Page 46 of End Game (William Warwick #8)

T HE A SSISTANT C OMMISSIONER and Commander Warwick sat on the back seat of the Hawk’s car and went over their script once again.

‘Before we go in,’ said the Hawk, ‘my first question is, do you want to play the good cop or the bad cop?’

‘The bad cop,’ said William without hesitation.

‘Then you’ll be playing out of character for a change.’

‘And so will you, sir,’ replied William.

The Hawk gave William a slight bow before he climbed out of the car and they headed for the Porter’s Lodge.

‘Let’s just hope Booth Watson doesn’t realize we’ve already seen his Oscar-winning performance,’ said the Hawk, ‘thanks to you installing a back-up recording system in the Gold Suite.’

‘I only give it a fifty-fifty chance,’ said William, as they approached the Porter’s Lodge. ‘Not a lot gets past that man.’

The porter only needed to glance at the two warrant cards before he said, ‘Shall I let Mr Booth Watson know you’re on your way?’

‘No, please don’t,’ said the Hawk.

Not a word passed between them before they entered Booth Watson’s private domain uninvited. They were surprised to find his secretary standing on the top step waiting to greet them. Not a good sign.

‘Mr Booth Watson will only keep you a few moments, Assistant Commissioner,’ she said. ‘He’s on a call to a client.’

‘We’re happy to wait,’ said the Hawk, as she ushered them towards the two chairs outside his office.

‘Sorry about you having to cancel your holiday at the last minute,’ said the Hawk after he’d sat down.

‘It’s Beth you should be apologizing to, not me,’ responded William, ‘although I’m about to give her a present that will guarantee all is forgiven.’

‘Diamonds, caviar, champagne?’

‘Something she covets far more than all three of those put together,’ said William.

‘What could that possibly be?’ asked the Hawk.

‘One hundred and forty-two priceless oil paintings, along with twenty-seven rare sculptures.’

‘How did you pull off that coup?’ demanded the Hawk.

William would have told him if the door to Mr Booth Watson’s office hadn’t opened to reveal a portly figure filling the doorway.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ he said, sounding not at all apologetic, ‘but I’m expecting a call from an important client.’

William wanted to say Bernie Longe, by any chance , but it wasn’t part of his ‘bad cop’ routine.

‘Won’t you sit down, gentlemen,’ Booth Watson suggested, as he pointed to two comfortable chairs on the other side of his desk.

‘No, thank you, sir,’ said the Hawk. ‘We’d prefer to stand while we ask you a few questions.’

‘Only too happy to oblige,’ said Booth Watson, not sounding quite so assured.

‘Can I confirm,’ opened the Hawk, ‘that you were present at the Olympic Stadium last night, where you witnessed your client, Miles Faulkner, being murdered by Bernie Longe and two of his associates?’

William’s eyes remained fixed on Booth Watson, but the wily old lawyer gave nothing away. However, the amount of time he took to answer the question rather suggested he was weighing up the options.

‘The important call I was waiting for,’ Booth Watson eventually said, ‘was a return call from the director of the CPS,’ a smile returning to his face.

‘But if I remember correctly, Mr Booth Watson,’ said William, ‘you told us the call you were waiting for was from an important client.’ He paused, ‘Unless, of course, the director of the CPS is one of your important clients, which shouldn’t be too difficult to establish.’

‘Perhaps you could ask your secretary to join us,’ said the Hawk, before he could reply, ‘as presumably she put the call through.’

‘I made the call direct,’ said Booth Watson, a little too quickly, ‘but he wasn’t available, so I left a message asking him to call me urgently.’

‘Which, once again, shouldn’t be difficult to confirm,’ said the Hawk.

This finally silenced Booth Watson, but not William.

‘I feel sure I don’t have to remind you, Mr Booth Watson,’ he said, ‘that it is an offence for an officer of the law not to report a crime they have witnessed – to the proper authorities and at the first possible opportunity.’

An even longer silence followed, before Booth Watson eventually murmured, ‘But you have to understand that Longe was threatening me with the same fate as Faulkner if I opened my mouth.’

‘Which, no doubt, is why you went round to Mr Faulkner’s home earlier this morning to warn Collins what had happened.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Booth Watson, ‘but he slammed the door in my face. However, as soon as I got to my office, I called the director of the CPS and told him exactly what had taken place.’

‘So it wouldn’t be true to suggest that you now represent Mr Longe?’ suggested William, removing the pin from his own hand grenade.

‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Booth Watson, an appalled look appearing on his face. ‘Let me assure you, gentlemen, there are no circumstances that would allow me to represent someone who’d murdered my oldest and dearest friend.’ He paused before adding, ‘What sort of man do you take me for?’

If the phone on Booth Watson’s desk hadn’t begun to ring, William might have told him.

Booth Watson ignored the insistent ring, but the Hawk quickly stepped forward and jabbed the answer button. If it was the director of the CPS on the other end of the line, they had no case.

A desperate voice came over the speakerphone. ‘It’s Bernie Longe, Mr Booth Watson. I’ve been arrested for Faulkner’s murder,’ he bleated, ‘and am only allowed one call, so now you’re going to get a chance to earn your thousand pounds a day.’

‘Shut up, you fool. The police are with me,’ he shouted, as he took a pace forward, but William stepped in between them, preventing Booth Watson from grabbing the phone and ending the call. He was enjoying his role as bad cop.

‘Mr Booth Watson will call you back,’ said the Hawk, in a soothing tone.

‘But when?’ said Longe, still sounding desperate.

‘I can’t be sure,’ admitted the Hawk, ‘but if I had to guess, I would say anywhere between six and ten years’ time.’

‘And that’s the man,’ said William, as the Hawk bent down and ended the call, ‘who you’ve just said you wouldn’t be willing to represent at any cost, because he’d killed your oldest and dearest friend?’

‘Yet it would appear,’ added the Hawk, before Booth Watson could respond, ‘that Longe, by his own admission, is already paying you a retainer of a thousand pounds a day.’

‘You have both exceeded your authority,’ said Booth Watson, pushing William to one side and heading towards the door, ‘so I suggest you leave before I call the—’

‘Call who, Mr Booth Watson?’ asked the Hawk, ‘the director of the CPS?’

‘… and don’t come back until you have a warrant for my arrest,’ he said, not lowering his voice.

The Hawk allowed the suggestion of a smile to cross his face, as he extracted a document from an inside pocket.

‘Funny you should mention that,’ he said, ‘because, Mr Booth Watson, QC, I’m placing you under arrest. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that it’s an offence to aid or abet an offender when you know, or have reason to believe, that said person has committed an offence. ’

The Hawk stepped forward, pulled Booth Watson’s arms behind his back and handcuffed him. ‘I haven’t done that for years,’ said the Hawk, sounding rather pleased with himself.

‘You do not have to say anything,’ William instructed Booth Watson, who was now trembling from head to toe. ‘But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

William must have delivered those words over a hundred times during the past thirty years, but they had never given him the same satisfaction.

···

Councillor Dawson looked around the packed room, a smile of satisfaction rarely leaving his face, as he greeted fellow councillors, friends, staff members, the borough mayor, and even the local MP.

Maurice Dawson had spent some considerable time preparing his farewell speech, and had delivered it once again in the bath earlier that morning, with his wife as a Pope-like audience.

‘Fitting and appropriate for the occasion,’ she had assured him, as he climbed out of the bath and dried himself, before donning a dark blue, double-breasted suit, white shirt and West Ham tie.

A passing waiter refilled his champagne glass as he continued chatting to the mayor about his twenty-seven years on the council, ending his days as chairman of the Development and New Projects Committee.

‘And how will you be spending your well-earned retirement, Maurice?’ asked the mayor.

‘I’ve purchased a small residence in Marbella, so should you ever find yourself in that part of the world, I do hope you will visit us,’ he replied, as he looked over the mayor’s shoulder to see a smartly dressed couple entering the room, who he didn’t recognize.

They glanced around the gathering and, once they spotted the guest of honour, they began to walk in his direction, no doubt, Maurice assumed, to offer their congratulations, and best wishes for the future.

As the two of them approached him, he gave them a warm smile.

‘Councillor Maurice Dawson?’ asked one of them, not returning his smile.

‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Maurice.

‘I’m Chief Inspector Paul Adaja, and this is my colleague, Inspector Rebecca Pankhurst, and I have a warrant for your arrest.’

The blood drained from Councillor Dawson’s face, as the mayor backed off.

‘On what charge, may I ask?’ Dawson stammered as the guests fell silent.

‘Fraud and misappropriation of public funds,’ said Rebecca, before Paul added, ‘You have two choices, sir. We can charge you here and now, or you can leave quietly and we can carry out the formal procedure back at the station. The choice is yours.’

‘Please don’t handcuff me,’ said Dawson, which hadn’t been the opening line of his speech.

‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said Paul. After arresting and cautioning the suspect, he took one arm while Rebecca held onto the other.

They led the prisoner out of the room, and not up onto the stage.