After writing down Rashidi’s words in his notebook – not something he’d be telling Beth – William went through to the next room, which could only have been Rashidi’s office. Three bulky sports bags were lined up against the far wall. He picked one up, and was surprised at how heavy it was. He put it back on the floor and unzipped it.
He wouldn’t have thought that anything could surprise him after what he’d just witnessed, but the sight of so much money, probably just a single day’s takings, reminded him why modern criminals no longer bother to rob banks, when their victims will hand the cash over to them willingly.
He unzipped the second bag to see still more fifties, twenties and tens neatly stacked in large bundles. He was about to unzip the third when a voice behind him said, ‘I’ll take care of that, DS Warwick.’
He turned to see Superintendent Lamont standing in the doorway.
‘Meanwhile, the commander wants you to report to him immediately.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said William, trying to hide his surprise.
‘And well done, DS Warwick. I know you’ll be pleased to hear that Rashidi’s already on his way to the nearest nick, where a welcoming party awaits him.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said William, as Jackie entered the room.
‘Congratulations, sarge,’ she said. ‘A triumphant night for everyone.’ She paused. ‘Well, everyone except DC Adaja.’
‘Why, what happened to him?’
‘I think it might be better if he told you himself.’
William took one last look at the havoc and squalor of what had once been the heart of Rashidi’s empire. He reluctantly left the boiler room and began to jog down the stone steps, past graffiti-covered walls where one word was repeated again and again. He ignored the stench of urine as he continued on down to the ground floor, passing several handcuffed prisoners who would not be profiting from the drugs trade for a long time, if ever again.
When he emerged onto the street, he took a deep breath of fresh air and watched as another Black Maria that couldn’t accommodate any more occupants was driven away. He walked over to the bus and made his way upstairs to the command centre.
‘What are you doing here, DS Warwick?’ snapped the Hawk. ‘I made it clear that you were not to leave the crime scene until the job was done.’
‘The super has taken over, sir, and he said you wanted to see me.’
‘Did he indeed?’
27
Saturday
IT WASN’T UNTIL the last painting had been stored safely in the hold that the captain gave the order to cast off.
He set out on the voyage to England at least a couple of times a year, always docking in Christchurch, but not tomorrow evening. The Christina slipped out of the bay on Saturday morning in broad daylight without attracting any unwanted attention. But then several far grander yachts were making their way into the harbour to watch the Monte Carlo Grand Prix the following week, so why would anyone give them a second look?
The captain had locked the villa and handed over the keys to the estate agent, along with clear instructions as to which Swiss bank the funds should be deposited in once the sale had been completed.
All the valuables, including the fabled art collection, were already on board, and when they eventually came under the hammer the boss would have more than enough money to begin a new life in any country he chose, while the police would be convinced he was dead and buried.
The Christina would only drop anchor once, to pick up a passenger who would instruct the captain where his next port of call should be.
The voyage around the Bay of Biscay was calmer than usual. As he sailed into the English Channel the following day, a ball of fiery red disappeared in the west, and by the time it reappeared in the east his mission would be accomplished, or he would be on his way back to Monte Carlo.
Sunday
‘The Observer has done you proud, William,’ said Sir Julian, ‘and it’s not always complimentary about the police. And as you’ve never once mentioned Operation Trojan Horse during the past year, it must have been a tightly guarded secret.’
‘Not even Beth knew until she heard about it on the news this morning.’
‘The raid has even made the first leader,’ said Sir Julian. ‘I quote: “The arrest of Assem Rashidi is a genuine breakthrough in the war against drugs, and the Metropolitan Police are to be congratulated on their relentless pursuit of these ruthless criminals who do so much harm to our society.” ’ He looked up from behind the paper. ‘There’s a photograph of Commander Hawksby sitting on a bus. Not his normal mode of transport, I suspect.’ He put down the paper and looked across at his son. ‘You don’t appear to be overwhelmed by your triumph.’
‘The press only has one side of the story.’
‘And the other side?’
‘Isn’t quite as commendable. In fact, it’s something I need to seek your guidance on.’
‘Take me through your concerns slowly, and don’t leave anything out,’ said his father, as he sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, as he always did during a consultation.
‘While I was in the slaughter—’
‘Slaughter?’
‘Boiler room, drugs factory . . . I came across three sports bags filled with cash – hundreds, possibly thousands, of pounds. By the time I got back to the Yard, there were only two.’
‘And you think you know who removed the third bag?’
‘I’m in no doubt who did. But I can’t prove it.’
‘Can’t have been anyone particularly bright, that’s for sure,’ said Sir Julian.
‘What makes you say
