Hidden in Plain Sight Page 2

  “I confess I don’t defend many juveniles.”

  “Only because they can’t afford your exorbitant fees,” said Grace.

  “Have you ever defended a juvenile, Grace?” asked her mother, before Sir Julian could continue his cross-examination.

  “Yes. Only last week I represented an eleven-year-old accused of shoplifting in Balham.”

  “No doubt you got him off, after claiming he’d come from a deprived background and his father beat him regularly.”

  “Her,” said Grace. “Her father abandoned the family home soon after she was born, leaving his wife to hold down two jobs while bringing up three children.”

  “It should never have come to court,” said William’s mother.

  “I agree with you, Mother, and it wouldn’t have if the girl hadn’t unfortunately been caught stealing the finest cuts of meat from her local supermarket and dropping them into a foil-lined carrier bag, to evade the store’s security detectors. She then walked a hundred yards up the road and sold them to an unscrupulous local butcher.”

  “What did the court decide?” asked Marjorie.

  “The butcher was heavily fined, and the child has been taken into care. But then, she didn’t have the advantage of being brought up by loving middle-class parents, in a comfortable country cottage in Kent. She’d never strayed more than a mile from her own front door. She didn’t even know there was a river running through the city she was born in.”

  “Should I be regarded as guilty, m’lud, simply for having tried to give my children a decent start in life?” said Sir Julian, before adding, “Am I allowed one more chance before the examiners deport me?”

  “Pass him a violin,” said Marjorie.

  “A publican becomes aware that some of his customers are smoking cannabis in his beer garden,” said William. “Is he committing an offense?”

  “He most certainly is,” said Sir Julian, “because he is allowing his premises to be used for the consumption of a controlled substance.”

  “And if one of the customers smoking the cannabis hands it to a friend, who takes a puff, is he also guilty of a crime?”

  “Of course. He is guilty of both possession and of supplying a controlled drug, and should be charged accordingly.”

  “Madness,” said Grace.

  “I agree,” said William. “Not least because the force doesn’t have the resources to pursue every minor crime.”

  “Hardly minor,” said Sir Julian. “In fact, it’s the beginning of a slippery slope.”

  “What if the landlord or the customer wasn’t aware it was a crime?” asked Beth.

  “Ignorance of the law is no defense,” said Sir Julian. “Otherwise you could murder whomever you pleased, and claim you didn’t realize it was a crime.”

  “What a good idea,” said Marjorie. “Because I would have pleaded lack of knowledge a long time ago if I could have got away with murdering my husband. In fact, the only thing that’s stopped me doing so is the knowledge that I’d need him to defend me when the case came to court.”

  Everyone burst out laughing.

  “Frankly, Mother,” said Grace, “half the Bar Council would be only too willing to defend you, while the other half would appear as witnesses for the defense.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Sir Julian, passing a hand across a furrowed brow, “am I right this time?”

  “Yes, Father. But don’t be surprised if cannabis is legalized in my lifetime.”

  “But not in mine, I hope,” said Sir Julian with feeling.

  “It sounds to me,” said Marjorie, “that even though your father would have failed the exam hopelessly, you must have passed.”

  “Despite kicking a protester in the balls,” said Sir Julian.

  “No, I didn’t,” said William.

  “No, you didn’t pass, or no, you didn’t kick the protester in the balls?” demanded his father.

  They all laughed.

  “You’re right, Marjorie,” said Beth, coming to her fiancé’s rescue. “As of next Monday, William will be Detective Sergeant Warwick.”

  Sir Julian was the first to stand and raise his glass. “Congratulations, my boy,” he said. “Here’s to the first step on a long ladder.”

  “The first step on a long ladder,” repeated the rest of the family, as they all stood and raised their glasses.

  “So, how long before you become an inspector?” asked Sir Julian, before he’d even sat back down.

  “Pipe down, Father,” said Grace, “or I might tell everyone what the judge said about you during his summing-up of your most recent case.”

