Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(34)
After double-checking that Christina hadn’t been overpaid, Booth Watson took an envelope from an inside pocket and produced a contract she thought she’d read the day before. Christina signed all three copies of the agreement without a second thought.
Booth Watson pocketed the contracts, but not before he said, ‘You now own the flat in London and the villa in Monte Carlo.’ He made no mention of the substantial mortgages he’d recently obtained on behalf of his client, and were now her responsibility. ‘However, I must warn you,’ he added, ‘should you fail to honour your side of the bargain, I will not hesitate to inform the tax authorities about your unexpected windfall.’
‘You assured me I wouldn’t have to pay a penny in tax,’ Christina reminded him.
‘And you won’t, just as long as no one else learns about our little arrangement.’ Without another word, Booth Watson pressed the green button on the wall and the door swung slowly open. Once they’d stepped back outside, Bradshaw closed the door behind them and led them back down the corridor towards the lift, Booth Watson pulling one of the heavy suitcases, with Christina following in his wake tugging the other.
When they reached the ground floor, Booth Watson handed the second case to Christina, who dragged both of them slowly towards the entrance. She’d had no idea how heavy ten million pounds would be.
Booth Watson stood aside and watched as a dark blue Mercedes pulled up outside the bank’s entrance. A chauffeur got out, opened the boot and stowed the two suitcases inside before returning to his place behind the wheel. At the same time, Christina opened the rear door of the car and climbed in the back. Once she’d pulled the door shut, the Mercedes drove off and joined the early-evening traffic. The whole process had taken less than a minute, and had clearly been carefully planned, probably even rehearsed. Booth Watson smiled to himself: it wasn’t the only plan that had been well-rehearsed.
He strolled out of the bank as a black Volvo tucked in behind the Mercedes, an ex-superintendent at the wheel. Booth Watson crossed the road, hailed a cab, and headed in the opposite direction.
As the Mercedes came to a halt outside Christina’s apartment in Eaton Square, Lamont pulled into a residents’ parking bay a few yards away on the opposite side of the road. The chauffeur opened the boot, lifted out the two suitcases and accompanied Mrs Faulkner to the front door, which a liveried porter held open for them.
Lamont only had to wait for a few minutes before the chauffeur reappeared and drove off. Job done. Well, not quite.
CHAPTER 14
DURING HIS UNDERCOVER DAYS AT the Yard, Lamont had become used to waiting for hours on end for his quarry to appear. This evening he sat through the six o’clock news, a comedy game show, an episode of The Archers and a current affairs programme about the Falklands, before Christina reappeared in what he would have described as her glad rags. A bomber jacket covered in studs, a loose-fitting blouse with one button too many undone, faded jeans, ripped in all the right places, and a pair of high-heeled shoes completed an outfit she no doubt hoped made her look ten years younger.
She hailed a passing taxi and Lamont followed, making sure he kept his distance. But then, he already knew where she was going. When the cabbie turned into Jermyn Street, he parked across the road from his mark, knowing he couldn’t afford to nod off, as that would surely be the one moment when she reappeared. He settled down to listen to The World Tonight, while Christina made her way down the metal steps to one of London’s most fashionable nightclubs.
The ma?tre d’ welcomed her with open arms, before accompanying his customer to her favourite alcove table. She didn’t need to peruse the cocktail menu, as a glass of champagne appeared moments later. Christina began to look around the room, her eyes settling on several young men, each with an even younger woman seated beside them.
Christina was sipping her second glass when she spotted him at the bar. He could have had any woman in the room, but they both knew she had something they didn’t. Their eyes met, and she raised her glass in a mock toast. He returned the compliment, slipped off his stool and strolled across to join her.
? ? ?
Ross watched Diana from a discreet distance, tucked behind a pillar at his usual table. She was sipping champagne with a man he didn’t know, but whose life story he’d have after one phone call in the morning. The man couldn’t have known her that long or he’d have realized she was teetotal, and only raised her glass whenever a toast was called. Ross couldn’t deny he was a good-looking guy, though he didn’t care for the ponytail. He also had to admit he’d never seen HRH looking so relaxed and happy, but he could hear his old Irish mother saying, ‘Mark my words, it will end in tears.’ Between courses the couple spent some time on the dance floor, and Ross recalled HRH once telling him she would rather have been a professional dancer than a Princess. But her dance instructor had told her she had a problem, ‘You’re too tall! You could work the cruises,’ he assured her, ‘but not the west end.’ She now worked both.
Ross glanced around the room and spotted Christina Faulkner seated on the other side of the dance floor. It wasn’t difficult to work out what her young companion was hoping to get in exchange for spending the night with a lonely, middle-aged woman. Ross wondered what the going rate was.
His gaze returned to his charge and her dancing partner, who were now holding hands below the table, while Mrs Faulkner’s latest already had his hand on her thigh. As Ross ate a house salad, and sipped a glass of water – very expensive water – he couldn’t help thinking about Jojo, who he’d promised to spend the weekend with. When the DJ changed the mood from pop to a ballad, Diana and her partner returned to the dance floor, where Ross didn’t like what he saw. He looked away, to see Christina’s head resting on her conqueror’s shoulder, while his hand moved lower and lower down her back.