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.
‘Dust to dust . . .’
The priest was declaring the final blessing when a white Transit van drove slowly through the main gates at the far end of the cemetery. One of the prison guards took a closer look at the van as it trundled slowly past them before coming to a halt some fifty yards away. A sign in large black letters on the side of the van read:
Desmond Leach & Sons
Stone Masons and Engravers
Founded 1963
The senior guard took an even closer interest when the driver jumped down from behind the wheel, walked to the back of the van and unlocked the doors. Moments later a younger man joined him and clambered into the back. All four guards were now watching carefully until they saw the younger man heaving a gravestone out of the van, which the older man took hold of before the two of them lugged it off to the far side of the graveyard.
They turned their attention back to Miles Faulkner, whose head remained bowed as the coffin was lowered into the ground. The priest made the sign of the cross, and as the first spade of earth was thrown onto the coffin three black Norton 750cc motorbikes shot out from the back of the van. Seconds later they skidded to a halt by the graveside, engines turning over.
The senior guard didn’t move, but then he knew what was going to happen in the next thirty seconds. The prisoner turned and began to run towards the centre bike, the only one without a passenger. All three riders wore identical black leather outfits and black helmets, visors down. The two pillion passengers, who were seated on the back of the first and third bike, wore dark-grey suits, white shirts and black ties, identical to the clothing Faulkner was wearing.
Faulkner leapt onto the back of the middle bike, grabbed the proffered helmet with one hand and the waist of the driver with the other. He shouted, ‘Go!’ One of the younger guards leapt at them as the bike took off, but was a moment too late. He rolled over and over, nearly ending up in the grave.
The senior guard stifled a laugh as the motorbikes zigzagged in and out of the gravestones towards a partly concealed pedestrian entrance, which led out onto a busy street. He then walked quickly, but not too quickly, back to his car, climbed in and barked out an order. His driver headed for the main entrance but he knew it would be a hopeless task, because by the time they reached the main