  “Prejudiced old buffer.”

  “Takes one…” said all four of them in unison.

  “What’s next on your agenda, my boy?” asked Sir Julian, in an attempt to recover.

  “The Hawk is planning to shake up our entire department, now the politicians have finally accepted that the country is facing a major drugs problem.”

  “Just how bad is it?” asked Marjorie.

  “Over two million people in Britain are regularly smoking cannabis. Another four hundred thousand are snorting cocaine, among them some of our friends, including a judge, although in his case only at weekends. More tragically, there are over a quarter of a million registered heroin addicts, which is one of the main reasons the NHS is so overstretched.”

  “If that’s the case,” said Sir Julian, “some evil bastards must be making a fortune at the addicts’ expense.”

  “Some of the leading drug barons are coining literally millions, while young dealers, some of them still at school, can make as much as a hundred pounds a day, which is more than my commander is paid, let alone a humble detective sergeant.”

  “With so much cash swirling around,” said Sir Julian, “the less scrupulous of your colleagues might well be tempted to take a cut.”

  “Not if Commander Hawksby has his way. He considers a bent copper worse than any criminal.”

  “I agree with him,” said Sir Julian.

  “So what does he plan to do about the drugs problem?” asked Grace.

  “The commissioner has given him the authority to set up an elite unit, whose sole purpose will be to track down one particular drug baron and take him out, while the area drugs squads concentrate on the supply chain, leaving the local police to handle the dealers on the streets, and the users, who are committing other crimes like burglary and theft to fund their addiction.”

  “I’ve defended one or two of them recently,” said Grace. “Desperate, pathetic creatures, with little purpose in life other than getting their next fix. How long will it be before those in authority realize it’s often a medical problem, and not all addicts should be treated as criminals?”

  “But they are criminals,” interjected her father, “and they should be locked up, not mollycoddled. Wait until it’s your home that’s burgled, Grace, then you might feel differently.”

  “We’ve already been burgled, twice,” said Grace.

  “Probably by someone who can’t hold down a job. Addicts begin by stealing from their parents,” said William, “then their friends, then anyone who leaves a window open. When I was on the beat, I once arrested a young adult who had a dozen TVs in his flat, scores of other electrical items, paintings, watches, and even a tiara. And then there are the fences, who are making a small fortune. They set up so-called pawn shops for customers who never intend to claim the goods back.”

  “But surely you can shut them down?” said Beth.

  “We do. But they’re like cockroaches. Stamp on one of them and half a dozen more come scuttling out of the woodwork. Drugs are now an international industry like oil, banking, or steel. If some of the biggest cartels had to declare their annual profits, not only would they be among the top hundred companies on the stock exchange, but the Exchequer would be able to collect billions more in taxes.”

  “Perhaps the time has come to consider regulated legalization of some drugs,” said Grace.

  “Over m
y dead body,” said Sir Julian.

  “I fear there will be a lot more dead bodies, if we don’t,” said William.

  Sir Julian was momentarily silenced, which Marjorie took advantage of. “Thank heavens we live in Shoreham,” she said.

  “I can assure you, Mother, there are more drug dealers in Shoreham than there are traffic wardens.”

  “So what does the Hawk plan to do about it?” demanded Sir Julian.

  “Cut the head off the monster who controls half the dealers in London.”

  “So why don’t you just arrest him?”

  “On what charge? Apart from the fact that we don’t even know what he looks like. We don’t know his real name, or where he lives. In the trade he’s known as the Viper, but we’ve yet to locate his nest, let alone—”

  “How are your wedding plans coming along, Beth?” asked Marjorie, wanting to change the subject. “Have you finally settled on a date?”

  “Unfortunately not,” said William.

  “Yes, we have,” said Beth.

  “Good of you to let me know,” said William. “Let’s hope I’m not on duty that day, or worse, in a witness box trying to nail a hardened criminal who’s being defended by my overpaid father.”

