Page 6 of Next in Line

‘He insisted on seeing his own doctor. I assumed they would be Spanish, but Faulkner told me his name was Dr Simon Redwood, and his practice was at 122 Harley Street.’

The Hawk turned to William. ‘Then what happened?’

‘We drove Faulkner to the airport, where his private jet was preparing for take-off.’

‘How convenient,’ suggested Hawksby. ‘But surely the pilot asked you why you hadn’t taken Faulkner to the nearest hospital? And before you answer, we should assume Booth Watson will put him in the witness box.’

‘He did ask that question,’ said Ross, sounding rather pleased with himself. ‘And I told him I was simply carrying out Mr Faulkner’s orders. I said he was welcome to express his opinion to his boss if he wanted to. But he didn’t.’

‘That was fortunate, wasn’t it, Inspector?’ said the Hawk, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm. ‘However, you’re stillgoing to have to explain to the jury why, when you landed at Heathrow, you didn’t take Faulkner straight to Harley Street, but had him driven to Belmarsh, London’s highest security prison.’

‘It was five o’clock in the morning,’ said William. ‘I did ring the Harley Street surgery from the car, but all I got was an answerphone saying the practice opened at nine o’clock.’

‘Was the time of that call recorded?’ demanded the Hawk.

‘Yes, sir. At 5.07. I called back just after nine and told Dr Redwood he could visit his patient in the prison hospital at his convenience, and carry out a full examination. He did so later that morning.’

‘Thank God one of you was thinking on his feet,’ said the Hawk. ‘However, I would suggest you both make sure you’re singing from the same hymn sheet long before the case comes to court, as I can assure you that once Booth Watson returns from Spain, and has had a chance to consult his client, he’ll quickly realize he has more than enough ammunition to drive a coach and horses through your evidence. You’ll both have to pray that the jury accepts Ross’s version of events rather than Faulkner’s. Because if they find out that you seized Miles Faulkner illegally, and then dragged him back to England, you could both end up sharing a cell together.’

The phone on his desk began to ring. The Hawk grabbed it and almost shouted, ‘I thought I said no calls, Angela.’ He listened for a moment before saying, ‘Put him through.’

CHAPTER 3

THE CAPTAIN OFFAULKNER’S YACHTfelt something wasn’t quite right when he double-checked their course. That same feeling had lingered ever since the beginning of the voyage, when he’d watched in disbelief as the staff from the villa had loaded all the paintings onto his yacht, before placing them in the hold. As there was no sign of the boss, he didn’t lift a finger to assist them.

‘Will Mr Faulkner be joining us?’ he’d asked, when Booth Watson came onto the bridge.

‘No,’ said Booth Watson. ‘He’s been unexpectedly detained. But his instructions couldn’t have been clearer.’

Captain Redmayne didn’t believe him, as he’d never known Mr Faulkner to be parted from his art collection. He had been warned several times that if the boss wanted to leave in a hurry, he wouldn’t risk going by car, or boarding his own plane, as long as there was the slightest chance of him being arrested. That was why the yacht always had to be ready to set sail at a moment’s notice. So where was he? That was a question thecaptain didn’t bother to ask Booth Watson, as he thought it unlikely he’d get an honest answer. ‘So where is our next port of call?’ had been his only question.

Booth Watson had already considered several alternatives, but accepted that he’d have to take the odd risk. He’d eventually said, ‘Anywhere on the south coast of England where the customs officials aren’t averse to receiving a bonus for not checking the cargo too carefully.’

Captain Redmayne looked uncertain, as that was not the destination Mr Faulkner had expressly told him would be their next port of call, should they have to make an unscheduled departure. He wanted to protest, but accepted he didn’t have the authority to disobey the boss’s representative on earth.

‘I know the ideal port,’ Captain Redmayne had eventually said, ‘and can even give you a name. But be warned, you’ll need a thousand pounds in cash if you expect a rubber stamp to land on all the right documents.’

Booth Watson had glanced at the Gladstone bag that rarely left his side. If you worked for Miles Faulkner long enough, you always carried enough cash to cover such eventualities. As they’d sailed out of the secreted inlet, he didn’t once look back on the carnage he’d left behind.

When Booth Watson had arrived at Faulkner’s villa the previous day, Collins the butler had told him anxiously that Miles was locked in his safe, and had been there for at least three hours. Booth Watson had concluded that Miles must surely be dead; it would be impossible to survive that long locked inside the safe, there simply wouldn’t be enough air.

That was when the idea first crossed his mind. However, he had waited another hour, and only then given the order to pack up his client’s legendary art collection, and store it in the yacht’s hold.

He was confident that, if they could set sail before the Spanish police turned up at the villa, they would open the safe only to discover the man they had an arrest warrant for was dead. What must have been a long and painful death, thought Booth Watson, but he didn’t shed a tear as he paced up and down Faulkner’s study, his eyes rarely leaving the safe.

After yet another hour had crept by, he grew more confident that Miles couldn’t possibly have survived. During the next hour he began to form a plan and, by the time the clock struck six, he was ready to move. He would return to England, store the paintings in a safe place, and, as he still had his client’s – late client’s – power of attorney, he would systematically transfer all the assets from his several banks to an off-shore account in Hong Kong that he’d set up years ago. Something else Miles had, by example, taught him.

Next, he would put all three of Miles’s substantial properties up for sale and, as he wasn’t in a hurry, could expect them to fetch a fair market price. He’d then get in touch with the Chinese collector who had recently approached him about buying the collection, only to be firmly rebuffed by Miles. But he would explain to Mr Lee that, due to his client’s sad passing, his executor (him) would be willing to reconsider the sale of his works if the price was right. The only problem might turn out to be Miles’s ex-wife Christina, who once she discovered what he’d been up to would undoubtedly demand her cut. Perhaps she would like to own a luxury yacht he would no longer have any use for?

He would then allow a few weeks to pass before letting it be known around the Inns of Court that he was thinking about retiring and, once the inquest was over, he would quietly leave the country without giving a forwarding address.

•••

Miles Faulkner strolled into the prison canteen, unaware of what his lawyer was up to on the high seas. He was pleased to see Tulip, his old cellmate, sitting at their usual table.

‘Morning, boss,’ said Tulip as Miles took the seat opposite him.

A prison guard poured Miles his morning coffee, as if he’d never been away, and he took a sip before he began to read an article in theDaily Telegraph. The report was bad enough, but the accompanying photograph of his nemesis, DCI Warwick, sharing a joke with the Princess of Wales, only served to remind him who had been responsible for putting him back behind bars.

---