Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(8)

When Booth Watson had arrived at Faulkner’s villa the previous day, Collins the butler had told him anxiously that Miles was locked in his safe, and had been there for at least three hours. Booth Watson had concluded that Miles must surely be dead; it would be impossible to survive that long locked inside the safe, there simply wouldn’t be enough air.

That was when the idea first crossed his mind. However, he had waited another hour, and only then given the order to pack up his client’s legendary art collection, and store it in the yacht’s hold.

He was confident that, if they could set sail before the Spanish police turned up at the villa, they would open the safe only to discover the man they had an arrest warrant for was dead. What must have been a long and painful death, thought Booth Watson, but he didn’t shed a tear as he paced up and down Faulkner’s study, his eyes rarely leaving the safe.

After yet another hour had crept by, he grew more confident that Miles couldn’t possibly have survived. During the next hour he began to form a plan and, by the time the clock struck six, he was ready to move. He would return to England, store the paintings in a safe place, and, as he still had his client’s – late client’s – power of attorney, he would systematically transfer all the assets from his several banks to an off-shore account in Hong Kong that he’d set up years ago. Something else Miles had, by example, taught him.

Next, he would put all three of Miles’s substantial properties up for sale and, as he wasn’t in a hurry, could expect them to fetch a fair market price. He’d then get in touch with the Chinese collector who had recently approached him about buying the collection, only to be firmly rebuffed by Miles. But he would explain to Mr Lee that, due to his client’s sad passing, his executor (him) would be willing to reconsider the sale of his works if the price was right. The only problem might turn out to be Miles’s ex-wife Christina, who once she discovered what he’d been up to would undoubtedly demand her cut. Perhaps she would like to own a luxury yacht he would no longer have any use for?

He would then allow a few weeks to pass before letting it be known around the Inns of Court that he was thinking about retiring and, once the inquest was over, he would quietly leave the country without giving a forwarding address.

? ? ?

Miles Faulkner strolled into the prison canteen, unaware of what his lawyer was up to on the high seas. He was pleased to see Tulip, his old cellmate, sitting at their usual table.

‘Morning, boss,’ said Tulip as Miles took the seat opposite him.

A prison guard poured Miles his morning coffee, as if he’d never been away, and he took a sip before he began to read an article in the Daily Telegraph. The report was bad enough, but the accompanying photograph of his nemesis, DCI Warwick, sharing a joke with the Princess of Wales, only served to remind him who had been responsible for putting him back behind bars.

Tulip, Miles’s eyes and ears in the jail, had tried to remove all the newspapers from the prison canteen before Miles came down to breakfast, as almost every one of them carried the same photograph on its front page.

To make matters worse, the Telegraph’s royal correspondent went on to describe Warwick as ‘the outstanding young officer who had recently been responsible for putting the escaped felon Miles Faulkner back in prison’. The Sun – the most popular newspaper in every prison – had added ‘where he belongs’. Miles tossed the paper aside, well aware that he was about to give the press an even bigger story. But all in good time.

‘I could always arrange to have him snuffed out, boss,’ said Tulip, pointing at the photo.

‘No,’ said Faulkner firmly. ‘I intend my revenge to be more permanent.’

‘What could be more permanent than death?’

‘Being thrown out of the police force,’ said Faulkner. ‘Being charged with kidnap and theft, and having to spend the rest of your life in disgrace,’ he added as a screw placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. He paused. ‘If we get lucky, he might even end up here.’

‘Good one, boss. But how do you plan to pull that off?’

‘When my trial comes up at the Bailey, I have a feeling the jury will be fascinated to learn the lengths Warwick and Hogan went to in order to smuggle me out of Spain without an extradition order. I can assure you, Booth Watson will repeat the words “bounty hunters” again and again during his opening and closing remarks.’

‘Have you spoken to your brief since you were nabbed?’ asked Tulip.

‘No. I’ve phoned his office several times during the past week, but all his secretary said was he’s abroad and she would let him know I’d called the moment he returns. That rather suggests he’s still in Spain, wrapping up any loose ends. However, for the time being I’ve got an even more pressing problem to deal with.’

‘What could be more pressing than preparing for your trial?’

‘My ex-wife,’ said Faulkner, almost spitting out the words as a guard refilled his coffee. ‘God only knows what Christina will get up to now I’m out of the way.’

‘My sources tell me she’s spending your money like there’s no tomorrow,’ said Tulip. ‘She regularly dines at the Ritz, shops on Bond Street while indulging a string of toyboys who keep taking her for a ride.’ He looked furtively at Faulkner. ‘She could end up having an unfortunate accident on her way to Bond Street?’ he suggested. ‘The traffic gets very busy during shopping hours, boss.’