It was nearly five years since Miles had been in London. A man who divided opinion – he considered himself as an international businessman, while the police thought him a crook – he’d ended up serving a few years at Her Majesty’s pleasure. After leaving prison, having served four years for fraud, Miles had left England and purchased a luxury flat in New York, confident he would be far enough away from the prying eyes of Chief Inspector William Warwick to return to his shady import and export business, a tax-free enterprise that yielded vast profits without being registered at Companies House.
However, it wasn’t long before he became homesick and wanted to return to England – unnoticed, he hoped. No such luck. A certain Agent James Buchanan of the FBI had been keeping a close eye on Faulkner in case he needed to report his activities back to Superintendent Warwick – someone he not only admired, but wanted to thank for all the good advice he’d given him when they’d first met on holiday while he was still at school. James was now in Washington working for the FBI, but he’d watched with admiration as his mentor had continued to climb through the ranks. He wondered if the superintendent would remember him.
Miles stepped out of the taxi and stood on the pavement for some time before he entered the hotel. During his self-imposed exile, not a day had passed when he hadn’t thought about lunch at the Savoy. He could still recall a prison diet of cold, lumpy porridge, burnt toast and a hard-boiled egg. The prison chef had not been familiar with his favourite Savoy cabbage or Peach Melba.