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  ‘But it’s the judge who’ll decide the length of his sentence, not the press,’ said Grace.

  ‘That’s assuming the jury doesn’t acquit him. You can be sure he’ll have a well-honed story by the time he appears in the witness box, and will deliver it with conviction.’

  They left the prison at the same time as Booth Watson entered the interview room.

  ‘Good morning, Miles,’ he said, slumping down into the chair opposite his client. ‘I do wish you’d stayed put in Melbourne and watched the rest of the Test match, as I recommended.’

  ‘But if I had,’ said Faulkner, ‘my entire art collection would now be on the other side of the world.’

  ‘Not if you’d allowed me to handle Warwick in Southampton before he got off the Christina.’

  ‘Who’s Warwick?’

  ‘The young detective who visited your wife in Monte Carlo, came to an arrangement with her, and then sealed the deal in bed later that night.’

  ‘Then you’ll be able to run rings around Warwick when you get him in the witness box.’

  ‘If he ever gets into the witness box. He certainly wouldn’t if I was advising the other side. I’d let an old pro like Hawksby take the stand, not Warwick. So for now we’ll have to forget him and concentrate on your defence, which is frankly looking a bit frayed at the edges.’

  ‘What are they charging me with?’

  Booth Watson extracted a sheet of paper from his briefcase. ‘“That you did knowingly and wilfully steal a national treasure with no intention of returning it to its rightful owner.” And before you say anything, I should advise you that it would be difficult to claim that you’d never seen the Rembrandt before, as your wife will undoubtedly testify that it’s been in your home in Monte Carlo for the past seven years. And the Crown is also certain to ask, if you didn’t switch the labels on the crates, who did?’

  ‘What’s the bottom line?’ asked Faulkner.

  ‘Eight years at most, but more likely six, depending on which judge we get.’

  ‘Can you fix that, BW?’

  ‘Not in England, Miles. But I’ve got a public relations team working on your image, and currently you’re seen in the media as a cross between the Scarlet Pimpernel and Raffles. But unfortunately, it’s not public opinion, but a jury, that will decide your fate.’

  ‘Have you got a get-out-of-jail-free card up your sleeve, BW?’

  Booth Watson looked his client in the eye before saying, ‘Only if you’re willing to make one hell of a sacrifice.’

  29

  THE PRESS HAD a field day. A murder appeal at the Old Bailey and the return of a stolen national treasure both in the same week. Fleet Street couldn’t decide which story to lead with on that Monday morning.

  The Guardian favoured Arthur Rainsford and the possibility of a miscarriage of justice, while the Daily Mail was more interested in Miles Faulkner, asking its readers, ‘Raffles or Rasputin?’

  The Sun put both of them on its front page and claimed an exclusive by revealing a link between the two men: DC William Warwick had arrested the master art thief, and was engaged to the daughter of the ‘Marylebone Murderer’.

  Several newspapers carried profiles of the distinguished defence barristers involved in the two cases, Sir Julian Warwick QC and Mr Booth Watson QC. The Times hinted that they were not on good terms, while the Mirror claimed they were deadly enemies.

  William’s and Beth’s loyalties were equally divided. They left the flat in Fulham together that morning but parted on the steps of the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand to go their separate ways: William to court fourteen to follow the Faulkner trial, while Beth attended court twenty-two to support her father. They both rose as the judges entered their respective domains.

  THE CROWN V. RAINSFORD

  Three judges entered court twenty-two and took their places on the bench, Lord Justice Arnott presiding, while his two learned friends would be in attendance and on hand to discuss the finer points of the law.

  Lord Justice Arnott settled in the centre chair and rearranged his red robe while everyone in the courtroom resumed their seats. Sir Julian liked to believe that judges were like cricket umpires – impartial and fair – and although he and Lord Justice Arnott had crossed swords several times in the past, he’d never known him to be unjust.

