Hidden in Plain Sight

by Jeffrey Archer

  This time the outcry lasted for some time before the judge was able to regain order when he pronounced, “Do not try my patience any further, Mr. Booth Watson, or I may have to order a retrial, and consider you in contempt of court.”

  “And we wouldn’t want that, would we, My Lord,” said Booth Watson, the only person who’d remained calm during this exchange. He turned his attention back to the witness before the judge could respond and said, “Superintendent, would I be right in thinking that you regard Mr. Faulkner as a dangerous criminal, who should be locked up for the rest of his life because the jury got it wrong?”

  “At last we’ve found something we can agree on,” shouted Lamont, jabbing a finger at Booth Watson.

  “A little louder please,” said Booth Watson, “just in case the jury didn’t hear you the first time—and might also get it wrong.” He looked up at the bench and said, “No more questions, m’lud.”

  Everyone remained on the edge of their seats, waiting for Sir Julian to come out fighting, but were once again taken by surprise when the Crown’s leading advocate rose from his place and said with an exaggerated sigh, “That completes the case for the Crown, m’lud. However, I wonder if I might be allowed to make a personal statement?”

  Mr. Justice Baverstock nodded, and Booth Watson settled back, closed his eyes, and crossed his arms, giving the impression of a victorious general awaiting triumphant news from the battlefield. But to his surprise Sir Julian wasn’t yet ready to agree the terms of surrender.

  “It is, as you know, m’lud, an established practice at the criminal bar for a leader to allow his junior to cross-examine a defense witness. So, if Mr. Booth Watson plans to call the defendant to give evidence, I shall step aside and leave that responsibility to my junior, Ms. Grace Warwick, if it so pleases Your Lordship.”

  Booth Watson opened his eyes, unfolded his arms, and said in a voice loud enough for those around him to hear, “What’s he up to?”

  William smiled, but then he knew exactly what his father was up to.

  “I shall look forward to that with pleasure, Sir Julian,” said the judge, before he added, “we will reconvene at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  “I would strongly advise against it,” said Booth Watson.

  “Why?” demanded Faulkner.

  “Because you have nothing to gain from it, while she has nothing to lose.”

  “But don’t forget, it’s the pupil I’ll be up against, not the master.”

  “Who has been well tutored by the master over many years.”

  “Then perhaps it’s time to remind the Warwicks exactly who they’re up against. In any case, what have I got to lose?”

  “Your freedom.”

  “But I might never get another opportunity like this to publicly humiliate Sir Julian Warwick and destroy his daughter at the same time, with Hawksby, Lamont, and the choirboy all having to watch from the sidelines.”

  “I’ve given you my opinion, Miles. Avoid appearing in the witness box at all costs, because I think you’ll find the curtain has already come down.”

  “Not on my performance it hasn’t,” said Miles.

  “Which will be unscripted, don’t forget.”

  “Let’s face it,” said Miles. “You were nothing more than the gravedigger. They’re now waiting for Hamlet to make his entrance.”

  “And we all know how that ended.”

  20

  When Grace awoke, she wasn’t sure if she’d slept at all, as her mind was buzzing with fear and anticipation.

  She lay still for a few moments, not wanting to wake Clare, before slipping quietly out of bed and padding barefoot across the carpet to the bathroom. She closed the door quietly and turned on the light.

  She looked at herself in the mirror. A lot of work to be done, but not now. She needed her brain to be at its sharpest if she were to have any hope of ambushing Faulkner. After dousing her face with cold water and brushing her teeth, she put on her dressing gown, turned off the bathroom light, tiptoed back across the room and out into the corridor, pleased that she hadn’t woken Clare.

  As she walked downstairs, Grace realized she must have left the kitchen light on before going to bed, and cursed under her breath. Her dear mother would have chastised her for being “fuelish.” But when she opened the kitchen door, she found Clare sitting at the table, pen in hand, surrounded by legal papers.

