Archer, Jeffrey - Hidden in Plain Sight

‘But you told me Miles had informed Christie’s that if they came up for auction, he would be bidding for them.’

‘Only because he was well aware that he’d never have to. Like the deposit on the house, it was all part of an elaborate ploy. And I fell for it.’

‘Then we’ve got to find the pictures and make sure he doesn’t get away with it.’

‘It’s far too late for that. They’ll be halfway around the world by now.’

‘Forgive me for asking,’ said Beth, ‘but does that mean the gallery will have to return the Vermeer?’

‘I don’t have any choice,’ said Christina. ‘Otherwise I’ll lose my deposit on the house in Florida and be completely wiped out.’ She paused. ‘Which is clearly what Miles had always planned.’

Beth didn’t speak for some time, until she eventually said, ‘Unless of course William was able to prove that Miles had removed the pictures before he burnt the house down.’

‘Do you by any chance have any contacts in the SAS, sir?’

‘Thinking of joining up, William?’ asked Hawksby, looking up from behind his desk.

‘Not at the moment, sir.’

‘Then why do you need to know?’

‘I think I may have come up with a way to get into Rashidi’s slaughter without having to take the stairs or the lift.’

‘When I did my national service,’ said the Hawk, ‘my commanding officer was a Major Jock Stewart, who’d played scrum half for the army and boxed for the regiment. But his exploits as a young lieutenant with the SAS during the Second World War are the stuff of fiction. A cross between Biggles and Richard Hannay.’

‘Sounds like the ideal man,’ said William. ‘How do I get in touch with him?’

‘You don’t get in touch with the SAS. They get in touch with you, and then only when they plan to kill you.’

‘Very droll, sir. And if I don’t want to be killed?’

‘Stewart ended up as a colonel in the Coldstream Guards, so their regimental adjutant will probably know how to contact him. But be warned. If he growls, start looking for some undergrowth.’

24

THEY HAD CHOSEN the hour carefully.

He walked along the south wall of the cathedral until he reached the sacristy door. The choir had just sung Matins, and wouldn’t be back until the next service, a christening at two o’clock.

He turned the handle, pushed the heavy door open and entered the cathedral. He knew exactly where he was going, but then he’d carried out this exercise several times before, and for several different supplicants.

‘Good morning, my child,’ he said, as he passed a cleaner in the corridor on his way to the vestry.

‘Good morning, Father,’ she replied, giving him a slight bow. He had learnt over the years that if you look and sound as if you’re in your natural habitat, no one questions your presence.

He disappeared into the vestry, relieved to find the last chorister had left. He went straight to a cubicle that bore the name Father Michael Seed, his confessor, and an old friend he had little in common with except that they were roughly the same size.

He removed his jacket and tie and replaced them with a long black cassock, a surplice, holy bands and a dog collar that would transform him from a layman to a priest for the next hour. He felt a bit of a fraud, but he hoped the Almighty would forgive his transgression, and accept that it was for the greater good.

Glancing in the long mirror on the wall only made him feel even more guilty. He slipped back into the corridor, and made his way through the outer sacristy and into the nave. He kept a steady pace as he passed the Chapel of the Blessed Sacrament, having no desire to stop and talk to any of the parishioners, although he was well-practised at playing the part of a priest going about his pastoral duties should any of them question him.

When he reached a secluded corner below a bronze relief of St Benedict, he stepped into the dark, cramped space, and settled down to wait to hear the confession of the only sinner he had an appointment with.

After a few moments the door to the confessional opened, and someone entered and sat down. He drew the red curtain.

‘Good morning, Father,’ said a voice he immediately recognized.

‘Good morning, my son.’

‘I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last confession, but my life has been in turmoil.’

‘Is there any way I can help?’ asked the commander, replying to the coded message.

‘As you know, when I last attended confession, Father, Tulip was in hospital after swallowing a wrap of cocaine in an attempt to avoid arrest. I confess that I hoped he would die.’

‘That is indeed a mortal sin, my son, but one with which, given the circumstances, I feel our Lord might have some sympathy.’

‘In his absence I became a runner for several dealers, whose names I feel I must share with you, to atone for my transgressions.’

‘May the Lord bless you and keep you.’

A slip of paper was pushed through the latticed screen. The commander took a quick look, and was delighted to find the names of several new sinners he hadn’t come across before.

‘May the Lord have mercy on their souls,’ he said, as he put the slip of paper into an inside pocket. ‘But have you located the viper’s nest?’

‘Tulip’s arrest for the murder of Adrian Heath created a vacancy in the hierarchy, Father, and I was promoted, which happens fairly regularly when you’re on a battlefield.’

‘And?’

‘Block A, Mansfield Towers, Lavenham Road, Brixton,’ came back the immediate reply.

‘That confirms our own intel. Am I also right in thinking that Rashidi’s headquarters are at the top of the building?’

‘The top three floors. The twenty-fifth floor is where they grow the cannabis. The twenty-fourth is where the drugs are prepared for the street dealers. Heroin, cocaine, Ecstasy tablets and cannabis.’

‘And the twenty-third?’

‘The distribution centre. Where the dealers pick up their supplies and hand over their takings.’

‘Who’s in charge?’

‘Rashidi has four deputies. All of them are on the list I just gave you: a disbarred lawyer, a disqualified accountant, a doctor who’s been struck off the medical register, and a former sales manager who was sacked by John Lewis for embezzlement. He makes so much money now he no longer needs to embezzle. Rashidi also has a second-in-commnad, but I haven’t managed to find out his name or where he lives, but I’m fairly sure it’s not in the building. The whole operation is as well run as any City institution.’

‘And the security?’

‘He has four lookouts watching the building at all times. There are two entrances to the slaughter on the twenty-third floor; the front door, which is made of reinforced steel, only opens from the inside, and has a grille so the gatekeeper can check on anyone who wants to come in. The doors are protected by a New York stop, a safety device invented by the Mafia to keep out any unwelcome visitors. However, that’s not your biggest problem. Rashidi doesn’t use that door. He has his own private entrance and exit.’

The commander didn’t interrupt the confession.

‘Blocks A and B are joined by a walkway on the twenty-third floor. Rashidi has a large flat on the twenty-second floor of Block B, so at the slightest hint of trouble, he can be well out of harm’s way before anyone can reach the front door of the slaughter.’

‘What about the lift?’

‘Takes forty-two seconds to reach the twenty-third floor, and is permanently manned by a thug called Pete Donoghue, who’d be on his way up to the slaughter the moment any of the four lookouts spotted anything suspicious. Long before the firearms team had run up twenty-three flights of stairs, broken down the reinforced steel door and forced their way into the slaughter in Block A, Rashidi would be watching television in his flat in Block B, and wouldn’t come out again until the coast was clear.’