Hidden in Plain Sight

by Jeffrey Archer

  * * *

  “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 November 12. “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 defense 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 gray 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 pleased with herself.

  “Spit it out,” said Lamont.

  “A word MM heard several times that night was ‘caravan.’”

  “We’re either being set up, or that man’s worth his weight in gold.”

  “But it’s not all good news,” said Jackie. “Now Tulip’s back on the streets again, he’s been back to the Three Feathers looking for Heath.”

  “That’s all we need,” said the Hawk.

  16

  “The second day of any stakeout is always the worst,” said Jackie.

  “Why?” asked William, keeping his binoculars trained on the entrance to the harbor.

  “On the first day it’s easy enough to keep your concentration, but by the second, the thrill of the chase and the sense of anticipation are beginning to wear off.”

  “And by the third?”

  “Boredom sets in. Your eyelids get heavier and heavier, and you struggle to stay awake. But at least that’s better than having to listen to your dreadful stories, which would send an insomniac to sleep. I’ll bet Beth doesn’t have to count sheep at night.”

  “At least this time we know exactly what we’re looking for,” said William, ignoring the barb. “Unlike your trip to Guildford in search of a stolen Picasso that turned out not to exist.”

  “Don’t remind me,” said Jackie. “On this occasion the harbormaster couldn’t have been more helpful. There are only two vehicle ferries arriving from Zeebrugge today, both Townsend Thoresen, and as we’re looking for a car with a caravan in tow, it shouldn’t be too difficult to identify, although we’ll still need to check the number plate of every car, just in case.”

  “Where did the three caravans we spotted yesterday end up?”

  “One went to a caravan park in the New Forest where its owner lives. The second is on its way to Scotland, and according to the Police National Computer the third is owned by the Reverend Nigel Oakshot of The Rectory, Sandhurst, Berkshire. We decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  William laughed. “When’s the first ferry due today?”

  “The Anthi Marina should dock around eleven twenty, and will be unloading at RoRo one or two. We won’t go anywhere near the dockside until she comes into view. We don’t want to be spotted by one of the customs of
ficers under surveillance with the anti-corruption unit. What are you reading?” she asked, looking down at the book resting in William’s lap and wondering if he had been listening to a word she was saying.

  “The history of Felixstowe docks.”

  “I bet that’s a page-turner.”

  “Did you know that the surrounding land is owned by Trinity College, Cambridge, and is one of its most valuable assets?”

  “Fascinating.”

  “The college bursar at the time, a Mr. Tressilian Nicholas, purchased the thirty-eight-hundred-acre site on behalf of the college in 1933, along with a road that led to the then-derelict docks. His successor, a Mr. Bradfield, spotted its potential, and it’s now the largest port in Britain, and makes the college a small fortune.”

  “I can’t wait to hear the end of this story,” said Jackie.

  “Lord Butler.”

  “Who he?”

  “A former cabinet minister, and master of Trinity,” replied William, who began reading directly from the book: “‘Butler asked Bradfield at a finance meeting if he realized that the college owned a tin mine in Cornwall that hadn’t shown a return since 1546, to which the bursar famously replied, “You’ll find, master, that in this college, we take the long view.”’”

  “I’m also taking the long view,” said Jackie, as she spotted the Anthi Marina coming over the horizon. “If yesterday’s anything to go by, she should be with us in about forty minutes. We’d better get going if we’re to secure our preferred lookout point.”

  William put on his seatbelt as Jackie switched on the car engine and drove slowly down Bath Hill toward the docks. She parked at the same spot in which they’d spent so many fruitless hours the previous day. At least the last ferry had docked shortly after ten, making it possible for them to check in to a seedy little B&B on the seafront before midnight. The landlord had seemed surprised when they booked separate rooms.

  Once Jackie had parked the car well out of sight, the two of them sat in married silence, as they watched the ship inch its way slowly into the port.

  They didn’t have to wait long for the first vehicle to emerge onto the dockside. Jackie, binoculars in hand, read out each number plate to Paul who had been patiently waiting for their call in the basement of Scotland Yard. William, being a belt and braces man, also wrote them down in his notebook. There was no sign of a caravan by the time the last car had cleared customs. Jackie lowered her binoculars and asked, “What time is the next ferry due in?”

  “Two fifty,” said William, running a finger down the schedule. “Saxon Prince.”

  “More than enough time for lunch. Fish and chips?”

  “Not again. That’s what we had yesterday.”

  “And will tomorrow, if I have my way,” said Jackie. “Golden rule. When you’re stuck in a port doing surveillance, always eat the local catch. It’s a lot fresher than the cod fricassee that ends up at the Ritz. And you should know, you go there often enough.”

  “Only twice,” said William. “But what if we’re stuck here for the rest of the week?”

  “I’ll settle for a kebab,” replied Jackie, as she swung the car around and headed for the chippy that had been recommended by the desk sergeant at the local constabulary.

  “Always a good sign,” said Jackie, as she parked the car and they joined a long queue waiting outside the shop.

  * * *

  DC Adaja spent his lunch break checking all the number plates Jackie had supplied on the PNC. A few parking fines, some speeding tickets, one drink-driving offense, and a woman who’d been caught going through a red light, been fined twenty pounds and had two penalty points added to her license. When Paul radioed to tell Jackie the results, she poured some more vinegar on her cod and said, “Naughty girl.”

