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Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

S OME UNSCRUPULOUS LAWYERS GAIN A reputation for being ambulance chasers, but not Mr Booth Watson QC. He was of a higher calling, and fell into a category of a ‘funeral-attending QC'.

The taxi driver picked up his customer when he emerged from Thatcham station, and drove him to St Mary's parish church.

Booth Watson joined the family, friends and colleagues as they made their way into the Norman church. He slipped into a pew near the back, as he wasn't any of the above. But then funerals are like weddings: at least half the congregation doesn't know the other half, so no one questions who you are or why you're there.

The service was well-attended, and Booth Watson recognized several leading politicians, including a former Prime Minister, who sat bolt upright in the third row.

The last mourners to make an appearance were the family. They were led by an old lady who walked behind the coffin with a younger woman, accompanied by two teenage boys. Booth Watson assumed they had to be her daughter-in-law and her two sons. Everyone was painfully aware who, like Banquo's ghost, wasn't there to accompany his mother. Booth Watson hoped to take advantage of Simon Hartley's absence.

The uninvited guest sat through another funeral service, the only difference being who was resting in the coffin. When the blessing was finally delivered, Booth Watson was ready for the second part of his deception. The organ struck up the funeral march and the widow and her family made their way slowly back down the centre aisle, towards the west door, where they stopped and turned and waited to greet the assembled gathering.

The widow shook hands with all those who had come to honour the former Home Secretary, several of whom had been asked to join the family for a reception at Hartley Hall. Booth Watson was not among them, although he had plans to receive a last-minute invitation. Gatecrashing a funeral is one thing, but gatecrashing a private wake is quite another. However, he had a well-prepared line, which almost always elicited the same response.

He stood dutifully in line, and when he reached the front of the queue, was greeted with a puzzled look that rather suggested the widow was unsure who he was. He bowed low and whispered in the old lady's ear, ‘Booth Watson. I had the honour of working with your husband when he was at the Home Office. One of the finest ministers I've ever served. Of course, like the rest of my countrymen, I have protested about the disgraceful treatment of your son and will continue to do so.'

‘How kind of you to say so, Mr Booth Watson,' said the old lady, ‘and if you can spare the time, perhaps you could join us at Hartley Hall, where I feel sure you'll come across several old friends and acquaintances.'

Booth Watson felt sure he wouldn't, but then his main purpose was to be an eavesdropper, gathering information from any idle, unguarded snippets of conversation that might add to his knowledge.

When he left St Mary's, he followed a group of mourners who were clearly making their way to Hartley Hall. While other guests chatted among themselves during the reception, Booth Watson took a tour of the drawing room, and was quickly able to confirm the Hartleys' large collection of English watercolours was worthy of its trumpeted reputation. However, when he first saw the Constable of The Old Mill at Bucklebury that hung above the mantelpiece, even he was moved .

‘Quite magnificent, isn't it?' said a voice from behind him.

‘It most certainly is,' said Booth Watson, who turned to find the vicar standing by his side.

‘And been in the family for generations,' he lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘But it's not the pride of the collection, in my opinion.'

Booth Watson didn't have to ask.

‘The Declaration of Independence, handwritten by Thomas Jefferson – which hangs in the great man's study – is, by any standards, unique.'

‘How interesting,' said Booth Watson, who'd already decided the trip to Bucklebury had been worthwhile.

‘Vicar, what a beautiful service,' said a lady who joined them, allowing Booth Watson to slip quietly away. He glanced around the room to see several mourners deep in conversation, which allowed the chance to leave the room and go in search of the Jefferson.

He walked slowly down the corridor and when he reached a closed door, he looked up and down to check that no one was watching. He tentatively opened the door, peered inside, and immediately spotted what he'd come in search of: The Declaration of Independence. He remembered from his research that one of Lord Hartley's ancestors had been a friend of both Franklin and Jefferson. Which would explain how the document had ended up in Hartley Hall.

He was about to leave when the door suddenly swung open and a young man, whom Booth Watson immediately recognized, stepped in, unable to hide his surprise when he saw the stranger.

‘The vicar,' said Booth Watson, without missing a beat, ‘mentioned that there was this copy of the Declaration of Independence in your late grandfather's study. I couldn't resist taking a look. I hope you'll forgive me.'

‘It's not a copy,' said the young man with the certainty of the young. ‘It was written by Thomas Jefferson himself. He sent it to David Hartley MP in 1787, and it's been in the family ever since.'

‘How interesting,' said Booth Watson, not giving it a second look. ‘But if you'll excuse me, I ought to go and pay my respects to your grandmother before I leave.'

