It took William a few moments to realize that the commander had served his ace. He picked up his resignation letter and slipped it back in his pocket.
‘See you in a couple of days, Eddie,’ said Miles Faulkner as he got out of the unmarked van and began the only part of his escape that hadn’t been rehearsed.
He walked cautiously down the well-trodden path towards the beach. After about a hundred yards he spotted the glowing tip of a cigarette. A lighthouse that guided the escaped fugitive safely away from the rocks.
A man dressed from head to toe in black was walking towards him. They shook hands, but neither of them spoke.
The captain guided his only passenger across the sand to a motorboat that was bobbing in the shallow water. Once they were on board, a crewman switched on the engine and steered them out to the waiting yacht.
Miles didn’t relax until the captain had raised the anchor and set sail, and didn’t shout hallelujah until they were well outside territorial waters. He knew that if they caught him, not only would his sentence be doubled, but he wouldn’t be given a second chance to escape.
2
Mr Booth Watson QC took the seat opposite his potential client, removed a thick file from his Gladstone bag and placed it on the glass table in front of him.
‘I’ve studied your case with considerable interest, Mr Rashidi,’ he began, ‘and would like to briefly go over the charges against you, and your possible defence.’
Rashidi nodded, his eyes never leaving the lawyer seated opposite him. He still hadn’t decided whether or not to engage BW, as Faulkner called him. After all, a life sentence could hang on the decision. He needed a King Charles spaniel to charm the jury, crossed with a Rottweiler who would tear the Crown’s witnesses apart limb from limb. Was Booth Watson that animal?
‘The Crown will set out to prove that you ran a large-scale drugs empire. They will accuse you of importing vast quantities of heroin, cocaine and other illegal substances, from which they will claim you have made millions of pounds in profit, and that you controlled a criminal network of agents, dealers and couriers. I will argue that you were no more than an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of the Metropolitan Police’s raid, and no one was more appalled than you when you learned what the premises were being used for.’
‘Can you fix the jury?’ Rashidi asked.
‘Not in this country,’ replied Booth Watson firmly.
‘What about the judge? Can he be bribed? Or blackmailed?’
‘No. However, I have recently discovered something about Mr Justice Whittaker that could prove embarrassing for him, and therefore useful to us. But it will need double-checking.’
‘Like what?’ demanded Rashidi.
‘I’m not willing to reveal that unless and until I decide if I’m willing to represent you.’
It had never crossed Rashidi’s mind that Booth Watson couldn’t be bought. He had always considered lawyers were no different from street whores: you only haggled over the price.
‘Meanwhile, let’s spend our limited time going over the charges in greater detail, and your possible defence.’
Two hours later Rashidi had made up his mind. Booth Watson’s forensic grasp of detail, and of how the law could be bent without being broken, had made it clear why Miles Faulkner thought so highly of him. But would he be willing to defend him when he didn’t have a foot, let alone a leg, to stand on?
‘As you know, the Crown Prosecution Service have provisionally pencilled your trial in for September the fifteenth at the Old Bailey,’ said Booth Watson.
‘Then I’ll need to consult you regularly.’
‘I charge one hundred pounds an hour.’
‘I’ll pay you ten thousand in advance.’
‘The trial could last for several days, possibly weeks. The refreshers alone will be substantial.’
‘Then let’s make it twenty thousand,’ said Rashidi.
Booth Watson silently nodded his assent. ‘There’s one other thing you ought to know,’ he said. ‘The Crown will be represented by Sir Julian Warwick QC, and his daughter Grace will act as his junior.’
‘And no doubt his son will still be hoping to give evidence.’
‘If he doesn’t,’ said Booth Watson firmly, ‘you’ll have lost before the trial begins.’
‘Then we’ll have to grant him a stay of execution, at least until after you’ve taken him apart in the witness box.’
‘I may not even cross-examine the aptly named Choirboy. It’s the not-so-saintly Ex-Superintendent Lamont I want the jury to remember, not Detective Sergeant William Warwick,’ Booth Watson said as the door opened and the duty officer joined them.
‘Five more minutes, sir. You’ve already run over your limit.’
Booth Watson nodded. ‘Do you have any more questions, Mr Rashidi?’ he asked after the door had closed.
‘Have you heard from Miles recently?’
‘Mr Faulkner is no longer my client.’ Booth Watson hesitated a moment before adding, ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I have a business proposition that might appeal to him.’
‘Perhaps you could brief me,’ said Booth Watson, giving away the fact that he and Faulkner were still in touch.
‘The shares in my company, Marcel and Neffe, collapsed after all the negative press that followed my arrest. I need someone to purchase fifty-one per cent of the stock at its current market price, as I’m not allowed to deal on the stock market while I’m in prison. I’ll pay him double for the shares on the day I’m released.’
‘But that might not be for some time.’
‘I’ll pay you double if you get me off.’
Booth Watson nodded again, proving he was indeed a whore, albeit a very expensive one.
William couldn’t resist making the journey back to Brixton by bus. However, this time he wasn’t accompanied by forty armed police officers bent on destroying the largest drugs ring in the capital, but by a throng of housewives heading for the shops.
During the journey he peered down at some landmarks that he remembered from Operation Trojan Horse just the day before. But this bus came to a halt at every stop to let passengers off and on, and its top deck hadn’t been converted into a command centre from which the Hawk could oversee the biggest drugs raid in the Met’s history.
Two high-rise blocks of flats came into sight. At the next stop William jogged down the steps and jumped off the bus, to find his colleague DS Jackie Roycroft sitting in the shelter waiting for him. No well-placed lookouts to prevent them entering the building this time.
As they approached Block B an old woman passed them, pushing a trolley laden down with heavy bags. William felt sorry for her, but something made him turn and take a second look before he continued walking towards the building. He and DS Roycroft stepped into the lift — no bouncer to hinder their progress — and Jackie pressed the button for the twenty-third floor.
‘The premises have already been taken apart by SOCO, and they’ve drawn a blank. But the Hawk felt we should take a closer look just in case they missed anything. They’ve left at the crack of dawn,’ Jackie told him.
‘ “I have no idea when that might be,” ’ drawled William, ‘ “but I’m sure it must be most disagreeable.” ’
‘Go on, tell me,’ said Jackie.
‘Sir Harcourt Courtly addressing Lady Gay Spanker in London Assurance.’ Seeing the blank look on Jackie’s face, William added, ‘It’s a play by Boucicault.’