Hidden in Plain Sight

by Jeffrey Archer

  “What about the younger ones?”

  “They’ve all been banned,” said Beth, as she settled into his arms. A few moments later she’d fallen asleep.

  William lay awake for some time, and tried not to think about what had happened that night in Monte Carlo. And now the boss wanted him to see Christina again. Would he ever be free of her? She’d lied about everything else, and if Beth ever asked her, would she also lie about what had taken place after she’d crept into bed with him?

  * * *

  “So you and the suspect were at school together, detective sergeant?” said Lamont after William had briefed the superintendent on what had happened after he and Jackie had left his celebration party the night before.

  “Prep school,” said William. “Adrian Heath was among my closest friends at the time. So I presume I’ll be taken off the case and DC Roycroft will handle it.”

  “No way. This is exactly the kind of opportunity the Hawk has been looking for. We might even have a chance of getting on the inside track if you’re able to turn your friend into a snout.”

  “But we couldn’t have parted on worse terms,” William reminded him. “Don’t forget, I was responsible for him being expelled.”

  “He’ll still feel safer with you than with Jackie, or any other copper for that matter.” William didn’t offer an opinion. “I want you to return to Rochester Row nick right now and turn Heath back into your best friend. And I don’t care how you do it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said William, although he still wasn’t convinced.

  “And while we’re on the subject of friends, have you returned Mrs. Faulkner’s call?”

  “Not yet, sir,” admitted William.

  “Then get on with it. And don’t report back until both of them are on your Christmas card list.”

  * * *

  “Christina?”

  “Who is this?”

  “William Warwick, returning your call.”

  “I thought you’d forgotten me,” she said, with a friendly laugh.

  “That’s hardly likely, considering what happened the last time we met.”

  “Perhaps we should meet again. I might have something to tell you of mutual interest.”

  “Lunch at the Ritz?” suggested William hopefully.

  “Not this time,” said Christina, “because we wouldn’t have ordered our first course before my husband had been informed I was having lunch with the young detective who’d arrested him. It had better be somewhere more discreet this time.”

  “How about the Science Museum?”

  “I haven’t been there since I was a child, but what a good idea. I have to be in town next Thursday, so why don’t we meet outside the main entrance at eleven?”

  “Not outside the entrance,” said William. “Someone might recognize one of us. I’ll meet you by Stephenson’s Rocket on the ground floor.”

  “Can’t wait,” she said, before the phone went dead.

  William wrote a report of his conversation with Mrs. Faulkner and dropped it on Lamont’s desk before leaving the office and heading for Strutton Ground. During the short walk, he rehearsed several questions he would put to Adrian Heath, although he wasn’t convinced that they would elicit any answers if last night was anything to go by. A few minutes later he was standing outside Rochester Row nick. When he showed the desk sergeant his warrant card, the older man couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “I’d like to interview Adrian Heath, the prisoner we brought in last night,” said William.

  “Be my guest. He’s in number two,” said the sergeant, filling in an empty box on the custody record. “Refused breakfast this morning. We might get him in front of the magistrate later this afternoon, so he’s not going anywhere fast.”

  “That’s good, because I was hoping to have an intel chat with him unconnected with the offense he’s been arrested for.”

  “Fine, but keep me briefed, so all the paperwork’s in order.”

  “Will do,” said William, as the desk sergeant handed him a large key and said, “He’s all yours.”

  William took the key, walked along the corridor and stopped in front of cell number two. He peered through the grille to see Adrian lying down, a glazed expression on his face, and looking as if he hadn’t moved since last night. He turned the key in the lock, pulled open the heavy door, and walked in. Adrian opened his eyes, looked up, and said, “This place isn’t much better than our old prep school.”

  William laughed as he sat down next to him on the thin, urine-stained mattress. I’m innocent, had been scratched on the wall above Adrian’s head by a previous prisoner.

  “I’d offer you tea and biscuits,” said Adrian, “but I’m afraid room service isn’t that reliable.”

  “I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” said William.

  “Nor you your quest to be Sir Galahad. So, have you come to rescue me, or to lock me up for the rest of my life?”

  “Neither. But I might be able to help you if you felt willing to cooperate.”

  “What would you expect in return? Because I’ve never believed in the old boys’ network.”

  “Me neither,” said William. “But I might have something to offer that could prove mutually beneficial.”

  “You’re going to supply me with drugs for the rest of my life?”

  “You know that’s not going to happen, Adrian. But I could ask the magistrate to be lenient when your case comes up this afternoon, despite this not being your first appearance in the dock.”

  “That’s not much of an offer. I’ll probably only get six months anyway, and there are worse places to be than holed up in your own cell with a TV, central heating, and three meals a day, not to mention a ready supply of drugs.”

  “As this is your third offense, you’re more likely to be spending Christmas sharing a cell in Pentonville with a murderer, which might not be quite so much fun.”

  “Come on then, Choirboy, surprise me.”

