Nothing Ventured

29

The press had a field day. A murder appeal at the Old Bailey and the return of a stolen national treasure both in the same week. Fleet Street couldn’t decide which story to lead on that Monday morning.

The Guardian favored Arthur Rainsford and the possibility of a miscarriage of justice, while the Daily Mail was more interested in Miles Faulkner, asking its readers, ‘Raffles or Rasputin?’

The Sun put both of them on its front page and claimed an exclusive by revealing a link between the two men: DC William Warwick had arrested the master art thief, and was engaged to the daughter of the ‘Marylebone Murderer.’

Several newspapers carried profiles of the distinguished defense barristers involved in the two cases, Sir Julian Warwick QC and Mr. Booth Watson QC. The Times hinted that they were not on good terms, while the Mirror claimed they were deadly enemies.

William’s and Beth’s loyalties were equally divided. They left the flat in Fulham together that morning but parted on the steps of the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand to go their separate ways: William to court fourteen to follow the Faulkner trial, while Beth attended court twenty-two to support her father. They both rose as the judges entered their respective domains.

Three judges entered court twenty-two and took their places on the bench, Lord Justice Arnott presiding, while his two learned friends would be in attendance and on hand to discuss the finer points of the law.

Lord Justice Arnott settled in the center chair and rearranged his red robe while everyone in the courtroom resumed their seats. Sir Julian liked to believe that judges were like cricket umpires — impartial and fair — and although he and Lord Justice Arnott had crossed swords several times in the past, he’d never known him to be unjust.

‘Sir Julian,’ said the judge, peering benevolently down from on high. ‘My colleagues and I have spent some considerable time going over the evidence from the original trial, at which the defendant was convicted of the murder of his business partner, Mr. Gary Kirkland. Our sole interest in these proceedings is the presentation of any fresh evidence that might suggest a miscarriage of justice took place on that occasion. I would therefore ask you, Sir Julian, to bear that in mind.’

‘I will indeed, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian, rising from his place. ‘However, it may be necessary from time to time to refer back to the original trial. But I will do everything in my power not to try Your Lordship’s patience.’

‘I am obliged, Sir Julian,’ said Lord Justice Arnott, not sounding at all obliged. ‘Perhaps you would now proceed with your opening statement.’

In court fourteen, Mr. Booth Watson was coming to the end of his opening statement. Following Mr. Adrian Palmer QC’s submission on behalf of the Crown, the jury could have been forgiven for thinking that Miles Faulkner was the devil incarnate, whereas when Mr. Booth Watson resumed his place, they might have been under the illusion that his client was one step away from being canonized.

‘You may call your first witness, Mr. Palmer,’ said Mr. Justice Nourse, looking down from on high.

‘We call Mrs. Christina Faulkner,’ said Palmer.

The moment the journalists seated in the press gallery set eyes on the striking woman as she entered the court, few of them were in any doubt whose picture would be dominating their front pages the following morning.

Dressed in a simple, well-cut gray Armani suit with a single string of pearls, Mrs. Faulkner stepped into the witness box as if she owned it, and delivered the oath in a quiet but assured manner.

Mr. Palmer rose from his place and smiled across at his principal witness.

‘Mrs. Faulkner, you are the wife of the defendant, Mr. Miles Faulkner.’

‘I am at present, Mr. Palmer, but not for much longer, I hope,’ she said, as her husband glared down at her from the dock.

‘Mrs. Faulkner,’ said the judge, ‘you will confine yourself to answering counsel’s questions, and not offering opinions.’

‘I apologize, My Lord.’

‘How long have you been married to the defendant?’ asked Palmer.

‘Eleven years.’

‘And you have recently sued him for divorce on the grounds of adultery and mental cruelty.’

‘Is this relevant, Mr. Palmer?’ asked the judge.

‘Only to show, Your Honor, that the relationship between the two of them has irretrievably broken down.’

‘Then you have achieved your purpose, Mr. Palmer, so move on.’

‘As you wish, Your Honor: This trial, as you will know, Mrs. Faulkner, concerns the theft of The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild, by Rembrandt, a work of art the value of which is incalculable, and is acknowledged by art aficionados to be a national treasure. So I must ask you when you first became aware of the painting.’

