Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(88)

‘I most certainly will,’ said Booth Watson.

‘What did you make of that?’ asked Mai Ling, after her father had put the phone down.

‘He certainly hasn’t taken advice from his client as he claimed. Faulkner would never part with his collection for a hundred million dollars, even if he was on death row. No, Mr Booth Watson allowed just enough time to pass before he called me back to tell me something he’d already planned even before he’d met me.’

‘Do you think the pictures will ever turn up in Hong Kong?’

‘Not a hope,’ said Mr Lee. ‘In fact, when Mr Booth Watson next visits his storage facility at Gatwick, I have a feeling he’ll find the cupboard is bare.’

‘But if you hadn’t agreed to me visiting Mr Faulkner at Belmarsh, Father, you could have got hold of his entire collection for one hundred million.’

‘If I’m going to make an enemy, my child, I would rather it was Booth Watson than Miles Faulkner.’

? ? ?

Ross walked onto the bridge and joined the captain.

‘Can I borrow your binoculars for a moment, skipper?’ he asked.

‘Be my guest, Inspector.’

Ross turned back and scanned the beach about half a mile away. It didn’t take him long to spot a lone figure lying flat on his stomach, his long-lens camera focused on two swimmers splashing around by the side of the yacht, who appeared blissfully unaware of his presence.

Like a fisherman, the photographer would wait patiently for Diana to return to the yacht and embrace her lover. He knew it was only a matter of time before he landed the picture he wanted. An embrace would be worth several thousand pounds, a kiss – not on the cheek – twenty-five thousand. How Ross despised him.

‘I’m going to have a word with Mr Chalabi,’ said Ross.

‘Rather you than me,’ said the captain. Ross left the bridge and made his way down to the main deck, where he found Chalabi lying on a lounger, a pair of dark glasses shielding his eyes from the midday sun. An abandoned paperback had fallen by his side while he snoozed.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Chalabi,’ he said.

Chalabi slowly came to, removed his glasses and looked up at the intruder.

‘I thought you would want to know that there’s a photographer on the beach taking pictures of the Princess and Lady Victoria swimming.’

‘Perhaps I should join them,’ he said, glancing over the side and not bothering to suppress a grin.

‘It might be wiser, sir,’ suggested Ross, ‘if we were to move to a more secluded spot, where he won’t bother you.’

‘He’s not bothering me. And as you can see, the Princess is clearly enjoying herself, so why don’t we leave her in peace?’

‘But that’s the point, sir. She’s not being left in peace.’

‘That’s for me to decide, Inspector, not you, and this time you won’t be able to stop him.’

Ross clenched a fist.

‘I may have to tolerate you being on my yacht, but you’d do well to remember you’re nothing more than a butler with a gun.’

? ? ?

As the Volvo pulled into the parking lot beside a warehouse in Lambeth, Miles was relieved to see the removal van had already arrived, and half a dozen appropriately clad men were unloading its contents. However, he still had to hang around for another hour, and sign even more forms, before the last painting was safely deposited in its rack and the doors to his collection’s new abode had been double-locked.

Another ￡500 changed hands before the storage manager was willing to hand over two large keys, which would allow Miles to enter his own private code and ensure that no one else could remove the paintings without his knowledge.

Once Miles had pocketed the keys, he joined the storage manager who was dividing the spoils among his crew, and said, ‘If anyone should ask—’

‘My boys never saw nothin’. Nice to have done business with you, Mr …’ he hesitated, ‘Booth Watson.’

Miles joined Lamont in the car, its engine already turning over. ‘We’re going to have to get a move on,’ he said as he took off his jacket and checked his watch, ‘if we’re going to be back in under two hours and eleven minutes.’

Lamont took off, but the rush-hour traffic prevented him reaching the motorway for another forty-two minutes.

‘To hell with the speed limit,’ said Miles, finally giving in.

Although the speedometer rarely dipped below 90 mph, Lamont only managed to reach the layby near the prison with seventeen minutes to spare.

Miles, who had already changed back into his gym kit and trainers in the car, jumped out and set off at a pace that barely raised a sweat. Gone were the days when he could run a mile in under five minutes. By the time he reached the copse just outside the prison grounds, he was exhausted. He quickly retrieved his jeans and sweater from under the bramble bush and hurriedly pulled them on. He checked carefully in every direction before venturing out into no man’s land, relieved to find some friendly clouds were masking a full moon that would have alerted a patrolling officer to a moving figure on the wrong side of the demarcation zone.

An anxious cleaner was waiting for him by the fire escape door, and quickly pushed up the bar to let him in. Miles wearily climbed the stone steps to the second floor, and when he was only a few yards from his room, the lights went out. He fumbled with several keys before he managed to find the right one to open the door. When the lock finally turned, he almost fell inside.