  It was William who was surprised. “Choirboy,” he repeated.

  “That’s what my old friend Sergeant Roycroft called you last night. A great improvement on Sherlock, I thought.”

  William tried to regain the initiative. “As you clearly know what I’ve been up to since we last met, how about you?”

  Adrian stared up at the ceiling for a long time, as if his interrogator wasn’t there. An old con’s trick, William knew. He was about to give up and leave when suddenly a torrent of words came flooding out.

  “After my expulsion from Somerton, thanks to you, my old man used his influence to get me into one of the minor public schools. They were willing to turn a blind eye whenever I needed a quick drag behind the bicycle shed, but they drew the line when I moved on to cannabis. Can’t say I blame them.” He paused, but still didn’t look at William, who had taken out his pocket book and begun to make notes.

  “After that, my father sent me to a crammer, and I somehow got offered a place at a university a long way from home. Heaven knows how much the old man had to stump up for that little favor.” Another long pause. “Unfortunately, I didn’t get beyond my freshman year after one of the postgrads introduced me to heroin. It wasn’t too long before I was hooked, and spent most days in bed, and most nights wondering how I’d get my next fix. After I was rusticated, my tutor told me I could resume my studies if I kicked the habit, so my father sent me off to one of those rehab centers that are full of do-gooders who want to save your soul. Frankly, my soul was no longer worth saving, so I signed myself out at the end of the first week, and I haven’t spoken to the old man since. I stayed in touch with my mother, and she kept me afloat for a couple of years. But even her patience eventually ran out, and probably her money, so I had to find other ways to get hold of the cash I needed to survive. It’s quite difficult to continually try and borrow money from your friends, when they know you have no intention of ever paying them back.”

  William continued to take notes.

  “But after I met Ma
ria I checked myself back into the clinic, and tried a little harder.”

  “Maria?”

  “My girlfriend. But she was never convinced I’d really kicked the habit, and one night she caught me snorting a line of coke and became my ex-girlfriend. She told me she’d had enough and would be going back home to Brazil. Can’t say I blame her. Though I’d do anything to get her back. But I don’t think she’d be willing to give me a third chance.”

  The first chink in his armor, thought William. “Maybe I could help convince her that this time you’re determined to kick the habit?”

  “How?” Adrian sounded interested for the first time.

  “Have you ever considered becoming a gamekeeper, rather than a poacher?”

  “Why would I want to be a grass? People are killed for less.”

  “Because together, we might do something worthwhile.”

  “You must be joking, Choirboy.”

  “I couldn’t be more serious. You could help me put the real criminals behind bars. The ones who supply drugs to children in school playgrounds, and ruin young lives. That might convince your girlfriend you’ve turned over a new leaf.”

  Another long silence followed. William was beginning to fear his appeal had fallen on deaf ears when Adrian suddenly opened up.

  “What would I have to do?”

  “I need to find out the name of the man who controls all the drug operations south of the river, and where his main factory is.”

  “And I’d like a million pounds in cash and two one-way tickets to Brazil,” said Adrian.

  “Two one-way tickets to Brazil might be possible,” said William. “Now all we need to discuss is the price.”

  “I’ll let you know just how much I expect, Choirboy, but not before the magistrate lets me off with a warning.”

  4

  “Rocket,” said a young man who was addressing a small group of schoolchildren gathered around the ancient steam engine, “was built in the 1820s by the renowned locomotive engineer Robert Stephenson.”

  “Robert Louis Stevenson?” inquired a piping voice from the front row.

  “No,” said the guide. “Robert Louis Stevenson was the distinguished children’s author, who wrote Treasure Island and hailed from Edinburgh, not Northumbria.”

  William smiled as he stood at the back of the group listening to a lecture he’d first heard twenty years before, when his mother had taken him to the museum.

  “Mr. Stephenson won first prize at the locomotive trials held at Rainhill in Lancashire in 1829, when—”

  William’s thoughts were interrupted when he felt a gloved hand touch his shoulder. He didn’t look around.

  “Good of you to see me, Rocket Man,” said a voice he immediately recognized. “All things considered.”

  “My boss is still determined to put your husband behind bars,” replied William, not wasting any time on small talk.

  “Amen to that,” said Christina. “But there’s not a lot I can do while we’re still in the middle of a rather acrimonious divorce, just in case you hadn’t noticed, Detective Constable Warwick.”

  William didn’t correct her.

  “Five locomotives competed for the five-hundred-pound prize,” continued the museum guide. “Cycloped, Novelty, Perseverance, Sans Pareil, and, of course, Stephenson’s Rocket. Mr. Stephenson’s 0-2-2 engine won by a country mile.”

  William turned around to look at Christina. She was dressed in a low-cut cotton dress that stopped well above the knees and left little to the imagination. She was clearly on the lookout for her second husband.

  “Can you think of any other crimes, however minor, that he might have committed during the past five years?” he asked.