‘A little over seven years ago, when I saw it hanging in the drawing room of our home at Limpton Hall.’

‘A little over seven years ago,’ repeated Palmer, looking directly at the jury.

‘That is correct, Mr. Palmer.’

‘And did your husband tell you how he had acquired such a magnificent work of art?’

‘He was evasive to begin with, but when I pressed him, he told me he’d bought the picture from a friend who was in financial trouble.’

‘Did you ever meet this friend?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘And when did you become aware that the painting had in fact been stolen from the Fitzmolean Museum?’

‘A couple of weeks later when I saw it on the News at Ten.’

‘Did you tell your husband about that news report?’

‘Certainly not. I was far too frightened, as I knew only too well how he would react.’

‘Understandably.’

‘Mr. Palmer,’ said the judge firmly.

‘I apologize, Your Honor,’ said Palmer, with a slight bow, well aware that he had made his point. He turned back to the witness. ‘And when you could no longer bear the deception, you took it upon yourself to do something about it.’

‘Yes, I felt that if I did nothing, I would be condoning a crime. So when my husband was away in Australia last Christmas, I packed up the painting and sent it back to England on our yacht, with clear instructions that it should be returned to the Fitzmolean.’

Booth Watson scribbled a note on the pad in front of him.

‘But weren’t you worried about the consequences of that decision when your husband returned?’

‘Extremely worried, which is why I made plans to leave the country before he got back.’

Booth Watson made a further note.

‘Then why didn’t you do so?’

‘Because Miles somehow found out what I was planning, and took the next flight back to London to try and prevent me from giving back the painting to its rightful owner.’ She bowed her head shyly.

‘And when did you next see your husband?’

‘In Southampton, when he boarded our yacht, and was so desperate not to lose the Rembrandt, he switched the labels with one on another crate.’

Booth Watson made a third note.

‘But this attempt to fool the police failed.’

‘Thankfully yes, but only because a detective from Scotland Yard, who’d traveled to Southampton to collect the painting, became suspicious and insisted that another crate should be opened. That’s when they discovered the missing Rembrandt.’

The journalists’ pencils didn’t stop scribbling.

‘And thanks to your courage and fortitude, Mrs. Faulkner, this national treasure once again hangs on the wall of the Fitzmolean Museum.’

‘It does indeed, Mr. Palmer, and I recently visited the museum to witness the masterpiece being rehung in its rightful place. It gave me great pleasure to see how many members of the public were, like me, enjoying the experience.’

‘Thank you, Mrs. Faulkner. No more questions, Your Honor.’

Booth Watson looked across at the jury, who appeared to be on the point of bursting into applause when Mr. Palmer sat down.

‘Mr. Booth Watson,’ said the judge, ‘do you wish to cross-examine this witness?’

‘I most certainly do, Your Honor,’ said Booth Watson, heaving himself up from his place and smiling sweetly at the witness.

‘Do remind me, Mrs. Faulkner, when it was you first saw the Rembrandt?’

‘Seven years ago, at our home in the country.’

‘Then I’m bound to ask, what took you so long?’

‘I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,’ said Christina.

‘I think you know only too well what I’m getting at, Mrs. Faulkner. But let me spell it out for you. Quite simply, if you knew seven years ago that the painting had been stolen, why wait until now to inform the police?’

‘I was waiting for the right opportunity.’

‘And that opportunity didn’t arise for seven years?’ said Booth Watson, sounding incredulous.

Christina hesitated, allowing Booth Watson to thrust the knife in deeper.

‘I would suggest, Mrs. Faulkner, that the opportunity you were actually waiting for, was to steal your husband’s entire art collection while he was safely on the other side of the world?’

‘But I didn’t plan...’ She hesitated, giving Booth Watson the opportunity to twist the knife.

‘I think you’d been planning this outrageous piece of grand larceny for some considerable time, Mrs. Faulkner, and simply used the Rembrandt as a ploy to give yourself a better chance of getting away with it.’

A babble of whispered conversations broke out in the court, but Booth Watson waited patiently for silence to return, before he slowly extracted the knife.

‘Did you, Mrs. Faulkner, while your husband was in Melbourne, have all the artworks at his home in Monte Carlo packed up and taken to the port, where they were placed in the hold of your husband’s yacht?’

