Archer, Jeffrey - Hidden in Plain Sight

‘As I blend into the Brixton scene a bit more convincingly than you lot,’ said Paul, ‘perhaps I could manage three days?’ Which elicited the first laugh of the morning.

‘I was wondering if your UCO had been in touch, sir,’ said William. ‘He might even have found out where the slaughter is by now.’

‘No, he hasn’t,’ said the Hawk sharply, recalling the last occasion DS Warwick had questioned him about MM. ‘Never forget, DS Warwick, he risks his life every day. If the other side were to suspect even for a moment that he was a member of our team, we’d find his body floating down the river the next morning.’

Jackie could well remember where she’d heard almost those exact words when her lover was talking about himself.

‘And frankly, I wouldn’t want that on my conscience,’ added the Hawk, immediately regretting his words.

William was tempted to remind the commander that if they’d arrested Tulip in Felixstowe, Adrian would still be alive, but he resisted the temptation.

‘If Rashidi’s slaughter’s on the top floor of one of those tower blocks,’ said Paul, coming to William’s rescue, ‘it will be difficult, if not impossible, for us to enter the front door before a lookout’s warned them we’re on the way. They could shut up shop and have disappeared long before we reach them, and all we would have achieved would be to mildly inconvenience the bastards.’

Commander Hawksby looked out of the window. ‘Then we’ll just have to wait until it snows.’

Court number one at the Old Bailey is known in the trade as the show court, and usually plays to full houses. But the idea of Sir Julian Warwick QC’s understudy taking the lead on the press night guaranteed that it was packed long before Ms Grace Warwick walked onto the stage.

Clare was just a pace behind, but as she wasn’t an official member of the Crown’s team, she slipped into a spare seat next to William near the back of the courtroom.

‘Revenge in the name of your brother,’ had been her final instruction before Grace made her way to the front bench to join her father.

‘Good morning, Grace,’ he said. ‘Do you have enough stones in your pouch to slay Goliath?’

‘You seem to forget, Father,’ she replied, ‘that David only needed one stone.’

‘Then you’ll have to make sure it strikes him squarely on the forehead and doesn’t fly harmlessly over his shoulder, because I can tell you Faulkner will duck and dive in every direction as you hurl each new stone at him.’

Booth Watson took his place at the other end of the bench, and the two QCs exchanged cursory nods, more out of convention than conviction. Grace glanced across at the dock to see her adversary glaring down at her. A shudder ran down her spine as their eyes locked and he licked his lips. She turned her attention to Clare, who gave her a thumbs-up sign.

‘If that’s Clare sitting next to William,’ said her father, ‘why don’t you ask her to join us? After all, she probably knows as much about the case as we do.’

‘Thank you,’ said Grace, who turned and beckoned to her partner.

Clare, unable to hide how nervous she felt, moved cautiously to the front of the courtroom, and took a seat directly behind Sir Julian and Grace.

‘Good morning, Clare,’ said Sir Julian. ‘Welcome to the home team. Don’t hesitate to pass a note to Grace or me if you think we’ve missed something, because you can be sure we might well have.’

‘Thank you, Sir Julian,’ said Clare, taking a yellow pad and two pens out of her briefcase.

‘All rise.’

Mr Justice Baverstock shuffled in, pleased to see his court so packed. The gallery above him was overflowing with eager onlookers, some leaning over the railing to get a better view of proceedings. His Lordship bowed, took his place in the high-backed chair, and waited for the jury to file into their places. He finally checked that all the actors were standing in the wings awaiting their entrances before he allowed the curtain to rise.

Faulkner was in the dock, the prosecution and defence teams were seated on the front bench – although he thought Ms Warwick looked more nervous than the defendant – while the members of the press, pencils poised, were waiting impatiently for proceedings to begin. Once the jury had settled, the judge turned his attention to defence counsel, who was rearranging some papers.

‘Good morning, Mr Booth Watson. Are you ready to call your first witness?’

‘I am indeed, m’lud. I call Mr Miles Faulkner.’

The judge looked surprised, and the press looked delighted, which only made Grace feel even more nervous. She had been prepared to declare war on Faulkner, but could she now defeat him in battle?

Faulkner stepped down from the dock and walked, almost swaggered, across the court before taking his place in the witness box. He placed his right hand on the Bible and read out the oath as if he had written it.

Mr Booth Watson looked across at his client and smiled. ‘Can I ask you to state your full name and occupation for the record?’

‘Miles Adam Faulkner, and I’m a farmer.’

‘May I begin, Mr Faulkner, by asking you about the evening of May the seventeenth, 1986, when you held a dinner party for some friends at your country home, Limpton Hall, in Hampshire.’

‘Business colleagues as well as friends,’ said Faulkner, ‘some of whom I’ve known for over twenty years.’

‘And the purpose of the dinner party was purely social?’

‘No, sir. We are a group of like-minded people who have been successful in our professional lives, and now feel the time has come to give something back to society.’

‘Highly commendable,’ said Booth Watson. The judge frowned. ‘Do you have any particular good causes in mind?’

‘We are all lovers of the arts, in its many different forms, and feel strongly that culture can play a positive role in the education of young people.’

‘Particularly acting,’ murmured Sir Julian, ‘and being able to remember your lines when working from a prepared script.’

‘Most commendable,’ purred Booth Watson.

‘Tread carefully, Mr Booth Watson,’ said the judge wearily.

‘At least the judge can see what they’re up to,’ whispered Grace.

‘Yes, but will the jury?’ retorted her father.

‘I do apologize, m’lud,’ said Booth Watson, not looking at all apologetic. ‘However, Mr Faulkner, are you able to confirm that you recently donated two major works of art from your collection, worth several million pounds, to one of our national museums?’

‘Yes, I sadly parted with a Rembrandt and a Rubens, but I’ve had so much pleasure from them in my lifetime, that it will give me even greater pleasure to know how many young people,’ he paused, ‘and not so young, are now able to enjoy them.’ He turned and smiled at the jury, just as Booth Watson had instructed him to do at that point, and was rewarded by one or two of them returning his salutation.

‘Now, I’d like to turn to the one charge being made against you, namely that on the night of May the seventeenth, you were found to be in possession of twelve grams of cocaine for your personal use.’

‘Well, if I had been, it would have been enough to last for a year.’

Clare wrote, How does he know twelve grams would be enough to last for a year? and passed the note to Grace.

‘Remembering that you are under oath, Mr Faulkner, could you tell the court if you have ever taken a controlled substance in your life?’

‘Yes, sir. I once smoked a joint when I was at art school, but it made me feel sick, so I didn’t bother to try another one.’

‘So, you deny that Mr Adrian Heath went to your home on May the seventeenth and offered to sell you twelve grams of cocaine for eight hundred pounds?’