‘That’s kidnapping,’ said William, ‘which, in case you’ve forgotten, is against the law, in both countries.’
‘You’ve obviously forgotten, Chief Inspector,’ said Ross, ‘that Faulkner demanded to see his doctor. I distinctly remember him mentioning the words Harley Street.’
‘The Spanish authorities certainly wouldn’t be applying for an extradition order to bring him back,’ said Juan, matter-of-factly.
‘We can have him safely locked back up in Pentonville by the time Booth Watson lands in Barcelona,’ added Ross.
‘I’m still not sure—’
‘Of course you’re not, choirboy, but as you recently reminded me, we’re not in Battersea, but Barcelona, so it’s not your decision to make.’
They both turned to face the lieutenant. Juan nodded, but didn’t speak.
Ross raised his left arm, pulled up his sleeve and tapped 04 11 09 88 on the face of the watch.
? ? ?
Booth Watson’s mind was working overtime even before he’d turned on the shower. He didn’t wait for the jets of water to warm up before he began to formulate a plan. Should he go to his office first, and call Isobel Martinez before he went on to the airport? Not that he was even sure he had her home number in chambers. He decided he would have to trust Collins to track her down and carry out his instructions, while he went directly to Heathrow and caught the first available flight to Barcelona.
Once he dried himself, he put on a clean shirt and yesterday’s suit and tie, while his thoughts turned to Warwick and how the damn man never gave up. Once dressed, Booth Watson went down to his study, picked up his briefcase and put on an overcoat. He opened the front door to be greeted by a cold crisp morning. He double-locked the door then stood on the pavement and waited for some time before he spotted the words ‘Taxi’ glowing in the distance.
? ? ?
An unmarked police car came to a halt outside a private entrance to the airport. When a guard appeared, Lieutenant Sanchez produced his warrant card. The guard saluted, barely giving the three men in the back a second look, before pointing the driver in the right direction.
The car headed towards a long line of private aircraft, one of which was being refuelled and had its steps down waiting for its owner.
William and Ross helped Faulkner out of the back of the car. He was still unsteady, not having fully recovered from spending three hours locked in a safe. They guided him towards the aircraft’s steps. The pilot was waiting in the plane’s doorway, and couldn’t hide his surprise when he saw his boss being accompanied by three men all dressed in black, who he’d never seen before.
Juan took him to one side and explained that Mr Faulkner had insisted on being flown back to England immediately, as he wanted to see his own doctor.
‘But look at the state of him,’ said the pilot. ‘Shouldn’t you have taken him to a local hospital?’ he demanded, as Faulkner was almost carried up the steps and into the aircraft.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Juan. ‘If you want to tell him, be my guest.’
‘If he doesn’t make it to London,’ said the pilot, ‘on your head be it.’
‘I have a feeling you might be right about that,’ said Juan, as the pilot quickly returned to the cockpit. William shook Juan warmly by the hand, before he left the aircraft.
Ross lowered Faulkner into a comfortable leather chair and fastened his seatbelt, while William placed a small package in an overhead locker before they both took their places on either side of the prisoner. The stewards slammed the aircraft door closed and moments later the plane began to taxi towards the south runway.
? ? ?
‘Damn,’ said Booth Watson, as the taxi came to a halt by his side. ‘Damn,’ he repeated before telling the cabbie he’d forgotten his passport, but would be back in a few minutes.
The cabbie smiled. A trip to Heathrow with a sober passenger wasn’t his usual fare at that time in the morning.
As Booth Watson unlocked his front door, he tried to remember if he’d left his passport in chambers. He almost ran to his study. The next word he uttered was also four letters, and it wasn’t damn.
? ? ?
Once the plane had reached its cruising height, William picked up the phone in Faulkner’s armrest and called Danny at home.
‘Get yourself to Heathrow, sharpish,’ he said, before Danny had a chance to speak.
‘Which terminal, sir?’
‘Number one, the private aircraft stand. We should be there at,’ he checked his watch, ‘around five o’clock.’