He strode into the slaughter as one of Rashidi’s lieutenants was being led away, shouting and cursing, but not before he was able to throw a punch at William that landed a passing blow and stunned him for a moment. He quickly recovered as another officer slapped a pair of handcuffs on his assailant. As the smoke from the stun grenade attack began to clear, he turned to survey the carnage of what was left of Rashidi’s empire. A dozen or so menial workers wearing face masks and rubber gloves were kneeling on the floor. No doubt most of them were illegal immigrants who hadn’t been working there by choice, and who might even be relieved to have been rescued. The lower ranks of the drugs world always ended up carrying the can for their masters, and they knew they could never open their mouths. There was always another Tulip, always another gouged eye.
William was sure he hadn’t passed Rashidi as he came up the stairs, and Jackie had informed him on the radio that he wasn’t among the frightened passengers in the lift who had been rounded up as soon as they reached the ground floor. As there was no other way out, he began to look more closely at the pathetic rabble who remained in the slaughter. And then he noticed a couple of them were stealing fearful glances at one particular worker. William took a closer look, but could see no difference between him and the others kneeling in front of him. But he tapped him on the shoulder and told him to stand up. He didn’t move.
“Probably doesn’t speak English, sarge,” said a young constable, yanking the man to his feet.
“I think he speaks several languages,” said William. He removed the man’s mask, but even then he couldn’t be certain.
“What are you looking for, sarge?”
“The Viper,” said William, but not a flicker of recognition crossed the man’s face. “Take the glove off your left hand,” he said slowly and clearly. Again, no response.
The constable ripped the man’s glove off, to reveal that part of the third finger was missing. “How did you know that, sarge?” he said.
“His mother told me.”
The man continued to stare blankly at William, as if he didn’t understand a word he was saying.
“If you hadn’t hugged her, Mr. Rashidi, I might never have known you were her son.”
Still not a flicker of comprehension.
“I wonder how she’ll react when I visit her in The Boltons tomorrow morning to tell her what her son really imports from Colombia, and then exports onto the streets of London, not from an oak-paneled office in the City as the respected chairman of Marcel and Neffe, but from a depraved drugs den in Brixton, where he’s known as the Viper.”
The man continued to stand there impassively, not even blinking.
“The attentive son, who never misses an appointment with his mother on a Friday afternoon but doesn’t care how many young lives he destroys, as long as he makes a profit week in and week out.”
Still nothing.
“One thing’s for certain, Rashidi. After I’ve told your mother where she’ll be able to find you for the next ten years, hopefully longer, don’t expect her to visit you in prison, because she’ll be too ashamed to admit to her friends at the Brompton Oratory that the real reason they haven’t seen Khalil recently is because he’s brought a new meaning to the word evil.”
Rashidi leaned forward and spat in William’s face.
“I’ve never been more flattered in my life, Mr. Rashidi,” he said. The constable stepped forward, thrust Rashidi’s arms behind his back, and handcuffed him as William read him his rights. He still didn’t speak.
“Don’t let him out of your sight,” said William. “There’s an armored van waiting outside for Mr. Rashidi, and a cell awaits him at Brixton police station. It may not need fumigating now, but it certainly will after he’s spent the night there.”
Rashidi leaned forward and said, “Your days are numbered, sergeant. And I’ll be the one to tell your mother.”
“No, Mr. Rashidi, it’s you whose days are numbered, and I’ll be telling your mother why in the morning.” Rashidi was unceremoniously led out of the room by two armed officers and escorted to the lift he hadn’t quite reached in time.
When he heard the noise of a helicopter somewhere above him, William walked across to the smashed window and looked out to see a chopper disappearing into the clouds. The colonel would be pleased to have it confirmed that the new lot were indeed every bit as good as the old.
He turned his attention back to the room, now a crime scene that had already been taken over by a different breed of policeman: an exhibits officer, who wouldn’t be joining his wife for supper, and probably not for breakfast; photographers who were snapping anything that didn’t move; and the scene of crime officers in their white boiler suits and latex gloves, who were carefully collecting evidence and depositing it into plastic bags. Even a Polo Mint would be taken back to the labs for closer examination. A cocaine press, scales, sieves, rubber gloves, and face masks awaited inspection by the backroom boys and girls, who would be among the last to take the lift back down to the ground floor.
After writing down Rashidi’s words in his notebook—not something he’d be telling Beth—William went through to the next room, which could only have been Rashidi’s office. Three bulky sports bags were lined up against the far wall. He picked one up, and was surprised at how heavy it was. He put it back on the floor and unzipped it.
He wouldn’t have thought that anything could surprise him after what he’d just witnessed, but the sight of so much money, probably just a single day’s takings, reminded him why modern criminals no longer bother to rob banks, when their victims will hand the cash over to them willingly.
He unzipped the second bag to see still more fifties, twenties, and tens neatly stacked in large bundles. He was about to unzip the third when a voice behind him said, “I’ll take care of that, DS Warwick.”
