Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

M ILES CALLED HIS LAWYER, WHO was fast asleep when the phone rang.

Booth Watson knew exactly who it would be on the other end of the line at that time of night. He now also knew what it was his client had anticipated would be dominating the news headlines while he was on the other side of the Atlantic.

Booth Watson had left his copy of the London Evening Standard on the table by the phone. He picked it up and once again glanced at the front page as he answered the phone.

PROSTITUTE MURDERED IN WEST END HOTEL

MAN ARRESTED

Booth Watson had read the story twice before he worked out the connection between Miles and the death of a London hooker. It wasn't until he'd turned the page that he realized Avril Dubois, aka Jenny Prescott, was the woman who was rumoured to be the defence's key witness in the Simon Hartley trial. You didn't have to read between the lines to realize that not only would her evidence have proved Hartley was innocent, but that she would have also named the guilty party.

It had taken Booth Watson a little longer to work out what Miles would expect in return for making sure Ms Dubois never got as far as the airport.

He waited for his instructions, assuming he would be representing the man who had been arrested.

Booth Watson began to wonder, for a moment, just how much longer he could go on representing a man who had no moral compass, and considered the murder of a young woman and the theft of a national treasure were no more than an inconvenience if the financial reward was big enough.

‘I've just left Christie's,' said Miles, ‘and I think you'll find my five hundred thousand pounds has been well invested, and you'll be well rewarded for attending Lord Hartley's funeral.'

The moment of doubt had passed.

···

The team sat in silence around the Commander's desk, as they read the headline in the first edition of the Evening Standard . Long before the morning papers had hit the streets, their crime correspondent had worked out the Saudi connection, guaranteeing that while Simon Hartley was still languishing in jail, the story would run and run.

Ross continued to stare at a photo of Avril that dominated the front page, before saying, ‘I have no choice but to resign.'

‘That would be the easy way out,' said the Commander, ‘because if you were to resign, you'll be leaving the rest of us to pick up the pieces.'

‘You won't need to, I'd take the law into my own hands,' said Ross. This created a different silence which the Commander broke, as if he hadn't heard the threat.

‘Let's start by trying to piece together the few facts we have at our disposal,' said the Commander. ‘We think Faulkner met the accused on the London Eye some time on the afternoon of Sunday the sixth. However, other than a blurred CCTV image of a man wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses, what else do we have to go on?'

‘The accused, Kevin Scott, is being represented by none other than Mr Booth Watson QC, which one might feel is more than a coincidence.'

‘He'd happily represent the devil,' said Ross. ‘But not until his fee had been agreed.'

‘Has Scott said anything that might incriminate him?' asked the Hawk, once again ignoring him.

‘After six hours of interrogation,' said William, ‘all we have for our troubles is one of his three names, along with four addresses.'

‘We're clearly dealing with a pro,' said the Hawk.

‘Where was Booth Watson's principal client when the murder took place?'

‘He's still holed up in his hotel suite in New York,' said William, after checking an email that had just been placed in front of him from his friend, Special Agent James Buchanan in Washington. ‘During the time he's been in the States, he's visited a Professor Rosenberg in Princeton, New Jersey, and attended at least two meetings with the chairman of Christie's auction house in New York.'

‘So what's the connection between those two?' said the Hawk. ‘Is it possible Faulkner was doing no more than establishing an alibi, to show he couldn't have had anything to do with Avril's murder, as he was on the other side of the Atlantic at the time? But do we have anything other than Booth Watson to link the two men?'

‘Two damning pieces of evidence,' said Paul, opening a thick file. ‘Four fifty-pound notes and a Rolex watch.'

‘Why are they of any importance?' pressed the Commander.

‘If you draw a suspiciously large sum in cash from your account,' said Paul, ‘under the 1995 Proceeds of Crime Act, your bank has to report the withdrawal to the National Crime Agency. These four notes,' said Paul, holding them up, ‘have been traced back to the cash Faulkner withdrew from his bank in Mayfair.'

