Hidden in Plain Sight (Detective William Warwick 2)

“So, after an independent tribunal had assessed your honesty and integrity, it recommended that you be demoted.”

“After which I was reinstated.”

“And you’re now asking the jury to believe you’re a reformed character?”

“We all make mistakes,” said Lamont. “Some of us learn from them.”

“Indeed we do,” said Booth Watson. “But the jury will want to know if you’ve learned not to turn a blind eye when you can’t secure a conviction by honest police work.”

Lamont stared defiantly at the defense counsel, but Booth Watson didn’t flinch.

“Were you the officer in charge of the case when my client was falsely accused of stealing a Rembrandt, which he had in fact recovered for the Fitzmolean Museum at great personal expense?”

“The jury decided he’d illegally held on to the painting for seven years,” said Lamont, getting back up off the canvas, “and the judge gave him a four-year suspended sentence for fraud, and fined him ten thousand pounds.”

“Well done,” whispered Sir Julian. “Now it’s on the record.”

Booth Watson dodged the onslaught. “Just answer the question, superintendent. Were you in charge of the case?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And was that yet another example of noble cause corruption?”

Sir Julian was quickly on his feet. “I must object, m’lud. The superintendent is not on trial in this case.”

“I agree, Sir Julian. Move on, Mr. Booth Watson.”

Booth Watson turned a page of his notes. “Finally, superintendent, may I ask how long it took you on the night of May the seventeenth, to drive from the entrance gates of my client’s property to the front door of his home?”

“About a minute, a minute and a half.”

“How interesting. Because when I carried out the same exercise a week ago, it only took me forty-two seconds. But then it’s possible you weren’t in a hurry.”

Lamont reeled back.

“And how long did it take for the butler—who will give evidence if required, m’lud—to open the front door and let you in, after you’d kept your finger pressing the bell?”

“A minute, possibly two.”

“So, no more than three, possibly four, minutes in all before you and twenty-two highly trained officers burst into my client’s home looking for drugs. And after searching for more than two hours, all they could come up with was one Ecstasy tablet and a couple of marijuana cigarettes.”

“But later we found—”

“‘Later’ being the key word. But how much later, I’m bound to ask. Were you the first officer to enter Limpton Hall, superintendent?” said Booth Watson, changing tack.

“Yes,” said Lamont, sounding puzzled.

“And where was my client at the time?”

“Standing at the top of the stairs.”

“And how was he dressed?”

“He was wearing a red silk dressing gown.”

“So after you’d rung the front doorbell, he somehow managed to get twelve wraps of cocaine into a statue inconveniently placed near the front door, rush back upstairs, change out of his dinner jacket, put on his pajamas and a red silk dressing gown—thank you for that fascinating detail, superintendent—and still found time to be standing at the top of the stairs

waiting for you when you charged in, all in under three minutes?”