“Number two; after the mugger left the case behind, and before we recovered it, an unnamed person stole your family papers and replaced them with a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and the Polaroids. Number three; you were mistaken about the contents of the briefcase at the time it was taken from you.”
Coombes looked across the table. The Peer was poker faced. The lawyer was fidgeting with a pen. His nerves were beginning to show, but he rallied.
“My client does not have to explain how those items came to be in his briefcase after he lost possession of it. He has stated already that these items were not his, and surely no-one would disown diamonds of such value. It makes no sense.”
Coombes looked down at DS Scott’s detailed notes of the morning interview as Inspector Boniface lifted the photos on to the table, still inside the transparent evidence bag.
“My word!” the lawyer blurted out. “These photographs are shocking!” Nonetheless, he examined them closely.
“Lord Hickstead, this morning you said that the envelope containing these photos did not belong to you and that it was not in your briefcase when it was stolen. You have confirmed that again in the last few minutes. Could you also confirm your statement from this morning, to the effect that you had never seen these photographs before?”
“Yes, I can indeed confirm that they don’t belong to me and I hadn’t seen them before they were shown to me this morning. I would have remembered seeing material of this nature, believe me.”
His lawyer interjected.
“Come on, now. Lord Hickstead has already stated explicitly that he did not have these items in his briefcase and that they were not his. Can we move on, please? It is Friday afternoon, after all.”
“Of course,” Boniface said politely. “If I could close this subject with one final question, please.”
The Peer and his lawyer seemed relieved, and Boniface continued.
“Perhaps you could explain, Lord Hickstead, how your fingerprints come to be on each and every Polaroid photograph in this set, when you claim that you haven’t seen them before, you don’t own them, and they were never in your briefcase.”
***
Lord Hickstead was preparing for his identity parade. The interview had terminated after his lawyer had advised him not to answer the detective’s last question. Parsons, the lawyer, was standing in the corridor, speaking confidentially to Inspector Boniface.
“You know, Joseph, you were meant to be a Barrister, not a bloody policeman. Wasting all that expensive education. It’s a shame. Your father was deeply disappointed.”
“Alan, you are the only person, apart from Dad, who calls me Joseph. I’ve been using my middle name since college.”
Alan Parsons shook his head. “In any case, what are you doing working with the Met? You don’t normally play well together.”
Boniface smiled. “I’m not going to tell you anything, Alan. I’ll always be grateful for your help with my Masters degree, but you have to believe me when I tell you that the man you are representing has a wicked streak in him.”
“Everyone has a right to a defence, Joseph, whether good or bad, innocent or guilty,” Parsons stated.
Chapter 5 5
New Scotland Yard, London. Friday, 5pm.
Lord Hickstead looked decidedly uncomfortable, standing as he was at number four in a line-up of six. He had been advised that he could stand in any position in the line-up that he chose, and he chose number four. Inspector Boniface, DCI Coombes and Alan Parsons watched the proceedings.
The first person into the identification room was Mr De Montagu. He was informed that the man who had posed as the rich banker may or may not be in the line-up, and that he must only identify the man if he was absolutely sure.
One by one all six men in the line stepped forward, and spoke the agreed words, “David Cameron is our current Prime Minister”. Then they stepped back and joined the line again. All six men were roughly the same height. They were all clean shaven, and they had varying degrees of hair loss.
Mr De Montagu asked for number four to step forward again and repeat the line. His Lordship did just that before stepping back into line.
“I believe that the man who took the painting is standing at number four,” De Montagu said, “but I can’t be sure without the disguise. Could you get him to affect a West Country accent?”
“No, I’m sorry, that would be prejudicial, but thank you for your help,” Boniface said, shaking the art dealer’s hand.
Mr Nour was ushered in and given the same instructions. As he looked along the line at each of the six men, his eyes immediately went to number four. The man looked different in a Metropolitan Police blue polo shirt, but he was certain this was the rogue who had tricked him. The polo shirts had been Alan Parsons’ suggestion, whereas the instruction that no-one in the line-up wore a watch was at the police’s request.
Each man stepped forward one by one, and Mr Nour remained silent until he was asked whether he recognised any of the men. The Egyptian spoke boldly and confidently.
“I am sure that number four is the man who posed as Mr Josh Hammond in my shop, and is the man to whom I handed the diamonds.”
Alan Parsons blanched, and looked decidedly uncomfortable. He had been told by the police that documentary evidence proved that the diamonds he had been shown earlier were the same diamonds that Mr Nour passed to the man posing as Josh Hammond.
Mr Nour was thanked and then dismissed, and in came a rougher looking man dressed in an ill-fitting suit. The collar on his shirt was probably an inch too small for his neck. Nonetheless, it was fastened with a tasteful red tie.
Michael Lambaurgh, Medical Representative and sometime soccer vandal, took his place in front of the one way glass.
Boniface was ready to guide him through the process, to prevent him from saying anything inappropriate or ruining the identification process, but he need not have worried. Michael had switched on his medical representative persona; even his accent had been moderated. He came across as the well-educated catholic schoolboy that he was.
“The man who bought my credit card in South Africa was number four, though he had a South African twang then, not the plummy accent he used today.”
After making sure that everyone was happy with the way the line-up had been arranged and executed, the participants were excused.
***
Boniface and Coombes were on their way out of the room when Alan Parsons called them back. The expressions on their faces told the lawyer that they were intrigued to hear what he had to say.
“I am sure that the three of us are patriots, and that this country means a great deal to all of us. Surely you can see that if a Peer of the Realm, a respected European Commissioner and friend of government ministers, past and present, was to stand trial, there would be public outrage. This would knock the expenses scandal into a cocked hat. This country would be a laughing stock.”
“We can’t let the guilty go free just because it would cause a stink,” Coombes snarled.
“I don’t remember anyone conceding guilt, gentlemen, but, guilty or not guilty, the country would suffer. If I can persuade him, could we work out a deal with the powers that be?”
“I don’t think the Crown Prosecution Service will go for a deal, Alan,” Boniface said, shaking his head.
“Look, I’m sure that you two have conducted a sound investigation, but whether this case is ever prosecuted will be decided several levels above the CPS. And, I suspect, the decision will not be made on the evidence alone, no matter how distasteful that may be to you and me.”
***
Twenty minutes later Coombes was boiling mad, and was pacing up and down the Commissioner’s office. Boniface appeared almost as angry, but was sitting at his allotted seat in front of the Commissioner’s enormous desk.