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“Thank you, Miles,” said Booth Watson, but he didn’t add, Don’t bother to book a table for tomorrow night.
* * *
“How much do you think they’re worth, Mr. Davage?” asked Christina, as they made their way back into the drawing room.
“It’s difficult to put an accurate figure on such an important collection,” said the managing director of Christie’s, “but I’m confident they would fetch at least thirty million, possibly more. Not least because your husband has been in touch with all the leading auction houses to let them know that if any of his pictures should come under the hammer, he’s to be informed immediately.”
“That’s good news,” said Christina, as she poured him another coffee.
“If you are considering putting the collection up for auction, Mrs. Faulkner, Christie’s would of course be honored to conduct the sale.”
“Thank you. But I won’t be able to make a final decision until I know the outcome of my husband’s trial.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Davage. “We all hope and expect your husband will be found not guilty, and be able to return home with his reputation restored.”
“Not all of us,” said Christina, as the front doorbell rang. “Good timing,” she said, rising from her place. “That must be Mr. Nealon, who’s come to value the house.”
22
“Will all those involved in the case of the Crown versus Faulkner please return to court number one, as the jury is about to return?”
Sir Julian was doing up his fly buttons. Grace and Clare were having a coffee in the barristers’ room. Mr. Booth Watson was writing an opinion on insider trading for a client in Guernsey, while Miles Faulkner was exchanging phone numbers with a woman he’d just met in the corridor.
They all began to make their separate ways back to court number one to hear the jury’s verdict. The journalists didn’t care which way the decision went. The Evening Standard already had two headlines set in store: BANGED UP, and ESCAPED AGAIN, and two articles to go with them, both written by the same journalist.
Faulkner returned to the dock, while everyone else took their places and waited for the judge to reappear. An anticipatory silence fell over the court as Mr. Justice Baverstock made his entrance. Once he was seated, he nodded to the bailiff to indicate that the jury could return.
All eyes were fixed on the seven men and five women as they filed back into the jury box for the last time. They had chosen a matronly looking middle-aged woman as their foreman. She’d squeezed into a tightly fitted suit, wore no jewelry, and little makeup. Sir Julian studied her closely, but could deduce little from her calm and professional demeanor. A headmistress or a hospital matron, certainly someone used to making decisions.
Once they had settled, the judge nodded to the clerk of the court. He rose from his place, took a pace forward, and faced the jury.
“Will the foreman please rise?” The middle-aged lady stood up, and if she was at all nervous, there was no sign of it. “Have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?” the clerk inquired.
“We have, My Lord,” she said, looking up at the judge.
“Do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty, of being in possession of an illegal substance, namely twelve grams of cocaine?”
Faulkner held his breath. Grace closed her eyes, while William stared directly at the accused.
“Guilty.”
Hawksby and Lamont shook hands while several journalists sprang from their places and quickly left the court in search of the nearest phone. Clare hugged Grace as William made his way toward the Crown bench to join them. But the majority of those in court remained in their places, impatiently awaiting the judge’s final pronouncement.
“Will the prisoner please stand?” said the clerk once a semblance of order had been restored.
Faulkner rose unsteadily to his feet and gripped the sides of the dock, as he waited to learn his fate.
“This has been a most unusual case, for several reasons,” Mr. Justice Baverstock began, “and I will require a little time to consider its full implications before I pass sentence. I would therefore ask all interested parties to return to this court at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, when I will pass sentence.”
“My Lord,” said Booth Watson, rising from his place. “Can I assume that my client will remain on bail overnight?”
Grace was about to leap up and object, when His Lordship said, “No, you cannot, Mr. Booth Watson. He will be remanded in custody pending sentencing, because if I were to grant your request, I am not convinced your client would reappear in court tomorrow morning to hear my judgment.”
Booth Watson sank back in his place without further comment.
“Take him down,” said the clerk of the court.
Two policemen stepped forward, gripped Faulkner firmly by the arms, and led him downstairs to the cells.