  “Good morning, Grace,” she said as if she was sitting in her office at work. “I’ve just been going over your questions in preparation for this morning’s cross-examination. I’ve rearranged the order slightly, to make it more difficult for Faulkner to work out where you’re coming from. But you can’t relax for one moment because that man’s extremely sharp and fast on his feet, so you’ll always have to try and remain one step ahead of him. He mustn’t see the sucker punch coming, so when you land the second blow in his solar plexus, he won’t have time to recover, because the third one has to knock him out. And by the way, I’ve gone over Adrian Heath’s testimony again, and your father was right—he did send us a coded message on how to trap Faulkner. Let’s hope he and Booth Watson haven’t spotted it. Now, you sit down and go through what I’ve done, while I boil you an egg, because you must have a hearty breakfast.”

  “Before I’m hanged,” said Grace. They both laughed nervously. Grace sat down and began to consider the new order of questions. Clare was right, switching a couple of them around would give Faulkner less chance of anticipating “Can I return to the eight hundred pounds?”

  “Right,” said Clare, placing a cup of tea in front of Grace. “Now let’s do it for real. I’ll be Faulkner, while you play the leading advocate in the land. Go for it.”

  Grace rose from her chair. “Mr. Faulkner, do you believe Mr. Heath was telling the truth when he stated under oath…”

  For the next hour, they exchanged barbed remarks and sharp rejoinders, jousting with each other as if they were deadly rivals, often stopping to deliver a sentence in a different way, or emphasize a word to give it more impact. After the third cup of tea, Clare threw her arms in the air and exclaimed, “‘She’s got it, I think she’s got it!’ Now, go and get ready. You also have to look your best if you’re going to disarm the jury.”

  Grace gave her partner a kiss before going back upstairs to take a shower. How had she got so lucky, she wondered, not for the first time. She and Clare had met at a Law Society symposium on the role of foster parents in the modern world, and they’d hardly spent a day apart since. They liked to hold hands and giggle about men they’d met, who imagined they were so irresistible. But only in the privacy of their own home. Once, when they were walking through the park hand in hand, a teenage boy had brushed past them on his bike shouting, “Lesbos, lesbos, lesbos,” before pedaling off. Clare had raised a finger, which she later regretted.

  “I shouldn’t have lowered myself to his level,” she told Grace, clearly angry with herself.

  How could a moron like that begin to understand that love took many forms? Clare was kind, generous, warm, witty, and as smart as two whiplashes. And as she was a solicitor and Grace a barrister, it made for an ideal partnership. In fact, one of her male colleagues had been overheard in chambers saying, “If you’re up against those two, don’t think of them as partners, more like an advancing army.”

  Grace checked herself in the mirror. A neatly tailored navy-blue suit and sensible black shoes. Never, ever wear high heels in the courtroom, a woman judge had once advised her. You can be on your feet for hours, and comfort is much more important than gaining a couple of inches in height. Grace continued to rehearse her questions and even the pauses, as she brushed her hair and stared at the defendant in the mirror.

  Clare’s sharp reminder—“It’s time to get going, Grace, or he’ll be found not guilty before you turn up!”—brought her quickly back to earth.

  * * *

  “I called this morning’s meeting a little earlier than usual,” said Hawks
by, “as Superintendent Lamont has to be back at the Old Bailey by ten o’clock.” Lamont made no comment. “Don’t worry, Bruce. If Faulkner is foolish enough to take the stand, Sir Julian will tear him apart limb from limb.”

  “He won’t be up against Sir Julian,” said Lamont. “His daughter will be conducting the cross-examination.”

  “Then God help the poor man,” said William, although neither of the two senior police officers looked convinced.

  “While we’ve been concentrating on Faulkner,” continued Hawksby, “DC Adaja and the rest of the team have been keeping a close eye on Rashidi. Are you any nearer to finding out the location of his drugs factory, Paul?”

  “Possibly a step nearer, sir,” said Adaja, “but I can’t claim much more. We’ve been checking every tower block in Brixton, as I’m sure the slaughter has to be on the top floors of one of them, but I still don’t know which one.”

