Nothing Ventured Read online

  ‘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