“I would remind the court,” said Booth Watson, rising a little more quickly this time, “that my client also owns a large estate in the country, as well as an apartment in Eaton Square.”
“Both,” countered Grace, “are currently part of his wife’s divorce settlement, the terms of which have been agreed in principle by both sides.”
“In principle, but not yet signed by both sides,” said Booth Watson, who remained standing.
“But your client has already signed the agreement,” said Grace.
“That may be so, but he still retains a lease on the apartment in Eaton Square.”
“Which he’s recently put on the market.”
“How can you possibly know that?” barked Booth Watson.
“Because it was advertised in last month’s Country Life,” responded Grace, producing a copy of the magazine from below the bench, and waving it in Booth Watson’s face. William barely resisted the temptation to applaud.
“Mr. Booth Watson, Ms. Warwick,” interjected the magistrate, “this is not a Punch-and-Judy show, but a court of law. Kindly treat it as such.”
Both counsel looked suitably chastised and resumed their places on the bench, while the three magistrates put their heads together and consulted for a few moments.
“Well done,” whispered Clare, who was sitting in the row behind Grace. “You’ve certainly given them something to think about.”
“What do you think?” William asked Lamont from his seat at the back of the court.
But Mr. Lanyon began addressing the court before the superintendent was able to offer his opinion. “We have listened most carefully to the arguments presented by both learned counsel,” he began, “and have come to the conclusion that the defendant is not a danger to the public.”
Booth Watson allowed himself a wry smile, while William frowned.
“However, I take seriously Ms. Warwick’s point that he is in possession of sufficient funds to make it possible for him to abscond while on bail. With that in mind, I am willing to grant the application on two conditions. One, Mr. Faulkner hands in his passport to the court. And two, he provides a surety of one million pounds, which will be forfeited should he fail to appear in court for his trial.”
A hubbub of whispered conversations emanated from the press benches. Booth Watson sat impassively, arms folded, like Buddha. Clare put a tick and a cross on her yellow notepad, then leaned forward and whispered to Grace, “Score draw.”
“Until those two conditions are met,” continued the magistrate, “the defendant will remain in custody.”
The press had their headline, and Mr. Lanyon his fifteen minutes of fame. William left the court disappointed, while Faulkner was well satisfied. After all, he needed to be on the outside if he was to carry out the next part of his plan.
15
“I always enjoy breakfast at the Savoy,” said Faulkner, “even if the circumstances could be better.”
“They couldn’t be much worse,” said Booth Watson, as he dropped another sugar lump into his coffee.
“But you got me out on bail. And you said they couldn’t even do me for possession on that evidence.”
“When I said that, the evidence was a couple of joints and an Ecstasy tablet, not twelve grams of pure cocaine. No judge will believe they were for your personal use, so possession in this case is nine-tenths of the law.”
“It was planted by the police,” said Faulkner, as a bowl of cornflakes and strawberries was placed in front of him.
“That won’t wash, Miles, and you know it. The Crown’s star witness will swear blind that he sold you the drugs earlier that evening for eight hundred pounds, and don’t forget that both the money and the evidence are in the police’s possession.”
“Did you find out who it was that set me up?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. All I can tell you is that he’s been spirited away to a safe house somewhere, so we may not even find out who’s responsible until he steps into the witness box.”
“That’s assuming he ever makes it to the court.”
“Now listen to me carefully, Miles. Don’t do anything you’ll later regret.”
“Like what?”
“Like turning up to a wedding you weren’t invited to.”
“A clerical error.”
“And that’s not your only problem.”
“What else?” asked Faulkner, as a waiter whisked his bowl away, and another refilled Booth Watson’s coffee cup.
“Christina is refusing to sign the divorce settlement until the trial is over.”
“What’s her game?”
“She obviously thinks that if you’re safely locked up, she’ll be able to drive a harder bargain.”
“Well, she can think again. Because by the time I’ve finished with her, she won’t have a pot to piss in.”
The waiter reappeared by his side.
“Can I take your order, sir?”
“I’ll have the full English breakfast.”
* * *
They were all seated around the table waiting for the commander to appear. No one, not even Lamont, had ever known him to be late. Then suddenly the door was thrown open and in swept the Hawk. It was as if a force nine gale had hit them.
“I apologize,” he said while he was still on the move. “I’ve spent the last half hour with the commissioner, telling him all about my triumph on Saturday night at Limpton Hall.” They all burst out laughing and started banging the table.
“Many congratulations, Bruce,” said the Hawk, as he sat down. “Twelve grams of pure cocaine and the dealer willing to give evidence on behalf of the Crown. I do believe we’ve got Faulkner bang to rights this time.”
“Thank you, sir, but it was DS Warwick’s ability to think on his feet that saved the day.”
“Good thing you didn’t stay in Rome, William, checking out less important statues. Have the lab reports come in yet, DC Roycroft?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jackie. “The cocaine is of the highest quality, and probably originated in Colombia. They intercepted a similar batch recently in Manchester.”
“What about Faulkner?”
