‘You’ve forgotten the car and chauffeur,’ said Christina sarcastically.
‘Your chauffeur would be made redundant, and the Rolls-Royce might just be involved in an unfortunate accident, reminding your friends that after years of having a driver, you were no longer safe on the road.’
Christina gave an involuntary shudder. ‘Even Miles wouldn’t go that far,’ she eventually managed.
‘You may well be right, but you’d certainly have to think about it every time you got into the car.’
Christina tried not to think about it.
‘And there’s something else I should mention, while we’re on the subject of your future. The paintings are no longer in Monte Carlo, and all of Miles’s assets have been deposited in several numbered accounts in Zurich, Geneva and Bern, so if you don’t want to end up living on social security, I suggest you keep to your end of the bargain.’
‘Does that mean I can no longer see Beth Warwick, because she’s about the only friend I’ve got?’
‘On the contrary, we want you to go on seeing Beth Warwick. Just make sure she remains convinced you’re a widow, because the day she isn’t, you may as well be.’
‘Am I also expected to live with Miles?’
‘No, that’s the last thing he wants. He has no objection to you continuing your former lifestyle, as long as you’re discreet. However, there will be occasions when you’ll have to be seen in public together in order to keep up the pretence.’
‘Does Miles actually believe he’ll get away with it?’
‘I hope so, for your sake. He tells me he passed the Vermeer unveiling test with flying colours, so clearly the Swiss plastic surgeon did an excellent job. And don’t forget, no one gave him a second look when he sat in the row behind me at his own funeral. Any more questions?’ he asked abruptly.
‘How will I know when I’m required to play my role?’
‘I’ll be in touch. I’ll try to give you at least twenty-four hours’ notice.’
‘How considerate of you.’
‘I hope you’ll quickly accept, Mrs Faulkner, this is an amicable arrangement that will suit both parties. However, should you ever need any legal advice, do feel free to call on me.’
‘How kind of you, Mr Booth Watson, but fortunately Sir Julian Warwick fulfils that role quite admirably.’
‘Not in the future, he won’t,’ said Booth Watson firmly.
‘You’re frightened of him,’ said Christina, feeling that at last she’d scored a point.
Booth Watson hesitated for a moment. ‘Not frightened,’ he eventually managed, ‘but I do have a certain respect for his professional skills. So, you are never to call on his services again.’
Christina was about to protest when Booth Watson added, ‘It’s a deal-breaker.’ She remained silent.
Booth Watson swivelled the agreement around, offered her a pen and said, ‘You sign here, here and here. By the way,’ he added, ‘I thought your performance at the funeral was quite brilliant. But then, it was always in your best interests to convince Inspector Warwick that Miles was dead.’
The morning session the following day had gone better once Mrs Parish finally accepted that the only reason Rashidi could have been visiting a drugs factory after midnight was to buy some drugs. However, she wouldn’t budge when it came to the main offence, of being a dealer and the mastermind behind the entire operation.
The foreman once again called for a vote on all three counts, and on the lesser charge of possession, he finally secured a guilty verdict of ten to two. But on the two more serious charges, the vote remained nine to three.
The foreman looked around the table, before he suggested to his exhausted cohorts, that ‘Perhaps the time has come for us to send a note to the judge and ask His Lordship if he would consider a majority verdict.’
No one raised an objection.
Mr Justice Whittaker listened carefully to the foreman of the jury and the intractable problem he was facing.
‘I’m going to ask you to retire again, and strive once more to reach a unanimous verdict. If you are unable to do so, I will accept a verdict upon which at least ten of you are agreed.’
The foreman bowed, and the bailiff once again led his charges back to the jury room.
The judge returned to his chambers and scanned a long line of leather-bound volumes on the shelves behind his desk. He extracted one before sitting down and consulting the index. He turned to page 213 and checked the maximum sentence he could impose for the possession of cannabis, and if there were any aggravating circumstances which would allow him to increase the sentence. He frowned. He was re-reading the relevant paragraph, when he was interrupted by a tap on the door, and his clerk entered the room.
‘The jury are returning, m’lud,’ he said, as he held open the door.
PC Bailey was out pounding the streets on the ten-to-six shift when William drove into Romford. She was late returning to the station because she’d had to deal with a traffic accident. It was only a minor prang, but one of the drivers didn’t have a licence, so when she finally got back to the nick, there were several forms to fill in.
She didn’t emerge again until 6.32 p.m. She was dressed in her civilian clothes, and headed in the direction of DS Summers’s flat, stopping on the way to pick up one of his suits from the dry cleaner’s. At 6.58 she let herself into the house.
William put down his biro after completing the latest entry in his logbook. He turned on the radio and listened to the seven o’clock news.
The Rashidi drugs trial was still the lead item, and the only new piece of information was that the judge would pass sentence in the morning.
Two years is the maximum period the judge can impose for possession, his father had reminded him when they had spoken on the phone that afternoon.
‘Which means he’s quite literally got away with murder,’ said William. ‘And remembering he’s already served over six months, he’ll be released in a few weeks’ time, and we still don’t know where his new factory is.’
‘I’m sure he’ll lead you to it on the day he’s released,’ was the Hawk’s opinion.
William’s thoughts turned to Lamont, who was every bit as guilty as Rashidi, having worked hand in glove with Booth Watson to get him off. But one of the ex-superintendent’s favourite bon mots had been, Crime pays, laddie, and William didn’t doubt that Lamont was now earning far more as one of Booth Watson’s lackeys than he ever had in the Met.
He could hear Beth asking once again if the time had come for him to consider resigning, and he still hadn’t come up with a convincing response.
When a light appeared on the third floor, William tried to concentrate. After five nights of surveillance, he had roughly worked out the layout of Summers’s flat. Nicky must now be in the kitchen, probably preparing supper.
The news was followed by The Archers; much more of this and he’d become an addict. He was listening to File on Four, who were debating the removal of hereditary peers from the House of Lords, when he spotted Summers entering the building. A few moments later he watched as the two of them embraced before Nicky drew the curtains. William only wished he could have overheard their conversation.
The Hawk had applied for an order to have the flat bugged, but the application had been rejected by the assistant commissioner Specialist Operations as a fishing trip. ACSO suggested they supply some more convincing corroborating evidence before approaching him again. He referred the commander to the Interception of Communications Act 1985.
A second application just to bug Summers’s phone was also turned down. Britain wasn’t a police state, the Hawk had been reminded by the commissioner. William couldn’t disagree with him, even though it made his job that much more difficult.