‘But half of them would have been mine in any case,’ protested Christina.

‘I’m well aware that you are suing your husband for divorce,’ said Booth Watson, ‘as my learned friend so subtly reminded us, but in this country, Mrs. Faulkner, it is traditional to let the courts decide what portion of a man’s wealth should be allocated to his wife. Clearly you weren’t willing to wait.’

‘But it was only about a third of the collection.’

‘Quite possibly, but after the yacht had set sail from Monte Carlo for Southampton with one-third of your husband’s art collection on board, what did you do next?’

Christina bowed her head once again. William frowned.

‘As you appear unwilling to answer my question, Mrs. Faulkner, allow me to remind you exactly what you did. You took the next flight back to London, traveled down to your country home, and once again set about removing every painting in the house.’

One or two members of the jury gasped, while Booth Watson waited patiently for the witness to reply. When no reply was forthcoming, he turned a page of his notes and continued. ‘The following morning, a removal van turned up at the house, loaded the paintings, and, as instructed by you, took them to Southampton to await the arrival of your husband’s yacht, so that they too could be placed on board. So, you’ve now got two-thirds of the collection,’ said Mr. Booth Watson, glowering at his victim, who could only stare back at him like a mesmerized rabbit caught in the headlights.

‘And even that wasn’t enough for you,’ Booth Watson continued, ‘because you then instructed the captain of the yacht that you would be coming aboard with the intention of sailing to New York so you could go straight to your husband’s apartment on Fifth Avenue and relieve him of the rest of his fabled collection. Then, like the owl and the pussycat, you hoped to sail away for a year and a day in your beautiful pea-green boat, or to be more accurate, your husband’s beautiful yacht.’

‘But none of this alters the fact that Miles stole the Rembrandt in the first place, and then switched the labels on the crates to try and prevent it being returned to the Fitzmolean.’

William smiled.

The judge nodded sagely, causing Booth Watson, like a master helmsman, to change tack.

‘Allow me to ask you a simple question, Mrs. Faulkner,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Would you describe your husband as a clever man?’

‘Clever, manipulative, and resourceful,’ came back the immediate reply.

‘I’m therefore bound to ask you, Mrs. Faulkner, if he’s such a clever, manipulative, and resourceful man, why would he have switched the label to another crate which contained a painting worth even more than the Rembrandt that the Crown are claiming he stole?’ Booth Watson didn’t give the witness a chance to reply before he added, ‘No, Mrs. Faulkner, it is you who is clever, manipulative, and resourceful, and that is what made it possible for you to almost get away with stealing one of the most valuable art collections on earth, while at the same time plotting to have my client sent to prison for a crime he did not commit. No further questions, Your Honor.’

‘Sir Julian, you may call your first witness.’

‘Thank you, m’lud. I call Mr. Barry Stern.’

‘Is this the detective inspector who was the Crown’s principal witness at the original trial?’ inquired the judge on behalf of his colleagues.

‘Yes, m’lud. And I’ve had to subpoena him as he is no longer a police officer, and therefore must be considered a hostile witness.’

‘I hope you’re going to produce some fresh evidence, Sir Julian, and not just take us all on a fishing trip.’

‘I believe I will, m’lud, but, like you, I am willing to stretch the legal boundaries a little if it means there’s the slightest chance that an innocent man will finally be granted justice.’

Lord Justice Arnott didn’t look pleased, but satisfied himself with a frown as the courtroom door opened and a stocky man in his early fifties, with a crew cut, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, appeared. Stern took his place in the witness box and delivered the oath without once looking at the card the clerk held up. He then glared across at defense counsel like a boxer waiting for the bell to ring.

‘How many years were you a serving police officer, Mr. Stern?’

‘Twenty-eight. Best years of my life.’

‘Is that right?’ said Sir Julian. ‘So why did you take early retirement, when you would have been entitled to a full pension after just another two years’ service?’

‘Wanted to go out at the top, didn’t I?’

‘By ending your career with a murder conviction? But before I come to that, I have to ask you, during the best years of your life, Mr. Stern, how many times were you suspended?’

‘Is this line of questioning relevant, Sir Julian?’ asked Lord Justice Arnott.

