“So did he resign or was he sacked, and they simply didn’t want to explain how he managed it?” said Lamont.
“With that in mind, I’ve asked the fraud squad to carry out a full Companies House investigation on our behalf. See if they can throw any light on his unexpected resignation.”
“Even more mysterious,” said Adaja, “is that five years later he returns to Lyons unannounced, takes over the company and appoints himself chairman. No one knows where he got the money from. And if anyone asked, they were either sacked, or were never seen again.”
“I’m pretty sure,” said William, “that Marcel and Neffe is nothing more than the respectable front for what Rashidi’s really importing, and it’s not tea. After Britain joined the EEC in 1973, Rashidi and his mother moved to London. She now lives in The Boltons, and my old school chum assures me that he visits her every Friday afternoon at five o’clock.”
“Do you think she’s aware that her son is leading a double life?” asked Lamont.
“I don’t think so,” said Jackie, coming in on cue. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Mrs. Rashidi for the past few days, and she gives every impression of being a model citizen. She does the ladies who lunch circuit, attends the occasional concert at Cadogan Hall, likes Debussy and Strauss, sits on the local committee of Médecins Sans Frontières, and never misses Sunday-morning mass at the Brompton Oratory. It’s either an elaborate smoke screen, or she has no idea what her son’s up to.”
“I presume,” said Hawksby, “her house is now under constant surveillance?”
“Night and day,” said Lamont. “But other than a few local tradesmen, and the occasional visit from the parish priest, no one else has darkened her doors.”
“Does she employ any staff?” asked Hawksby.
“A chauffeur, who used to be a corporal in the Guards, a cook, and a housekeeper, who’ve been with her for years,” said Adaja.
“I assume you’ll all be out in force waiting to see if Rashidi turns up at five o’clock next Friday? Not that visiting one’s mother is a crime.”
“Yes,” said William. “A retired solicitor who lives across the square was only too happy to allow us the use of his top-floor flat, and more important, he didn’t ask any questions.”
“Then let’s hope that Rashidi’s weekly visit to his mother is something we can rely on, in which case it will have been two hundred pounds well spent.”
“And it’s possible there’s more to follow,” said William. “OSC hinted that he was working on something even bigger.”
“Like what?” asked Lamont.
“No idea, but he says it’s going to cost us a damned sight more.”
“Then it had better be a damned sight bigger,” said the Hawk.
“It has to be one of two things,” said Lamont. “Information concerning a large shipment of drugs coming from abroad…”
“Or he’s discovered the location of Rashidi’s slaughter,” suggested Paul.
“Slaughter?” said William.
“Where they cook up the drugs, and prepare the cling film wraps, before selling them on,” explained Paul. “Also known as the boiler room or hothouse.”
“If it turns out to be a large shipment from overseas,” said Hawksby, “don’t arrest everyone in sight at the port of entry. Try to follow the cargo all the way to the slaughter. The commissioner is more interested in locking up Rashidi than a bunch of minnows, so it will be fascinating to see who locates the hothouse first, William’s old school chum or Jackie’s undercover officer.”
“Don’t put your money on DS Warwick,” said Jackie, “because my UCO contacted me again last night.”
Suddenly the team’s attention was focused on DC Roycroft.
“Thanks to DS Warwick’s intel,” Jackie continued, “Marlboro Man has taken a part-time job behind the bar of the Three Feathers.”
“Where no doubt he’ll work hard enough to ensure it will end up a full-time job,” suggested Paul.
“But not so hard that anyone becomes suspicious,” threw in Jackie.
“How did he manage to get the job so quickly?” asked William.
“DC9 supplied him with a reference from a pub in Wiltshire that would have impressed any landlord. He’s playing the innocent West Country bumpkin who’s just arrived in the big smoke.”
“Is the landlord also involved?” asked Lamont.
“MM doesn’t think so,” said Jackie. “But he’s happy to turn a blind eye while the cash keeps flowing across the counter. In fact, our man tells me he’s making more in tips as a part-time barman than he earns as an undercover DS.”
“Which no one would begrudge him,” said Lamont.
William frowned but didn’t comment.
“Has he come up with anything substantial yet,” asked the Hawk, “or is it still too early?”
“The Three Feathers turns out to be a regular haunt for several well-known dealers, including Tulip, so he suspects the slaughter can’t be too far away. But so far he’s made no attempt to speak to Tulip.”
“That makes sense,” said the Hawk. “Patience has a whole new meaning when you go undercover. If Tulip suspected for one moment that MM was a copper, he’d slit his throat and leave him to bleed to death while he ordered his next pint.”
“Why would anyone even consider becoming involved in anything quite so risky?” asked William.
“My UCO watched his younger brother die from a heroin overdose,” said Jackie, “so for him, it’s personal.”
* * *
Jackie and Paul took it in turns to focus their binoculars on the front door of No. 24, while William was in constant touch with his team on the ground. He’d told them they needed to blend in with the natives if Rashidi wasn’t going to become suspicious. At the same time he kept Lamont informed back at the Yard.