  Once they’d finished their lunch—eaten out of a newspaper as they walked along the seafront—Jackie and William drove back to their vantage point on the clifftop.

  After they had been staring out to sea in silence for half an hour, Jackie drew her sword from its sheath a second time. “Are you still hoping to make inspector?” she asked.

  “Why ask me that question when you already know the answer?”

  “Because there are only two types of sergeant in the Met, and you obviously fall into the second category, those who hope to be promoted.”

  “And the first category?”

  “By far the larger of the two,” said Jackie. “Old sweats, who’ve worked out that if you’re promoted to inspector you can no longer claim overtime. That’s why the Met has so many forty-to-fifty-year-old sergeants serving out their time. A lot of them are making far more than their superiors, and at the same time they’re causing a logjam that prevents others like me from getting off the bottom rung of the ladder. Truth is, it’s easier to be promoted to inspector than sergeant.”

  It was the first time William had heard Jackie sounding bitter about anything. “If we put Rashidi behind bars,” he said, “I’m sure it won’t be long before you’re sewing three stripes back on your uniform.” He immediately regretted his words, as they would only remind Jackie that he had been made up to sergeant following her demotion.

  “Mind you,” said Jackie, “I must admit that overtime allowances have made it possible for me to enjoy a few of life’s little luxuries. Although I sometimes wonder if the public are aware just how many officers are sitting around in coaches parked in backstreets just in case a protest march gets out of hand.”

  “It’s a price worth paying,” said William. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed Russian riot police don’t sit around in coaches if the public even think about protesting.”

  “And on that note, Choirboy, I’m going to try and grab some kip. Wake me up when our next ship comes in.”

  She leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes, and had fallen asleep within minutes. William wished he could do that, but his mind refused to rest even at night. He stared out at the empty gray sea, and thought about Beth. God, he’d been lucky, and it wouldn’t be long now before they were a family of three. Even more reason to hope that the promotion Jackie had hinted at wasn’t too far away. He thought about becoming a father. If it was a boy he could open the batting for England, while his daughter could be the first woman director of the National Gallery.

  His mind turned to Miles Faulkner whose trial would open at the Bailey next week. So much rested on Adrian Heath’s evidence. William had been interested to hear from his sister that Booth Watson had phoned their chambers earlier in the week offering to plead guilty to the lesser charge of possession, if the Crown would drop the more serious offense of intent to supply. He wasn’t surprised when Grace told him that their father had politely rejected the offer. His thoughts turned next to Khalil Rashidi. After he’d left Tea House at midday that Monday, he’d taken the tube to Stockwell, and then changed onto the Victoria Line ending up in Brixton, where DC Adaja was waiting for him. Paul had made no attempt to shadow him when he’d emerged from the station, but returned to the Yard on the next train. When Lamont demanded to know why, Paul explained that Rashidi had been met outside the station by half a dozen heavies who kept checking in every direction to make sure no one was following him. At least they now knew which borough Rashidi’s slaughter must be in, but they were no nearer to locating it in what was virtually a no-go area, although the police would never admit it. Perhaps Jackie’s UCO would finally be able to solve that particular problem.

  Next, William thought about Lamont, whose wavelength he still hadn’t managed to get onto. The superintendent didn’t bother to disguise the fact that he still thought of him as a choirboy, and Paul as an immigrant. And finally, the Hawk, who soared above them all.

  William snapped back into the real world when he spotted a dot on the horizon. He waited until he could make out the name Saxon Prince on its bow before he woke Jackie. She was wide awake within moments, as if she’d never been asleep, something else he wished he could do.

  “Saxon Prince is making its way in
to the harbor,” he said.

  “Do please be on this one,” muttered Jackie plaintively, as she switched on the car engine.

  They drove back down Bath Hill and returned to their favored surveillance point, which allowed them a perfect view of the ship as it entered the harbor, without being too conspicuous. It wasn’t long before the first vehicle drove down the ramp.

  Once again Jackie, her binoculars focused on the cars as they headed toward customs, passed the details of each number plate on to Paul back at the Yard.

  Suddenly she said in a far more animated voice, “I don’t believe it! Get the guv’nor on the radio, Paul, sharpish.”

  She handed the binoculars to William, who focused on a Volvo as it proceeded slowly along the dockside. He now had the answer to his unanswered question, and wondered how Lamont would react. He passed the binoculars back to Jackie.

  The next voice they heard over the radio said sharply, “What’s the problem, Jackie?”

  “A Volvo towing a caravan has come off the ferry and is heading toward customs, sir.”

  “And?” said Lamont impatiently.

  “You’re not going to believe this, sir, but MM is behind the wheel, and Tulip is sitting next to him in the passenger seat.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “In the queue waiting to clear customs. But as I’m his liaison officer, I’m not quite sure what I should do next?”

  “Hold on. Don’t let them out of your sight while I have a word with the boss.”

  The encrypted radio was silent for so long that, if it hadn’t been for the occasional crackle, Jackie might have thought she’d lost contact. At last they heard the unmistakable voice of the Hawk. Brief and to the point.

  “Are you certain, DC Roycroft?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said firmly, her binoculars still focused on the Volvo.

  “Are they still in the queue?”

  “No, sir. A customs officer is checking the car, and another one is chatting to Tulip. Now they’re smiling and waving the car through.” She paused for a moment. “A couple more minutes, sir, and we’ll lose them,” she said, trying to keep her foot off the accelerator.