‘It goes to the heart of the case, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian as he picked up the first of the two personnel files that William had come across. He ostentatiously opened the first to a page marked with a large red tab. ‘How many times?’ he repeated.

‘Three,’ said Stern, not looking quite as confident.

‘And was the first offense for being drunk on duty?’

‘I might have occasionally downed a couple of pints on a Friday night,’ admitted Stern.

‘While you were on duty?’

‘Only after we’d banged up a villain.’

‘And exactly how many times were you disciplined for being drunk on duty, having banged up a villain on a Friday night?’

‘I think it was twice.’

‘Think again, Mr. Stern,’ said Sir Julian, giving the witness time to reconsider.

‘It might have been three times.’

‘I think you’ll find it was four, Mr. Stern. And how many other times were you drunk on duty, but not disciplined?’

‘Never,’ said Stern, his voice rising. ‘Just those four times in twenty-eight years.’

‘And always on a Friday night?’

Stern looked puzzled.

‘And the second time you were disciplined, could you tell the court what you were charged with on that occasion?’

‘I don’t recall. It was such a long time ago.’

‘Then let me remind you, Mr. Stern. You were caught having sexual intercourse with a prostitute while she was in a cell. Now do you remember?’

‘I do. But she was—’

‘She was what, Mr. Stern?’

Stern didn’t respond.

‘Then perhaps I should remind you what you said on that occasion.’ Sir Julian looked down at the file, while Stern remained silent. ‘“She was a right little scrubber, who got no more and certainly no less than she deserved.”’

A sudden burst of chattering followed, and Lord Justice Arnott waited for it to subside before asking, ‘Is that not hear-say, Sir Julian?’

‘No, m’lud, I was simply reading Mr. Stern’s testimony from the tribunal report.’

The judge nodded gravely.

‘Mr. Stern, you told the court just a few moments ago that you were only disciplined on three occasions, but that was the fifth occasion, and I haven’t finished yet.’

All three judges had their eyes fixed on the witness.

‘I meant for three different offenses.’

‘So you don’t always say what you mean.’

Stern looked as if he was about to respond, but just clenched his fists.

‘Then let’s move on to the sixth incident, after which a full inquiry took place, and you were suspended for six months.’

‘On full pay, after which the charges were dropped.’

‘That’s not entirely accurate, is it, Mr. Stern? You actually took early retirement only weeks before the inquiry was completed. And on that occasion, you were charged with stealing four thousand pounds from a prisoner while he was in custody.’

‘He was a drug dealer.’

‘Was he indeed?’ said Sir Julian. ‘So you consider it’s acceptable for a police officer to steal from a drug dealer?’

‘I didn’t say that. You’re putting words in my mouth. In any case, he withdrew the allegation the following day.’

‘I’m sure he did. However—’

‘I think we should move on, Sir Julian,’ interrupted Lord Justice Arnott, ‘to the role this officer played at Mr. Rainsford’s trial.’

‘As you wish, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian, nodding to Grace, who handed him the second file. ‘At Mr. Rainsford’s trial, Mr. Stern, would I be right in thinking you were the senior officer investigating the crime?’

‘Yes, I was,’ said Stern, looking as if he thought he was back on safer ground.

‘Did you, in the course of your investigations, ever consider trying to find the short, heavily built man my client repeatedly told you ran past him in the corridor of his office, on the night of the murder?’

‘The mystery man, you mean?’ said Stern. ‘Why bother, when he was nothing more than a figment of Rainsford’s imagination.’

‘And you also made no attempt to trace the anonymous caller who reported Mr. Kirkland’s death to the police.’

‘Isn’t that what anonymous means?’ said Stern, who laughed, but no one else did.

‘Didn’t it occur to you, Mr. Stern, that the anonymous call could only have come from someone who had actually witnessed the crime?’

‘But Rainsford confessed. What more do you want?’

‘I want justice,’ said Sir Julian. ‘And with that seemingly innocent remark, Mr. Stern, you have raised the crucial unanswered question in this case. Who is the honest broker — you, or Mr. Rainsford?’

‘I am,’ said Stern, ‘as the jury concluded.’

‘Then you won’t have any trouble convincing three judges, will you?’

Stern stared up at the bench, at three men who gave no clue what they were thinking.