“Handed in his passport, deposited the million with the court, and is out on bail,” said William.
“Do you think he might make a bolt for it?” asked Paul.
“Unlikely. But if he does, the Director of Public Prosecutions will bank the million and we’ll have seen the last of the bastard. So it won’t be all bad.”
“I’d rather see him behind bars,” said William, “than enjoying the high life in Monte Carlo.”
“Your wish may well be granted,” said Hawksby. “The DPP believes there’s a strong possibility that Faulkner might change his plea to guilty on the lesser charge, once Booth Watson has had time to consider Heath’s evidence.”
“He’ll never plead guilty,” said William. “Not while he thinks he has the slightest chance of getting away with it.”
“You’re beginning to think like Faulkner,” said the Hawk. “That’s good. But the trial’s months away, and we still have other cases to work on, not least making sure Rashidi joins Faulkner in the dock. And one thing’s for sure, Rashidi won’t be granted bail in any circumstances.”
“But if he was,” said William, “he could pay the million in cash.”
“Are we any nearer to locating his factory?” asked the Hawk.
“So near, and yet so far,” said Lamont. “All I can tell you for certain, sir, is that it’s not at Charlbury Manor. A police helicopter flew me over the estate last Friday, and there was no sign of any vehicles other than a dark blue Mercedes parked in the drive and a post office van making a delivery.”
“Paul?” said the Hawk.
“I’ve spent the last few days nosing around the village,” said Adaja, “and the post mistress told me Rashidi keeps himself to himself. Attends the occasional village fete to which he donates generously, but is otherwise rarely seen in public. It’s beginning to look as
if he leads two completely separate lives. He poses as the country squire at weekends, while becoming a ruthless drug baron during the week. The transformation from Hyde to Jekyll seems to take place on a Friday afternoon when he visits his mother.” Paul paused for a moment, to make sure he had the full attention of the team.
“Stop grandstanding,” said Lamont, “and get on with it.”
“Every Monday morning he’s driven by his chauffeur from Charlbury Manor to an office in the City. He arrives around eight, and spends the morning carrying out his responsibilities as chairman of Marcel and Neffe, a small but reputable tea company that had a turnover last year of just over four million pounds, and declared a profit of three hundred forty-two thousand six hundred pounds.”
Paul handed out copies of Marcel and Neffe’s annual report to the rest of the team.
“Marcel and Neffe is the perfect front for Rashidi,” said William, “because it allows him to live a lifestyle that a casual observer wouldn’t question while he can travel to countries where tea isn’t their main export.”
“However,” continued Paul, “his home in the country is lavish by any standards, but because it’s surrounded by a thousand-acre estate, few people know just how lavish. And that’s only for starters.”
“At Heathrow,” said William, picking up the story, “he has a Gulf Stream jet with two pilots on standby night and day so he could disappear at a moment’s notice. He has a seventy-meter yacht called Sumaya, named after his mother, with a crew of eighteen, moored at Cannes, as well as homes in Saint-Tropez, Davos, and a duplex apartment on Fifth Avenue in New York overlooking Central Park. He retains a large staff in each of the residences to look after his every need.”
“Which he couldn’t possibly afford on three hundred forty-two thousand six hundred pounds a year,” commented Lamont.
“Well done, DC Adaja,” said the Hawk. “Dare I ask how you came across such a fund of information?”
“I applied for a job as a second gardener on the estate, which was advertised in the village post office. I learned more about what goes on behind those walls than they did about me. But in truth, I discovered little of interest because that’s his ‘on the record’ life. I even had a pub lunch with the head gardener to discuss my salary, and when I’d be able to start.”
“Did they offer you the job?” asked the Hawk.
“Yes, sir. I promised I’d get back to them.”
“What do you know about gardening, Paul?” chuckled Lamont.
“Only what I picked up in last month’s copy of Gardener’s Weekly, but they still offered me a better starting salary than I’m getting here, more days off and three weeks’ holiday a year.”
“We’ll miss you,” said the Hawk. “DS Warwick, perhaps you could tell us what you’ve been up to this week.”
“While Paul was gallivanting around the countryside, I’ve been concentrating on Rashidi’s office in the City. As we know, he arrives there on a Monday morning at eight, but then disappears around midday, and doesn’t return to Marcel and Neffe until Friday afternoon, just before leaving to visit his mother in The Boltons. Like Paul, I’m none the wiser as to his movements in between.”
“At least we now know where his workplace is, even if it’s only a front.”
“Which floor is Marcel and Neffe on?” asked Lamont.
“The tenth and eleventh. I’ve visited the company offices a couple of times, but I’ve never got past reception. What makes it worse,” continued William, “is that I’m not wholly convinced that the man who leaves the building at midday on Mondays is the same person who’s picked up outside the entrance of Tea House by his personal black cab on Friday afternoons.”
“Do you think he has a double?”
“No, I think he must be well disguised. Either that, or he’s entering and leaving Tea House by an exit I haven’t come across. For all I know, he could be abseiling out of the building.”
“What a pro,” said Lamont, a hint of admiration in his voice.
