Hidden in Plain Sight Read online

  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 honored. 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 honor 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 honors 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 honors committee,” whispered Sir Julian.

  * * *

  “Care for a slice of Black Forest gâteau, superintendent?” asked Commander Hawksby.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Lamont.

  “How about you, DC Roycroft?”

  “Always been one of my favorites,” 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.

  5

  “Detective Sergeant Warwick,” he said, after picking up the phone on his desk.

  “I now know the name of the person you’re looking for,” said a voice he immediately recognized. “But it’s going to cost you a ton for starters.”

  “A hundred pounds?” said William. “For that, I’d expect him to be sitting at my desk signing a confession.”

  “Not this time,” said Adrian. “And for another hundred, I’ll tell you where you can find him every Friday afternoon at five o’clock.”

  “Where shall we meet?” said William, as another phone began to ring.

  “The lower room of the Salt Tower in the Tower of London. Next Wednesday at eleven.”

  “You’re needed on this line,” shouted Jackie, cupping a hand over the receiver. “Sharpish!”

  “And I’ll expect to see the cash before I even consider revealing his name, or where you’ll find him on a Friday afternoon at five.”

  “I don’t think she’ll hold on much longer,” said Jackie.

  “Otherwise all you’ll be seeing is the Crown Jewels, and that’ll cost you fifty pence.” The line went dead. William slammed down the receiver, shot across the room, and grabbed the phone from Jackie’s outstretched hand.

  “Detective Sergeant Warwick,” he repeated.

  “Detective Sergeant?” said a voice that sounded as if she didn’t expect to be kept waiting.

  “Christina?” said William, trying not to sound surprised.

  “Miles will be hosting a dinner party for nine close friends at Limpton Hall on May the seventeenth. Eight o’clock.”

  “Do you know the names of any of these close friends?” asked William, as he opened his pocket book.

  Another line went dead.

  “You hang about for ages waiting for a bus to appear,” said William, “and then two turn up at the same time.”

  “I’m all ears,” said Lamont.

  “My contact claims he knows the name of the Viper, and where he goes at five o’clock every Friday afternoon, but he expects a couple of hundred for the information.”

  “Worth every penny,” said Lamont to William’s surprise, before adding, “if, one, he’s telling the truth, and two, his information turns out to be kosher.”

  “Do you want to risk it, guv’nor?”

  “It’s your call, DS Warwick. But if you decide to go ahead, I’ll have to get clearance from the commander before I can release that kind of money. And he’ll want to be sure you don’t hand over a penny before your snout’s given you the information. Never forget, your old school chum isn’t your friend, and he never will be. But that do
esn’t mean you don’t stick to your side of the bargain. You’ll have to, if you’re going to secure his trust. And the other call?”

  “Christina Faulkner. She says her husband’s planning a dinner party for nine guests at Limpton Hall on May the seventeenth.”

  “I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that little soirée,” said Lamont. “But even you won’t be able to pull that off.”

  “No, but we could be somewhere nearby to check out the guest list.”

  * * *

  “What are you up to today, dare I ask?” said Beth as William climbed out of bed.

  “I’m visiting the Tower of London.”

  “Are you expecting someone to steal the Crown Jewels?”

  “No, but I am hoping to come away with a couple of gems,” he replied, before disappearing into the bathroom. He turned on the hot water as he prepared to shave. He planned to be at the Tower by ten thirty, so he would be waiting for his old school chum long before he appeared. But first he would have to call in at the Yard and collect the two hundred pounds Hawksby had reluctantly authorized.

  “If you fail to come back here with a name and address, or it turns out to be a false lead, I’ll deduct every last penny from your pay packet.”

  As a detective sergeant’s salary was less than three hundred pounds a week, the thought wasn’t exactly appealing. He would like to have said, “You must be joking,” but he knew the Hawk didn’t joke about money.

  After breakfast, he and Beth caught a bus to Kensington before going their separate ways: Beth on foot to the Fitzmolean, while William took the tube to St. James’s Park. He glanced at the Daily Mail front-page photograph of Princess Diana with her two young sons before disappearing down the steps into the underground. As he sat on the train he thought about Beth, and couldn’t wait for her to be pregnant. But at the moment, she considered the Fitzmolean her first priority.

  The super was sitting at his desk when William walked into the office. Two neat piles of ten-pound notes were stacked in front of him. William was surprised by how slim the two cellophane packets were. He sat down opposite Lamont, who slowly counted out the notes, “… eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” then placed them back in their packs, opened a drawer in his desk, and extracted the inevitable form, which he handed to William.

  William read the carefully worded document twice, before returning to a paragraph that was highlighted in bold capitals: ANY CHARGE OF MISUSE OF FUNDS COULD RESULT IN A PRISON SENTENCE OF UP TO TEN YEARS. He signed the release form, and DC Adaja added his signature as a witness. Lamont retained a carbon copy for his records before handing over the cash.

  William tucked the money into an inside pocket of his jacket and left without another word. Once he was on the move, he found himself regularly touching the pocket to be sure the money was still there.

  During the underground journey to Tower Hill, he sat at the far end of the carriage and reread the official guide to the Tower of London, glancing up each time another passenger came anywhere near him. Jackie had warned him that only the most seasoned pickpockets worked the London underground.

  After twenty minutes he emerged into bright sunlight. William stood on the pavement for a moment to admire the ancient fortress, perched incongruously on a grassy mound surrounded by modern glass buildings that he doubted Sir Christopher Wren would have approved of. Sir Thomas More, Guy Fawkes, and Anne Boleyn had spent the last nights of their lives in the Tower’s cells before being executed. If he returned to the Yard with nothing to show for his two hundred pounds, he might have to join them. He was only relieved he could no longer be drawn and quartered.

