Hidden in Plain Sight

by Jeffrey Archer

  “We’re lucky to have you on the team,” said William. “I may know the odd thing about stealing Rembrandts, but I’m still a complete novice when it comes to drugs you can’t buy in a high street chemist.”

  “You’ll know as much as any dealer before long,” said Paul. “And by then you’ll want to lock them all up and throw away the key.”

  “Including the addicts?”

  “No. You’ll end up feeling sorry for them.”

  “I already do. So how are you settling in?” asked William, changing the subject.

  “Fine. I already feel like a member of the team.”

  “Any problems?”

  “None that I can’t handle.”

  “No strange looks when people come across you for the first time?”

  “Only from some of the older guys, who frankly were never going to accept me. But the younger ones are fine.”

  “Anyone in particular giving you trouble?”

  “Lamont’s obviously finding the idea hard to come to terms with, but that’s only to be expected. He’s old school, so I’ll just have to prove myself.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I had the same problem with Lamont when I first joined the team. Don’t forget he’s Scottish, so he considers us both illegal immigrants.”

  Paul laughed. “I don’t think it would make any difference with him if I’d been born in Glasgow rather than Lagos.”

  “Have you worked out yet what the common thread is between the commander, Jackie, and their UCO?”

  “No,” said Paul, putting down his glass. “I hadn’t given it a thought.”

  “They’re Romans.”

  “Roman Catholics?”

  “In one. Whereas Lamont is a Freemason, so watch out for the strange handshake. And they’re all a bit suspicious of us because we’ve come through the accelerated promotion scheme. So we’d better stick together. Anyway, what made you want to join the force in the first place?”

  “Too much Conan Doyle as a kid, and not enough Thackeray. It didn’t help that my father’s a schoolteacher, and thinks that if I don’t make at least commander, it will have been a waste of a good education.”

  “I’ve got the same problem,” said William, raising his glass. “Although in my father’s case, nothing less than commissioner will do. But don’t tell anyone.”

  “Everyone already knows,” said Paul, laughing. “But I still intend to give you a run for your money.”

  “I look forward to that. Do you feel like another game?”

  “No thanks. I’ve been humiliated enough for one night.”

  “Why don’t you come around to my place for supper, then you can meet Beth.”

  “Another time perhaps, William. I’ve got a date tonight, and I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I think she rather fancies me.”

  “Must be a first date,” said William.

  * * *

  William was fast asleep when the phone by the bed rang. No one from the gallery would be calling Beth in the middle of the night, so it had to be for him. He grabbed the receiver, hoping the shrill noise hadn’t woken her.

  “I need to see you urgently,” said a familiar voice.

  Me too, thought William, but satisfied himself with, “Where? When?”

  “The Tate at eleven o’clock tomorrow.”

  “Why the Tate?”

  “There are unlikely to be many dealers hanging about in an art gallery on the off chance of finding a customer. As I recall, art was your favorite subject at school, so you can decide where.”

  “There’s a large Henry Moore in gallery three.”

  “Who’s Henry Moore?”

  “You won’t be able to miss her.”

  “Then I’ll see you there at eleven tomorrow.”

  “Today,” William said, but Adrian had already put down the phone.

  “Who was that?” said Beth.

  * * *

  “Josephine Hawksby.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hawksby. My name’s Beth Rainsford. I’m sorry to bother you, but—”

  “You’ve invited Jack and me to your wedding next month, and we’re both looking forward to it.”

  “That’s kind of you to say so,” said Beth. “William and I are delighted you’ll be able to make it. But that wasn’t why I was calling. I was hoping you’d be able to advise me on a personal matter, but preferably not over the phone.”

  “Of course. Why don’t we have tea next Friday, say five o’clock at Fortnum’s? That’s one place I can be fairly confident we won’t be overheard by any nosy policemen.”

  * * *

  After briefing Lamont on his early morning phone call, William left Scotland Yard and set off for the Tate to catch up with his OSC. He was anxious to discover why Adrian wanted to see him so urgently, and had several questions prepared long before he climbed the steep flight of steps that led up to the gallery entrance.

  Although he was early, William headed straight for gallery three, where he found a small group of visitors admiring Moore’s Reclining Figure. While he waited for Heath to appear, he tried to relax by walking around the room, familiarizing himself with some old friends, while making new ones. He occasionally glanced back at the Moore, but once again Heath was late, so he circled the room a second time, even more slowly.

  Heath strolled into gallery three at twenty past eleven, possibly imagining that being late gave him the upper hand. William had drifted across to Eric Gill’s Crucifix, where Heath joined him a few moments later.

  “Let’s talk on the move,” said William, “then we won’t be overheard.”

  Heath nodded as William walked on to stand in front of Millais’s Ophelia floating in a river surrounded by flowers. He tried to concentrate on the man and not the woman. “Why did you want to see me so urgently?”

  “Do you remember Tulip?”

  “Your dealer.”

  “Not any longer.”

  “How come?” William asked. Someone had joined them to drool over Ophelia, so they quickly moved across to Stubbs’s Horse Attacked by a Lion.

