Sir Julian crossed out the passage and replaced it with his junior’s words. ‘Thank you, Grace,’ he said, giving her a warm smile.
‘M’lud, members of the jury, the Crown will demonstrate beyond reasonable doubt that this cynical and corrupt individual, while posing as the respectable chairman of a City company, led a double life as an international drugs baron, taking advantage of the vulnerable and the wretched in our society. He cared nothing for the consequences even when his actions resulted in innocent human beings losing their lives.’
‘You’ve already said that in so many words, Father. Why repeat it?’
‘Because it’s the image I want to leave in the jury’s minds, as well as ending up on the front pages of tomorrow morning’s papers. So when Booth Watson tries to convince the jury of the virtues of his churchgoing, charity-donating client, universally admired and respected by his fellow men, the seed of doubt will already have been sown, and all the press will have to do is water the plant. So, if BW goes on to suggest that his client was nothing more than an occasional smoker of pot in the privacy of his own home, and was innocently caught up in the crossfire that night, the jury will dismiss the idea out of hand.’
‘I presume you’ll ask why Rashidi even had a flat in a tower block in Brixton, when he could have lived in the West End, or with his mother in The Boltons?’
‘He could also have rented a flat nearer the City. I can’t wait to find out how Booth Watson tries to wriggle out of that one. However, I fear he won’t allow Rashidi anywhere near the witness box, and neither would I. By the way, how did William get on under your cross-examination yesterday?’
‘He’s well on top of his brief, and I’ve no doubt the jury won’t find it difficult to choose between a corrupt drugs baron and the Choirboy.’
‘We can’t afford to take anything for granted while Booth Watson is involved,’ said Sir Julian as he returned to the first page. ‘One more time.’
‘M’lud, members of the jury, I appear before you today...’
Booth Watson was seated at his usual table in the Savoy Grill devouring a full English breakfast while reading The Times. Just a few column inches alerted the paper’s readers to the upcoming trial of the Crown v Rashidi that would be heard before Mr Justice Whittaker in court number one of the Old Bailey that morning. Booth Watson was sure that at that very moment Sir Julian Warwick would be rehearsing some pithy rejoinder in the hope that it would not only influence the jury, but guarantee lurid headlines in the more sensational rags the following morning, which he feared most of the jury would probably read, despite the judge instructing them not to do so.
Booth Watson had warned his client that after Sir Julian had delivered his opening statement, the jury would be convinced he was the Devil incarnate. But, he reminded him, it was defence counsel who had the last word.
‘More coffee, sir?’ enquired an attentive waiter.
Booth Watson nodded, before filling in six more squares of the Times crossword. About the only thing he had in common with his esteemed colleague. Was it possible for one’s innermost thoughts to be sarcastic? he wondered.
Any other customer who noticed Booth Watson tucking into a hearty breakfast that morning might have been surprised to learn that in a couple of hours’ time he would be appearing at the Old Bailey, defending a man who on the face of it looked as if he might be spending the next twenty years in prison. However, Booth Watson was well aware that only the first salvo would be delivered that morning, and he was unlikely to be called upon until later in the afternoon, when he would cross-examine Mr Cyril Bennett, the Crown’s first witness — a hapless tailor from Savile Row. If the little ploy he had hatched with his client overnight worked, it would leave the jury puzzled and unsure about who to believe.
Next would come the turncoat who was hoping to save his own skin by turning Queen’s evidence in exchange for a lighter sentence. However, his junior had done some in-depth research on Mr Gerald Sangster and had come up with a couple of gems that even the General Medical Council had missed.
Next to appear in the witness box would be Detective Inspector Warwick, who he suspected would be cross-examined by his sister, not their father. A decision he hoped to make them regret. Sir Julian may have thought he had a smoking gun, but he would discover otherwise when Booth Watson pulled the trigger. If his second bullet hit the mark, there would be no need to call his client to give evidence, because the trial would be over and Assem would be free to leave by the front door, at which point Booth Watson would double his fee.
‘Another coffee, sir?’
‘No,’ said Booth Watson. He folded his newspaper, checked his watch and said, ‘Just the bill.’
8
DC Pankhurst sat in the corner of the crowded bus shelter, but when the No. 72 pulled in, she didn’t climb on board. She had a perfect sightline of Lamont’s front door, and as long as there were enough people hanging around waiting for the next bus, whatever the number, he couldn’t possibly see her.
The front door opened just after seven that morning, and Lamont emerged and began walking towards the bus stop. When a No. 211 appeared in the distance, she decided to take a risk.
As the bus approached the stop, Lamont began to jog, a clue that gave her enough confidence to get on. She climbed the stairs to the upper deck and sat at the back, not wanting to risk sitting downstairs now it was possible he might recognize her.
Rebecca looked out of the window to see Lamont glancing around. Once he was confident she was nowhere to be seen, he climbed aboard. Rebecca smiled. Her ploy had worked. But she was still anxious that her cover had been blown, and they’d have to replace her. She could feel the hand of Emmeline Pankhurst slapping her on the wrist.
Lamont took his usual window seat on the lower deck. Whenever the bus came to a stop, Rebecca checked to see if he got off, although she was fairly confident she knew where he was going.
But today he didn’t get off at his usual stop and head straight for the betting shop. Instead he remained on board until the bus reached Victoria station. Another slap on the wrist — she should have anticipated that. After all, the betting shop didn’t open until nine.
Could he be going to Scotland Yard? she wondered. But no, he headed towards the underground. It had to be the Circle line and another clandestine meeting with Jerry Summers. But she was taken by surprise a second time, when he stopped at a newsstand, bought a packet of cigarettes and a copy of the Daily Mail. He sat on a nearby bench, lit a cigarette and pretended to be reading his paper while regularly glancing across at the steps that led down to the Tube station.
Rebecca slipped into a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino. She took a seat near the window which gave her a clear view of her mark. She doubted whether he would be able to see her sitting in the crowded cafe, but he never once glanced in her direction. His eyes remained focused on the entrance to the Underground. He was obviously waiting for someone. But who?
And then she spotted Lamont’s prey. Commander Hawksby strode out of the station and began walking up Victoria Street in the direction of Scotland Yard. DC Pankhurst switched her attention back to Lamont, who was stubbing out his cigarette and folding his newspaper. He got up and followed the Hawk, but made no attempt to catch up with him.
Rebecca left the cafe and continued to shadow Lamont. What the hell was he up to? A stalker stalking a stalker.
The Hawk continued towards Scotland Yard at a brisk pace, but to Rebecca’s surprise, about halfway down Victoria Street he turned right and disappeared from sight. Lamont maintained his distance, knowing that he couldn’t risk getting too close.