Hidden in Plain Sight

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 plain clothes 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 cancellations, 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 re-run?’

‘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 boarding house 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 towards 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 colours but with souped-up engines that could do 120 mph if required. No one gave them a second glance as they proceeded down the middle lane of the Great West Road, never exceeding 40 mph.

‘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 turn-offs.’

‘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.’

‘Will do, sarge.’

‘Target’s moved back into the middle lane and is slowing,’ said Danny. ‘I think you’re right, sarge. It has to be Heathrow.’

‘Damn,’ said William. ‘I haven’t got enough back-up to cover all three terminals.’

‘It’s terminal one, domestic.’

‘Keep your distance,’ said William. ‘Paul, be ready to follow him into the terminal.’

‘On the edge of my seat, sarge.’

A short period of silence followed, while William paced around the room, fearing that if this became a weekly exercise, he’d wear out his shoes before they worked out where the subject was going.

‘He’s getting out of the taxi and heading for departures,’ said Danny. ‘Paul’s tailing him.’

‘Is he carrying anything?’

‘Nothing, sarge.’

‘Then he’s unlikely to be flying anywhere.’

‘Could be meeting someone?’ suggested Jackie.

‘Not in departures. I suspect it’s just another ploy to lose anyone who might even consider following him.’

‘Paul’s entering the terminal,’ said Danny.

‘What about Rashidi’s taxi?’ asked William.

‘It’s on the move again. Do you want me to follow him?’

‘No. If the driver’s a pro, he’ll have spotted you by now. Wait until Paul tells us where Rashidi ends up.’

‘I’ve lost him, sir,’ said Paul, sounding embarrassed. ‘There must be a dozen entrances and exits in departures, while there are a thousand passengers roaming around in every direction.’

‘My fault,’ said William. ‘I should have told Danny to follow the taxi.’

‘Just make sure you have all three terminals covered next week,’ said Hawksby, who had been following every word.

‘What makes you think he’ll turn up at his mother’s again next week?’ said William, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

‘Mr Rashidi and I have one thing in common,’ said the Hawk. ‘We’re never late for our mothers.’