  “In which case, the trial will be over by lunch,” said Sir Julian, “and we’ll both be able to make it on time.”

  “I need to ask a favor,” said Beth, ignoring them both and turning to Marjorie.

  “Of course,” said Marjorie. “We’d be only too delighted to help.”

  “Because my father had to spend a couple of years in prison, and as we’ve—”

  “A miscarriage of justice that was rightly overturned,” interjected Grace.

  “And as we’ve only recently found somewhere to live,” continued Beth, “I wondered if we could be married in your local church?”

  “Where Marjorie and I were married,” said Sir Julian. “I can’t think of anything that would give me greater pleasure.”

  “How about Miles Faulkner ending up in jail for four years,” suggested William, “and at the same time, Booth Watson QC being struck off the Bar Council.”

  Sir Julian didn’t speak for some time. “I’ll have to ask the judge for a recess, as I might have to consider a change of plea.”

  “How about you, Grace?” asked William.

  “I only wish I could marry my partner in the local church.”

  3

  “Congratulations, sarge,” said Jackie, joining him at the bar. She had drawn the short straw and only drank a single shandy that night, as she would be driving the newly promoted detective sergeant home. She’d already warned Beth that it wouldn’t be much before midnight.

  “Thanks,” William replied, after he’d drained his fourth pint.

  “Not that anyone was surprised.”

  “Except my father.”

  “Time, gentlemen, please,” said the landlord firmly, not least because most of his customers were coppers. Although in truth, once the civilians had departed, they would often enjoy a lock-in, when the landlord would continue to serve the boys and girls in blue. There was at least one pub in every division that had a similar arrangement, which not only added to the publican’s profits, but meant he had no fear of prosecution. However, Jackie still felt it was time for William to leave.

  “As you’ve clearly had one too many,” she said, “the boss has recommended that I take you home.”

  “But it’s my celebration party,” William protested. “And I’ll let you into a secret, Jackie. I’ve never been this drunk before.”

  “Why am I not surprised? All the more reason for me to drive you home. It would be a pity if you were demoted the day after you’d been promoted. Although it would mean I’d probably get your job.”

  “My father warned me to watch out for women like you,” said William, as she took him by the arm and led him unsteadily out of the pub to cries of “Goodnight, sarge,” “Choirboy,” and even “Commissioner,” without any suggestion of irony or sarcasm.

  “Don’t expect me to call you ‘sir’ and kiss your arse until you’re at least a chief inspector.”

  “Do you know where the expression ‘kiss my arse’ comes from?”

  “No idea. But why do I have a feeling you’re about to tell me?”

  “The Duc de Vendôme, a seventeenth-century French aristocrat, used to receive his courtiers even when he was sitting on the loo, and after he’d wiped his bottom, one of them rushed forward and kissed it, saying, ‘Oh noble one, you have the arse of an angel.’”

  “Much as I’d like to be reinstated as a sergeant,” said Jackie, “I wouldn’t be willing to go that far.”

  “As long as you don’t call me Bill,” said William, as he slumped back in the passenger seat.

  Jackie drove out of the car park onto Victoria Street and headed for Pimlico as William closed his eyes. Only a year ago, when Constable Warwick had first joined the team, she had been a detective sergeant, perched firmly on the second rung of the ladder. But now, following the Operation Blue Period fiasco, and the successful return of the Rembrandt to the Fitzmolean, their positions were reversed. Jackie didn’t complain—she was happy to still be part of the commander’s inner team. William began to snore. When Jackie turned the corner she spotted him immediately.

  “It’s Tulip!” she said suddenly, throwing on the brakes and startling William out of his slumber.

  “Tulip?” he said, as his eyes tried to focus.

  “I first arrested him when he was still at school,” said Jackie, as she jumped out of the car. William could only make out her blurred figure running across the road toward an unlit alley where a young black man carrying a Tesco shopping bag was passing something to another man, whose face was well hidden in the shadows.

