Hidden in Plain Sight

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?’ enquired 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 round.

‘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 towards 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 towards 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 leapt inside. Tulip’s second mistake. William was just a couple of yards adrift when the cab moved off, and it had only travelled 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 holding 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.’

Tulip’s third mistake.

A grin crossed William’s face as he made his way back into the station. But it soon disappeared when he saw the desk sergeant devouring the evidence.

‘What are you up to?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘Removing any damning evidence we found in the shopping bag,’ said the sergeant. ‘Care for a slice?’

‘I wonder if I might seek your advice on a private matter, Sir Julian,’ said Beth, as they sat in the corner of the drawing room after lunch.

‘I do wish you wouldn’t call me Sir Julian, my dear. It makes me feel so old. But how can I help?’

‘Some of my colleagues at the Fitzmolean feel our director Tim Knox should be awarded a knighthood, but we have no idea how to go about it. After all, we’ve been voted Museum of the Year for the past two years, ahead of the Tate and the National Gallery, and both of their directors have been honoured. I thought as you had a knighthood, you might be able to point me in the right direction.’

‘Don’t tell anyone what you’re up to, would be my first piece of advice, because if it were to leak out, his rivals might try to scupper the whole idea.’

‘Tim’s such a decent and kind man, I can’t believe he has any rivals.’

‘Anyone who’s hoping to be knighted has rivals, not least those who think they’re more deserving of an honour than him. But on a more practical level, you’ll need a sponsor, preferably someone whose reputation is like Caesar’s wife, beyond reproach. Who is the gallery’s chairman?’

‘Lord Kilholme.’

‘Fine fellow,’ said Sir Julian. ‘A former cabinet minister whose reputation has grown since leaving office, and that’s a rare thing.’ He paused while his wife handed them both a coffee. ‘However, Kilholme will still need several letters of support from leading figures in the art world, and not all from the same political party. But Kilholme is an old pro, so he’ll know exactly how to go about it.’

‘And surely he’ll also know who sits on the honours committee?’ said Beth.

‘No one knows who sits on the committee. If people did, imagine the pressure they’d come under. It’s a more closely guarded secret than the contents of the next budget. They’re simply referred to as the great and the good.’

‘How interesting,’ said Beth. ‘Is that how you got your knighthood?’

‘Certainly not, I was simply born in the right cot. I succeeded my father, who succeeded his father, who switched parties when Lloyd George became prime minister.’

Beth laughed. ‘Does that mean that one day William will be Sir William?’

‘And you will be Lady Warwick, which—’

‘What are you two whispering about?’ asked William, as he walked across to join them.

‘The arrangements for our wedding,’ said Beth.

‘You’d make a rather good member of the honours committee,’ whispered Sir Julian.

‘Care for a slice of Black Forest gateau, superintendent?’ asked Commander Hawksby.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Lamont.

‘How about you, DC Roycroft?’

‘Always been one of my favourites,’ said Jackie, as the commander cut her a thick wedge.

‘Have to make sure we destroy all the evidence,’ said the Hawk, after handing Paul a second slice, ‘because I hear Tulip is considering suing the Met for wrongful arrest, using unnecessary force while dealing with a law-abiding citizen, and racial prejudice.’

‘Pity it wasn’t me who arrested him,’ said Paul. ‘Then at least he would have had to drop one of the charges.’

‘He’s also demanding that the officer concerned be suspended while an inquiry into police brutality takes place.’

‘All the more reason to destroy the evidence,’ said Lamont, scraping up the last few crumbs.

‘Sorry we couldn’t offer you a slice, DS Warwick,’ said the Hawk, ‘but then we would have to add accepting a bribe to the long list of charges against you.’

Jackie tried not to smirk.

‘But—’ began William.

‘Fortunately for you,’ said the commander, ‘the drugs in question had been shoplifted from a local Tesco store, but as the evidence has now been destroyed, we were left with no choice but to caution him, and release the suspect with a warning.’

‘But—’ repeated William.

‘Hardly the six- to eight-year sentence you’d been hoping for, DS Warwick.’

‘And what’s more,’ said Jackie, ‘the address Tulip gave us, surprise, surprise, doesn’t exist.’

‘But the pub does,’ said William.

‘What pub?’ demanded the Hawk, sounding serious for the first time.

‘The Three Feathers in Battersea. That’s where he told the cabbie to take him.’

All four officers were suddenly alert.

‘Perhaps I should stake it out,’ said William. ‘Try to find out who his fellow dealers are?’

‘That’s the last thing you’re going to do,’ said Hawksby. ‘They’d spot a choirboy like you a mile off. No, this is a job for one of our more experienced undercover officers. You just make sure you don’t go anywhere near the place.’

‘Do I know the officer you have in mind?’ asked William.

‘Even his own mother doesn’t know him,’ said the Hawk.