They had been expecting a chauffeur-driven car to appear at the far end of the square, and were taken by surprise when a black cab pulled up outside No. 24 just before five o’clock. The police photographer focused his long lens and started clicking from the moment the cab door opened. An elegantly dressed man of average height, wearing a hat, a long black coat, a scarf, and leather gloves, despite it being a warm afternoon, stepped out onto the pavement, opened the gate, and walked up the short path to the front door. He knocked once.
By the time Rashidi’s mother had opened the door and embraced her son, the photographer had shot thirty-nine frames, but he wasn’t feeling optimistic. When the front door closed, William gave the order for the Yard’s unhailable taxi service to be on standby, as he couldn’t risk a squad car tailing Rashidi if he left on foot. He radioed the Yard and brought the super up to date.
“Be careful,” Lamont said. “We’re in no hurry now we know where Rashidi’s likely to be every Friday afternoon. If he suspects we’re on to him, he’ll disappear into thin air. Remember, we’re playing the long game.”
“Understood,” said William.
Jackie’s and Paul’s eyes never left the front door.
William heard a crackle on the radio.
“I’m at the top of Tregunter Road,” said a voice on the other end of the line.
“Stay out of sight,” said William, “but the moment I give you the word, switch on your ‘For Hire’ sign and drive into The Boltons. Don’t pick anyone up unless they’re wearing a hat, a long black coat, scarf, and gloves.”
“Understood.”
It was almost two hours before the front door opened again and Rashidi reemerged. His mother gave him an even longer hug and, according to the lip reader, said, “See you next Friday, Khalil.” Once again, the photographer went about his business.
William picked up his radio as Rashidi began to walk down the path. “Stand by, subject one is on the move.”
The taxi appeared as Rashidi opened the gate and stepped out onto the pavement, its FOR HIRE light glowing in the early evening dusk. Rashidi ignored the cab and kept on walking.
“Shit,” said Jackie, as Rashidi
turned the corner and disappeared out of sight.
“Get moving, Adaja,” said William. “Grab the taxi.”
“On my way, sarge,” said Paul, who bounded down the stairs and out onto the street, to find the cab waiting, its engine running. He jumped in and the driver immediately took off, throwing him onto the backseat. As they turned the corner, Paul spotted Rashidi getting into another taxi coming toward them, making him wonder why he’d ignored theirs.
Rashidi’s taxi turned left at the end of the road, just as the traffic light changed to red. If a lorry hadn’t stopped in front of them, Constable Danny Ives would have jumped the light.
“We’ve lost him,” said Danny.
“Are you going to tell DS Warwick, or will I?” asked Paul.
“Silly question.”
* * *
“You lost him?” said the Hawk, once they were all seated around the table in his office back at the Yard.
“I’m afraid so, sir,” said William. “But now we know he has his own taxi, in future we’ll follow the vehicle, and not the man.”
“Then be sure to change your number plates every week, and to switch taxis if it turns out to be a long journey. I don’t care how many Fridays it takes to locate his slaughter, as long as we eventually do.”
“Agreed,” said Lamont. “Did we learn anything worthwhile from the photographs?” he asked as he flicked through them.
“Only that we’re dealing with an extremely cautious man,” said William. “As you can tell from how little we can see of his face. But the lab did pick up something interesting.”
“Enlighten me,” said Hawksby, using one of his favorite expressions.
“Take a close look at his gloves. Our experts have studied all of the photographs, and they’re convinced that Rashidi is missing part of the third finger of his left hand.”
“What makes them think that?”
“Look carefully at the enlargement of frame number forty-six, where he’s embracing his mother on the way out.”
Hawksby took his time studying the blown-up image of a gloved hand.
“You can see that three of the fingers and the thumb of his left hand are touching his mother’s back, while the third finger of the glove is loose, and not touching anything. If you then look at the enlargement of his right hand on frame fifty-two, all four fingers and the thumb are clearly holding his mother’s arm.”
“Clever,” said the Hawk.
“So is he,” said William. “So we can’t afford to make the slightest mistake.”
“What are you getting at, DS Warwick?” asked Lamont.
“It’s obvious we’re dealing with an exceptionally cunning and cautious man, so we’ll need to always be on our guard, otherwise he’ll lead us up the garden path every Friday afternoon.”
“Your point, Warwick?” said the Hawk.
“We know Rashidi’s a very wealthy man, but he doesn’t turn up to see his mother in a chauffeur-driven car, but in his own anonymous taxi. He has no bodyguards, because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself or make his mother suspicious. Let’s face it, we’re up against a man who could have chaired a public company, been a cabinet minister, or lectured at the LSE, but preferred to pursue a life of crime.”
“More profitable than the other three put together,” said Lamont.
William looked around the table. “Remind you of anyone else we know?”
“We’re up against another Faulkner,” said the Hawk, letting out a deep sigh.
“Let’s hope they never come across each other,” said Jackie.
“Unless it’s in Pentonville.”
7
Every weekday morning around seven thirty, Jackie would take the tube to St. James’s Park station, then walk across the road to Scotland Yard. But not on a Thursday.
On a Thursday, she would get off one stop earlier, at Victoria, and make her way up Victoria Street. After a couple of hundred yards she would turn sharp right and cross an open paved square to the south entrance of Westminster Cathedral. She always followed a small group of tourists inside, to be sure no one noticed her.
