watson also accepted he only had a couple of months to remove the rest of his client’s money from the safe-deposit boxes and have his art collection transported to Hong Kong before Miles was released. With that in mind, he turned and offered his client a congratulatory smile, accompanied by a thumbs up. After all, hadn’t he promised Miles that if he pleaded guilty, he would be released by Christmas? Though he still had every intention of celebrating the new year in his recently acquired apartment in Seattle.

As the two guards led the prisoner out of the dock, he stared down at Booth Watson, gave him a warm smile and shook his head.