  “Too many to mention, but you can be sure he will have covered his tracks more thoroughly than a Highland poacher. Though what I can tell you,” she went on, “is that following the recent Rembrandt trial, Miles is no longer bothering to rob art galleries, or the homes of wealthy art collectors, as there isn’t an insurance company left that will do business with him.”

  “He’s not the sort of man to stand in line waiting for the next bus, so do you have any idea what his latest scam is?”

  “I only wish I did. Though I have a feeling Mr. Booth Watson QC remains the common thread with the criminal fraternity. That man’s quite happy to represent any crook who can afford his fees. In fact, I suspect he does most of his networking during prison visits.”

  “Following Rocket’s successful trial, it became the accepted prototype for all steam engines, and remains, to this day, the most significant breakthrough in the history of locomotion.”

  William tried a long shot. “Has your husband ever taken drugs?”

  “Marijuana occasionally, but who hasn’t? He’s certainly not an addict.”

  “You can still get six months if you’re caught in possession of marijuana, and added to his suspended four-year sentence—”

  “If he was caught, Booth Watson would appear on his behalf, and claim you’d lit the joint for him.”

  “Having captured the prestigious prize, Stephenson was awarded the contract to build seven more locomotives for the Liverpool and Manchester Railway Company.”

  “All I can tell you is that since I’ve moved out of Limpton Hall, Miles has started hosting all-night parties, and I’d be surprised if one or two of his friends didn’t snort coke or even worse. But you’d still have to get past the front gates to catch them at it, and so far, you’re the only policeman who’s ever managed that—and just in case you’ve forgotten, Miles was away at the time. In any case, I can’t see a magistrate issuing a search warrant on such flimsy grounds as you suspecting that somebody just might be smoking pot during a private dinner party.”

  “At the opening ceremony of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway in 1830, Rocket struck a local member of parliament while he was standing on the track, and his injuries sadly proved fatal.”

  “Mind you, I’m still in touch with our old housekeeper, so if I hear anything, I could let you know.”

  “Please do,” said William, turning back toward the lecturer.

  “After Rocket completed its final run in 1862, the L and MR donated Stephenson’s masterpiece to the Science Museum, where it has resided to this day.”

  “Anything else, detective constable?” asked Christina. “I’m already late for my lunch at the Ritz.”

  “If you were able to find out the date of his next party—”

  “You’ll be the first to hear, William,” she said before slipping quietly away.

  “That’s the end of my little talk,” said the guide. “If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them.”

  Several hands shot up as William turned to leave. But then, all his questions had been answered.

  * * *

  William was waiting for a train at South Kensington tube station, on his way back to Scotland Yard, when he spotted him standing on the opposite platform, looking like any commuter on his way to work. William recognized him immediately; he was even carrying the same Tesco shopping bag. The moment their eyes met, Tulip immediately turned and began running toward the nearest exit. That was his first mistake. Instead of getting on the next train, he’d made a run for it.

  William charged up the escalator steps two at a time. As he approached the barrier, he saw Tulip handing his ticket to a collector, who, after checking it, looked puzzled. William didn’t stop running and flashed his warrant card at the collector without breaking his stride. He began to gain on his prey, but then this time he was sober.

  Each time Tulip looked back over his shoulder, William had gained a precious yard. But then he stopped to hail a passing cab and leaped inside. Tulip’s second mistake. William was just a couple of yards adrift when the cab moved off, and it had only traveled a hundred yards before it stopped at a red light. William treated the chase like an Olympic final, and was only a few strides from the tape when the light turned amber. He grabbed the cab door and was still h
olding on when the light turned to green, causing the driver to slam on his brakes.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” shouted the cabbie, as he got out from behind the wheel, while the cars behind angrily blasted their horns. “I’ve already got a customer.”

  “Police,” said William, producing his warrant card. He jumped into the cab, only to see Tulip leaping out of the other side. But he immediately collided with a cyclist, giving William enough time to grab his arm and bend it halfway up his back, before dragging him inside the cab.

  “Drop us off at the nearest police station,” said William firmly. “And leave your meter running.”

  The cabbie drove off without another word, while William kept Tulip’s nose pressed up against a side window.

  A few minutes later they pulled up outside Kensington police station, where the driver even opened the back door to let his passengers out.

  “Don’t move,” said William to the cabbie, before frogmarching Tulip into the nick, only letting go of his arm so he could produce his warrant card for the desk sergeant.

  William began to empty Tulip’s pockets, placing the contents on the counter along with the Tesco carrier bag. He grabbed Tulip’s wallet and extracted two pound notes.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” demanded the desk sergeant.

  “He forgot to pay his taxi fare,” said William, as he turned to leave.

  “And what’s this?” said the sergeant, pointing to the bag.

  “The evidence,” said William. “Enter it on the charge sheet. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left the station and handed the two pounds to the cabbie, who smiled for the first time. “One more thing before you leave,” said William. “Where did he ask you to take him?”

  “The Three Feathers pub in Battersea.”