  William walked the short distance to the Tower’s walls, where he joined a queue of eager tourists waiting at the East Gate entrance. When he reached the front, he handed over fifty pence in exchange for a ticket. The small group of visitors joined their guide, a Yeoman Warder, dressed in his traditional navy and red tunic and wearing the distinctive Beefeater’s hat. He shepherded his flock out onto the battlements while giving a running commentary. He informed them that work on the Tower had been started in 1078 by William the Conqueror, to keep his Norman invaders safely out of reach of the vengeful locals. A squawking raven landed nearby to remind them that as long as there were ravens resident at the Tower, England would be safe from invading infidels. As they approached the Jewel House, the guide declared, as if reading their thoughts, “Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for, a chance to see the twenty-three thousand five hundred seventy-eight precious gems of incalculable value which make up the Crown Jewels.”

  “Who owns them?” someone asked.

  “Her Majesty the Queen,” came back the immediate reply.

  “Not the people?” inquired an American voice.

  “No,” said the warder. “They pass from monarch to monarch, so no politician will ever be able to get their hands on them.”

  The first thing William noticed as they headed for the jewel room was that there wasn’t a guard in sight, while their guide must have been over sixty, and was somewhat portly. But then, as the guidebook confidently stated, no one had escaped from the Tower in almost a thousand years.

  But William wasn’t a tourist, and today was not one for admiring state treasures, so he discreetly peeled off from the group and followed the signs for the upper and lower Salt Tower. He walked down the slope toward the Queen Elizabeth Arch and slipped into an unlit vault that had been added in the late 1230s as part of Henry III’s curtain wall that surrounded the fortress. The small octagonal stone room was empty, and of little interest to anyone except the most ardent historian.

  William knew that Bess of Hardwick had been imprisoned in the Salt Tower for supposedly practicing witchcraft, and wondered if that was what Adrian had in mind. He sat down in a stone alcove that afforded him a good view of the entrance, so he wouldn’t be taken by surprise.

  One or two tourists stuck their heads inside but, after a glance, quickly moved on to more promising possibilities. William heard the tower clock strike eleven, but then he’d never expected Adrian to be on time. He patted the two wads of notes in his breast pocket once again as he waited for his informer to appear.

  He looked up to see a familiar figure standing in the archway. His eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal, until he spotted William. He walked quickly across to join him, and before he’d even sat down, said, “Did you bring the money?”

  “Every penny,” said William, extracting the corner of one of the cellophane packets to reveal the crisp new notes, which brought a smile to Heath’s face. He blinked as the money disappeared back into William’s pocket.

  “First, the name,” said William calmly.

  “Khalil Rashidi.”

  “Have you ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “Then how can you be sure he’s the one they call the Viper?”

  “Maria had a brief fling with him. That’s how we met.”

  “And you trust her?”

  “She’s the only person I do trust.”

  William recalled Lamont’s words: Never forget, your old school chum isn’t your friend, and he never will be. But that doesn’t mean you don’t stick to your side of the bargain. You’ll have to, if you’re going to secure his trust. He extracted one of the cellophane packets and handed it to Heath. It disappeared instantly.

  “What about the other hundred?” said Heath.

  “Not before you tell me where Rashidi goes at five o’clock every Friday afternoon.”

  “Number 24 The Boltons.”

  “Is that where he lives?”

  “No idea. That wasn’t part of our bargain. Pay up.”

  William extracted the second package and handed it over. “If your information isn’t kosher,” he said, “I’ll personally drag you back here, put you on the rack, and I’ll be the one tightening the screws.”

  “That’s not very friendly,” said Heath, “considering I’m working on something even bigger for my old school chum.”


  “Any clues?” said William, trying hard not to sound excited.

  “Not yet. But if I pull it off, I’ll need enough money for me and Maria to disappear.”

  “Disappear to where?” asked William. But Heath, unlike Bess of Hardwick, had already escaped.

  6

  “Brazil would be my bet,” said William.

  “Why Brazil?” asked Lamont.

  “Heath let slip during our first interview that his girlfriend came from there.”

  “Two and two don’t always make four,” said the Hawk. “But if his first two pieces of intel turn out to be accurate, your old school chum might prove invaluable in the long run.”

  “And expensive.”

  “Not if Khalil Rashidi turns out to be for real,” said Lamont.

  “He’s real enough,” said William. “However, according to Interpol, that’s not the name on his birth certificate, but it’s certainly the one he goes by nowadays.”

  “You still need to convince me that it was money well spent,” said Hawksby. “What else do we know about him?”

  “He was born in Marseilles in 1945,” began William, checking the Interpol report. “His father was an Algerian farm laborer who fought alongside the French Resistance during the Second World War, and was killed by the Germans only weeks before hostilities ended.”

  “And his mother?”

  “The daughter of a local politician from Lyons, who didn’t acknowledge his grandson until he was awarded a place at the Sorbonne, from which he graduated with honors.”

  “And after that?”

  “He attended business school in Paris, and like so many second-generation immigrants—” Adaja raised an eyebrow—“he worked a damn sight harder than his indigenous rivals, which resulted in him being snapped up by the Lyons tea importers, Marcel and Neffe. After just three years, at the age of twenty-seven, he was posted to the company’s Algiers office as regional director, the youngest in the firm’s history.”

  “How did that work out?” asked Hawksby.

  “He resigned without explanation after a couple of years, and no one at Marcel and Neffe was quite sure why, because he’d doubled the company’s profits during that period.”