Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

‘G OOD AFTERNOON , L ADY H ARTLEY . W HAT a privilege to see you again,' gushed Booth Watson. ‘If you have come to consult me regarding your son's case, I fear there may be little I can do – although I have no doubt of his innocence.'

‘How kind of you to say so,' responded Lady Hartley, as Booth Watson ushered his potential client into a comfortable chair by the fire, before taking the seat opposite her. ‘But that isn't the reason I needed to seek your advice,' she volunteered.

Booth Watson remained silent.

‘I confess, Mr Booth Watson,' said Lady Hartley, ‘I had no idea how much the funeral would cost and I fear I've run up a small overdraft, which my husband would not have approved of.'

‘But your husband must have left you a small fortune, dear lady,' suggested Booth Watson, hoping he hadn't.

‘Small is the correct word,' said Lady Hartley. ‘A family fortune that has been dwindling over the years, not least because my husband considered public service more important than earning a living. MPs, as you will know, Mr Booth Watson, are paid a pittance, and ministers not a lot better, and while my son is away …'

Booth Watson took his time pretending to consider the problem before he offered, ‘Is it possible you are in possession of something you might be willing to part with to help alleviate the immediate problem?' he asked, knowing exactly what he wanted her to part with.

Lady Hartley hesitated for a moment, before she said in a hushed tone, ‘There is a Constable painting that was left to me by my late husband, of the old mill in Bucklebury, but I have no idea what it's worth.'

‘I have a client who just might be interested in the Constable,' said Booth Watson. ‘And if you'd like me to enquire …' he added, not sounding too enthusiastic.

‘That would be most kind of you, Mr Booth Watson.'

‘It's the least I can do, remembering how supportive your husband was over so many years.'

‘I need a little time to consider your offer,' she said. ‘May I let you know once I decide?'

‘But of course, dear lady, there's no hurry,' replied Booth Watson, confident that her son wasn't going to be released for some time. He rose from his place and accompanied his unwitting client to the door.

Lady Hartley left the QC's chambers with a smile on her face.

Once she'd departed, Booth Watson returned to his desk, and began to make detailed notes, which in the fullness of time he would share with Miles, but not before he'd confirmed the value of the Constable, and, equally important, the estimate for a Declaration of Independence, handwritten by Jefferson, were it to come up for auction.

···

Miles left Wormwood Scrubs at nine twenty-three the following morning, having signed all the release forms. The only thing in his possession was a copy of Monet's Water Lilies , painted and signed by Billy Mumford – with a sketch of Rembrandt's Jacob Wrestling with the Angel discreetly hidden beneath the Monet.

‘Home, sir?' asked Collins, once he'd placed the painting in the back of the Rolls and returned to the driving seat.

‘No,' replied Miles. ‘I'll be joining Mr Booth Watson for breakfast at the Savoy.'

‘Of course, sir,' said Collins.

As the car moved off, Faulkner didn't once look back. Not one of his habits.

It took Collins forty minutes to drive the boss from the Scrubs to the Savoy. When he drew up outside the hotel, a doorman quickly stepped forward, opened the back door, saluted and said, ‘Good morning, Mr Faulkner,' as if he'd never been away.

Miles made his way into the hotel, delighted to find Mario on duty, standing behind his upright desk in the Grill Room. Some things never change, he thought. The ma?tre d' accompanied him to his usual table, where he found Booth Watson was already waiting for him.

‘So much to discuss,' said Booth Watson, as he shook hands with his client. ‘So where would you like to start?'

‘Have you briefed Lamont?' asked Miles, as he sat down.

‘Yes,' said Booth Watson, ‘and I've arranged for the ex-Superintendent to come to my chambers this afternoon so you can brief him.'

‘Did he seem interested? After all, it's been three years.'

‘All I can tell you,' said Booth Watson, ‘is that his financial predicament hasn't altered since you last saw him. Don't forget, he had to forfeit part of his pension after Warwick was responsible for his unscheduled departure from the force.'

‘How can you be so sure he's short of money?' asked Miles, as a waiter poured him a cup of black coffee.

‘Same shiny suit, same creased tie, same well-polished shoes, but down at heel, and his first question was "how much?"'

‘Good,' said Miles, ‘because I prefer to work with empty stomachs, and I won't be tossing him any scraps unless he delivers.'

‘But what exactly will he be expected to deliver?' asked Booth Watson.

Miles took his time briefing his silk, and it quickly became clear to Booth Watson that his client hadn't been idle while he'd been away.

‘I've already transferred one thousand pounds to Mumford's account,' said Booth Watson, ‘so should I assume the Angel is ready to fly?'

‘Yes, but not yet ready to join the heavenly host,' said Miles.

‘But what's in it for you,' asked Booth Watson, ‘if all those present will know within moments they are staring at a fake?'

‘But that's the point, BW,' said Miles, ‘because once everyone realizes it is a fake, Mrs Warwick will have to resign as director of the Fitzmolean, and I can assure you it won't be to take up a new post as director of Tate.'

‘Will that finally be enough for you to move on?' asked Booth Watson, as Mario appeared by their side.

‘Far from it,' said Miles. ‘I have no intention of moving on until her husband suffers the same fate, and his dream of becoming the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police turns out to be a nightmare.'

‘Would you care to order breakfast, Mr Faulkner?' asked the ma?tre d'.

‘Yes, I'll have the full English, Mario,' said Miles, not looking at the menu.

···

Simon had been locked up for days – or was it weeks? – since last seeing Sir Bernard. He had no way of judging the passing of time. When the cell door finally opened once again, he looked up to see three prison guards staring down at him.

One of them stepped forward and yanked him off the thin, stinking mattress and dragged him out into the corridor, where he came face to face with the Governor.

‘Good morning, Hartley,' he said. ‘You'll be pleased to hear we're moving you to cell block A, which only houses murderers, so you should feel at home, among friends.'

‘I'm not a murderer,' spat out Simon, ‘and you know it.'

‘However,' said the Governor, who wasn't in the habit of being interrupted, ‘you might not be quite so pleased to learn you'll be sharing your cell with a professional killer,' he added as they led the prisoner up a spiral staircase to the ground floor, one guard in front of him, one behind. ‘And by professional, I mean he does it for a living, and you might be surprised by how little he charges.'

Simon would have been sick, had there been anything left in his stomach.

‘And something else I feel I ought to let you know before I introduce you to Sean O'Driscoll. He does enjoy having a cell to himself, and as his last three cellmates have died in their sleep, it might not be wise to doze off.'

Hartley got the message.

‘The last piece of information I feel I ought to share with you,' continued the Governor, ‘is that O'Driscoll was an IRA group commander, and if there's one thing he hates even more than us lot, it's an Englishman, especially an upper-class one – what he calls a toff. So let's hope you can survive for another couple of months, because that's how long he's got before we execute him in the market square, and if you're still alive then, it could be you who ends up with a cell to yourself.'

Simon watched as one of the guards took his time unlocking three locks before slowly pulling open a heavy door. The other guard threw him inside, and he landed at the feet of a vast bull of a man, who stared down at his new cellmate as if he were his next meal.

‘See you in a few weeks' time,' said the Governor, as the door closed, ‘but then again, perhaps not.'

Simon looked up at his new cellmate and began to wish he was back in solitary.