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“However,” the judge continued, as he turned a page, “I have been reminded you are currently serving a four-year suspended sentence for a previous offense of fraud. Mr. Justice Nourse, who presided over the trial, made it clear that should you commit another crime during your probationary period, however minor, you would automatically be sentenced to serve four years in a maximum-security prison with no remission, and as I have no authority to override that decision, you will now carry out that sentence.”
Faulkner collapsed back into his chair, and placed his head in his hands.
“And because of that previous judgment, I am advised by the Crown Prosecution Service I have been left with no choice but to add the six years I have proscribed to the original four, so that your sentence will now be for ten years.”
Mr. Justice Baverstock closed his red folder and once again nodded to the clerk of the court. The uproar was such that few people heard the clerk say, “Take the prisoner down.”
* * *
Sir Julian uncorked a bottle of champagne and began to pour glasses for his victorious team.
“How many jars of caviar did you manage to retrieve?” asked Clare.
“The jury polished off both of theirs,” said Grace. “Claimed they needed to sample the evidence. Booth Watson’s has gone missing, and I don’t expect to see Faulkner’s again. But the judge kindly returned his.”
“That’s going to cost you more than you’ve earned as my junior on this case,” said Julian, handing her a glass of champagne.
“Won’t the DPP cover the cost?” said Clare. “After all, we did win the case, despite their learned advice.”
“Not a hope. But the good news is that Faulkner will have to stump up the Crown’s costs, as the judge ruled that all the legal expenses were to be paid by him.”
Glasses were immediately raised in an unlikely toast to “Miles Faulkner.”
“And a toast to Grace, who secured the verdict,” said Sir Julian, raising his glass a second time.
“To Grace!” they all cried, following suit.
“Coupled with the name of Adrian Heath,” said William, “who supplied us with the vital clue that brought the bastard down.”
“Adrian Heath,” they all repeated, as they raised their glasses a third time.
* * *
“Good news,” said Barry Nealon. “We’ve had an offer of five million for Limpton Hall.”
“Five million?” repeated Christina in disbelief. “But that’s way above the asking price.”
“It most certainly is,” said Nealon, “and the buyer’s solicitors have offered to pay a deposit of half a million if you’d be willing to take the property off the market immediately.”
“What do you recommend?”
“I would advise you to accept the offer. Not least because the buyer has agreed that if he doesn’t complete the purchase within thirty days, he will forfeit his deposit, so I can’t see a downside.”
“Who’s the ‘he’?”
“I have no idea,” said Nealon. “The transaction has been conducted by his solicitor.”
* * *
Within a week of his arrival at Pentonville, prisoner number 4307 had been moved into a single cell. After a fortnight, he had his own table in the canteen, and no one else was allowed to join him unless they were invited. After three weeks, he was taken off latrine-cleaning duties and appointed an orderly in the library, where he wasn’t troubled too much by the other inmates. By the end of the month, he had his own time slot in the gym, with a personal trainer who charged by the hour. By the time another month had passed, he’d read War and Peace, A Tale of Two Cities, The Count of Monte Cristo, and lost a stone. He’d never been fitter, or better read.
During the third month, the Financial Times was delivered to his cell just after eight every morning, along with a cup of tea, not a mug. But his biggest coup took a little longer to achieve: access to his own phone for fifteen minutes a day, thirty on Sundays.
His weekend visitors—he was only allowed two, like every other inmate—were not friends or relatives but business associates, as he had no time to waste on frivolous matters. Once a fortnight he was entitled to spend an hour with his legal adviser. He was the only one who could afford such a luxury on a regular basis. He instructed Booth Watson to put in an appeal for a retrial on the grounds that the original trial should have been thrown out as Adrian Heath was unable to give further evidence. Appeal rejected. His second appeal was against the length of his sentence, on the grounds that it was excessive for such a minor offense. He hadn’t yet heard back from the CPS. He then applied to be moved to an open prison, on the grounds that he had no history of violence. This, too, was rejected. He finally wrote to the Home Secretary, demanding that his sentence be halved for good behavior. He didn’t even receive an acknowledgment of his letter.
He had surprised Booth Watson at their first meeting, a rare feat, when he instructed him to put in an offer for Limpton Hall, with a solicitor he’d never used before.
“I didn’t realize it was on the market,” admitted Booth Watson.