Booth Watson left the young man without another word, and quickly returned to the drawing room, where he sought out the widow.

‘Thank you for allowing me to join you for the reception, Lady Hartley,' he said, offering the same low bow, only to receive the same uncertain look as to who the stranger could possibly be.

‘Booth Watson,' he reminded her, which caused a flicker of recognition to return.

‘If I can ever be of any assistance in the future, dear lady, please don't hesitate to call on me,' Booth Watson said, handing her his card.

‘How kind of you,' she said, checking the card, ‘Mr Booth Watson.' She placed it in her bag.

‘And be assured, as a mark of my respect for your late husband, I would be only too happy to waive my fee.' Another bow followed before the uninvited guest made a discreet exit.

Booth Watson headed back to the station feeling he had cast a fly on the water, and he would now have to wait and see if the salmon would bite.

···

When the cell door opened, Simon had no idea if it was the middle of the day or the middle of the night.

They yanked him off the thin, urine-stained mattress, and dragged him out into a dimly lit corridor. He assumed his life was about to end.

The cramped, spiral staircase was the next obstacle to surmount, one guard in front of him, another behind. He didn't know why they bothered. After nine days in solitary, he wouldn't have been a match for a couple of girl guides.

When he reached the top step, he was shoved along a narrow corridor lined with cells on either side, filled with protesting prisoners who were locked up for crimes they had committed. The guards only paused when they reached the first of several heavy locked doors, each one requiring three keys to unlock. Once they were through, the doors were locked again, before they could progress to the next one. Finally, he saw an open door, from which a light shone as if it was beckoning him.

After Simon had been shoved into the room, the door was slammed behind him. Once he'd regained his balance, his eyes settled on a man he hadn't met, but assumed could only be the Governor. He sat alone, notebook open, pen poised. As there wasn't another chair, Simon had no choice but to remain standing.

‘Name,' said the Governor, looking directly at him.

A slightly farcical question as he clearly knew the answer was Simon's first thought.

‘Simon Winchcombe Henry Howard Hartley,' he responded, suddenly alert, adrenalin shooting through his exhausted body. But then he'd spent days preparing for this encounter.

The Governor bent down, picked up a briefcase and placed it on the table. He opened it, extracted a single sheet of paper and pushed it across the table.

Simon took some time reading the confession, only wanting to correct the English.

‘Mr Hartley, if you feel able to sign that document, we will send you home later today as an illegal alien.' He smiled, leaned forward, and offered Simon his pen.

Simon would have returned his smile, but the Governor had played his get-out-of-jail card far too early. He wouldn't have lasted a week at Harvard Business School.

‘Yes, I can see that would be a convenient solution for all concerned,' said Simon, ‘but as I didn't kill Mr Conti, I think I'll decline your generous offer.'

‘But if you didn't kill him,' asked the Governor, ‘who did?'

Simon didn't fall into his trap, aware that if he named Prince Ahmed, he might not be going home for a very long time, if ever. ‘I think you're only too aware of the answer to that question,' he responded.

‘Do you know a man called Hani Khalil?' asked the Governor, moving on down a list of prepared questions he had hoped not to have to ask.

‘Yes, I do,' said Simon. ‘He wanted to represent the British bid for the important arms deal, which is why I was a guest at his club on the night of the murder.'

‘But Mr Khalil claims,' said the Governor, looking at a separate piece of paper, ‘that the first time he saw you was when he was seated at the other end of the bar and you were having a heated argument with a Mr Paolo Conti, a rival for the arms contract.'

‘Interesting,' said Simon, ‘because Mr Khalil was also seated at that end of the bar, when he pointed out Mr Conti and told me that the Italians have no chance of getting the arms contract, but then I suspect you already knew that.'

The Governor didn't comment, but leaned forward and once again lifted the top of his briefcase, this time producing a small, serrated dagger. He placed it on the centre of the table.

‘And where do you think the police found this, Mr Hartley?' said the Governor, pointing at the knife.

This was the first question Simon had failed to anticipate as he had assumed the murder weapon would have been disposed of.

‘On the table by the door of my hotel room, with an arrow pointing towards it,' suggested Simon, not attempting to disguise any sarcasm.

‘Hidden under your bed,' said the Governor, not sounding quite so confident.

‘Then DNA will show you that someone else must have put it there,' said Simon. ‘And no doubt you've checked the clothes I was wearing on the night of the murder, because if I had killed him, they would have been covered in his blood, not to mention his DNA.'

‘You could have disposed of them before the police arrived,' said the Governor.

‘Funny that,' said Simon. ‘Why would I get rid of my suit, shirt, tie, socks and shoes, but leave the murder weapon under my bed?'

