‘Then be sure to change your number plates every week, and to switch taxis if it turns out to be a long journey. I don’t care how many Fridays it takes to locate his slaughter, as long as we eventually do.’
‘Agreed,’ said Lamont. ‘Did we learn anything worthwhile from the photographs?’ he asked as he flicked through them.
‘Only that we’re dealing with an extremely cautious man,’ said William. ‘As you can tell from how little we can see of his face. But the lab did pick up something interesting.’
‘Enlighten me,’ said Hawksby, using one of his favourite expressions.
‘Take a close look at his gloves. Our experts have studied all of the photographs, and they’re convinced that Rashidi is missing part of the third finger of his left hand.’
‘What makes them think that?’
‘Look carefully at the enlargement of frame number forty-six, where he’s embracing his mother on the way out.’
Hawksby took his time studying the blown-up image of a gloved hand.
‘You can see that three of the fingers and the thumb of his left hand are touching his mother’s back, while the third finger of the glove is loose, and not touching anything. If you then look at the enlargement of his right hand on frame fifty-two, all four fingers and the thumb are clearly holding his mother’s arm.’
‘Clever,’ said the Hawk.
‘So is he,’ said William. ‘So we can’t afford to make the slightest mistake.’
‘What are you getting at, DS Warwick?’ asked Lamont.
‘It’s obvious we’re dealing with an exceptionally cunning and cautious man, so we’ll need to always be on our guard, otherwise he’ll lead us up the garden path every Friday afternoon.’
‘Your point, Warwick?’ said the Hawk.
‘We know Rashidi’s a very wealthy man, but he doesn’t turn up to see his mother in a chauffeur-driven car, but in his own anonymous taxi. He has no bodyguards, because he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself or make his mother suspicious. Let’s face it, we’re up against a man who could have chaired a public company, been a cabinet minister, or lectured at the LSE, but preferred to pursue a life of crime.’
‘More profitable than the other three put together,’ said Lamont.
William looked around the table. ‘Remind you of anyone else we know?’
‘We’re up against another Faulkner,’ said the Hawk, letting out a deep sigh.
‘Let’s hope they never come across each other,’ said Jackie.
‘Unless it’s in Pentonville.’
7
EVERY WEEKDAY MORNING around seven thirty, Jackie would take the tube to St James’s Park station, then walk across the road to Scotland Yard. But not on a Thursday.
On a Thursday, she would get off one stop earlier, at Victoria, and make her way up Victoria Street. After a couple of hundred yards she would turn sharp right and cross an open paved square to the south entrance of Westminster Cathedral. She always followed a small group of tourists inside, to be sure no one noticed her.
This Thursday morning, on entering the cathedral she encountered the usual handful of worshippers scattered around the pews, heads bowed, all praying to a God she no longer believed in. Jackie walked slowly down the left-hand aisle, not wanting to draw attention to herself as she admired Eric Gill’s Stations of the Cross stone reliefs, aware that if the great sculptor were alive today, she would have to arrest him. But as the Pope had pardoned Caravaggio for murder, why wouldn’t the Cardinal Archbishop forgive Gill for his indiscretions? After all, there’s no mention of his particular sin in the Commandments.
Jackie stopped when she reached an offertory box placed below a portrait of the Virgin Mary that was illuminated by a dozen recently lit candles. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her before she took a key from her handbag and unlocked the small wooden box, to find a few coins scattered on the bottom. Even less than last week, she thought. Checking once again that no one was watching, she removed an empty Marlboro cigarette packet that was propped up in the corner of the box, and slipped it into her handbag. She then locked the box and strolled on towards the altar. She bowed to the cross, before turning into the right-hand aisle, and passing the remaining Stations of the Cross before she left the cathedral.
Having completed her task, which took less than five minutes, she continued on her way to work. But when she entered the Yard, she didn’t take the lift to her office on the fourth floor, but made her way down to -1, where the darker arts are practised.
Jackie didn’t break her stride as she walked along a well-lit corridor until she reached a door on which CONSTABLE BECKWORTH was printed in neat black letters on pebbled glass.
Jackie knocked on the door and, not waiting for a response, entered, walked across to join PC Beckworth and placed the cigarette packet on her desk. The young constable looked up, showing no hint of surprise. She said nothing, but simply flicked the packet open, deftly removed the inner layer of silver paper, laid it flat on her desk and carefully smoothed out a few creases with the palm of her hand. She then took it across the room to a machine standing in the corner, the top of which she opened before placing the silver paper onto a copper plate. She closed it, turned on a switch which caused a bright light to glow inside the machine, and waited for a moment before lifting the top again. She watched patiently, as apparently random letters began to appear on the silver paper. She then copied the short message onto a small white card, slipped it into an envelope and sealed it before handing it to her once-a-week visitor. Jackie bowed, using the only sign language she knew. PC Beckworth returned the compliment more fluently, before going back to her desk.
As she turned to