“You have to be if you’re making over a hundred thousand pounds a week in cash, breaking every law in the book, while not bothering to pay any tax.”
“That’s how they ended up nailing Al Capone,” Lamont reminded them.
“There has to be a fault in his routine,” said William, “but I haven’t identified it yet.”
“Don’t sleep until you do,” said the Hawk. “Right, unless there are any more questions, let’s all get back to work.”
“I have a question, sir,” said William.
“Of course you do, DS Warwick.”
“Has your UCO come up with any fresh intel recently?”
The Hawk glanced at Jackie, who remained silent. “No. Sometimes he doesn’t surface for several weeks. But the moment he does, DS Warwick, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Lamont suppressed a smile at the commander’s gentle rebuke of William.
“And I have a question for you, DS Warwick,” said the Hawk. “Now that Tulip’s discharged himself from hospital, is there any way he could find your OSC?”
“No, sir. Even I can’t tell you where Heath’s holed up, because I don’t know myself.”
“Be sure it stays that way, because he’s our one hope of sending Faulkner down when the case eventually comes to court. Right, lads, back to work. Faulkner was yesterday’s triumph. Don’t forget that Rashidi’s still out there, destroying people’s lives.”
* * *
“Will you marry me?” asked Adrian.
“Of course I will,” said Maria, throwing her arms around his neck.
“This is the moment when I ought to drop on one knee and present you with an engagement ring to seal the deal, but that’s not possible while we’re cooped up in here. They won’t even let me out for long enough to look for one.”
“It won’t be for much longer,” said Maria. “And the ring can wait until we’re safely in Rio, when we can finally put all of this behind us.”
“I can’t wait to get to Rio,” admitted Adrian. “But I’m worried what your parents will say when they find out I used to be a drug addict, and haven’t had a proper job for years.”
“That’s all in the past, Adrian. In any case, I’ve already told them you’re the son of a successful banker—”
“Well, at least that’s true, even if he has disowned me.”
“And he’s given you ten thousand pounds to start up a new business. In Rio, ten thousand pounds is a fortune, so there’ll be endless opportunities.”
“Which I intend to take full advantage of. But I’ll never forget that without your help, I’d still be a hopeless junkie with no future.”
“It’s not just me you have to thank,” said Maria.
“I know. Choirboy has played his part, and once Faulkner’s safely behind bars I’ll have kept my side of the bargain.”
* * *
“When is the trial expected to begin, Sir Julian?”
“Not for a couple of months, Mrs. Faulkner. Why do you ask?”
“I need you to take your time over the settlement. Try and slow things down.”
“Why would you want me to do that, when we’ve got almost everything you asked for?”
“I still want to be Mrs. Faulkner when my husband goes to jail.”
“May I ask why?”
“It’s better you don’t know the reason, Sir Julian, as I may need you to represent me should things not turn out as planned.”
* * *
William took the tube into the City and got out at Moorgate. A few minutes later he walked into Tea House, confident that Rashidi wouldn’t be around on a Wednesday afternoon. He avoided the front desk, as he didn’t want to be remembered, and headed for the bank of lifts where he joined a waiting group. He stepped out on the eleventh floor and took a seat in Marcel and Neffe’s reception, picked up a copy of the Financial Times, and checked his watch every few minutes, as if he was waiting for someone to join him. The recepti
onist was constantly on the phone, dealing with visitors, or signing for deliveries, so he hoped he could hang around for some time before she became suspicious.
William listened attentively to the conversations taking place at the reception desk, while pretending to read his newspaper. It quickly became clear that Marcel and Neffe was not merely a front for another business; it was exactly what it claimed to be, a small, successful tea company, even if its chairman only dropped in briefly on Monday mornings and Friday afternoons.
When the receptionist gave him a third quizzical look, William decided it was time to go. A young woman emerged from one of the offices, and he stood up and joined her as she left. They got into the lift together, and when they reached the ground floor William headed for the front door while his erstwhile companion disappeared down a corridor to her right.
Back out on the street, William checked his watch and began walking toward Moorgate station. He needed to drop into Scotland Yard before going home. Not that he had anything to report. He was going down the steps into the station when he spotted the young woman he’d shared the lift with heading for the ticket barrier. William was puzzled. How could she possibly have overtaken him without him noticing?
He paused at the bottom of the steps and looked in the direction she had come from. As he did, an inconspicuous door that he hadn’t noticed before swung open, and a smartly dressed older gentleman appeared, carrying a briefcase and a rolled umbrella. William ran across to the door, but it closed before he could reach it.
He didn’t have to wait long before it opened again, and this time he managed to slip through the gap before it closed, to find himself in a well-lit corridor. He walked cautiously along the passageway, passing a gym and a training center on his left, before climbing a short flight of steps to another corridor, at the end of which he found himself back in the reception area of Tea House, now well aware how the woman had overtaken him. He retraced his steps to the tube station, knowing exactly where he’d be waiting for Rashidi next Monday morning.
Hidden in Plain Sight Page 12