Archer, Jeffrey - Hidden in Plain Sight

‘Right,’ said the Hawk, bringing them back to order. ‘We’ve got our bus conductor, now we need a driver.’

‘It has to be Danny Ives,’ said William without hesitation.

‘Along with sixteen handpicked specialist arms officers from PT17,’ said Lamont, ‘who’ll occupy the lower deck, ready to move at a moment’s notice.’

‘However,’ said Paul, ‘the first of them shouldn’t be in uniform or armed to the teeth but in tracksuits and trainers, as they’ll need to take out the four lookouts in under ten seconds, while three other officers tackle Donoghue and commandeer the lift.’

‘By which time a dozen heavily armed passengers will be on their way up the stairs, which is when I’ll call upon the counter-terrorist specialists to play their part.’

‘We’ll also need a dozen WPCs,’ said William, ‘dressed in civilian clothes.’

‘Enlighten me,’ said the Hawk.

‘Rashidi’s lookouts might become suspicious if they see a passing bus entirely packed with fit young men with crew cuts, not on their way home from work but on their way to work. So, I want there to be a scattering of women dressed like housewives, commuters, shoppers – looking like anything but police officers.’

‘Nice touch, William,’ said the commander. ‘But we’ll also have to remove all the seats from the upper deck and set up a command centre from where I can oversee the entire operation. Which leaves me with the problem of how to get my hands on a double-decker bus.’

‘I’m so glad we’ve found something for you to do, sir,’ said Paul, immediately regretting his words.

‘As we have for you, DC Adaja. Because once this operation is over, you’ll be well qualified to apply for a job as a bus conductor. But before then, try not to forget who’ll be conducting the orchestra.’

Once the meeting had broken up and his team had returned to their offices, Hawksby sat back and thought carefully about how he could increase the operation’s chances of success. After a few moments, he pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, took out an unopened Marlboro packet and a felt-tipped pen. He tore off the cellophane wrapping, flicked the pack open and emptied the cigarettes onto his desk.

He removed the foil and thought carefully about the simple message he needed to convey. After a few moments he wrote, 11 p.m., 12th , then put the foil back into place. He closed the top and slipped the pack into an inside pocket, then made his way out of his office and took the lift to the basement. He left by the back entrance of the building, turned right, and headed for Westminster Cathedral. This time he went in by the front door, not as a priest but a parishioner.

He walked slowly down the left-hand aisle, admiring Eric Gill’s Jesus Nailed to the Cross . When he reached his target, he looked around before unlocking the offertory box and placing the cigarette packet in one corner. He then closed the lid and locked it, finally dropping fifty pence through the little slot to assuage his guilt.

He decided to walk home. Quite some distance, but he needed the exercise, and time to think about his speech.

‘Superintendent Lamont has been in touch,’ said Booth Watson, taking a seat opposite his client in the prison’s private consultation room. He opened his briefcase, extracted some papers and placed them on the glass table between them. ‘He’s applied for a production order under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, and he wants to interview you as soon as possible.’

‘So, am I to be transferred to an open prison?’ asked Faulkner. ‘Or is my sentence going to be halved for good behaviour?’

‘Neither. Lamont wants to question you about two other crimes they think you might have been involved in.’

‘Like what?’ said Faulkner.

‘Arson, for starters. They have reason to believe you were responsible for burning down your own home.’

‘While I was locked up in here?’

‘Along with the theft of seventy-two paintings from the house before it was burnt down, valued at approximately thirty million pounds,’ said Lamont, ignoring the outburst.

‘But they went up in smoke with the house.’

‘Lamont doesn’t think so, and claims he can prove it.’

‘Sherlock Holmes couldn’t prove it.’

‘But William Warwick has.’

‘Not that damn man again.’

‘He spent a day raking through the ashes of Limpton Hall, and has found sixty-one picture hooks.’

‘That only proves the paintings were there at the time of the fire.’

‘On the contrary, he says it proves they weren’t. It’s not what he’s found that’s important, but what he didn’t find. And before you say anything, Miles, I suggest you remain silent until you’ve answered a couple of questions I feel sure the superintendent is likely to ask you.’

Faulkner reluctantly held his tongue.

‘If the pictures were hanging on the hooks Warwick found in the rubble, what was holding them up?’

‘Picture wire of course. Except for the larger paintings, which would have needed ch—’ He paused for a few moments before saying, ‘Ah, yes, now I remember. I had them all changed to rope a couple of years ago.’

‘Enough to hang yourself with,’ said Booth Watson, ‘because your ex-wife claims—’

‘It will be her word against mine.’

‘I only wish it was. But unfortunately, Warwick has recently paid a visit to the Fitzmolean, where he found the Vermeer Christina donated to the museum hanging by a steel and brass interwoven picture wire, and both the Rembrandt and the Rubens that you so generously presented to the gallery last year were still hanging on their original brass chains. So, before I fix a date for Superintendent Lamont to question you under caution, Miles, you’d better come up with something more convincing than rope. Otherwise the only way you’ll be getting out of Pentonville will be to face a new trial for arson and the theft of seventy-two paintings worth over thirty million pounds. In which case, your present accommodation could end up being permanent well into the next century.’

26

‘IN AN HOUR’S time the battle will be over, one way or another,’ were the commander’s opening words to his troops on the ground.

The Hawk had assembled a crack team of specialists from every field of law enforcement in the Met’s armoury. They had all played their individual roles on smaller stages across the capital many times, but this was the first time they’d come together to form the biggest gang in town.

The previous night they’d taken part in a dress rehearsal with only the commander sitting in the audience.

At ten o’clock, that wretched hour when more drugs and money change hands than at any other time of the day or night, and well hidden from the public gaze, they had all assembled at Battersea power station. Four fully equipped armoured vehicles, six Black Marias, a dozen squad cars, four ambulances and a double-decker bus. Inside the power station were eighty-three men and women who had been given strict orders to remain silent about where and when this covert army would be assembling the following night, including their colleagues.

The commander surveyed his troops. As with everything else connected with Operation Trojan Horse, he’d gone over his speech again and again.

‘Fellow officers, we are about to take part in one of the biggest operations in the Met’s history. Every one of you was handpicked because you are recognized as the acknowledged leaders in your particular field. Drugs are the scourge of our society, and have caused the biggest rise in crime for decades. They indiscriminately kill the young and the vulnerable, while a small group of ruthless individuals line their pockets, untroubled by the human suffering they’re causing, and arrogantly convinced they’re above the law.