  ‘Sir Julian,’ said the judge, peering benevolently down from on high. ‘My colleagues and I have spent some considerable time going over the evidence from the original trial, at which the defendant was convicted of the murder of his business partner, Mr Gary Kirkland. Our sole interest in these proceedings is the presentation of any fresh evidence that might suggest a miscarriage of justice took place on that occasion. I would therefore ask you, Sir Julian, to bear that in mind.’

  ‘I will indeed, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian, rising from his place. ‘However, it may be necessary from time to time to refer back to the original trial. But I will do everything in my power not to try Your Lordship’s patience.’

  ‘I am obliged, Sir Julian,’ said Lord Justice Arnott, not sounding at all obliged. ‘Perhaps you would now proceed with your opening statement.’

  THE CROWN V. FAULKNER

  In court fourteen, Mr Booth Watson was coming to the end of his opening statement. Following Mr Adrian Palmer QC’s submission on behalf of the Crown, the jury could have been forgiven for thinking that Miles Faulkner was the devil incarnate, whereas when Mr Booth Watson resumed his place, they might have been under the illusion that his client was one step away from being canonized.

  ‘You may call your first witness, Mr Palmer,’ said Mr Justice Nourse, looking down from on high.

  ‘We call Mrs Christina Faulkner,’ said Palmer.

  The moment the journalists seated in the press gallery set eyes on the striking woman as she entered the court, few of them were in any doubt whose picture would be dominating their front pages the following morning.

  Dressed in a simple, well-cut grey Armani suit with a single string of pearls, Mrs Faulkner stepped into the witness box as if she owned it, and delivered the oath in a quiet but assured manner.

  Mr Palmer rose from his place and smiled across at his principal witness.

  ‘Mrs Faulkner, you are the wife of the defendant, Mr Miles Faulkner.’

  ‘I am at present, Mr Palmer, but not for much longer, I hope,’ she said, as her husband glared down at her from the dock.

  ‘Mrs Faulkner,’ said the judge, ‘you will confine yourself to answering counsel’s questions, and not offering opinions.’

  ‘I apologize, My Lord.’

  ‘How long have you been married to the defendant?’ asked Palmer.

  ‘Eleven years.’

  ‘And you have recently sued him for divorce on the grounds of adultery and mental cruelty.’

  ‘Is this relevant, Mr Palmer?’ asked the judge.

  ‘Only to show, Your Honour, that the relationship between the two of them has irretrievably broken down.’

  ‘Then you have achieved your purpose, Mr Palmer, so move on.’

  ‘As you wish, Your Honour. This trial, as you will know, Mrs Faulkner, concerns the theft of The Syndics of the Clothmakers’ Guild, by Rembrandt, a work of art the value of which is incalculable, and is acknowledged by art aficionados to be a national treasure. So I must ask you when you first became aware of the painting.’

  ‘A little over seven years ago, when I saw it hanging in the drawing room of our home at Limpton Hall.’

  ‘A little over seven years ago,’ repeated Palmer, looking directly at the jury.

  ‘That is correct, Mr Palmer.’

  ‘And did your husband tell you how he had acquired such a magnificent work of art?’

  ‘He was evasive to begin with, but when I pressed him, he told me he’d bought the picture from a friend who was in financial trouble.’

  ‘Did you ever meet this friend?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘And when did you become aware that the pai
nting had in fact been stolen from the Fitzmolean Museum?’

  ‘A couple of weeks later when I saw it on the News at Ten.’

  ‘Did you tell your husband about that news report?’

  ‘Certainly not. I was far too frightened, as I knew only too well how he would react.’

  ‘Understandably.’

  ‘Mr Palmer,’ said the judge firmly.

  ‘I apologize, Your Honour,’ said Palmer, with a slight bow, well aware that he had made his point. He turned back to the witness. ‘And when you could no longer bear the deception, you took it upon yourself to do something about it.’

  ‘Yes, I felt that if I did nothing, I would be condoning a crime. So when my husband was away in Australia last Christmas, I packed up the painting and sent it back to England on our yacht, with clear instructions that it should be returned to the Fitzmolean.’

  Booth Watson scribbled a note on the pad in front of him.