Sir Julian allowed their lordships a moment before he continued, ‘Was Mr. Rainsford telling the truth when he said his original statement, which you took down, consisted of three pages, one of which subsequently went missing? Or are we to believe, as you stated under oath in the witness box during the trial, that there were only ever two pages?’

‘There never was a middle page,’ said Stern.

‘Middle page, Mr. Stern? I made no mention of a middle page.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘The difference is that it shows you knew which page was missing. Let me ask, did you number the pages of Mr. Rainsford’s statement?’

‘Of course I did, one and two, and Rainsford signed them both. And what’s more, DC Clarkson and me witnessed his signature.’

‘But when did DC Clarkson witness that statement, Mr. Stern?’

Stern hesitated before saying, ‘The following morning.’

‘Giving you more than enough time to remove the middle page.’

‘How many times do I have to tell you there was never a middle page.’

‘We only have your word for that, Mr. Stern.’

‘And DC Clarkson, who went on to be promoted, not to mention the jury who didn’t seem to be in any doubt that your client was guilty.’

‘Some considerable doubt, I would suggest,’ said Sir Julian, cutting him short, ‘because they took four days to reach a verdict, and then only by a majority of ten to two.’

‘That was good enough for me,’ said Stern, his voice rising slightly.

‘Of course it was,’ said Sir Julian, ‘because it allowed you to finish your career on a high, as you so elegantly put it, and walk away without having to face yet another inquiry.’

Mr. Alun Llewellyn QC, who was appearing for the Crown, rose reluctantly from the other end of the bench and said, ‘Can I remind my learned friend that it’s his client who is on trial, and not Mr. Stern.’

A smug look appeared on Stern’s face.

‘Were you sober when you arrested Arthur Rainsford at five thirty that Friday afternoon?’ asked Sir Julian.

‘Sober as a judge,’ said Stern, grinning at the three judges, none of whom returned the compliment.

‘And also when you booked him in at six forty-two?’ he said, checking his notes.

‘As a judge,’ repeated Stern.

‘And when you locked him up at six forty-nine, and left him alone in his cell for nearly two hours?’

‘I wanted to give him enough time to think about what he was going to say, didn’t I?’ said Stern, smiling at the three judges.

‘While giving yourself enough time to down a few pints, having banged up another villain on a Friday night.’

Stern clenched his fists and stared defiantly at his adversary. ‘What if I did have a couple of pints? I was sober enough to—’

‘Sober enough to take down Mr. Rainsford’s statement at eight twenty-three.’

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Stern, his voice rising with every word. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’

‘And sober enough to remove the middle page of my client’s statement later that night to ensure you retired on a high?’

‘I never removed anything that night,’ Stern snapped back.

‘Then the next morning perhaps?’ said Sir Julian calmly. ‘I imagine you were sober enough to remove it the following morning.’

‘And I was sober enough the night before to make sure the bastard got no more and certainly no less than he deserved,’ shouted Stern, jabbing a finger in the direction of defense counsel.

A stony silence hung over the court, as everyone in the room stared at the witness.

‘“And I was sober enough the night before to make sure the bastard got no more and certainly no less than he deserved,”’ repeated Sir Julian, returning Stern’s stare. ‘No further questions, My Lords.’

‘You may step down, Mr. Stern,’ said Lord Justice Arnott wearily.

As Stern made his way out of the court, Sir Julian looked up at the three judges, who were deep in conversation. Grace interrupted his thoughts when she leaned across and said, ‘I have to leave you for a moment. I won’t be long.’

Sir Julian nodded as his junior made her way quickly out of the courtroom, down the wide marble staircase, and onto the street, where a posse of photographers were waiting for a ‘today’ photo of Faulkner as he left the court. Their only chance of getting a picture of Arthur Rainsford would be if he left the court as a free man.

Grace watched them from a distance for some time, before selecting the one whose eyes were continually on the lookout for a front-page picture. She crossed the road and whispered to him, ‘Can I have a private word?’

The snapper peeled away from the rest of the group and listened to her request.

‘Only too delighted to help,’ he said as Grace slipped him a five-pound note. ‘That won’t be necessary, miss,’ he added, handing back the money. ‘Arthur Rainsford should never have gone to jail in the first place.’