‘That doesn’t solve the problem of how you buy the remaining shares in Marcel and Neffe. Simpson would never accept a cash payment for that amount. Any transaction will have to be transparent and above board.’
‘And so it will be quite,’ said Miles. ‘Rashidi had three legitimate bank accounts, one of which is just over a million pounds in credit. So we can buy the other forty-nine per cent of the company with his own money.’
‘How do you expect me to explain that to Mrs Rashidi? She might not be quite as green as the banknotes.’
‘You can tell her it’s tainted money, acquired by her son from illegal drug deals. Then she won’t want anything to do with it.’
‘But what about her fifty-one per cent holding in Marcel and Neffe?’
‘I’m confident she’ll part with those shares in exchange for Raphael’s Madonna di Cesare.’
‘But that must be worth millions.’
‘It would be, if it was the original.’
‘What if she were to put it up for sale?’
‘Not a chance. That God-fearing woman would rather die than sell the Virgin.’
‘Unless she comes across the original.’
‘That’s highly unlikely, since I own it, and have no intention of putting it on the market.’
‘And how will I benefit from your master plan, bearing in mind that none of this,’ said Booth Watson with a grand sweep of his arm, ‘would have been possible without me?’
‘You will handle the successful takeover of Marcel and Neffe, after which you will become the company’s legal adviser, on a monthly retainer high enough to ensure that you never need to represent another client.’
‘With bonuses,’ suggested Booth Watson, looking at the piles of cash on the table in front of them.
‘Of course,’ said Faulkner, taking several sealed packets of twenty-pound notes from one of the boxes and handing them to Booth Watson. ‘This should take care of life’s little necessities for the time being. And should you run out, there’s plenty more where that came from.’
Booth Watson’s smile remained in place as he dropped several wads of cash into his Gladstone bag, which was joined by the contents of the seventh box. ‘I’ll take all the personal items to Lyons,’ he said, ‘and hand them over to Mrs Rashidi. The photos, letters, and a few family mementos that I know she’ll appreciate.’
‘Along with the copy of the Raphael, which I’m confident she won’t be able to resist,’ said Faulkner.
‘All in all, a good morning’s work,’ declared Booth Watson, as he picked up his heavy bag while Faulkner pressed the green button. The door swung open to reveal Miss Davis and the head of security waiting for them. ‘We’ve finished for now,’ said Booth Watson. ‘But I will be returning from time to time.’
Beth was feeding the twins when she heard the gate click. She looked out of the window to see a young woman pushing an envelope through their letterbox. Probably a parish circular or an invitation to a local Conservative Party drinks evening, she thought, both of which would be disappointed. She looked at the woman more closely as she walked back down the path. There was something familiar about her, but Beth couldn’t place where or when she’d seen her before.
She was carrying the children upstairs when she heard the gate click a second time, and smiled at the thought that William was home early for a change. Once the twins were tucked up in their cots, she returned downstairs to find him reading a one-page note.
‘Did you see who delivered this?’ he asked, not looking up.
‘Yes. And how lovely to see you too.’
‘Sorry,’ he said, taking her in his arms.
‘I only got a brief glimpse of her. She was young, mid-twenties maybe, dark hair. I think she might have been pregnant.’
William nodded and read the note a second time.
Be at the Playboy Club in Park Lane at 7.30 this evening. Ignore the bunnies, keep an eye out for the poachers.
‘I’ve made your favourite dinner, caveman,’ said Beth, ‘so I do hope you’re hungry.’
William handed her the note. After she’d read it, she said, ‘Hmm, that’s somewhere you’ll be able to mix with a lot of other cavemen, but I’d be willing to bet they don’t serve shepherd’s pie at the Playboy Club.’
25
William arrived at the Playboy Club in Park Lane just after seven, confident that he’d have more than enough time to familiarize himself with the premises, as he knew Summers didn’t come off duty until eight.
After signing in, he climbed the stairs to the first floor and entered the casino. He walked slowly around the gaming room, checking out the different ways of losing money. A dozen blackjack tables and several roulette tables manned by croupiers who spun the wheels while their customers followed the progress of a little white ball, fervently hoping that it would select their chosen number. Ninety-three per cent of the time it didn’t. At the back of the room William noticed a door marked Privé, through which he assumed only the high rollers were invited. An invitation that would never be extended to him.
After a second perambulation of the gaming hall, he took a seat at the end of the bar and waited for Summers to make an entrance.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ asked an attentive barman.
‘An orange juice, please,’ said William, taking out his wallet.
‘On the house, sir,’ said the barman to the first-time customer.
An hour passed, and still there was no sign of Summers. After a second hour, William was beginning to wonder if PC Bailey had set him up in the hope of getting her boyfriend off the hook, while leaving him to wish he stayed at home.
William almost fell off his bar stool when the door opened and Bruce Lamont strolled in. William quickly headed for the nearest stairs, not even knowing where they led. When he reached the top step, he was greeted by the maître d’.
‘Will you be joining us for dinner, sir?’ enquired a man who was used to customers dining alone.
‘No, thank you,’ said William. ‘I’ve already eaten.’ He glanced over the balcony to see Lamont standing at the bar just a few places away from where he had been sitting only a moment before. ‘But I would like a coffee,’ he said, eyeing a table at the far end of the balcony.
‘Of course, sir. If you’d like to take a seat, a waitress will be with you shortly.’
William’s new vantage point gave him a panoramic view of the casino floor, while he remained half hidden behind a fake-marble pillar. Lamont was sipping champagne and chatting to the barman when Summers strolled into the casino and walked across to join him at the bar.
‘What can I get you to drink, sir?’ asked a young woman dressed in an outfit that left little to the imagination.
‘Just a coffee,’ said William, trying not to stare at her trademark large rabbit ears and fluffy bobtail. ‘Black.’
He turned his attention back to the bar, where Lamont and Summers were deep in conversation. William was beginning to wonder if they had chosen the club as their meeting place simply because they were unlikely to bump into anyone who would recognize them, but then the talking stopped. Summers stood up and headed for the nearest roulette table.
He handed the croupier a cellophane packet containing five hundred pounds in five-pound notes that William had last seen in the Hawk’s office. The croupier spread the cash out on the green baize and counted it before dropping the money into a plastic box for all to see. He then pushed a small stack of chips across the table to his new customer.