  ‘But weren’t you worried about the consequences of that decision when your husband returned?’

  ‘Extremely worried, which is why I made plans to leave the country before he got back.’

  Booth Watson made a further note.

  ‘Then why didn’t you do so?’

  ‘Because Miles somehow found out what I was planning, and took the next flight back to London to try and prevent me from giving back the painting to its rightful owner.’ She bowed her head shyly.

  ‘And when did you next see your husband?’

  ‘In Southampton, when he boarded our yacht, and was so desperate not to lose the Rembrandt, he switched the labels with one on another crate.’

  Booth Watson made a third note.

  ‘But this attempt to fool the police failed.’

  ‘Thankfully yes, but only because a detective from Scotland Yard, who’d travelled to Southampton to collect the painting, became suspicious and insisted that another crate should be opened. That’s when they discovered the missing Rembrandt.’

  The journalists’ pencils didn’t stop scribbling.

  ‘And thanks to your courage and fortitude, Mrs Faulkner, this national treasure once again hangs on the wall of the Fitzmolean Museum.’

  ‘It does indeed, Mr Palmer, and I recently visited the museum to witness the masterpiece being rehung in its rightful place. It gave me great pleasure to see how many members of the public were, like me, enjoying the experience.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Faulkner. No more questions, Your Honour.’

  Booth Watson looked across at the jury, who appeared to be on the point of bursting into applause when Mr Palmer sat down.

  ‘Mr Booth Watson,’ said the judge, ‘do you wish to cross-examine this witness?’

  ‘I most certainly do, Your Honour,’ said Booth Watson, heaving himself up from his place and smiling sweetly at the witness.

  ‘Do remind me, Mrs Faulkner, when it was you first saw the Rembrandt?’

  ‘Seven years ago, at our home in the country.’

  ‘Then I’m bound to ask, what took you so long?’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at,’ said Christina.

  ‘I think you know only too well what I’m getting at, Mrs Faulkner. But let me spell it out for you. Quite simply, if you knew seven years ago that the painting had been stolen, why wait until now to inform the police?’

  ‘I was waiting for the right opportunity.’

  ‘And that opportunity didn’t arise for seven years?’ said Booth Watson, sounding incredulous.

  Christina hesitated, allowing Booth Watson to thrust the knife in deeper.

  ‘I would suggest, Mrs Faulkner, that the opportunity you were actually waiting for, was to steal your husband’s entire art collection while he was safely on the other side of the world?’

  ‘But I didn’t plan . . .’ She hesitated, giving Booth Watson the opportunity to twist the knife.

  ‘I think you’d been planning this outrageous piece of grand larceny for some considerable time, Mrs Faulkner, and simply used the Rembrandt as a ploy to give yourself a better chance of getting away with it.’

  A babble of whispered conversations broke out in the court, but Booth Watson waited patiently for silence to return, before he slowly extracted the knife.

  ‘Did you, Mrs Faulkner, while your husband was in Melbourne, have all the artworks at his home in Monte Carlo packed up and taken to the port, where they were placed in the hold of your husband’s yacht?’

  ‘But half of them would have been mine in any case,’ protested Christina.

  ‘I’m well aware that you are suing your husband for divorce,’ said Booth Watson, ‘as my learned friend so subtly reminded us, but in this country, Mrs Faulkner, it is traditional to let the courts decide what portion of a man’s wealth should be allocated to his wife. Clearly you weren’t willing to wait.’

  ‘But it was only about a third of the collection.’

  ‘Quite possibly, but after the yacht had set sail from Monte Carlo for Southampton with one-third of your husband’s art collection on board, what did you do next?’

  Christina bowed her head once again. William frowned.

  ‘As you appear unwilling to answer my question, Mrs Faulkner, allow me to remind you exactly what you did. You took the next flight back to London, travelled down to your country home, and once again set about removing every painting in the house.’