He turned to see Superintendent Lamont standing in the doorway.
“Meanwhile, the commander wants you to report to him immediately.”
“Of course, sir,” said William, trying to hide his surprise.
“And well done, DS Warwick. I know you’ll be pleased to hear that Rashidi’s already on his way to the nearest nick, where a welcoming party awaits him.”
“Thank you, sir,” said William, as Jackie entered the room.
“Congratulations, sarge,” she said. “A triumphant night for everyone.” She paused. “Well, everyone except DC Adaja.”
“Why, what happened to him?”
“I think it might be better if he told you himself.”
William took one last look at the havoc and squalor of what had once been the heart of Rashidi’s empire. He reluctantly left the boiler room and began to jog down the stone steps, past graffiti-covered walls where one word was repeated again and again. He ignored the stench of urine as he continued on down to the ground floor, passing several handcuffed prisoners who would not be profiting from the drugs trade for a long time, if ever again.
When he emerged onto the street, he took a deep breath of fresh air and watched as another Black Maria that couldn’t accommodate any more occupants was driven away. He walked over to the bus and made his way upstairs to the command center.
“What are you doing here, DS Warwick?” snapped the Hawk. “I made it clear that you were not to leave the crime scene until the job was done.”
“The super has taken over, sir, and he said you wanted to see me.”
“Did he indeed?”
27
“The Observer has done you proud, William,” said Sir Julian, “and it’s not always complimentary about the police. And as you’ve never once mentioned Operation Trojan Horse during the past year, it must have been a tightly guarded secret.”
“Not even Beth knew until she heard about it on the news this morning.”
“The raid has even made the first leader,” said Sir Julian. “I quote: ‘The arrest of Khalil Rashidi is a genuine breakthrough in the war against drugs, and the Metropolitan Police are to be congratu
lated on their relentless pursuit of these ruthless criminals who do so much harm to our society.’” He looked up from behind the paper. “There’s a photograph of Commander Hawksby sitting on a bus. Not his normal mode of transport, I suspect.” He put down the paper and looked across at his son. “You don’t appear to be overwhelmed by your triumph.”
“The press only has one side of the story.”
“And the other side?”
“Isn’t quite as commendable. In fact, it’s something I need to seek your guidance on.”
“Take me through your concerns slowly, and don’t leave anything out,” said his father, as he sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, as he always did during a consultation.
“While I was in the slaughter—”
“Slaughter?”
“Boiler room, drugs factory … I came across three sports bags filled with cash—hundreds, possibly thousands, of pounds. By the time I got back to the Yard, there were only two.”
“And you think you know who removed the third bag?”
“I’m in no doubt who did. But I can’t prove it.”
“Can’t have been anyone particularly bright, that’s for sure,” said Sir Julian.
“What makes you say that?”
“It would have been more sensible to have taken the same amount of cash from each of the three bags, then no one would have been any the wiser.”
“You even think like a criminal.”
“I’m a QC,” said Sir Julian, “a Qualified Criminal. But tell me, did you leave the bags where they were?”
“Yes, I did,” said William.
“Then why did you leave the boiler room?” asked Sir Julian, his eyes remaining closed.
“Superintendent Lamont ordered me to report to the commander, who was overseeing the operation from the top of the bus. Told me it was urgent.”
“And it wasn’t?”
“No. In fact, the Hawk wasn’t pleased that I’d left the crime scene without his permission.”
“Circumstantial at best. If that’s all you’ve got to go on, you should give Lamont the benefit of the doubt. However, I can see your dilemma. Do you tell Commander Hawksby that you suspect a senior officer of stealing a large sum of money from a crime scene?” He still didn’t open his eyes. “If I recall correctly, Superintendent Lamont is due to retire in a few months’ time.”
“Yes, but what difference does that make? If there’s one thing worse than a professional criminal, to quote the Hawk, it’s a bent copper.”
“I agree with him. But I do like to know all the facts before I pass judgment.”
William pursed his lips.
“Has Lamont ever come under investigation before?”
“Once, many years ago. But since then he’s received three commendations.”
“Ah, yes, I remember he turned a blind eye when he was a young sergeant. And now you’re wondering if you should do the same.”
William was about to protest when Sir Julian added, “How do you get on with Lamont?”
“Not that well,” admitted William.
“Which only adds to the problem, because if you were to report a senior officer for such a serious offense, it would have to be investigated at the highest level, although I suspect Lamont would resign before a disciplinary hearing was held—if he was found guilty, he would undoubtedly be dismissed from the force, lose his pension, and might even end up serving a prison sentence.”
“I’ve already considered that, and I realize turning a blind eye would be the easy way out.”
“Not for you it wouldn’t,” said his father. “However, if you do report him, whether he’s found guilty or not, you might well have to consider your own position.”
