Turn a Blind Eye

2

Mr Booth Watson QC took the seat opposite his potential client, removed a thick file from his Gladstone bag and placed it on the glass table in front of him.

‘I’ve studied your case with considerable interest, Mr Rashidi,’ he began, ‘and would like to briefly go over the charges against you, and your possible defence.’

Rashidi nodded, his eyes never leaving the lawyer seated opposite him. He still hadn’t decided whether or not to engage BW, as Faulkner called him. After all, a life sentence could hang on the decision. He needed a King Charles spaniel to charm the jury, crossed with a Rottweiler who would tear the Crown’s witnesses apart limb from limb. Was Booth Watson that animal?

‘The Crown will set out to prove that you ran a large-scale drugs empire. They will accuse you of importing vast quantities of heroin, cocaine and other illegal substances, from which they will claim you have made millions of pounds in profit, and that you controlled a criminal network of agents, dealers and couriers. I will argue that you were no more than an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of the Metropolitan Police’s raid, and no one was more appalled than you when you learned what the premises were being used for.’

‘Can you fix the jury?’ Rashidi asked.

‘Not in this country,’ replied Booth Watson firmly.

‘What about the judge? Can he be bribed? Or blackmailed?’

‘No. However, I have recently discovered something about Mr Justice Whittaker that could prove embarrassing for him, and therefore useful to us. But it will need double-checking.’

‘Like what?’ demanded Rashidi.

‘I’m not willing to reveal that unless and until I decide if I’m willing to represent you.’

It had never crossed Rashidi’s mind that Booth Watson couldn’t be bought. He had always considered lawyers were no different from street whores: you only haggled over the price.

‘Meanwhile, let’s spend our limited time going over the charges in greater detail, and your possible defence.’

Two hours later Rashidi had made up his mind. Booth Watson’s forensic grasp of detail, and of how the law could be bent without being broken, had made it clear why Miles Faulkner thought so highly of him. But would he be willing to defend him when he didn’t have a foot, let alone a leg, to stand on?

‘As you know, the Crown Prosecution Service have provisionally pencilled your trial in for September the fifteenth at the Old Bailey,’ said Booth Watson.

‘Then I’ll need to consult you regularly.’

‘I charge one hundred pounds an hour.’

‘I’ll pay you ten thousand in advance.’

‘The trial could last for several days, possibly weeks. The refreshers alone will be substantial.’

‘Then let’s make it twenty thousand,’ said Rashidi.

Booth Watson silently nodded his assent. ‘There’s one other thing you ought to know,’ he said. ‘The Crown will be represented by Sir Julian Warwick QC, and his daughter Grace will act as his junior.’

‘And no doubt his son will still be hoping to give evidence.’

‘If he doesn’t,’ said Booth Watson firmly, ‘you’ll have lost before the trial begins.’

‘Then we’ll have to grant him a stay of execution, at least until after you’ve taken him apart in the witness box.’

‘I may not even cross-examine the aptly named Choirboy. It’s the not-so-saintly Ex-Superintendent Lamont I want the jury to remember, not Detective Sergeant William Warwick,’ Booth Watson said as the door opened and the duty officer joined them.

‘Five more minutes, sir. You’ve already run over your limit.’

Booth Watson nodded. ‘Do you have any more questions, Mr Rashidi?’ he asked after the door had closed.

‘Have you heard from Miles recently?’

‘Mr Faulkner is no longer my client.’ Booth Watson hesitated a moment before adding, ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I have a business proposition that might appeal to him.’

‘Perhaps you could brief me,’ said Booth Watson, giving away the fact that he and Faulkner were still in touch.

‘The shares in my company, Marcel and Neffe, collapsed after all the negative press that followed my arrest. I need someone to purchase fifty-one per cent of the stock at its current market price, as I’m not allowed to deal on the stock market while I’m in prison. I’ll pay him double for the shares on the day I’m released.’

‘But that might not be for some time.’

‘I’ll pay you double if you get me off.’

Booth Watson nodded again, proving he was indeed a whore, albeit a very expensive one.

William couldn’t resist making the journey back to Brixton by bus. However, this time he wasn’t accompanied by forty armed police officers bent on destroying the largest drugs ring in the capital, but by a throng of housewives heading for the shops.

During the journey he peered down at some landmarks that he remembered from Operation Trojan Horse just the day before. But this bus came to a halt at every stop to let passengers off and on, and its top deck hadn’t been converted into a command centre from which the Hawk could oversee the biggest drugs raid in the Met’s history.

Two high-rise blocks of flats came into sight. At the next stop William jogged down the steps and jumped off the bus, to find his colleague DS Jackie Roycroft sitting in the shelter waiting for him. No well-placed lookouts to prevent them entering the building this time.

As they approached Block B an old woman passed them, pushing a trolley laden down with heavy bags. William felt sorry for her, but something made him turn and take a second look before he continued walking towards the building. He and DS Roycroft stepped into the lift — no bouncer to hinder their progress — and Jackie pressed the button for the twenty-third floor.

‘The premises have already been taken apart by SOCO, and they’ve drawn a blank. But the Hawk felt we should take a closer look just in case they missed anything. They’ve left at the crack of dawn,’ Jackie told him.

‘ “I have no idea when that might be,” ’ drawled William, ‘ “but I’m sure it must be most disagreeable.” ’

‘Go on, tell me,’ said Jackie.

