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“What do you say to that, Ms. Warwick?” asked the magistrate, turning his attention to the other end of the bench.
Grace rose slowly from her place.
“The Crown will most certainly be opposing this application, on several grounds. As you rightly reminded the court, Mr. Lanyon, the accused is currently serving a four-year suspended sentence on a charge of fraud. However, that is not the sole reason why the Crown opposes bail. As my learned friend has pointed out, his client is a man of considerable means, but what he failed to tell you is that he is no longer domiciled in this country, but has recently become a tax exile, and spends most of his time in Monte Carlo. So I would suggest, sir, that in view of the fact that he owns both a private jet and a yacht, the likelihood of his absconding should be taken into consideration.”
“I would remind the court,” said Booth Watson, rising a little more quickly this time, “that my client also owns a large estate in the country, as well as an apartment in Eaton Square.”
“Both,” countered Grace, “are currently part of his wife’s divorce settlement, the terms of which have been agreed in principle by both sides.”
“In principle, but not yet signed by both sides,” said Booth Watson, who remained standing.
“But your client has already signed the agreement,” said Grace.
“That may be so, but he still retains a lease on the apartment in Eaton Square.”
“Which he’s recently put on the market.”
“How can you possibly know that?” barked Booth Watson.
“Because it was advertised in last month’s Country Life,” responded Grace, producing a copy of the magazine from below the bench, and waving it in Booth Watson’s face. William barely resisted the temptation to applaud.
“Mr. Booth Watson, Ms. Warwick,” interjected the magistrate, “this is not a Punch-and-Judy show, but a court of law. Kindly treat it as such.”
Both counsel looked suitably chastised and resumed their places on the bench, while the three magistrates put their heads together and consulted for a few moments.
“Well done,” whispered Clare, who was sitting in the row behind Grace. “You’ve certainly given them something to think about.”
“What do you think?” William asked Lamont from his seat at the back of the court.
But Mr. Lanyon began addressing the court before the superintendent was able to offer his opinion. “We have listened most carefully to the arguments presented by both learned counsel,” he began, “and have come to the conclusion that the defendant is not a danger to the public.”
Booth Watson allowed himself a wry smile, while William frowned.
“However, I take seriously Ms. Warwick’s point that he is in possession of sufficient funds to make it possible for him to abscond while on bail. With that in mind, I am willing to grant the application on two conditions. One, Mr. Faulkner hands in his passport to the court. And two, he provides a surety of one million pounds, which will be forfeited should he fail to appear in court for his trial.”
A hubbub of whispered conversations emanated from the press benches. Booth Watson sat impassively, arms folded, like Buddha. Clare put a tick and a cross on her yellow notepad, then leaned forward and whispered to Grace, “Score draw.”
“Until those two conditions are met,” continued the magistrate, “the defendant will remain in custody.”
The press had their headline, and Mr. Lanyon his fifteen minutes of fame. William left the court disappointed, while Faulkner was well satisfied. After all, he needed to be on the outside if he was to carry out the next part of his plan.
15
“I always enjoy breakfast at the Savoy,” said Faulkner, “even if the circumstances could be better.”
“They couldn’t be much worse,” said Booth Watson, as he dropped another sugar lump into his coffee.
“But you got me out on bail. And you said they couldn’t even do me for possession on that evidence.”
“When I said that, the evidence was a couple of joints and an Ecstasy tablet, not twelve grams of pure cocaine. No judge will believe they were for your personal use, so possession in this case is nine-tenths of the law.”
“It was planted by the police,” said Faulkner, as a bowl of cornflakes and strawberries was placed in front of him.
“That won’t wash, Miles, and you know it. The Crown’s star witness will swear blind that he sold you the drugs earlier that evening for eight hundred pounds, and don’t forget that both the money and the evidence are in the police’s possession.”
“Did you find out who it was that set me up?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it. All I can tell you is that he’s been spirited away to a safe house somewhere, so we may not even find out who’s responsible until he steps into the witness box.”
