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CHAPTER 3

A T ONE MINUTE TO EIGHT , Chief Superintendent William Warwick knocked on the Commander’s door. He waited for the usual cry of ‘Come’ before he entered his office.

It wouldn’t have taken an astute detective more than a few minutes to work out what the man seated behind the desk had been up to for the past thirty years. A photograph of Commander Hawksby playing scrum half for the Metropolitan Police at Hendon in his youth hung on the wall behind him, alongside one of him being awarded the Queen’s Police Medal by Her Majesty the Queen. A framed photo of his wife, two sons and five grandchildren took pride of place on his desk.

William sat down on the other side of the desk and stared at the thick files piled up in front of him.

The Commander tapped them almost affectionately, before he said, ‘One day, my boy, all these will be yours, and possibly sooner than you think, as it won’t be too long before I retire.’

Although William had been taken by surprise, he didn’t comment.

‘I’ll be sixty next year,’ said the Hawk, ‘the statutory age for retirement.’

‘No longer, sir,’ William reminded him. ‘The government’s latest directive will allow you to continue to the age of sixty-five.’

‘Only if I’m promoted,’ said the Hawk, ‘and that seems damned unlikely.’

‘The Assistant Commissioner in charge of Special Operations has just announced his retirement, so you’d be …’

‘Along with four other commanders who will be applying for the same job.’

‘I’ll put Ross on to removing them one by one,’ said William, a large grin appearing on his face.

‘Chief Inspector Hogan will be fully occupied for the next few weeks,’ said the Hawk, removing a file from the top of the pile and placing it on the desk in front of him.

William didn’t bother to ask why.

The Commander flicked open the cover of one particular file and said, ‘MI6 have been in touch to warn us that Prince Majid bin Talal Al Saud, the Saudi Arabian Minister of Defence, will be making an official visit to England next month. The trip involves a major arms contract, so the Minister will be attending the Farnborough Air Show to find out what we have on offer. Your team will be in charge of their security. Not an easy task, as there’s bound to be protests concerning some of the regime’s less attractive policies, not least their attitude to women’s rights. However, as a three billion price tag is involved, it won’t come as a surprise that the Prime Minister wants Prince Majid to be made to feel welcome.’

‘Any additional problems we might have to consider?’ asked William.

‘Yes,’ said the Hawk, turning a few pages of the file. ‘It seems that Prince Ahmed bin Majid, the Defence Minister’s second son, will be accompanying him. According to MI6, he’s an unsavoury character – diplomatic parlance for we should keep a close eye on him, particularly when it comes to women, and it’s certainly not their rights he’s interested in.

‘However, the Foreign Office were quick to remind us that while he’s a guest on our shores, he’ll enjoy diplomatic immunity. And there’s an added complication,’ continued the Hawk.

‘Simon Hartley?’ interrupted William. ‘ The Guardian are hinting that Ahmed was the unnamed Prince in the Overseas Club the night Hartley was arrested.’

‘That’s all we need,’ said the Hawk.

‘Then may I suggest, sir,’ said William, ‘Inspector Hogan should be delegated as his protection officer for the duration of the stay. That should be more than enough to keep him out of harm’s way.’

‘For the time being. But you’re not the only person who reads The Guardian , so we’ll have to be prepared for protests. What’s Detective Sergeant Pankhurst up to at the moment?’

‘Rebecca is overseeing the security for the Queen Mother’s one hundredth birthday celebrations, which should keep her fully occupied for the next few weeks.’

‘And Detective Sergeant Roycroft and Detective Inspector Adaja?’

‘Both have in-trays almost as large as yours.’

‘Do you think the crooks have any idea just how understaffed we are?’

‘If they don’t,’ said William, ‘they can’t be reading the Daily Mail .’

The Commander managed a sigh. ‘Be sure to let Inspector Hogan know what he’s up against,’ said the Hawk, tapping the file once again, ‘because the Commissioner has made it clear the Saudi visit is our top priority.’

