Archer, Jeffrey - Hidden in Plain Sight

‘But one of your colleagues has already picked it up,’ said Tim, pointing to an empty space on the wall.

‘One of my colleagues? What are you talking about?’

‘Alex Drummond,’ said Tim nervously. ‘He said you were in New York.’

‘I was, but I caught the red-eye, and came straight to the gallery from the airport. And I can assure you, there’s no one at Christie’s called Alex Drummond.’

An embarrassed silence followed before Beth said calmly, ‘Faulkner’s done it again. And this time he didn’t even have to put in a bid for the painting.’ After a moment’s pause, she added, ‘I should have asked him how he knew . . .’

‘Knew what?’ demanded the director.

‘That I was Mrs Warwick, when you introduced me as Beth.’

‘And that box he had with him,’ said Knox, thumping his leg in anger. ‘The painting fitted in so neatly.’

‘Far too neatly,’ said Beth. ‘But then it was supplied by the previous owner.’

‘But Faulkner’s in jail,’ said Davage.

‘That wouldn’t stop him issuing orders to his flunkies on the outside,’ said Beth. ‘Like the so-called Alex Drummond.’

‘This isn’t the time to stand around chatting about what fools we’ve made of ourselves,’ said Tim. ‘Beth, you’d better call your husband immediately, and tell him what’s happened.’

Beth walked slowly back to her office, clinging onto the banister. She feared the lady in The White Lace Collar would already be in the arms of another.

28

THROW AWAY THE KEY, screamed the Sun ’s banner headline.

The team sat around the table in the commander’s office, perusing the morning papers. William had chosen the Sun because Beth wouldn’t allow him to have it in the house. Half a million pounds in cash, thirty arrests and five kilos of cocaine discovered in a Brixton drugs den. Beth would have pointed out that Brixton was about the only word in the article that was accurate.

Jackie was reading the Daily Mail . MET ARREST LEADING DRUG BARON IN MIDNIGHT RAID. A flattering photo of the commander adorned the front page. Profile, page sixteen.

Lamont had settled for the Express . A VIPER TRAPPED IN HIS NEST! ran the headline, above a photo of Rashidi being dragged out of the building by two armed police officers.

The Hawk was reading the Guardian ’s leader, ‘War on Drugs’, while Paul was the only one who didn’t appear to be enjoying the morning’s press coverage.

‘That’s enough self-indulgence for one day,’ said the Hawk finally. ‘Time to move on.’

‘Great coverage, though,’ said Lamont, tossing the Express back on the pile in the centre of the table. ‘Even if, search as I did, I couldn’t find a single mention of DC Adaja and the pivotal role he played in the whole operation.’

‘It’s bound to be in the small print somewhere,’ said the commander, masking a smile, ‘if one had the time to look for it.’

Paul bowed his head and made no attempt to respond.

‘Did you witness the sad event, DS Warwick?’

‘No, sir,’ said William. ‘The last time I saw DC Adaja he was still on the bus.’

‘Which is where he should have stayed,’ said Lamont.

‘How about you, Jackie?’

‘The whole tragic incident unfolded right in front of me, sir. DC Adaja jumped off the bus before it had even come to a halt. He hit the ground running, but unfortunately he tripped and fell. Luckily, I was able to drag him to one side so he wasn’t trampled on in the stampede that followed. I shouted “Officer down!” and an ambulance appeared within minutes and immediately whisked him off to A&E at St Thomas’s.’

‘And once they’d examined the patient, what was the diagnosis?’ asked the commander, barely able to keep a straight face.

They all turned to face Paul.

‘A sprained ankle,’ he eventually managed. ‘Truth is, I played absolutely no part in the success of the operation.’

‘You most certainly did,’ said the Hawk. ‘Don’t forget the hours you spent tracking Rashidi. And, frankly, without your input the whole operation might never have got off the ground.’

The rest of the team began to bang the table with the palms of their hands in recognition of the role Paul had played, and within moments the familiar grin reappeared on his face.

The Hawk turned to William. ‘DS Warwick, I’m puzzled to know how you got that black eye.’

‘One of Rashidi’s thugs punched me in the heat of battle,’ said William proudly. ‘But it was worth it, because I arrested and charged the little bastard.’

‘It certainly was,’ said the Hawk. ‘In fact, that particular little bastard was Marlboro Man.’

William was momentarily stunned, but quickly recovered. ‘Are you telling me your UCO was in the slaughter the entire time?’

‘The entire time. In fact, when you arrested him, he was trying to let you know which one was Rashidi.’

‘Then I’m blind, as well as stupid,’ said William. ‘So where is he now?’

‘Pentonville, where he’ll stay put for the next few weeks while he awaits trial.’

‘That’s a bit rough, isn’t it?’

‘Not when he’s still got work to do, which is why he’s on the same block as Rashidi.’

‘But if Rashidi were to suss him out . . .’

‘Why should he? He only knows MM as a loyal lieutenant who tried to help him escape. We’re rather hoping that while he’s on the inside he’ll be able to gather enough evidence for us to nail the rest of the bastards.’

‘But won’t it look suspicious when he’s found not guilty?’

‘He won’t be. He’ll be found guilty of the possession of a couple of reefers, sentenced to six months, and sent back to Pentonville.’

‘What about actual bodily harm?’ said William, pointing to his black eye.

‘He’ll probably get a couple of months knocked off for that,’ said the Hawk. DC Adaja laughed. ‘No. MM will be transferred to an open prison after a few weeks, and released soon afterwards so he can get back to work. But not before he’s taken a holiday somewhere warm.’

Jackie smiled. She even knew where.

‘Quite right too,’ said Lamont. ‘No more than he deserves.’

‘Agreed,’ said the Hawk. ‘Now, let me bring you up to date following my meeting with the commissioner.’

‘ASHES TO ASHES,’ intoned the priest.

Miles Faulkner showed little interest as the body of his mother was lowered into the grave. After all, he hadn’t spoken to the damn woman in years, and he had more important things on his mind. Christina had kept her part of the bargain once she’d signed the post-nuptial, as Booth Watson described the contract. She would receive a thousand pounds a week as long as she made no attempt to contact him, and was well aware that the payments would cease if she so much as crossed his path.

Miles never told his friends or business associates that he was the son of a railway porter, who fortunately had died before he’d won his scholarship to Harrow, and that his mother was a hairdresser from Chelmsford in Essex, a county he’d never entered since leaving school. Although in truth the only reason he’d been awarded a scholarship to Winston Churchill’s alma mater was because of his background, Harrow trying to appease a recently elected Labour government.

He looked around at the small gathering that circled the grave. Miles recognized none of them, although every one of them knew him.

During the funeral service, three prison guards had sat in the row behind him while another had been posted by the church door. They had removed his handcuffs just before they accompanied him into the church, which hadn’t come cheap. They did their best to melt into the background when he joined the other mourners to witness the burial. The guards were dressed in dark suits, black ties and similarly ill-fitting raincoats, so all the mourners knew who they were. At least they’d had the decency to stand a few paces back while the burial service took place. A police helicopter hovered above them, almost drowning out the vicar’s words.