Miles rose to his feet, but his legs were so shaky he had to grip the railing in front of him. Once he’d steadied himself, the clerk continued. ‘Mr Miles Faulkner, you are charged with absconding from prison, illegally leaving the country under a false name, using a forged passport and faking your own death. How do you plead? Guilty, or not guilty?’
Everyone in the court was looking at the defendant, with the exception of Booth Watson, who stared straight ahead of him. It was that single gesture that caused Miles to change his mind once again. He looked directly up at the judge and said, ‘Guilty.’
Sir Julian thought he heard a sigh of relief coming from the other end of the bench, but it was drowned out by the uproar that followed, while several journalists rushed out of the courtroom and headed for the nearest phone.
The judge waited for the clamour to die down before he opened the folder in front of him and considered the written statement he had completed only moments before entering the court. Earlier that morning he had been advised by the Director of Public Prosecutions that if the defendant pleaded not guilty, and the jury decided otherwise, he should follow the recommended procedure and double the defendant’s previous sentence. That decision had now been taken out of his hands.
‘I have given considerable thought to the sentence I am about to impose,’ he began, looking directly at the accused.
Miles wondered if it was too late to change his plea, while Booth Watson allowed the hint of a smile to cross his lips.
‘I have taken into consideration,’ continued the judge, ‘the facts that not only have you pleaded guilty, thus saving the court considerable time and expense, but even more importantly, that after you escaped from prison you returned to England of your own free will, gave yourself up to the authorities, and loaned a valuable painting to the Fitzmolean Museum, which I understand you have since agreed can be added to its permanent collection.’
Miles didn’t react, while Booth Watson looked surprised. Christina simply smiled and nodded.
The judge paused and turned a page before proceeding. ‘Recently, other matters have been brought to my attention that I was unaware of until I received a visit from the Attorney General. Following that meeting, I am persuaded there are substantial mitigating circumstances that will have some bearing on the length of your sentence. However, it would not be appropriate for me to mention those circumstances in open court. For that reason, I shall now invite the clerk to clear the court of anyone not directly involved in this case.’
It was some time before the jury, a few disgruntled members of the press, and those seated in the public gallery had all made their way reluctantly out of the court, some of them unable to hide their disappointment.
The judge did not speak again until the clerk had locked the door to court number one, and bowed to His Lordship to indicate that he could proceed with his judgment.
‘I have also taken into consideration,’ continued the judge, ‘the commendable role you played in assisting the police in preventing a terrorist attack, which undoubtedly resulted in several lives being saved, while at the same time putting your own life in danger.
‘Your precipitous actions also resulted in the police being able to prevent a further crime of national importance which could have caused considerable embarrassment for the government as well as the Metropolitan Police. Thanks to that intervention, the criminals involved are now in police custody. With that in mind, I will be imposing a sentence of eight more years’ — Faulkner was about to protest until he heard the words — ‘but, given the circumstances, that term will be suspended. However, should you be foolish enough to reoffend during that time, those eight years will be added to any further sentence, with no remission. Do I make myself clear?’ the judge added, looking directly at the prisoner.
‘Yes, m’Lud,’ replied Faulkner, his legs suddenly steady.
The judge paused and turned another page of his red folder. ‘The prison authorities have also brought to my attention your exemplary behaviour while in custody at Belmarsh, and more recently at Ford open prison, where you carried out the role of prison librarian.’ William allowed himself a smile. ‘Therefore, your original sentence will be halved, so you can expect to be released in three months’ time.’
Christina leapt up from her place at the back of the court and headed for the exit, aware she had only a few weeks before Miles could seek revenge.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ said the clerk, barring her path, ‘but I am not permitted to unlock the door until His Lordship has completed his judgment.’
‘Sir Julian,’ said the judge, looking down at the prosecution counsel. ‘I would fully understand if you felt it necessary to lodge an appeal against my judgment on behalf of the Crown.’
To the judge’s surprise, Sir Julian rose slowly from his place, bowed, and said, ‘I accept your judgment, m’Lud, without question.’
‘I am grateful, Sir Julian,’ said the judge, before turning his attention to an ashen-faced Booth Watson, who looked as if he did want to appeal against His Lordship’s judgment, and would have done so had he not been counsel for the defence.
Booth Watson also accepted he only had a couple of months to remove the rest of his client’s money from the safe-deposit boxes and have his art collection transported to Hong Kong before Miles was released. With that in mind, he turned and offered his client a congratulatory smile, accompanied by a thumbs up. After all, hadn’t he promised Miles that if he pleaded guilty, he would be released by Christmas? Though he still had every intention of celebrating the new year in his recently acquired apartment in Seattle.
As the two guards led the prisoner out of the dock, he stared down at Booth Watson, gave him a warm smile and shook his head.
Chapter 37
‘For you, madam,’ said Lucio, ‘may I suggest the sole meunière, lightly fried in butter and served on a bed of portobello mushrooms, with just a hint of lemon sauce?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Beth as she handed back the menu.
‘And perhaps to complement it, a glass of chilled Pouilly-Fumé?’
‘An excellent choice.’
‘How about me?’ said William.
‘For you, sir, fish and chips with mushy peas, and more than a hint of vinegar and tomato ketchup?’
‘Served on a bed of—’
‘The News of the World.’
‘And complemented by?’
‘A pint of warm beer.’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ said William, looking pleased with himself.
‘You have to understand Lucio, that he’s a caveman,’ said Beth, taking William’s hand. ‘His only virtue being that he’s my caveman.’
Lucio uncorked a bottle of champagne, poured three glasses, raised his and said, ‘Happy anniversary!’ before placing the bottle back in an ice bucket and leaving them.
‘Before I open my present,’ said Beth, eyeing a small, neatly wrapped package on the table in front of her, ‘I can’t wait to hear how many years the judge added to Miles’s sentence.’
‘Zero,’ replied William. ‘In fact, he gave him a get-out-of-jail-free card.’
‘What! How can that be possible?’
‘Mitigating circumstances, was how the judge described it.’
‘Such as?’
‘You’ll have to ask my father.’
‘Who’s even less likely to tell me than you.’
William drank his champagne without commenting.
‘Booth Watson must have been overjoyed,’ said Beth.
‘You wouldn’t have thought so, judging from the look on his face,’ said William. ‘In fact, when I saw him in the corridor afterwards, my father told me that, for a moment, he thought BW might even appeal against the sentence. But he must have thought better of it, because in the end, surprise surprise, he tried to take the credit for it.’