‘Fingerprints?' said the Hawk.

‘No such luck,' said Jackie.

‘Then the CPS won't find that's enough to open an inquiry,' said the Hawk. ‘What about the watch?'

‘It's a Rolex Daytona valued at around forty thousand,' said William.

‘But Scott will claim he purchased it legally – he probably even has a receipt to prove it.'

‘Then it can only have come from a pawnbroker,' said William, ‘because inscribed on the back are the words: Happy Birthday, Love Christina .'

‘There are a lot of Christinas in the world,' said the Hawk, ‘so it will be important to get a statement from his ex-wife confirming she gave it to him as a birthday present.'

‘I've already fixed an appointment to see her this afternoon,' said William.

‘But how did Scott get his hands on the watch anyway?' asked the Hawk.

‘That was another question he failed to answer, sir,' said Paul, ‘but you can be sure he'll have come up with an explanation long before he enters the witness box.'

‘We still need a smoking gun,' said the Hawk, ‘if we're to convince the CPS to go ahead with a prosecution and not dismiss our findings as coincidence.'

‘I think I may have found a connection between Faulkner, Rosenberg and Christie's,' said Rebecca. ‘One that Booth Watson won't be able to dismiss as a coincidence.'

Rebecca had the team's undivided attention.

‘Rosenberg is the leading authority on the American constitution,' Rebecca reported, ‘and Christie's are selling a copy of the Declaration of Independence on Faulkner's behalf.'

She handed copies of a Christie's catalogue to her colleagues before she continued. ‘If you turn to page 49, you'll find Lot 91 is the Lot concerned – the sale of a copy of the Declaration written by Thomas Jefferson, known as the Fair Copy.'

They all followed her instructions.

‘But what I want you to look at is not the Lot, but the provenance, because you'll find their description of the most recent owner of the Declaration is a "Titled Lady" – a quaint expression auction houses use when they wish to show the property has been in the possession of an aristocratic family for several generations.'

‘This is leading somewhere, Sergeant Pankhurst,' said the Hawk.

‘It most certainly is, sir,' said Rebecca, ‘because I think I can prove who the "Titled Lady" is. Christie's are also selling, along with the Declaration, five letters written by Jefferson to an MP called David Hartley. So I think it's possible that the lady in question could be—'

‘Lady Hartley,' said William, catching up with her.

‘And if I'm right,' said Rebecca, ‘it might explain why Faulkner held a meeting with Prince Ahmed at the Dorchester and what the Prince would be expected to do in return for Ms Dubois not being able to appear at Hartley's trial.'

‘As Faulkner's involved, anything is possible,' said the Hawk. ‘William, call your friend, Special Agent Buchanan, in Washington, and bring him up to date. And while you're at it, make an appointment to see Lady Hartley. She may have the keys that will unlock several doors.'

‘I'll take Ross with me,' said William, ‘A little Irish charm—'

‘You can count me out,' said Ross firmly, his gaze returning to the photo on the front of the Evening Standard , ‘because nothing will change the fact that Avril would still be alive if I'd done my job properly. You'll have my resignation on your desk by the morning.'

‘Why don't you take a few days off, Ross, and think it over?' said the Hawk in a conciliatory voice that the rest of the team rarely experienced. Ross didn't respond. ‘I just want to be sure you don't do something you'll later regret.'

‘I'll regret Avril's death for the rest of my life,' said Ross, his voice flat and uncompromising, ‘and there's nothing you can do to change that.'

Ross got up from his place, turned his back on them and left the room without another word.

William feared they might never see him again. Ross's life was always black or white, he didn't deal in shades of grey.

When Ross had slammed the door behind him, the Commander said, ‘William, perhaps you'd better have a word with Alice, as I suspect she's the one person who might drum some common sense into the man.'