  Suddenly William was wide awake, adrenaline replacing alcohol. He leaped out of the car and followed Jackie, accompanied by the sound of several car horns as he nipped in and out of the traffic. Horns that warned Tulip he’d been spotted. He immediately sped off down the alley.

  William ran past Jackie, who was handcuffing the other man. But he already knew this wasn’t going to be the night for overtaking someone about the same age as himself. Street dealers rarely drink, and few of them take drugs, because they know it could cost them their job. Even before Tulip turned the corner, leaped on a black Yamaha motorbike, and roared away, William had accepted that he wasn’t going to catch him. He reluctantly came to a halt at the end of the passageway, steadied himself against a lamppost, bent down, and was violently sick all over the pavement.

  “Disgusting,” muttered an elderly gentleman, as he hurried by.

  William was only relieved he wasn’t in uniform. He eventually straightened himself up and made his way slowly back down the alley, to find Jackie reading the prisoner his rights. William followed them unsteadily across the road, and managed on a second attempt to open the rear door of the car, allowing Jackie to shove the prisoner onto the backseat.

  William joined her in the front, and tried not to be sick again as the car swung around and headed for the nearest police station. Jackie knew the location of London nicks the way cab drivers know hotels. She came to a halt at the back of Rochester Row police station, grabbed her charge and was escorting him toward the custody area before William had even got out of the car.

  Some prisoners scream in protest, letting out a stream of invective that would turn the night air purple, while others are spoiling for a fight and need a couple of burly coppers to keep them under control. But the majority meekly bow their heads and say nothing. William was relieved that this one clearly fell into the bowed-head category. But he’d learned after only a few weeks on the job that while users are often ashamed, dealers never are.

  The custody sergeant looked up as the three of them approached the desk. Jackie produced her warrant card and told him why she had arrested the prisoner, and about his lack of cooperation after he’d been cautioned. The sergeant took a custody record and a pro
perty sheet from below the counter, so he could take down the prisoner’s details before he was placed in a cell overnight. After he’d entered the words two wraps of white powder, he turned to the prisoner and said, “Right, lad, let’s start with your full name.”

  The prisoner remained resolutely silent.

  “I’ll ask you once again. What’s your name?”

  The prisoner continued to stare defiantly across the counter at his interrogator, but still said nothing.

  “This is the last time I’m going to ask you. What’s—”

  “I know his name,” said William.

  * * *

  “And you still remembered him, after all these years?” said Beth, as he climbed into bed later that night.

  “You never forget the first crime you solve,” William replied. “I was responsible for Adrian Heath being expelled from our prep school after I proved he’d been stealing Mars bars from the tuck shop. So no one was surprised when I joined the police force, though some of his friends never forgave me. I wasn’t Choirboy then, just a sneak.”

  “I feel rather sorry for him,” said Beth, as she turned off the bedside light.

  “Why?” asked William. “He’s obviously gone from bad to worse, just as my father predicted he would.”

  “It’s not like you to be so judgmental,” said Beth. “I’d like to know what happened during the years after you lost contact with him, before I jump to any rash conclusions.”

  “I’m unlikely to find out, as Lamont’s almost certain to take me off the case.”

  “Why would he do that, when you might be the one person Adrian would be willing to talk to?”

  “You can’t afford to become personally involved with a suspect,” William said. “It’s a golden rule for any police officer.”

  “Didn’t stop you getting personally involved with Christina Faulkner,” said Beth, as she turned away from him.

  William didn’t respond. He still hadn’t told Beth that Christina had been in touch with him again.

  “I’m sorry,” Beth whispered, turning back toward William and kissing the jagged red scar that had never quite faded, physically or mentally. “If you hadn’t turned her into a friend, we might never have got the Rembrandt back. Which reminds me, we’ve got a fundraiser at the gallery tomorrow night, and although your attendance isn’t compulsory, I’d like you to come. Not least because some of the older ladies rather fancy you.”