  “What makes it more difficult,” said William, “is that we can’t risk the same officers following Rashidi for more than two days in a row. So locating the slaughter could take weeks, even months.”

  “As I blend into the Brixton scene a bit more convincingly than you lot,” said Paul, “perhaps I could manage three days?” Which elicited the first laugh of the morning.

  “I was wondering if your UCO had been in touch, sir,” said William. “He might even have found out where the slaughter is by now.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” said the Hawk sharply, recalling the last occasion DS Warwick had questioned him about MM. “Never forget, DS Warwick, he risks his life every day. If the other side were to suspect even for a moment that he was a member of our team, we’d find his body floating down the river the next morning.”

  Jackie could well remember where she’d heard almost those exact words when her lover was talking about himself.

  “And frankly, I wouldn’t want that on my conscience,” added the Hawk, immediately regretting his words.

  William was tempted to remind the commander that if they’d arrested Tulip in Felixstowe, Adrian would still be alive, but he resisted the temptation.

  “If Rashidi’s slaughter’s on the top floor of one of those tower blocks,” said Paul, coming to William’s rescue, “it will be difficult, if not impossible, for us to enter the front door before a lookout’s warned them we’re on the way. They could shut up shop and have disappeared long before we reach them, and all we would have achieved would be to mildly inconvenience the bastards.”

  Commander Hawksby looked out of the window. “Then we’ll just have to wait until it snows.”

  * * *

  Court number one at the Old Bailey is known in the trade as the show court, and usually plays to full houses. But the idea of Sir Julian Warwick QC’s understudy taking the lead on the press night guaranteed that it was packed long before Ms. Grace Warwick walked onto the stage.

  Clare was just a pace behind, but as she wasn’t an official member of the Crown’s team, she slipped into a spare seat next to William near the back of the courtroom.

  “Revenge in the name of your brother,” had been her final instruction before Grace made her way to the front bench to join her father.

  “Good morning, Grace,” he said. “Do you have enough stones in your pouch to slay Goliath?”

  “You seem to forget, Father,” she replied, “that David only needed one stone.”

  “Then you’ll have to make sure it strikes him squarely on the forehead and doesn’t fly harmlessly over his shoulder, because I can tell you Faulkner will duck and dive in every direction as you hurl each new stone at him.”

  Booth Watson took his place at the other end of the bench, and the two QCs exchanged cursory nods, more out of convention than conviction. Grace glanced across at the dock to see her adversary glaring down at her. A shudder ran down her spine as their eyes locked and he licked his lips. She turned her attention to Clare, who gave her a thumbs-up sign.

  “If that’s Clare sitting next to William,” said her father, “why don’t you ask her to join us? After all, she probably knows as much about the case as we do.”

  “Thank you,” said Grace, who turned and beckoned to her partner.

  Clare, unable to hide how nervous she felt, moved cautiously to the front of the courtroom, and took a seat directly behind Sir Julian and Grace.

  “Good morning, Clare,” said Sir Julian. “Welcome to the home team. Don’t hesitate to pass a note to Grace or me if you think we’ve missed something, because you can be sure we might well have.”

  “Thank you, Sir Julian,” said Clare, taking a yellow pad and two pens out of her briefcase.

  “All rise.”

  Mr. Justice Baverstock shuffled in, pleased to see his court so packed. The gallery above him was overflowing with eager onlookers, some leaning over the railing to get a better view of proceedings. His Lordship bowed, took his place in the high-backed chair, and waited for the jury to file into their places. He finally checked that all the actors were standing in the wings awaiting their entrances before he allowed the curtain to rise.

  Faulkner was in the dock, the prosecution and defense teams were seated on the front bench—although he thought Ms. Warwick looked more nervous than the defendant—while the members of the press, pencils poised, were waiting impatiently for proceedings to begin. Once the jury had settled, the judge turned his attention to defense counsel, who was rearranging some papers.

