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“I know exactly what two words I’d say to that suggestion if I was BW,” said Grace, “and one of them would have four letters. What sort of deal did the DPP have in mind?”
“We agree to drop the charge of intent to supply, in exchange for Faulkner pleading guilty to possession. He’ll have to pay a heavy fine, but will only be given a two-year suspended sentence. However, typical of the DPP, they say they’ll leave the final decision to us.”
“That’s why they’re known as the Department of Pontius Pilate,” remarked Grace. “So Faulkner will get away with it yet again. If he goes on like this, he’ll be on suspended sentences for the rest of his life, and never see the inside of a prison cell.”
“What would you do, Grace, if you were my leader on this case, and I were your junior?”
Grace was taken aback for a moment, as her father had never before sought her advice on such a major call. She thought about his question for some time, because although she was flattered, the look on his face left her in no doubt that he was waiting to hear her opinion before he came to a decision.
“I wouldn’t let Faulkner off the hook quite that easily,” she said. “He still has to explain away the twelve grams of cocaine that the police found in his home, and even if he could convince the jury that he didn’t know how it got there, he won’t find it easy to account for the twenty-pound note, which William’s convinced is the one question he won’t be able to answer.”
“I agree with William. But we’ll still need Faulkner to give evidence before we can raise the subject of the twenty-pound note. If I were representing him, I’d advise him strongly against going anywhere near the witness box. That will leave us with the task of having to prove him guilty beyond reasonable doubt, which will be nigh on impossible after Heath’s evidence this morning.”
“Then we’ll have to try and appeal to Faulkner’s vanity,” said Grace, “and make it impossible for him to resist taking us on.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” asked Sir Julian.
“By replacing the opening batsman,” said Grace, as the phone on his desk began to ring.
He picked it up and listened to the caller for some time before he said, “Yes, I can see how that changes the situation, Desmond. Thank you for keeping me informed.”
“What changes the situation?” asked Grace, after he’d put the phone down.
“Adrian Heath’s dead.”
* * *
“The other side have made us an offer,” said Booth Watson.
“After Heath’s evidence this morning, that’s hardly surprising,” said Faulkner. “But you may as well tell me what it is before I dismiss the offer out of hand.”
“They’ll drop the charge of intent to supply, if you’ll plead guilty to possession.”
“What will the damage be?”
“A million-pound fine, and a two-year suspended sentence.”
“That might be tempting if I didn’t think the jury is going to find me not guilty on both charges.”
“Possibly,” said Booth Watson, “but why take the risk?”
“Because the odds are now heavily stacked in my favor, so you can tell Sir Julian Warwick QC to get lost.”
“I’d advise against that, Miles, especially as I won’t be putting you on the stand.”
“Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Except twelve grams of cocaine.”
“Which you can tell them Lamont planted.”
“You know that’s not going to wash, and the jury won’t fall for it either. Lamont is a long-serving police officer with an unblemished record, and in my experience, juries tend to like the plain-speaking Scotsman, which is why I don’t intend to cross-examine him.”
“But you will after you’ve read this,” said Faulkner, handing his silk a thick brown envelope.
Booth Watson took his time reading its contents before asking, “How did you get hold of this?”
“It’s all a matter of public record,” said Faulkner, “if you know where to look.”