‘Ross is somewhere in Sicily at the moment,’ said William, ‘but he’ll be back by the end of next week.’

‘Gawd help them,’ said the Hawk. ‘He’ll try and round up the Mafia single-handed, and then we’ll have an international incident on our hands.’

‘Not much fear of that while Alice and Jojo are around to keep an eye on him.’

‘Let me know the moment he’s back,’ said the Hawk. ‘So, what’s our next problem, Chief Superintendent?’

‘Miles Faulkner is due to be released from the Scrubs in just over a fortnight’s time.’

‘He’s already done four years?’

‘Three. The Home Office, in their wisdom, allowed him a year off for good behaviour.’

The Hawk raised his eyes to the sky. ‘God is not a policeman.’

···

Simon didn’t need to be told it was solitary. He didn’t know how long he’d been in the cell. They had taken away his watch, and there was no window to suggest night or day. Whenever the hatch opened, which wasn’t that often, he demanded to see his Ambassador. A request that didn’t even receive a grunt.

His mother had once told him that he should never get ill or break the law when abroad. For the first time, he really understood what she’d meant. If either of those happens, his father had added, the first person you need to contact is the British Ambassador. Simon had met Sir Bernard Anscombe on arrival in Riyadh, but had not seen his excellency since. The moment he had been arrested by the Chief of Police he had assumed that alarm bells would have gone off over at the embassy and that Sir Bernard would be pulling out every stop to have him released. That was assuming there were any stops to pull out.

He was beginning to wonder if it had always been Khalil’s intention to dispose of the British bid before he met the Minister of Defence, which would confirm the rumours that the French had offered Prince Ahmed an extra five per cent to close the deal. Had Conti also been removed so that there was no one left in the field other than the French? People had been killed for far less than fifty million.

Simon knew there were enough witnesses in that room to confirm he hadn’t been involved in Conti’s stabbing, so felt confident it would not be long before he was released.

Now, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

Perhaps, when you’ve got a spare fifty million at your disposal, there’s enough left over for everyone to have a percentage of a percentage.

···

‘Never seen him before in my life,’ insisted Khalil, when the Chief of Police began to question him in his office later that morning. ‘All I can tell you, Chief, is that the Englishman had been drinking a little too much when he was at the club and lost his temper when the girl he wanted seemed more interested in another customer. But I didn’t even know his name until you told me.’

The Chief of Police knew only too well from past experience that Khalil wasn’t a reliable witness, and always assumed anyone could be bribed. The only question concerned the amount involved. However, he was also aware Mr Khalil was unofficially the Defence Minister’s representative and, therefore, unaffected by the usual rules.

‘I can only tell you what I saw,’ continued Khalil. ‘My close friend, a distinguished and well-respected businessman from Italy, was sitting on a sofa, chatting to one of the girls, when suddenly Hartley jumps off his stool, marches across and begins to threaten him. Mr Conti tried to defend himself but, before I could come to his aid, Hartley took out a knife and stabbed him. But by then there was nothing I could do to help, which is why I called you immediately.’

The Chief of Police didn’t bother to remind Khalil that it wasn’t him who had called him, but one of Prince Ahmed’s followers, who also named Hartley as the guilty party. He looked down at a pile of witness statements he had collected during the past two days. ‘Several others who were present have confirmed that’s what happened,’ said the Chief, ‘including the barman, but …’ He hesitated, before saying, ‘Not every one of the girls.’

‘What about Avril,’ enquired Khalil, nervously, ‘who was the girl sitting next to Mr Conti at the time?’

The Chief wasn’t surprised that Khalil knew which girl was refusing to fall in line, without having to be told.

‘Jenny Prescott,’ said the Chief, looking down at the list of witnesses, ‘or at least that’s the name on her passport.’

Khalil nodded.

‘When I questioned Ms Prescott, she refused to confirm your story, which might prove a problem if the case ever goes to court.’

Khalil remained silent.