  “Tulip ended up in hospital after swallowing a cling film wrap of cocaine just before he was arrested.”

  “An occupational hazard,” said William, without emotion.

  “Which I intend to take advantage of, because he’s asked me to service his customers while he’s away.”

  William thought about the significance of these words while pretending to concentrate on a Norfolk river scene by Constable.

  “Constable and Turner were born only a year apart,” he said, as someone else joined them. “But they couldn’t have been more different: one old-fashioned and traditional, the other genuinely original and rebellious. Which is probably why they were never friends.”

  “Sounds a bit like us,” said Heath, before walking away and pretending to look at another picture. “But let’s get down to business. I need a favor,” he said once William had rejoined him.

  “What do you have in mind?” William asked, as one of them took a closer look at Morland’s The Fortune Teller.

  “While Tulip’s away, it’s my big chance to make some real money so I can finally escape, but I’ll need your boys to give me a free run for a few weeks, no more.”

  “Why would we agree to do that?”

  “Because as soon as Tulip’s back, I’ll give you the names of every one of his contacts.”

  “He’ll kill you.”

  “Not if I’m on the other side of the world before he finds out, he won’t.”

  “It’s not enough,” said William, as two members of the public paused to admire the Morland.

  “What more do you want?” asked Heath, as they walked on to the next painting.

  “The location of Rashidi’s slaughter.”

  “Even Maria doesn’t know that. But I’m working on it.”

  “Then let’s start you off with something a little easier as proof of your goodwill.”

  “What do you have in mind?”
r />   “We know that one of Tulip’s customers is a man called Miles Faulkner.”

  “I’ve seen his name on Tulip’s list, but he’s not a regular. Always expects the purest gear, and pays top whack. But he hasn’t been in touch recently.”

  “He will be,” said William without explanation. “And when he is, I need to know exactly which drugs he orders and where he wants them delivered.”

  “And if I tell you that, you’ll let me get on with my job until Tulip gets back?”

  “Only my guv’nor can sanction that, but if he agrees, and you fail to deliver, I’ll personally visit Tulip in hospital and tell him what you’ve been up to in his absence.”

  “You wouldn’t do that to an old friend.”

  “Like Turner, you’re not an old friend,” said William, as they arrived back at Gill’s Crucifix.

  “I must admit,” said Heath, “Moore’s good.”

  8

  “It’s a different number plate, but the same taxi,” said Jackie, lowering her binoculars.

  “How can you be sure?” asked William, as they watched a black cab drive slowly into The Boltons.

  “Same box of Kleenex on the back shelf.”

  “Well spotted,” said William. They continued to watch as Rashidi stepped out of the cab and opened the front gate of No. 24.

  “Same hat, gloves, coat, and scarf,” said Paul. “Clearly a man of habit.”

  “Which might well turn out to be his downfall,” said William.

  The photographer had begun snapping away as soon as Rashidi stepped out of the taxi, although he’d warned William that because he was so well covered up, he didn’t expect the results to be any different from last week.

  The door opened before Rashidi had a chance to knock. The same hug, allowing the photographer to zoom in on the left-hand glove, before mother and son disappeared into the house.

  William turned on his radio, which connected him straight to the Yard. “All units stand by, stand by, subject one has arrived at the known address,” he announced. “The subject has now entered the house. If last week’s anything to go by, he won’t be coming back out for at least a couple of hours.”

  “What’s your back-up looking like?” asked Lamont.

  “I’ve got three taxis covering all the exits out of the square, ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

  “And on the ground?”

  “Two plainclothes officers in the back of each cab, detailed to follow the target the moment he gets out of his taxi.”

  “Cars?”

  “Four unmarked cars stationed in the area between The Boltons and Earls Court, ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

  “Let me know the minute he reappears.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Lamont flicked off his receiver. “Don’t you wish it was the two of us out there giving the orders,” he said, “and not just watching from the sidelines?”

  “Of course,” admitted the Hawk, “but don’t tell my wife.”

  * * *

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “Just milk, thank you, Mrs. Hawksby.”

  “Please call me Josephine,” she said, handing Beth a cup of tea. “I’ve already given a great deal of thought to our recent telephone conversation.”

  “But I didn’t explain why I needed to see you.”

  “That wasn’t too difficult to work out. I assumed you wanted to know what it’s been like being married to a policeman for the past thirty years.”

  “Was it that obvious?” said Beth.

  “Hell on earth, is the simple answer. The late nights, the last-minute cancelations, questions you can never ask, and, worst of all, the fear that one day he might not come home. But it’s helped that I’ve never stopped loving Jack.”

  “But there are so many divorces in the force,” said Beth. “Superintendent Lamont for example, and Jackie for another, and that’s just in our department.”

  “True. But you will learn to accept the fact that the police are expected to keep the same hours as criminals, although the criminals get longer holidays in more exotic places.” Beth laughed. “It was never going to be a nine-to-five job, and from what Jack tells me, William doesn’t have the problem a lot of coppers suffer from.” Beth put down her cup. “Too much testosterone and too many WPCs.”