‘Sir Harcourt Courtly addressing Lady Gay Spanker in London Assurance.’ Seeing the blank look on Jackie’s face, William added, ‘It’s a play by Boucicault.’

‘Thank you for that compelling piece of evidence,’ said Jackie, as they stepped out of the lift into a corridor to find a heavy door propped up against the wall.

The general handyman hadn’t bothered with the numerous locks, he’d simply removed the door, leaving a cave. Aladdin’s Cave?

‘Well done, Jim,’ said William, as he entered an apartment that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Mayfair. Modern, stylish furniture littered every room, a carpet so thick you sank into it, while contemporary paintings adorned every wall: among them Bridget Riley, David Hockney and Allen Jones. Lalique glassware was scattered liberally around the apartment, reminding William of Rashidi’s French upbringing. He could only wonder how such a cultured man could have ended up so evil.

Jackie began to search the drawing room, looking for any sign of drugs, while William focused on the master bedroom. It didn’t take him long to accept that SOCO had done a thorough job, although he was puzzled by the lack of day-to-day objects he would have expected to find in an occupied flat: no comb, no hairbrush, no toothbrush, no soap. Just a rail of Savile Row suits and a dozen hand-made shirts from Pink in Jermyn Street, that looked as if they’d just come back from the dry cleaners. Nothing Booth Watson couldn’t easily dismiss as not belonging to his client. But then he saw the initials ‘A.R.’ embroidered on an inside jacket pocket of one of the suits. Would Booth Watson be able to dismiss that quite as easily? William folded the jacket neatly and placed it in an evidence bag.

The next thing he turned his attention to was a photograph in an ornate silver picture frame engraved with on the bedside table, that looked more Bond Street than Brixton. He picked it up and took a closer look at the woman in the photo.

‘Gotcha,’ he said, placing the solid silver frame in another evidence bag.

After he’d made a note of the telephone number on the other side of the bed, he began examining the paintings on the walls. Expensive, modern, but not evidence, unless it turned out that Rashidi had purchased them from a reputable dealer who’d be willing to appear in court as a Crown witness and reveal the name of his customer. Unlikely. After all it wouldn’t be in their best interest. The silver-framed photograph was still his best bet.

He paused to admire a Warhol painting of Marilyn Monroe SOCO had placed on the floor to uncover an unopened safe. He immediately went in search of the handyman Jim, who produced a set of keys that would have impressed Fagin. He had the safe unlocked within minutes. William pulled the door open, only to find the cupboard was bare.

‘Damn man. He must have seen us coming.’ Suddenly he remembered the bag lady who’d passed him earlier, pushing her laden trolley. He knew something about her hadn’t rung true, and then he recalled what it was. Everything had been in character except the shoes. The latest Nike trainers.

‘Damn,’ he repeated as Jackie appeared in the doorway.

‘Have you found anything worthwhile?’ she asked. ‘Because I haven’t.’

With a flourish William held up the plastic evidence bag containing the silver-framed photograph.

‘Game, set and match,’ said Jackie, giving her boss a mock salute.

‘Game, I agree,’ said William, ‘possibly even set. But while Booth Watson’s appearing as Rashidi’s defence counsel at the Old Bailey, match is still to be decided.’

No one was willing to sit at his table until they were convinced he wasn’t coming back.

When Rashidi came down to the canteen for breakfast on the third morning after Faulkner had escaped, he took his place at the top of the empty table, and invited two of his mates, Tulip and Ross, to join him.

‘Miles will be out of the country by now,’ said Rashidi as a prison officer placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. He was the only prisoner whose bacon had no rind. Another officer handed him a copy of the Financial Times. The prison staff had quickly accepted that the old king had departed, and a new monarch now sat on the throne. The courtiers were not alarmed. The new king was the natural successor to Faulkner, and more importantly would make sure their perks were still forthcoming.

Rashidi scanned the stock exchange listings and frowned. Marcel and Neffe had dropped another ten pence overnight, making his company vulnerable to a takeover bid. He could do nothing about it, despite being only a couple of miles away from the Stock Exchange.

‘Not good news, boss?’ asked Tulip as he forked a sausage and stuffed it into his mouth.

‘Someone’s trying to put me out of business,’ said Rashidi. ‘But my lawyer has it all under control.’

Marlboro Man nodded. He rarely spoke, only asking the occasional question. Too many questions would make Rashidi suspicious, the Hawk had warned his undercover officer. Just listen, and you’ll gather more than enough evidence to make sure they won’t be releasing him any time soon.

‘What’s the latest on the supply problem?’ asked Rashidi.

‘Under control,’ Tulip assured him. ‘We’re making just over a grand a week.’

‘What about Boyle? He still seems to be supplying all his old customers, which is eating into my profits.’

‘No longer a problem, boss. He’s being transferred to a nick on the Isle of Wight.’

‘How did you manage that?’

‘The transfer officer is a couple of months behind with his mortgage payments,’ said Tulip without further explanation.

‘Then let’s pay next month’s in advance,’ said Rashidi. ‘Because Boyle’s not the only inmate I want transferred, and it’s less risky than the alternative. What about you, Ross? When will you be leaving us?’

‘I’m off to Ford Open some time next week, boss. Unless you want me to stay put?’

‘No, I need you back on the street as quickly as possible. You’re far more use to me on the outside.’