Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(104)

As Miles had stolen the money from his ex-wife, who in Booth Watson’s opinion had more than enough to live on, he felt able to justify the transfer from one account to another, without losing any sleep. By the time he’d removed the last fifty-pound note, he would turn his attention to Miles’s art collection – about to become his art collection – which should by then have been shipped to Kowloon, where Mr Lee would be free to inspect it at his leisure, before transferring a further hundred million dollars to another bank account that Booth Watson had recently opened.

Once the transaction had been completed, he would fly out to Hong Kong, before continuing a long, circuitous journey that would end up in Seattle. He’d already placed a large deposit on a magnificent penthouse apartment with a view over Puget Sound, and intended to complete the transaction once the judge had passed sentence.

Booth Watson had recently acquired a new identity, complete with a false passport, and had opened several bank accounts around the world. Amazing what Miles had taught him over the years.

‘Take the prisoner down,’ he mumbled as a plate of eggs, bacon, mushrooms and beans was placed in front of him.

BW picked up his knife and fork, ready for the attack.

? ? ?

Tulip put down his plastic fork.

‘Will you be pleading guilty or not guilty?’ he asked as Miles took a seat on the other side of the table.

Faulkner had been driven back to Belmarsh from HMP Ford to spend the night in London before his trial opened at the Old Bailey. The morning hadn’t begun well, as he’d been told to join the end of the queue for breakfast, only to discover that his usual table was already occupied.

He thought about Tulip’s question. ‘I still haven’t made up my mind. I can’t decide who I distrust more, Booth Watson or Superintendent Warwick.’

‘They’re as bad as each other,’ said Tulip, mopping up the remains of his baked beans with a slice of stale bread. ‘So you’ll just have to choose between the lesser of two evils.’

‘You’re a lot of help,’ said Miles.

A warder he didn’t recognize approached him, placed a hand firmly on his shoulder and said, ‘Let’s be havin’ you, Faulkner. Wouldn’t want to keep the judge waiting, would we?’

He pushed his untouched breakfast to one side, and wasn’t surprised to see Tulip grab it. He made his way back to his cell, where he took his time dressing for the occasion: a smart navy blue suit that hadn’t been worn for nearly a year, a freshly ironed shirt and an Old Harrovian tie that made him look more like a company director than a man who could be spending the next decade in jail.

He was checking his tie in the small steel mirror screwed to the wall when two guards marched into his cell, thrust his arms behind his back and handcuffed him. They clearly didn’t know who he was. They led him down a green brick corridor, passing through several security gates before eventually emerging into a deserted courtyard and the cold light of day. The final gate to be opened would be a wooden one which led to the outside world.

‘Look forward to seeing you this evening, Faulkner,’ said one of the warders, unhelpfully, as they handed him over to three large policemen who looked as if they hoped he would try to escape.

They bundled the prisoner towards a waiting car, his feet hardly touching the ground, before they shoved him onto the back seat. A muscle-bound officer sat on either side of him, while the third took the front passenger seat. The doors automatically locked before the car set off, and two motorcycle outriders made sure there would be no unnecessary stops on the way to the Bailey. They weren’t taking any chances this time.

Miles sat silently in the back seat throughout the journey, still contemplating how he would plead. He was no nearer to making a decision by the time the little motorcade drove through the prisoners’ entrance to the Bailey and parked in the back yard.

Another three policemen were waiting to accompany him to a small, dimly lit cell in the basement, and there was no suggestion that his handcuffs would be removed. After they’d slammed the door behind him, he sat bolt upright on the end of the narrow bed, not wanting to lie down for fear of creasing his suit. The only reading matter was messages daubed on the wall by previous occupants: The fuzz stitched me up; I’m innocent … He’d had even more time to consider his plea when the heavy door finally opened, his handcuffs were removed, and he was led up a flight of stone steps into the dock.

He sat down on a rickety wooden chair flanked on either side by an armed guard as they all waited for the judge to make his entrance.

Booth Watson was sitting in his usual place on the counsels’ bench, checking his opening remarks, while Sir Julian Warwick leant back, arms folded, consulting his junior. Miles glanced to his left and noticed Christina sitting alone at the back of the court, clearly hoping this would be the last time she would ever see him. All she lacked was a pair of knitting needles while she waited for the guillotine to drop.

He switched his attention to the other side of the court, where Commander Hawksby was sitting next to Superintendent Warwick. Miles thought Warwick looked nervous, no doubt wondering how he would plead. He wouldn’t have to wait much longer to find out.

A clock struck the hour and, on the tenth chime, a door opened at the back of the court and Mr Justice Sedgwick appeared in a long red gown and a grey wig. Everyone in the court stood and bowed to His Lordship, a referee none of the players would have considered arguing with for fear of being sent off. He returned the compliment before placing a red folder on the bench in front of him, and taking his place in a high-backed leather chair. Once settled, he rearranged his gown and, looking down from on high, acknowledged first Sir Julian and then Mr Booth Watson, before nodding to the clerk of the court to confirm that proceedings could begin.