‘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 officer unlocked 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.’

Miles nodded.

‘I’ve already dealt with all the necessary paperwork, so that when you’re released you’ll find Collins parked outside the front gate waiting to drive you back home to Chelsea. But I need to know if you have any further instructions for me before then.’

‘Three wasted years,’ came back Miles’s bitter response to his counsel’s question, ‘which no one can give me back. But that won’t stop me making those responsible pay for their actions.’

‘Don’t you think it might be time to put the past behind you, Miles, and move on?’ suggested Booth Watson, with an exaggerated sigh. ‘The last thing you need is another spell in prison.’

‘I haven’t been idle for the past three years,’ said Miles, as if he hadn’t heard the proffered advice. ‘One thing they can’t lock up is your mind, and this time I have a foolproof scheme to ensure Mr and Mrs Warwick won’t be enjoying conjugal bliss for much longer.’

‘I don’t have to remind you, Miles, that Chief Superintendent Warwick is now head of the Royalty and Diplomatic Protection Unit, and Dr Warwick has proved such a success as director of the Fitzmolean that I’m reliably informed her name is on the shortlist as the next director of Tate.’

‘She won’t even get an interview for the job,’ snapped Miles. ‘Not after what I have planned for her. And this is just for starters. Once I get going, early retirement will be the least of the Chief Superintendent’s worries. They need to know I’m back – and that I’m going to make their lives hell for as long as it suits me. So, all I need to know before I make my first move is what Christina has been up to in my absence.’

‘Your ex-wife is once again living well beyond her means,’ said Booth Watson.

‘Despite the fact I’m still paying her a monthly allowance that would impress a footballer’s wife.’

‘Which only makes a small dent in her overdraft. In fact, the bank has recently put a block on her account which has rather cut down on any extra-curricular activities. However, she’s just been appointed chair of the Fitzmolean’s fundraising committee, but only because …’

‘Mrs Warwick needs to raise half a million in double-quick time, and it might surprise you to know I intend to help her.’

‘You intend to do what?’ said Booth Watson, unable to believe his client’s words.

‘It’s all part of my plan to bring all three of them down at the same time.’

Booth Watson would have pleaded with his client once again to let bygones be exactly that, but he knew he’d be wasting his time, so decided to change tack. ‘Can I be of any assistance with those plans?’ he asked, anticipating that a large retainer could be involved.

‘I need you to transfer one thousand pounds to a Billy Mumford who has an account at Barclays Bank in Little Hampton, Yorkshire.’

Booth Watson made a note.

‘I also need you to take ten thousand pounds out of my private account, because if my plan is going to work, I may well need some spare cash at a moment’s notice.’

‘For any particular reason?’ asked Booth Watson casually.

Miles, like a practised politician, answered his question with a question. ‘How is Mrs Warwick getting on with raising the amount needed to rescue Rembrandt’s Angel for the nation?’

‘The government art fund has pledged a half a million to the cause, but won’t release their contribution until she’s raised the first five hundred thousand. So far she’s only managed to raise about two hundred, possibly two hundred and twenty thousand, depending on which paper you read—’

‘￡223,500,’ interrupted Miles, ‘so she’s still ￡276,500 short of her target, and if she fails to raise the full amount by the end of the month, the drawing will come up for auction and probably fetch well in excess of a million.’

Booth Watson sat silently awaiting his instructions.

‘I want you to send a cheque to the Fitzmolean’s Rembrandt appeal fund for two hundred and fifty thousand. Make sure it appears to come from an anonymous donor and can’t be traced back to either you or me. I don’t think we’ll have to wait too long before the Fitzmolean announces they’ve raised the full amount, and the masterpiece will go on show to the public in the near future.’

‘So where does Billy Mumford fit into your plan?’ asked Booth Watson, still fishing.

‘He’s already playing his part,’ said Miles, once again not answering his question, ‘but I also need to know if Lamont is still on your payroll.’

