Turn a Blind Eye

4

‘Would you like my seat, sir?’ the young woman asked politely.

‘No, thank you,’ said the commander, touching the brim of his trilby, and suddenly feeling his age. Damn it, he thought, I’m not yet sixty, although he had to admit his daughter was older than the considerate young woman.

Several passengers got off at the next stop, which allowed the Hawk to sit down. He opened his morning paper. POLICE CALLED TO CONTROL PICKET LINE AT WAPPING, was the headline. He began to read the article, but his mind drifted back to the meeting that was about to take place. Ross Hogan, his undercover officer, had recently been released from Ford Open Prison, so once again he went over the questions he needed answered. He felt like a child about to finally open a long-awaited Christmas present. At the next stop he stood to offer an elderly woman his seat, which she gratefully accepted. Not dead yet.

When the train pulled into Victoria, the Hawk was among the first to get off and join the lemming-like crowd scurrying towards the escalators. He showed his pass to the ticket collector at the barrier, before emerging into the bright morning sunlight.

He tried to gather his thoughts as he made his way slowly along Victoria Street in the direction of Scotland Yard. But when he was halfway down he turned right, left the crowded pavement, and entered a small quiet square dominated by a magnificent cathedral. Ignoring a few worshippers and the simply curious who were making their way towards the entrance of the Roman Catholic Church’s principal place of worship in England and Wales, he walked slowly down the right-hand side of the vast red-and-cream brick building, not stopping until he reached an inconspicuous entrance that was normally only used by priests or choristers.

He opened the door and stepped inside, confident that as long as he looked as if he belonged, nobody would question his presence. As he made his way towards the vestry, a cleaner on her knees scrubbing the stone floor looked up. ‘Good morning, my child,’ he said.

‘Good morning, father,’ she replied as he hurried by.

On entering the vestry, he walked across to the end locker and opened it. He removed his jacket and tie, replacing them with a long black cassock, white surplice, dog collar and bands, transforming himself from commander to canon. At least he was a Roman Catholic, and the occasional deception had been approved by the Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster, if not by our Lord.

A quick check in the long mirror on the wall before he emerged once again into the body of the cathedral. He progressed slowly towards the Lady Chapel — priests, unlike policemen, don’t move quickly — and on into the nave, until he reached a familiar bronze relief of St Benedict staring down at him. He was relieved to find the confessional box was unoccupied. He stepped inside, drew the little red curtain to show he was open for business, and prepared himself for one particular parishioner who he knew would be seeking absolution and was unlikely to keep him waiting.

Moments later he heard someone enter the box, and a familiar voice addressed him through the grille that separated them. ‘Father, I have sinned and seek the Lord’s forgiveness.’

‘When did you last confess, my son?’

‘It’s been over six months, father, during which time I committed a grievous sin by attending a Church of England service every Sunday morning.’

The commander was pleased to find his undercover officer hadn’t lost his sense of humour.

‘And what did you learn from this unfortunate experience, my son?’

‘That Assem Rashidi will be represented by the Devil incarnate when he appears in court next month.’

‘I was aware of that, my son,’ said the Hawk. ‘The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Did you find out how Mr Booth Watson rates his chances of getting his client off the various charges?’

‘He’s confident he’ll get him off the most serious charge, of heading up a drugs cartel, because he’s convinced you don’t have enough evidence to persuade a jury.’

‘We’ve got more than enough,’ said the Hawk, ‘as he’ll discover when he sees the list of items we’ll be presenting for the jury’s consideration.’

‘But Rashidi assured me the flat was cleared of any incriminating evidence just before our boys turned up.’

‘He left behind a wardrobe full of tailored suits and a dozen hand-made shirts that just happen to fit him perfectly.’

‘As they would thousands of perfectly innocent people, as Booth Watson will point out. He’ll also suggest you have no proof that Rashidi ever owned or occupied the flat.’

‘Then he’ll have to explain away the photograph that was found on the bedside table in the master bedroom.’

‘He’ll say there’s no evidence that the “A” stands for Assem.’

‘It doesn’t,’ said the Hawk. ‘But he’ll still have to explain what a picture of his mother was doing on the bedside table.’

A short whistle was followed by the words, ‘Ouch. His sweepers are going to regret leaving that behind. It could condemn Rashidi to twenty years.’

‘Amen to that,’ said the commander. ‘What else did you learn from the heathens while you were away, my son?’

‘The prison rumour mill thinks Faulkner made it to the States. New name, new passport and new identity. But he must still be active in the art world, because his house in Monte Carlo is on the market and there are no longer any of his pictures hanging on the walls.’

‘They left on the same boat as Faulkner,’ said the Hawk. ‘Although so far nothing’s come up on the open market.’

‘Faulkner’s too bright to make that mistake. He’ll lie low for a bit, and if he sells anything it will be to private buyers.’

‘Were you able to find out his new name, or pick up any clues about where he might be?’

‘No, father. But Rashidi thought it was unlikely to be New York, as that’s the first place the FBI would look. In any case, Faulkner’s Fifth Avenue apartment was also put up for sale just weeks before he escaped, and surprise, surprise, minus the fixtures and fittings.’

‘I’m guessing the paintings are all in one place. But where?’

‘I’ve no idea, boss.’

‘Then leave that to me. Your next job will be to try and find out who’s running Rashidi’s empire in his absence, so he can share a cell with him in the near future.’

‘I already know the answer to that question, but for obvious reasons I won’t mention his name. I’ve left that particular piece of information in the usual place. However, I should warn you there’s a coincidence you’re not going to like.’

‘I’m intrigued.’

‘Anything else, sir?’

‘Yes. After you’ve committed some of the more wanton sins you were denied in prison, we’ll meet again and I’ll tell you all about a certain Detective Sergeant Summers.’