This Thursday morning, on entering the cathedral she encountered the usual handful of worshippers scattered around the pews, heads bowed, all praying to a God she no longer believed in. Jackie walked slowly down the left-hand aisle, not wanting to draw attention to herself as she admired Eric Gill’s Stations of the Cross stone reliefs, aware that if the great sculptor were alive today, she would have to arrest him. But as the pope had pardoned Caravaggio for murder, why wouldn’t the Cardinal Archbishop forgive Gill for his indiscretions? After all, there’s no mention of his particular sin in the Commandments.
Jackie stopped when she reached an offertory box placed below a portrait of the Virgin Mary that was illuminated by a dozen recently lit candles. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her before she took a key from her handbag and unlocked the small wooden box, to find a few coins scattered on the bottom. Even less than last week, she thought. Checking once again that no one was watching, she removed an empty Marlboro cigarette packet that was propped up in the corner of the box, and slipped it into her handbag. She then locked the box and strolled on toward the altar. She bowed to the cross, before turning into the right-hand aisle, and passing the remaining Stations of the Cross before she left the cathedral.
Having completed her task, which took less than five minutes, she continued on her way to work. But when she entered the Yard, she didn’t take the lift to her office on the fourth floor, but made her way down to –1, where the darker arts are practiced.
Jackie didn’t break her stride as she walked along a well-lit corridor until she reached a door on which CONSTABLE BECKWORTH was printed in neat black letters on pebbled glass.
Jackie knocked on the door and, not waiting for a response, entered, walked across to join PC Beckworth and placed the cigarette packet on her desk. The young constable looked up, showing no hint of surprise. She said nothing, but simply flicked the packet open, deftly removed the inner layer of silver paper, laid it flat on her desk and carefully smoothed out a few creases with the palm of her hand. She then took it across the room to a machine standing in the corner, the top of which she opened before placing the silver paper onto a copper plate. She closed it, turned on a switch, which caused a bright light to glow inside the machine, and waited for a moment before lifting the top again. She watched patiently, as apparently random letters began to appear on the silver paper. She then copied the short message onto a small white card, slipped it into an envelope, and sealed it before handing it to her once-a-week visitor. Jackie bowed, using the only sign language she knew. PC Beckworth returned the compliment more fluently, before going back to her desk.
As she turned to leave, Jackie gave the young constable a final thumbs-up, but she was already preoccupied, putting the silver paper in a filing cabinet next to her desk.
Jackie took the lift to the fourth floor, where Angela ushered her straight through to the commander’s office. She was surprised to find William already sitting there with the Hawk, both of them clearly waiting for her. She handed the sealed envelope to her boss, who opened it and studied the contents for some time before saying, “Although I can’t share everything that’s on this card, I am able to pass on some information that impacts on a case you’re both working on.”
Jackie sat down next to William.
“Every Thursday morning at around seven our UCO drops an empty cigarette pack in an offertory box at Westminster Cathedral, which Jackie picks up an hour later. That’s how he supplies me with his latest intel.”
“How do you contact him?” asked William.
“Jackie drops an empty Marlboro pack in the same offertory box on her way home on Wednesday evenings. I presume PC Beckworth didn’t show you today’s message?” he said to Jackie.
“No, sir.”
“Six names. But only three of them are directly connected with cases you’re working on. Adrian Heath, us
er, we already knew that. Tulip, dealer, no surprise there. But occasionally the gods give us a small reward: Miles Faulkner, occasional user, does come as a surprise, and could be a real breakthrough. If Faulkner’s hoping to get a supply of drugs for his dinner party at Limpton Hall on the seventeenth, you might need to call your OSC and find out if he can supply us with any details.”
“I can’t call Heath,” said William. “He only ever contacts me.”
“Then we’ll have to wait for him to run out of money,” said the Hawk. “The one thing you can rely on with any drug addict.”
“Heath might be able to find out if Faulkner’s a user, even who his supplier is, but whether he’d be willing to give evidence in court is quite another matter.”
“You told me his girlfriend was desperate to return to Brazil, and he wants to go with her. If we were able to make that possible, maybe he’d agree to turn Queen’s evidence.”
“Then we’d have to hope his love for Maria is greater than his fear of Rashidi.”
* * *
“Now you put the black ball back on its spot,” said William, chalking his cue.
Paul leaned over the edge of the snooker table and lined up the white and red balls before taking his next shot. “Hopeless,” he said, as the red failed to fall into the corner pocket and careered back into the middle of the table, leaving William with a simple pot.
William took his place and made a break of 32, leaving Paul needing too many snookers to bother returning to the table.
“Do you have time for a quick drink?” asked William, as he placed his cue back in the rack.
“Sure, sarge,” said Paul.
“It’s only ‘sarge’ when we’re on duty,” said William after they’d sat down at a table in the corner of the recreation room. He took a sip of his pint before asking, “How are you enjoying your new assignment?”
“Delighted to have been transferred to Scotland Yard,” said Paul. “I dreamed about it, but never thought it would happen.”
Hidden in Plain Sight Page 5