‘Criminals always make mistakes,' snapped the Governor.

‘As do the police, when they are attempting to frame an innocent person,' said Simon, confident he had his opponent on the back foot. Simon had his next question well prepared. ‘Why don't you have a word with the driver who took me back to the hotel that night and ask him if it looked as if I'd been involved in a fight, or if I was carrying a knife, or if my clothes were covered in blood?'

‘Your driver has already been interviewed,' said the Governor. ‘He says that you came running out of the club in an agitated state, leapt into your car and ordered him to get moving.'

‘Another simple mistake, Governor – it was not my car but Mr Khalil's, and the jury might find that piece of evidence quite compelling.'

‘We don't bother with juries in Saudi,' snarled the Governor.

‘Then you'll have to find a judge who's happy to see his photograph on the front page of every newspaper in the Western world, when he has to explain how everyone except him had worked out I was innocent and that he was the man responsible for the British having to withdraw from the arms deal. I suspect you'll get the odd mention as well.'

The Governor hesitated for a moment before he said, ‘I don't suppose the French will worry too much about that.'

‘But your new enlightened ruler might,' came back Simon, ‘when he reads The Times and discovers that you were responsible for charging me, which I note you still haven't done.'

The Governor picked up his pace stick.

‘Not advisable, Governor,' said Simon, ‘as I suspect you're well aware I'm meeting the British Ambassador tomorrow, and it might not be wise for me to look as if I've just been beaten up.'

‘You think you're very clever, don't you, Hartley?'

‘No, but I have a feeling you've already worked out that this is going to end in one of two ways, so all you have to decide is which horse to back, because I suspect Mr Hani Khalil is not the odds-on favourite any longer.'

The Governor banged his pace stick on the table, but Simon didn't flinch. ‘We will continue this conversation after you've seen your Ambassador.'

‘Which should give you more than enough time to make up your mind, Governor,' said Simon.

‘Are you threatening me, Hartley?' shouted the Governor.

This time, Simon did allow himself a thin smile and for a moment couldn't help wondering if this would become a case study at Harvard Business School. Funny what crosses your mind when you're possibly facing death, thought Simon. But he knew he wouldn't hear the other side of the story until he saw the Ambassador.

After being dragged back to his cell, he spent another sleepless night.

···

The following day, the same routine was carried out, but this time he was greeted by a friendly smile from the person sitting on the other side of the table.

‘I'm only sorry, Simon, that we should have to meet again in such unfortunate circumstances,' said the British Ambassador, as the two men shook hands. Sir Bernard looked across at Simon, who had sprouted an unkempt beard and had grown so thin that he hardly recognized him. ‘I would have come sooner,' he said, ‘but the authorities couldn't have made it more difficult for me to arrange a meeting.'

‘That's because the murderer is one of them,' said Simon. ‘Prince Ahmed bin Majid.'

The Ambassador didn't react as Simon continued. ‘Don't forget, I witnessed the murder,' he reminded him, ‘which is why I'm a pawn that can be sacrificed to ensure the French get the contract, and Prince Ahmed ends up with an even larger percentage.'

‘Not necessarily,' said Sir Bernard, this time taking Simon by surprise.

‘You mean we're still in with a chance of landing the contract?' said Simon, unable to hide his disbelief.

‘All I can tell you,' replied the Ambassador, ‘is that the Minister of Defence still plans to visit London and Paris next month before he makes a final decision. However, I'm reliably informed that the French have offered Prince Ahmed another five per cent if they get the deal.'

‘That's fifty million a year for the next three years,' said Simon, ‘of which, no doubt, ten per cent will end up in Khalil's back pocket, so he can retire and live in the lap of luxury.'

‘I'm rather hoping he'll end his days in this place', said Sir Bernard, ‘sharing a cell with his friend Prince Ahmed.'

‘I wouldn't bet on that,' said Simon.

‘But what I can't work out,' said the Ambassador, ‘is why Prince Ahmed had to kill Conti when the Italians were never serious contenders for the contract.'

‘You don't have to look further than Avril Dubois,' said Simon. ‘I think you'll find the Prince simply lost his temper when he saw her with another man, and when they needed a scapegoat, I was conveniently on hand. But I still don't know if it was all part of Khalil's plan, or whether I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.'

‘I suspect the latter,' said the Ambassador, ‘but it doesn't make my job any easier, because Miss Dubois is a British citizen, and her life is now in danger.'

‘Another pawn,' said Simon, ‘who can so easily be removed from the board, while they have the King.'

Sir Bernard smiled for the first time, and without explanation said, ‘But don't forget we have the Queen.'

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