‘Who he?’

‘Not now. Bless you, my son, and be assured you are absolved of your sins. Go in peace.’

The Hawk waited for a few moments, praying that no other sinners would seek absolution while he flicked through his notebook to check that all his questions had been answered.

Satisfied, he tucked the notebook back in his cassock pocket, slipped out of the confessional and made his way towards an offertory box that was surrounded by candles, not many of which were alight. He glanced around before taking a small key out of a trouser pocket and deftly unlocking the box to find a few coins, mainly copper, and an empty Marlboro cigarette packet wedged in one corner.

He looked up to see the Virgin Mary staring down at him. He returned her enigmatic smile before removing the red-and-white pack and slipping it into his other pocket. He locked the offertory box and made his way slowly back to the vestry, confident no one had witnessed his sleight of hand.

A few minutes later, Commander Hawksby slipped out of the side door of the cathedral and headed for Scotland Yard. He had two things on his mind: who had taken over from Rashidi as the new drugs supremo, and what could Ross have meant by a coincidence he wasn’t going to like? That would have to wait until the boffins in the basement had taken the empty cigarette packet apart and revealed its innermost secret.

‘William’s already left for work,’ said Beth, holding a baby’s bottle in one hand and the phone in the other. ‘Can I pass on a message?’

‘No, I want to tell you both the good news in person,’ said Christina.

‘Clue?’

‘You’re worse than William.’

‘Why don’t you come round for a drink this evening? It’s William’s turn to bath the twins, so with any luck he’ll be home by seven.’

‘That’s something I can’t wait to see,’ said Christina. ‘I’ll be with you soon after seven.’

When the commander arrived back at Scotland Yard he went down, not up, taking the stairs to the basement, where he walked quickly towards the office at the far end of the corridor. He didn’t knock before entering ‘spook world’.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said a white-coated lab assistant, looking up from his microscope. ‘It must be important for you to come in person.’

‘It is,’ said the Hawk, as he handed over the empty Marlboro cigarette packet.

‘Then I’ll get to work on it immediately and send the results up to your office as soon as I have them.’

‘I’ll wait,’ said the commander, taking a seat.

The scientist nodded before returning to his desk. With the help of a pair of tweezers, he extracted the thin sliver of foil from inside the cigarette packet, before laying it on a bronze plate. The Hawk reflected that he would for ever be in debt to Professor Abrahams for introducing him to the Electrostatic Document Analysis machine, which was now part of Scotland Yard’s standard investigation kit, and had proved far more reliable than most witnesses, not least when it had come to proving that Beth’s father, Arthur Rainsford, was innocent of murder.

The young scientist placed a sheet of Mylar film on top of the foil, then took a tiny roller from the shelf above him, and moved it slowly over the entire surface of the film until all the air bubbles had been removed.

He then put on a pair of dark safety goggles before switching on an infrared corona, which he held an inch above the bronze plate, scanning it backwards and forwards to identify any indentations on the surface. He next picked up what looked like a pepper pot and sprinkled photocopy toner across the silver paper until it was fully covered. He waited for a few moments before gently blowing the surplus toner off the plate. Finally, he peeled away the thin layer of Mylar film, and bent down to see if his experiment had produced anything worthwhile, well aware that the Hawk was now standing over him, waiting impatiently.

He stood aside to show that he’d finished, and the Hawk stared down at the tiny letters that had appeared on the surface of the silver foil. It didn’t take him long to realize what the coincidence was, and the line Booth Watson would be taking when he presented the case for the defence.

‘Impressive,’ was the Hawk’s immediate reaction. But Rashidi would still have to explain the photograph in the silver frame, which Booth Watson wouldn’t be able to dismiss quite so easily.

‘He hasn’t got back from the Yard yet,’ said Beth as she opened the front door to find Christina standing on the doorstep, clutching a bottle of champagne.

‘Then this will have to wait until he does,’ she said, ‘which will give us a chance to bath the twins.’

‘But I want to hear your news!’ cried Beth. ‘When it comes to time, William can’t always be relied on. To quote him, crime doesn’t necessarily fit in conveniently with the twins’ bath time. So, can I assume you’ve found a new man?’

‘No, but I’ve found the old one,’ said Christina, as Beth put the bottle of champagne in the fridge. ‘And before you ask any more questions, the answer is no. Not until William gets back.’

‘Then you could be staying overnight,’ said Beth. They each picked up a twin and carried them upstairs to the bathroom, Artemisia and Peter basking in the extra attention they were getting and gurgling with delight. They both heard the door slam and a few moments later William marched into the bathroom to join them.

‘Just in time to dry the little monsters and put them to bed,’ said Beth, ‘while Christina and I go downstairs and enjoy a glass of champagne.’

‘What are we celebrating?’ asked William as he wrapped Peter in a towel.

‘Christina won’t tell us until you’ve put them to bed.’

‘Fine by me,’ said William, as the two women abandoned him to his task. This was always his favourite time of the day. In fact, he didn’t go back downstairs until he’d read another chapter of PC Plod and the twins had fallen asleep.

He strolled into the living room to find Beth topping up Christina’s glass with champagne.

‘Just in time,’ she said, ‘otherwise we might have polished off the bottle before Christina gets round to telling us what we’re celebrating.’

‘Should I assume you’ve got a new boyfriend?’ said William, trying to look interested.

‘No, you should not,’ said Beth, handing him a glass. ‘I’ve already asked that question, and I’m none the wiser. So, shush.’

‘Well then, you must have sold the land at Limpton Hall for an exorbitant amount?’

‘Old news,’ said Beth. ‘Shush!’

They both stared at Christina expectantly, but she couldn’t resist taking another sip of champagne before saying, ‘Miles is dead.’