Page 18 of End Game
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Miles returned to the Russian residence the following day, his short speech well-prepared. The same uniformed officeropened the door and once again escorted the guest into the drawing room where the Ambassador awaited him.
The first thing Miles saw as he walked into the room was a portrait by a Dutch artist who had died in poverty, having sold only one picture in his lifetime.
The Ambassador rose from his chair and said, ‘So, have you reached a decision, Mr Faulkner?’
‘Yes, I have,’ replied Miles, his eyes still fixed on Van Gogh’s masterpiece.
He changed his mind once again.
CHAPTER 6
21 June 2012 – 36 days to go
SURVEILLANCE SOUNDS FASCINATINGto the layman, but for the most part it’s endless and boring, not least because you can’t risk taking a moment off, in case that is the precise moment something happens. You can go hours without being fed, have to piss into an empty bottle in the car, and only fall asleep when the lights in the target’s bedroom finally go off. But you have to be awake and alert once again before they come back on.
William had told Ross that Faulkner was involved in a ticket scam, but what Beth was suggesting was in a different league, so Ross immediately made a change to his daily routine.
Every morning for the past fortnight, he had taken a taxi to Faulkner’s home in Cadogan Place and arrived before the milkman. A taxi with a difference, as it was part of the Met’s fleet and never picked up a customer – and Ross was in the driving seat.
Sergeant Hogan was quickly reminded that Faulkner was a creature of habit. The lights in his Belgravia town house would be switched on at around six thirty every morning and turned back off soon after eleven at night. The habit of a professional businessman. In Faulkner’s case, a professional criminal.
Ross had been regularly tailing Faulkner to the Savoy for lunch, the Middle Temple to visit Mr Booth Watson, and on one occasion to Trumper’s on Curzon Street to have his hair cut. Occasionally, he would meet with a legitimate business associate, but more often with someone not quite so legitimate, such as a shady art dealer or even a bookie. Faulkner didn’t seem to have any friends.
He rarely shopped, didn’t go to the theatre, visit nightclubs or casinos. His only outside interest seemed to be visiting art galleries, which he did at least twice a week. He was invited to all the major openings, which the gossip columns regularly reported. Ross would have liked to join him at some of these galleries, but had to remain behind the wheel.
The routine hardly varied, and Ross was beginning to think that Beth might have overreacted and that Faulkner had been doing no more than chatting to the Russian Ambassador while admiring the Van Gogh masterpiece at the embassy party. Perhaps the time had come for him to turn his attention to more pressing matters, such as Bernie Longe. He’d picked up on the Met’s grapevine – deep rooted but not always reliable – that Bernie’s drug activities were flourishing. Ross wondered if this could in any way be connected to the Olympics. The Met had been trying to take down Bernie Longe for years, but never came up with enough evidence to charge him.
Once again, Ross followed Faulkner’s Rolls to the Savoy. He parked on a cab rank with a perfect sightline to the hotel’s front door and waited for Faulkner to reappear.
When he finally did, to Ross’s surprise he didn’t climb into the back of his Rolls to be driven home, but hailed a taxi that headed towards Trafalgar Square.
Ross kept his distance while he followed, but had to make sure he was never caught at a red light when he could lose his prey.
The taxi continued on its way down Whitehall, past Downing Street and the Houses of Parliament before turning left over Lambeth Bridge and then right along Albert Embankment. They continued on for another mile before coming to a halt outside the Oval, which took Ross by surprise, as he’d never known Faulkner to take any interest in cricket.
He quickly dumped the taxi on another rank, leapt out and headed for Hobbs Gate. He spotted Faulkner about fifty yards ahead of him. He clearly knew where he was going.
When Faulkner disappeared into the Bedser Stand, Ross kept on walking, only stopping when he reached the next entrance. He slipped into an empty seat beside a pillar. He didn’t need a pair of binoculars to spot Faulkner, who was sitting at the back of a sparse crowd, next to a man who had clearly never visited a cricket match in his life. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and red silk tie, and couldn’t have looked more out of place. He was deep in conversation with Faulkner and rarely looked at what was taking place on the field.
The two men continued chatting for the best part of an hour, and the loss of three wickets during that time didn’tseem to interest them. Then the stranger abruptly stood up and, without shaking hands, left the stand and headed for the exit.
Ross immediately made the decision to follow the mystery man, rather than Faulkner, in the hope it would be more revealing. He nipped out of his place back onto the concourse and ran all the way to Hobbs Gate, where he left the ground and jumped back into his cab. He didn’t have to wait long before the man reappeared.
Looking around, the man saw Ross and raised an arm. Ross made another instant decision. He pulled down his cloth cap, turned on the engine and headed across the road to pick up his first customer. The man climbed into the back without giving him a second look.
‘Where to, guv?’ asked Ross, feigning a cockney accent.
‘Kensington Palace Gardens.’
Ross didn’t need to be told it would be an embassy. But which one?
During the journey, Ross regularly glanced in his rear-view mirror, not to check the traffic behind him but to take a closer look at the customer seated in the back, who was constantly on his phone, speaking in Russian.
After Ross had dropped his fare off at the embassy – no tip – he drove for about a mile before he came to a halt in a side street. He called William.
When Ross recognized the familiar voice on the other end of the line, all he said was, ‘I need to see you.’