‘I’ve kept the ex-Superintendent on a monthly retainer,’ said Booth Watson, ‘but he hasn’t done a lot to earn his stipend recently.’

‘Well, he’s about to do so,’ said Miles. ‘Without his particular skills, my plan will have no chance of working.’

‘Which particular skills do you have in mind?’ asked Booth Watson.

‘If I’m to pull off the switch unnoticed, I’ll need the ex-Superintendent to—’

The glass door opened. ‘Time’s up gentlemen,’ said the senior prison officer.

···

In the taxi on the way back to his chambers, Booth Watson read through his notes and wondered if Miles would ever give up. The only compensation was that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t need another client. He put the notes back in his briefcase and took out The Times . Some readers read the front page first, others turned to the sports pages. Booth Watson always began with the obituaries.

He didn’t waste a lot of time on a major who had won the DSO in Burma, or an academic who had ended her days as head of the natural sciences department at Bristol University. However, the death of the Rt Hon. Lord Hartley PC KBE MC did bring a smile to his face.

The former Home Secretary lived at Hartley Hall, near Bucklebury, which the paper assured him housed the family’s renowned art collection, including Constable’s The Old Mill at Bucklebury. The only other thing he’d left of any interest to Booth Watson was a wife of fifty-three years’ standing and an only son, Simon. Booth Watson tried to recall where he’d come across the name of Simon Hartley before, but he was none the wiser by the time the train pulled into Waterloo.

On arriving at chambers, he instructed his secretary to make – not for the first time – discreet enquiries concerning the day of a funeral, which he would attend even though he had never once come across the deceased.

···

‘You’ve arrived just in time to join the celebration,’ said Beth, as William strolled into the kitchen.

‘What are we celebrating?’ he asked as she handed him a glass of champagne.

‘The Fitz has succeeded in raising the million needed to secure the Rembrandt drawing, only weeks before it would have been put up for auction on the open market, and that would have been the last we’d have seen of it.’

‘But I thought you needed another quarter of a million, and had almost given up hope of raising the full amount?’

‘I did, and I had,’ admitted Beth. ‘Then, out of the blue, we received a cheque for quarter of a million from an anonymous donor. He’s evidently been an admirer of the Fitz for many years and had already bequeathed that amount to the museum in his will. But given the circumstances, he decided there wasn’t any point in waiting.’

‘Any idea who it might be?’ asked William, as he sipped his champagne.

‘No, but I don’t consider it a coincidence that there’s a new man in Christina’s life.’

William didn’t look convinced. ‘Then you’d better cash the cheque fairly quickly, as Christina’s affairs don’t usually last too long.’

‘I think you could be wrong for a change, Chief Superintendent, because this time he’s older than she is.’

‘Then let’s hope he knows what he’s taking on,’ said William, raising a glass, having accepted it wasn’t a coincidence.

‘The board will be making an official announcement in the next few days,’ said Beth, ‘and they have invited our patron, the Countess of Wessex, to unveil the drawing in July, so that will be one date you can’t afford to miss.’

William raised his glass a second time.

‘And if that wasn’t enough,’ continued Beth, unable to contain her excitement, ‘the chairman of Tate phoned me this afternoon to ask if I’d be interested in applying for the position as their next director.’

‘And when they learn about your triumph with the Rembrandt, it won’t do your prospects any harm.’

‘Possibly, but don’t forget I’d be up against a strong field and I’m not altogether sure I want the job. I love the Fitz, and I mustn’t forget how good they’ve been to me over the years.’

‘Understood, but you can be sure they’ll all be proud of you were you to end up as director of Tate … Where are the twins?’ he added, suddenly aware the house was unusually quiet.

‘Upstairs, plotting something they don’t want us to know about,’ she whispered conspiratorially.

‘Who’s in the firing line this time?’ asked William.

‘No idea, but the name Hartley keeps coming up. Mean anything to you?’

‘What are we having for supper?’ he asked, as the twins burst into the room.