‘The CPS have given us a date for the Faulkner trial,’ said Sir Julian. ‘November the twelfth at the Old Bailey.’
Grace turned the pages of her diary, and crossed out the three weeks following 12 November. ‘Less than a month away,’ she said. ‘I still need to take Heath through his evidence one more time.’
‘You can do that when they move him back to London just before the trial.’
‘Will you be putting William on the stand?’
‘No point. Superintendent Lamont will carry considerably more weight in the eyes of the jury, and Dr Lewis is such a highly respected expert witness on drugs that I expect the defence won’t even bother to cross-examine her. In fact, I have a feeling it won’t be long before Booth Watson gets in touch and tries to make a deal on behalf of his client.’
‘And if he does, how will you respond?’
‘I’ll tell him to get lost.’
‘The Crown,’ said Grace, ‘sees no reason to make any concessions at this particular time, but thank you for calling, BW.’
Grace smiled as she watched her father write down her words.
William and Paul watched from the other side of the road as Rashidi stepped out of his Mercedes and entered Tea House at ten minutes past eight the following Monday morning. He was dressed like the chairman of a City company, and the doorman saluted him. DS Warwick then made his way back to Moorgate tube station, but he didn’t head for the escalator and return to Scotland Yard.
Jackie had taught him to remain focused during a stakeout. Lose concentration for even a few seconds, and you could lose your mark. He stood in the concourse for the next four hours, and although he occasionally paced up and down, his eyes never left the well-disguised door. Several people had emerged through it and headed straight for the ticket barrier, but he was confident Rashidi hadn’t been among them. If he did leave by the front entrance of Tea House that morning, Paul was stationed on the other side of the road, and would radio William immediately. He redoubled his concentration when the hands on the station clock both reached twelve.
A few minutes later a man came through the door wearing a baggy dark grey tracksuit, with a hood pulled over his head that kept his face well hidden. He’d passed William before he’d been able to take a closer look at him without staring. The walk was familiar, but William couldn’t risk it on that alone, and it wasn’t until the man presented his ticket at the barrier that William noticed he was wearing black leather gloves. His eyes moved instinctively to the third finger of the left hand.
By the time William had passed through the barrier and stepped onto the escalator, the tracksuited man was already turning left and heading for the southbound platform of the Northern Line.
Once the anonymous tracksuit had disappeared out of sight, William jogged down the escalator, only slowing down when he turned left. He could now see his prey as he reached the platform just as a train emerged from the tunnel, expelling a gust of warm air. He got into the carriage next to Rashidi’s, only once glancing in his direction. He carefully watched the disembarking passengers at each station, until the tracksuit, head still covered, got off at Stockwell.
William remained in his seat. Not part of the overall plan. That would have to wait for another week. The Hawk’s words were ringing in his ears: Take no risks. We’re in it for the long game.
There were six minders in charge of the safe house, all of them on eight-hour shifts. Their instructions were simple. Keep the witness and his girlfriend safe, well fed and, if possible, relaxed. It wasn’t easy to relax when they were never allowed out for more than a short walk around a nearby park, always accompanied by two officers and a German shepherd. It was several days before Adrian or Maria even discovered which city they were in.
As the weeks passed, Adrian got to know one of his minders quite well, bonding over their mutual support for West Ham. But it wasn’t until a fortnight before the trial that he discovered who he really supported.
Back at Scotland Yard, William handed in his report on the trip to Stockwell.
Lamont studied a map of the London underground for a few moments before saying, ‘If Rashidi gets off at Stockwell next Monday, DS Warwick, you’ll be waiting for him outside the station. But if he changes lines and heads for Brixton, you’ll have to cover for him, DC Adaja.’
Both officers nodded and made a note.
‘And Jackie, now that you’re no longer on the game, what have you been up to?’
‘We have a two-bus problem, sir,’ Jackie said after the laughter had died down. Suddenly the team’s attention switched to DC Roycroft. ‘Marlboro Man is convinced that a large shipment of drugs is on its way from Colombia to Zeebrugge. Loose talk by a couple of dealers at the bar, who’d had a little too much to drink.’
‘Any idea of the quantity we’re talking about?’ asked Lamont.
‘He can’t be sure. All he knows for certain is that last time it was ten kilos of cocaine.’
‘That must be the shipment that ended up in Manchester,’ said Lamont. ‘Does he know where it’s heading for after Zeebrugge?’
‘He has no idea.’
‘Felixstowe would be my bet,’ said the Hawk.
‘What makes you say that, sir?’
‘Anti-corruption has two customs officers there under surveillance, and they tell me they’re expecting to make an arrest in the near future.’
‘Then DS Warwick and DC Roycroft had better get their arses down to Felixstowe sharpish,’ said Lamont. ‘And keep an eye on every ship that arrives from Zeebrugge. Well done, DC Roycroft.’
‘I’ve got more,’ said Jackie, looking rather
