Page 15

‘And I must inform you,’ continued the Chief of Police, ‘that Hartley has already claimed you were the United Kingdom’s agent for the arms deal and you were about to take him to a meeting with the Defence Minister just before he was arrested. Is that true?’

‘I’d never seen the man before,’ repeated Khalil a little too quickly. ‘I’ve always represented the French for this most important government contract.’

‘Not the Italians?’

‘No, I couldn’t understand how they even got on the shortlist. Although I liked Conti, I never represented him, or Hartley, for that matter.’

The Chief made a mental note that Khalil never referred to his friend Conti by his first name Paolo. ‘I thought the British were the favourites to be awarded the contract?’ was his next question.

‘They were in with a chance, but sadly I had to let the Minister of Defence know what happened at the club on Sunday night. He was appalled, and I think you’ll find the British have now been removed from the shortlist.’

The Chief of Police knew they hadn’t, but kept that information to himself. ‘But what would Hartley’s motive be for killing Conti,’ he pressed, ‘if the Italians were never in with a chance?’

‘I think you’ll find it was personal,’ said Khalil. ‘Perhaps you should have another word with the girl who won’t talk.’

‘It isn’t that she won’t talk,’ said the Chief. ‘It’s that she won’t confirm your story.’

‘I feel sure she will in time,’ said Khalil, without further explanation.

‘And then there’s the problem of the murder weapon.’

‘The knife?’

‘That we conveniently found under Hartley’s bed.’

Khalil looked embarrassed.

‘You may also be interested to know,’ said the Chief, ‘that Hartley has demanded to see the British Ambassador, and as he’s a tier one expat, that’s something I can’t put off indefinitely.’

‘I only need a few more days,’ said Khalil, ‘by which time I feel sure Avril will have confirmed my story.’ He placed a hand in an inside pocket and produced a large wad of notes, which he left on the table. ‘You’ll receive the same amount every week Hartley remains in jail,’ Khalil promised him.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said the Chief, as he placed the cash in a top drawer and closed the file.

•••

Just after 9.40 a.m., a taxi pulled up outside Wormwood Scrubs and a portly man dressed in a dark grey, double-breasted suit and carrying a Gladstone bag, stepped out onto the pavement. He paid the cabbie and waited for a receipt before making his way slowly towards the front gate.

‘I have a legal conference with my client, Mr Miles Faulkner, at ten,’ he told the prison officer standing behind the counter in reception. He produced a booking form and an embossed card.

The officer checked his appointment schedule and placed a tick next to the name of Mr Booth Watson QC.

‘Please follow me, sir,’ he said as he stepped out from behind the counter.

Booth Watson began a routine he’d carried out several times in the past. First, the long walk across a barren, weed-covered yard which was surrounded by a towering wall topped with razor wire. When they reached the prison entrance, the officerunlocked the first door – three keys were needed – and once they’d stepped inside, the door was triple-locked again. This was followed by a body search, only reminding Booth Watson how much weight he’d put on since he’d last visited his client.

He then placed his Gladstone bag, jacket, belt, wallet, watch and phone in a plastic tray and watched as it moved slowly along a conveyor belt and through an X-ray machine to be checked for guns, knives, drugs or cash. When his bag and jacket reappeared on the other side of the X-ray machine, a senior officer stepped forward and retained his wallet and phone, a routine Booth Watson was all too familiar with.

‘You can collect them on your way out, Mr Booth Watson,’ said the prison officer.

Booth Watson nodded, while he waited for another iron door to be unlocked before he could progress – the second of six he would have to pass through before he reached the interview room.

After the final door had been unlocked and then relocked, Booth Watson checked his watch. He was five minutes early for the appointment with his client, but was confident Miles would be on time waiting for him. His journey would have been far shorter, with only his cell door to unlock.

The senior prison officer on duty managed, ‘Good morning, sir,’ as he escorted the prisoner’s silk to the glass interview room. He opened the door before standing aside to allow Booth Watson to enter. He then closed it but remained on watch in the corridor, just a glance away.

Miles rose and shook hands with his brief before the two men sat down in uncomfortable plastic chairs. They were on opposite sides of a large glass table that kept them more than an arm’s length apart, ensuring nothing illegal could pass between them.

‘Good morning, Miles,’ said Booth Watson, as he opened his Gladstone bag. He took out the inevitable file. ‘As you only have a fortnight to serve before you’re released, I thought it might be wise for us to meet so that when you come out you can hit the ground running, so to speak. But remember for now, we only have an hour, and must make the most of it.’