Hidden in Plain Sight

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 towards 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 practised.

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, user, 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 leant 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 dreamt about it, but never thought it would happen.’

‘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 school teacher, 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 round 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 favourite 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’ 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 clingfilm 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 favour,’ 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?’

‘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.’