  “Good morning, Mr. Booth Watson. Are you ready to call your first witness?”

  “I am indeed, m’lud. I call Mr. Miles Faulkner.”

  The judge looked surprised, and the press looked delighted, which only made Grace feel even more nervous. She had been prepared to declare war on Faulkner, but could she now defeat him in battle?

  Faulkner stepped down from the dock and walked, almost swaggered, across the court before taking his place in the witness box. He placed his right hand on the Bible and read out the oath as if he had written it.

  Mr. Booth Watson looked across at his client and smiled. “Can I ask you to state your full name and occupation for the record?”

  “Miles Adam Faulkner, and I’m a farmer.”

  “May I begin, Mr. Faulkner, by asking you about the evening of May the seventeenth, 1986, when you held a dinner party for some friends at your country home, Limpton Hall, in Hampshire.”

  “Business colleagues as well as friends,” said Faulkner, “some of whom I’ve known for over twenty years.”

  “And the purpose of the dinner party was purely social?”

  “No, sir. We are a group of like-minded people who have been successful in our professional lives, and now feel the time has come to give something back to society.”

  “Highly commendable,” said Booth Watson. The judge frowned. “Do you have any particular good causes in mind?”

  “We are all lovers of the arts, in its many different forms, and feel strongly that culture can play a positive role in the education of young people.”

  “Particularly acting,” murmured Sir Julian, “and being able to remember your lines when working from a prepared script.”

  “Most commendable,” purred Booth Watson.

  “Tread carefully, Mr. Booth Watson,” said the judge wearily.

  “At least the judge can see what they’re up to,” whispered Grace.

  “Yes, but will the jury?” retorted her father.

  “I do apologize, m’lud,” said Booth Watson, not looking at all apologetic. “However, Mr. Faulkner, are you able to confirm that you recently donated two major works of art from your collection, worth several million pounds, to one of our national museums?”

  “Yes, I sadly parted with a Rembrandt and a Rubens, but I’ve had so much pleasure from them in my lifetime, that it will give me even greater pleasure to know how many young people,” he paused, “and not so young, are now able to enjoy them.” He turned and smiled at the jury, just as Booth Watson had instructed him to do at that point, and was rewarded by one or t
wo of them returning his salutation.

  “Now, I’d like to turn to the one charge being made against you, namely that on the night of May the seventeenth, you were found to be in possession of twelve grams of cocaine for your personal use.”

  “Well, if I had been, it would have been enough to last for a year.”

  Clare wrote, How does he know twelve grams would be enough to last for a year? and passed the note to Grace.

  “Remembering that you are under oath, Mr. Faulkner, could you tell the court if you have ever taken a controlled substance in your life?”

  “Yes, sir. I once smoked a joint when I was at art school, but it made me feel sick, so I didn’t bother to try another one.”

  “So, you deny that Mr. Adrian Heath went to your home on May the seventeenth and offered to sell you twelve grams of cocaine for eight hundred pounds?”

  “I don’t recall the exact sum, Mr. Booth Watson, but as Mr. Heath testified, it was for the finest Royal Beluga caviar, supplied by Fortnum and Mason.”

  Clare wrote down £20, underlined it, and passed it to Sir Julian, who smiled and nodded.

  “And you’d never met Mr. Heath before that night?”

  “No, never. I was horrified when I learned of his tragic death, and at the same time somewhat mystified.”

  “What are you getting at, Mr. Faulkner?” asked BW innocently.

  “I was mystified as to how two Scotland Yard detectives just happened to arrive on the scene of the crime moments before the murder took place.”

  “Stop there, Mr. Faulkner,” interrupted the judge. Looking across at the jury, he said, “You must dismiss those words from your minds.”

  “But they won’t,” whispered Sir Julian, “as Faulkner knows only too well.”

  “Move on, Mr. Booth Watson,” said the judge firmly.

  “Mr. Faulkner, do you have any explanation as to how twelve grams of cocaine ended up in a statue at your home?”