“But why? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I accept that without question. But it’s the one thing your fellow officers will remember about you. They might never say anything to your face, but behind your back you’d be called snitch, traitor, or worse. And friends of Lamont will go out of their way to derail your chances of promotion. Never forget, the police are a tribe, and some of them will never forgive you for turning against one of their own.”
“Only the dishonest ones, in which case I’m in the wrong profession.”
“Possibly, but I hope you won’t do something in haste that you’ll later regret.”
“What would you do, Father?”
“I would…” began Julian when there was a knock on the door, and Beth walked in. “Lunch is ready,” she said. “And Marjorie is looking for a carver.”
“We’ll have to talk about this again, my boy. And soon,” said Julian, rising from his chair.
“Don’t you think William’s black eye is rather fetching?” said Beth, as she linked arms with her father-in-law and accompanied him through to the dining room.
* * *
Faulkner smiled up at Rashidi, and waved a hand to indicate he could join him for breakfast. The first inmate he’d treated as an equal, even if he didn’t trust him an inch.
“Why are you dressed in civilian clothes?” asked Rashidi, taking the seat opposite Faulkner. “Are you about to be released?”
“No. I’m going to a funeral.”
“Whose?”
“My mother’s.”
“I adore my mother.”
“I hadn’t spoken to mine for over twenty years,” said Faulkner, as a warder placed a cup of tea on the table in front of him.
“Then why bother to attend her funeral?” asked Rashidi.
“It’s an excuse to get out of this place for the day,” said Faulkner, dropping a couple of sugar lumps into his tea.
“I won’t be seeing the outside world again until my case comes up in about six months’ time.”
“And what are your chances?”
“Zero, while one of my so-called mates has turned Queen’s evidence in exchange for a lesser sentence.”
“There are people in here who can take care of that little problem,” said Faulkner.
“Not while the filth have two other witnesses in reserve who’d be only too willing to take his place should he fail to turn up.”
“So who’s running your empire while you’re away?”
Rashidi pointed to a young man seated at the next table smoking a cigarette. “One of the few who stood by me when the shit hit the fan.”
“But he’s also stuck in here, Khalil, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Not for much longer. He pleaded guilty to possession of a half-smoked reefer, the only thing they found on him other than a packet of Marlboro. And as he has no previous convictions, he won’t get more than six months, possibly less, so he could be out of here in a few weeks’ time.”
“But surely someone has to run the business while you’re away?” said Faulkner.
“My deputy wasn’t even on the premises when the raid took place. Doesn’t usually take over from me much before midnight. So he’ll keep the business ticking over in my absence.”
“Can you trust him?”
“Can you trust anyone?” said Rashidi. “However, it’s not all bad news. Since I arrived here, I’ve discovered a new bunch of even more desperate customers. Did you know there are a hundred and thirty-seven prisons in Britain?” he continued. “And they’re all about to become branches of my new company.”
Faulkner looked interested.
“Give me a year, and I’ll control the supply of drugs to every last one of them. I’ve already identified the officer I’ll use as my go-between, while Tulip will be my main prison dealer, so all I need now is a phone.”
“Not a problem,” said Faulkner. “I’ll point you in the right direction when you go to chapel on Sunday.”
“I’m Roman Catholic.”
“Not any longer, you aren’t. You’re the Church of England’s latest convert. That is, if you want to control the drugs scene in this place. The Sunday morning service is the only time we’re all gathered together in one place, when the business for the following
week is sorted out during the sermon.”
“How does the chaplain feel about that?”
“He fills in another Home Office form reporting how well his services are attended.”
“Speaking of the Home Office, what’s the latest on your appeal?”
“Couldn’t be much worse. They’re now accusing me of burning down my own home, but not before I’d removed my art collection.”
“What motive could you possibly have for doing that?” asked Rashidi, as another officer poured him a cup of coffee.
“Revenge. I did it to make my ex-wife penniless.”
“And did you succeed?”
“Not yet, but I’m still working on it. In fact, I’ve arranged a little surprise for her this morning.”
“So what are your chances of getting off the latest charges?”
“Not good. My lawyer tells me they’ve got enough evidence to bury me, and it doesn’t help that the detective in charge of the case, a certain DS Warwick, is a friend of my wife’s.”
“Detective Sergeant William Warwick?” spluttered Rashidi, spilling his coffee.
“The same.”
“He was the officer who arrested me. But I’m not expecting him to give evidence at my trial.”
Faulkner smiled. “That’s a funeral I would like to attend. By the way, if you need a lawyer, I can recommend one,” he said, as another warder appeared by his side.
“Your carriage awaits, Mr. Faulkner.”
“No doubt accompanied by three police cars, six outriders, and an armed escort.”
“Not to mention a helicopter,” said the warder.
Rashidi laughed. “Only you and the Royal Family get that sort of treatment. I’m going to have to come up with a funeral they’ll let me go to.”
“The Home Office regulations only allow you to attend the funerals of your parents or children, not even other close relatives.”
Hidden in Plain Sight Page 24