  “Can you ever be sure?” asked Beth.

  “No you can’t, but Jack tells me you’ve found an exceptional young man, who’s clearly devoted to you.”

  “And I’m devoted to him, but he’ll need an exceptional woman as his partner, and I’m only an assistant curator at the Fitzmolean, who does work from nine to five.”

  “Thank goodness one of you is normal,” said Josephine, as she selected a cucumber sandwich.

  “But I worry that he’s already married.”

  “To the job?” Beth nodded. “Every good copper is, my dear. But if I could go back thirty years, and he asked me again, I’d still marry Constable Jack Hawksby.”

  “Can I ask you a personal question, Josephine?”

  “Anything.”

  “Have you ever considered divorcing your husband?”

  “Divorce never. Murder several times.”

  * * *

  “Have you been invited to the wedding?” asked Lamont.

  “Yes. Josephine and I are looking forward to it, although I expect there will be far too many criminal barristers on the guest list who I’ve only ever met while standing in the witness box.”

  “And possibly the odd criminal.”

  “No,” said Hawksby. “Sir Julian Warwick QC isn’t a man who mixes business with pleasure, so Booth Watson won’t have been invited.”

  Lamont chuckled. “Have you met Beth?”

  “Only at the Fitzmolean for the unveiling of the Rembrandt. It wasn’t hard to see why William fell for her.”

  “Heaven help the poor lass.”

  “What makes you say that, Bruce?”

  “I’ve been divorced three times, and DC Roycroft once. In fact, you’re the exception that breaks the rule.”

  “I have a feeling William will last the course. My only worry is that Beth might try to get him to leave the force.”

  “All three of my wives tried,” said Lamont, “and look where that got them. Each time I was promoted, my latest wife left me but not before she’d cleaned out my bank account.”

  “I’m pretty sure William won’t be going down that path,” said the Hawk. “However, I’m still relying on you to remove the last vestments of the latent choirboy before I’ll even consider making him a detective inspector.”

  “And Adaja?”

  “If he can handle the racial prejudice he’s bound to come up against on the street…”

  “Not to mention inside this building,” said Lamont. “I realize I’m not exactly blameless myself. When I first joined the force the only thing that was black was the coffee.”

  “Did you ever watch The Sweeney?” asked the Hawk.

  “Never missed an episode. Saw myself as John Thaw.”

  The Hawk smiled. “But did you spot the mistake in last week’s rerun?”

  “Remind me.”

  “The old Black Marias, DI Regan claimed, were named after a woman who always attended court hearings wearing a black dress. But DC Adaja informs me that in fact the term originates from a woman called Maria who kept an unruly boardinghouse in Boston, which the police had to visit far too regularly.”

  “Adaja’s as bad as Warwick when it comes to plying us with useless information,” said Lamont.

  “And just as bright,” said the Hawk. “In fact, William could have a genuine rival, and by 2020, the Met might even be ready to appoint its first black commissioner.”

  “Well, at least that would be better than its first woman commissioner.”

  The Hawk was about to comment when the radio crackled back into life.

  “The subject’s on the move,” said William.

  * * *

  The same hug, the
same slow walk back down the path; the only difference was that when he stepped out onto the pavement this time, he turned left, not right.

  “Stand by first. He’s heading toward Bolton Gardens. Stand by,” repeated William.

  “Contact, contact,” said a voice over the radio. “Target is getting into a taxi that doesn’t have its light on. Off, off. Heading west on Brompton Road.”

  “Contact—I have the eye,” said Danny.

  “Stay with him,” said William, “but only for about another mile. I’ve got an unmarked car just behind you ready to take over.”

  “Understood,” said Danny, who kept his distance, but never let the target out of his sight. “Subject’s moved into the outside lane,” he reported a few moments later. “Could be turning right.”

  “Or carrying straight on,” said William. “In which case we might find out where he lives.”

  “I’d rather find out where he works,” said Lamont. “But I don’t expect we’ll get that lucky.”

  “Drop back, Danny,” was William’s next command, “and let the patrol car take over. But stand by, as I may need you again later.”

  It amused William that his four unmarked cars were all five-year-old Austin Allegros, in standard colors but with souped-up engines that could do 120 miles per hour if required. No one gave them a second glance as they proceeded down the middle lane of the Great West Road, never exceeding 40 miles per hour.

  “Target has reached the Courage roundabout. Looks like he might be heading for the M4.”

  “Where do taxis usually end up after they hit the M4?” asked William rhetorically.

  “The airport,” said Danny.

  “That’s all we need.”

  “It’s definitely looking like the motorway,” said the driver of the patrol car, “because he’s running out of turnoffs.”

  “Peel off at the Hammersmith flyover and let Danny take over. Another cab will be less conspicuous on the motorway, especially if Rashidi’s heading for the airport. But, Danny, if his cab stays in the outside lane, let another car take over, while you slip off the motorway at the Heathrow exit and then return to the Yard.”