  One or two members of the jury gasped, while Booth Watson waited patiently for the witness to reply. When no reply was forthcoming, he turned a page of his notes and continued. ‘The following morning, a removal van turned up at the house, loaded the paintings and, as instructed by you, took them to Southampton to await the arrival of your husband’s yacht, so that they too could be placed on board. So, you’ve now got two-thirds of the collection,’ said Mr Booth Watson, glowering at his victim, who could only stare back at him like a mesmerized rabbit caught in the headlights.

  ‘And even that wasn’t enough for you,’ Booth Watson continued, ‘because you then instructed the captain of the yacht that you would be coming aboard with the intention of sailing to New York so you could go straight to your husband’s apartment on Fifth Avenue and relieve him of the rest of his fabled collection. Then, like the owl and the pussycat, you hoped to sail away for a year and a day in your beautiful pea-green boat, or to be more accurate, your husband’s beautiful yacht.’

  ‘But none of this alters the fact that Miles stole the Rembrandt in the first place, and then switched the labels on the crates to try and prevent it being returned to the Fitzmolean.’

  William smiled.

  The judge nodded sagely, causing Booth Watson, like a master helmsman, to change tack.

  ‘Allow me to ask you a simple question, Mrs Faulkner,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Would you describe your husband as a clever man?’

  ‘Clever, manipulative and resourceful,’ came back the immediate reply.

  ‘I’m therefore bound to ask you, Mrs Faulkner, if he’s such a clever, manipulative and resourceful man, why would he have switched the label to another crate which contained a painting worth even more than the Rembrandt that the Crown are claiming he stole?’ Booth Watson didn’t give the witness a chance to reply before he added, ‘No, Mrs Faulkner, it is you who is clever, manipulative and resourceful, and that is what made it possible for you to almost get away with stealing one of the most valuable art collections on earth, while at the same time plotting to have my client sent to prison for a crime he did not commit. No further questions, Your Honour.’

  THE CROWN V. RAINSFORD

  ‘Sir Julian, you may call your first witness.’

  ‘Thank you, m’lud. I call Mr Barry Stern.’

  ‘Is this the detective inspector who was the Crown’s principal witness at the original trial?’ enquired the judge on behalf of his colleagues.

  ‘Yes, m’lud. And I’ve had to subpoena him as he is no longer a police officer, and therefore must be considered a hostile witness.’


  ‘I hope you’re going to produce some fresh evidence, Sir Julian, and not just take us all on a fishing trip.’

  ‘I believe I will, m’lud, but, like you, I am willing to stretch the legal boundaries a little if it means there’s the slightest chance that an innocent man will finally be granted justice.’

  Lord Justice Arnott didn’t look pleased, but satisfied himself with a frown as the courtroom door opened and a stocky man in his early fifties, with a crew cut, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, appeared. Stern took his place in the witness box and delivered the oath without once looking at the card the clerk held up. He then glared across at defence counsel like a boxer waiting for the bell to ring.

  ‘How many years were you a serving police officer, Mr Stern?’

  ‘Twenty-eight. Best years of my life.’

  ‘Is that right?’ said Sir Julian. ‘So why did you take early retirement, when you would have been entitled to a full pension after just another two years’ service?’

  ‘Wanted to go out at the top, didn’t I?’

  ‘By ending your career with a murder conviction? But before I come to that, I have to ask you, during the best years of your life, Mr Stern, how many times were you suspended?’

  ‘Is this line of questioning relevant, Sir Julian?’ asked Lord Justice Arnott.

  ‘It goes to the heart of the case, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian as he picked up the first of the two personnel files that William had come across. He ostentatiously opened the first to a page marked with a large red tab. ‘How many times?’ he repeated.

  ‘Three,’ said Stern, not looking quite as confident.

  ‘And was the first offence for being drunk on duty?’

  ‘I might have occasionally downed a couple of pints on a Friday night,’ admitted Stern.

  ‘While you were on duty?’

  ‘Only after we’d banged up a villain.’

  ‘And exactly how many times were you disciplined for being drunk on duty, having banged up a villain on a Friday night?’

  ‘I think it was twice.’

  ‘Think again, Mr Stern,’ said Sir Julian, giving the witness time to reconsider.