Джеффри Арчер - Hidden in Plain Sight

Lamont came back on the line immediately. ‘I don’t know the officer personally, sir, but he’s never let you down in the past, so there’s no reason to believe he’s suddenly changed sides. In any case, if they were to charge in, we might even put his life in danger. I’d advise we stand DS Warwick and DC Roycroft down. And another point, sir. It won’t help our colleagues if those are the two customs officers they have under surveillance.’

‘Good point. All the more reason for both of you to return to the Yard immediately.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said William, not sounding convinced.

He and Jackie sat and watched as the Volvo drove onto the main road, and disappeared out of sight.

‘Thank you, Bruce,’ said the commander as he switched off the radio and broke contact with Felixstowe.

Once he had returned to his office, Hawksby picked up the phone on his desk and said, ‘Angela, do you have an empty Marlboro packet to hand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Could you bring it through?’

Angela fished a packet out of a drawer, took it in to her boss, and left it on his desk without a word passing between them.

Twenty minutes later, the commander picked up the phone again. ‘Angela, should anyone call, I’ll be out of the office for about thirty minutes.’ He returned the silver paper to the empty cigarette packet before slipping it into an inside pocket. He then took the lift to the ground floor and headed in the direction of Westminster Cathedral.

The evening before the trial, Adrian and Maria were driven from Lincoln down the A1 back to London. They were booked into a small, discreet hotel not far from the Old Bailey. Two guards were stationed outside their room.

Maria slept well, despite Adrian tossing and turning throughout the night as he went over his well-rehearsed responses to every one of Sir Julian’s questions, like a nervous actor waiting for the curtain to rise. Maria only had a walk-on part. As soon as Adrian stepped into the witness box, she would be driven to Heathrow, where she would check in and wait for him to join her.

Sir Julian stayed at his flat in Lincoln’s Inn overnight. In the morning he rose early and went over his opening address one more time, making the occasional emendation, crossing the odd word out, even one whole paragraph. He then read it out loud, with only the morning chorus as his audience. They seemed to appreciate it.

Booth Watson also rose early, and enjoyed a large breakfast before taking a taxi to the Old Bailey, arriving only half an hour before proceedings would commence. But then, he was unlikely to be on his feet until later that afternoon, as he suspected the Crown’s first witness would give evidence for at least a couple of hours before he had the chance to cross-examine him. Although he had prepared several traps to ensnare Mr Heath, none of them looked all that promising, and he feared that if his client was found guilty on both charges, he would, with a four-year suspended sentence already hanging over him, be spending several Christmases doing cold turkey.

He had dined with Miles at the Savoy the evening before, and found him remarkably calm, even resigned to his fate. But then he could never fathom out what really went on in that impenetrable mind.

Grace took the tube to the Central Criminal Court, aware that her father wouldn’t want to be distracted before he rose to address the jury. She accepted that as his junior, hers was a supporting role, ready to assist should a point of law arise or to check any statement the defence claimed as fact, as she couldn’t allow Booth Watson to ambush her father while he was in full flow. At a more menial level, she even had to make sure his glass of water was always half-full, and not half-empty. Grace was more than happy to act as her father’s junior, and although she didn’t mention it to anyone, even Clare, she hoped he would allow her to cross-examine one of the less important witnesses.

Like his QC, Miles Faulkner enjoyed a hearty breakfast, having taken an early run around the park. His park. BW had told him he was unlikely to be called to give evidence until after all the Crown’s witnesses had been heard, and only then if he was convinced it would assist his cause. At the moment BW wasn’t convinced that anything would assist his cause.

His chauffeur dropped him outside the Old Bailey, where he found himself surrounded by a pack of journalists and photographers who had been wondering if he’d even turn up, as he clearly could afford to sacrifice a million pounds to remain a free man. He swaggered towards them, giving the photographers more than enough time to take as many snaps as they wanted, which only convinced the reporters he must be confident he would be leaving in the same car he’d arrived in.

Court number one at the Old Bailey was packed long before Mr Justice Baverstock entered his workplace at ten o’clock that morning. He bowed to the packed courtroom and took his seat in the centre of the raised podium. On the Crown’s bench, Sir Julian was making sure that the pages of his opening statement were numbered and in order. Grace had already double-checked, and they were.

Booth Watson was slumped at the other end of the bench, a yellow pad resting on his knee, pen already poised in case Sir Julian made even the slightest error. His junior, Mr Andrews, sat attentively by his side, waiting to pick up any titbits his leader might have missed.

Miles Faulkner stood in the dock, dressed once again in a Savile Row suit and sporting an Old Harrovian tie. He smiled at the seven men and five women as they filed into the jury box, but only one of them glanced in his direction.

The judge waited for the jury to be sworn in, and once he was satisfied that everyone was settled he nodded to the clerk of the court, who rose and read out the two indictments on the charge sheet, before looking up at the defendant and asking portentously, ‘How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

‘Not guilty,’ declared Faulkner on both counts, sounding amazed that anyone might doubt his word.

‘You may be seated,’ said the clerk.

Once Faulkner had taken his place, Mr Justice Baverstock turned his attention to the Crown’s leader. ‘Are you ready to deliver your opening statement, Sir Julian?’ he asked.

‘I am indeed, m’lud.’ He rose from his place, and tugged at the lapels of his long black gown before firmly gripping the sides of the stand on which his statement rested.

‘M’lud,’ he began, ‘I represent the Crown in this case, while my learned friend, Mr Booth Watson QC, appears on behalf of the defence.’ The two men reluctantly exchanged perfunctory bows. ‘There are two counts on the indictment, My Lord, that relate to the possession and supply of an illegal substance, in this case, cocaine. On the evening of Saturday, May the seventeenth this year, the defendant was found to be in possession of a large quantity of the drug while hosting a dinner party for nine other guests. But it is not only what took place at the dinner party that night that will be of interest to the jury. Of even more significance is what happened before Mr Faulkner’s first guest arrived.’ He looked up to see that the jury were hanging on his every word.

‘A few minutes after seven that evening, a man arrived at Mr Faulkner’s home to keep an appointment he had made some days before. On arrival, that man, Mr Adrian Heath, was escorted through to the defendant’s study in order to conduct a business transaction. He provided Mr Faulkner with twelve grams of cocaine in exchange for eight hundred pounds in cash. The price was above the going rate, but Mr Faulkner was a customer who demanded only the best. In this case, 92.5 per cent pure, as an expert witness will later testify.