···

When Ross arrived home, Alice was waiting for him, having already had a call from William. There were no newspapers to be seen, the television had been turned off, and the phone taken off its hook. She cooked him his favourite meal, Irish stew. He ate in silence and didn't raise the subject.

Alice lay awake all through the night, and when he finally told her what he had planned, all she said was, ‘Whatever you decide, I'll support you.' He fell asleep.

The following morning, Ross wrote a resignation letter to the Commander. The narrative didn't flow easily, but after a third attempt, he somehow put some words together. He opened the top drawer of Alice's desk but couldn't find a stamp. How unlike Alice to run out of stamps.

He left the envelope on the hall stand before joining Alice and Jojo for breakfast. Jojo was telling her father about a boy who wouldn't stop pulling her pigtails, but he wasn't listening.

‘Time to clean your teeth,' said Alice, as she began to clear up.

Jojo left the table, and when she came back downstairs, she took the letter off the hall stand, slipped it into her satchel, ran out of the front door and didn't stop running until she reached a litter bin.

It didn't take a trained detective for Ross to work out what his daughter had been up to, because when she returned to the house, Jojo avoided him and quickly disappeared upstairs.

Ross returned to his study and made a fourth attempt to write the letter, but it wasn't any easier. He sealed the envelope, and this time left it on his desk. In the afternoon, he walked to the local post office and bought a second-class stamp.

In the evening, Alice and Jojo took him out for supper at his favourite Italian restaurant, when he was told in great detail about the boy who kept pulling her pigtails. He grinned at his daughter and realized just how lucky he was and didn't bother to tell her the little boy was in love with her.

Alice woke in the middle of the night to find Ross in tears. She held him in her arms and was taken by surprise when he finally spoke.

‘I sometimes forget,' said Ross, ‘how lucky I am to have such a remarkable woman in my life.'

‘Two remarkable women,' Alice reminded him.

Ross laughed for the first time in days.

He sat up, turned on the light and said, ‘I should have done this a long time ago.'

‘Turn off the light you silly man! It's three in the morning,' said Alice, covering her eyes.

‘Shush, woman – I'm finding it hard enough to ask you to marry me.'

‘So romantic!' said Alice, as she took him back in her arms.

‘What's your answer?'

‘Where's the ring?'

‘I'll get it in the morning.'

‘So romantic,' repeated Alice, grinning.

Ross got out of bed, fell on one knee and said, ‘Alice, I adore you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Please say you'll be my wife.'

‘On one condition,' Alice replied.

···

The following morning, Ross went back to his study before Alice awoke. He picked up the letter on his desk and tore it into little pieces.

He didn't attempt to write a fifth one.

···

When Sean O'Driscoll returned to his cell after his shift in the kitchen, the first thing he said to Simon was, ‘I've picked up some information on the prison grapevine you'll want to know about.'

Simon's heart began to beat more rapidly, as he had a feeling that what he was about to hear wouldn't be good news.

‘Some tart from London called Avril, who used to work in one of the local clubs, has been murdered, and for some reason the Governor's pleased about it.'

Simon stared at him. ‘He's pleased,' he said quietly, ‘because her death means that Prince Ahmed is off the hook – and I'm back on it.'

‘I could kill the Governor if you wanted me to,' he said matter-of-factly.

‘It wouldn't make a blind bit of difference,' said Simon, unsure if his cell mate was serious, ‘because now nothing will stop the French being awarded the arms contract, and Prince Ahmed getting his extra five per cent.'

‘How can I help?' said O'Driscoll. ‘Once I'm out of the way, you'll be next on their shopping list, because one thing's for sure: they won't want your trial to come to court.'

‘Then you'll somehow have to get me out of here before the trial can take place.'

‘I'd do anything I can to help,' said O'Driscoll, as he sat down on the bunk next to his friend, ‘but as I've already warned you, there's only one way out of this shithole, and that's in a coffin.'

‘Then that's exactly how I'll have to leave,' said Simon, ‘but it's me you're going to have to kill, not the Governor.'