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 afterward 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 made no attempt to contact him once she’d signed the postnuptial, 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 toward the center 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-gray suits, white shirts, and black ties, identical to the clothing Faulkner was wearing.
Faulkner leaped 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 leaped 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 toward 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 road, the bikes would have already covered the first mile. However, the two officers in the helicopter had witnessed exactly what had taken place below them. The compliant guard had already warned Faulkner he had no control over them.
The pilot banked and swept down toward the three bikes, closely following their progress, while his colleague radioed back to the command center in New Scotland Yard to let them know what had happened. Moments later, every patrol car within a five-mile radius had been alerted and began listening to the instructions from the helicopter—something else the three motorcyclists had anticipated.
Once they reached the main intersection, the bikes began a maneuver known as the “three-card trick.” Every few seconds they swapped places, until the pilot in the helicopter no longer could be certain which of the motorbikes Faulkner was on.
When the three bikes reached the next junction, the lead rider turned left, the second turned right, while the third carried straight on.
The pilot decided to follow the one that was heading for the motorway, while giving Scotland Yard the exact locations of the other two, and their direction of travel. The police got lucky. The first of the patrol cars spotted the bike that had gone straight on coming toward them. The driver switched on his siren, swung around, and pursued the suspect, who to their surprise slowed down and came to a halt by the side of the road. The two police officers got out of their car and cautiously approached the suspect.
The rider had removed his helmet long before the two officers reached him, but they were only interested in the passenger. She slowly removed her helmet and smiled warmly at the policemen. “How can I help you, officers?” she asked innocently.
When the second bike reached the motorway, it moved into the outside lane and quickly accelerated away, reaching speeds of well over a hundred miles per hour, while the helicopter stuck with him. When the rider heard the siren, he glanced in his wing mirror to see a police car speeding toward them. He slowed down, moved across to the inside lane, and took the next slip road off the motorway, only to be met by three police cars blocking the exit.
This time the bike was surrounded by a dozen officers, two of them armed. The driver removed his helmet and said, “I don’t think I broke the speed limit, officer.”
“We’re not interested in you,” barked one of the officers, pushing up the pass
enger’s visor to be greeted by a teenager, who gave him a huge grin.
“Yes, you did, Dad, but it was worth it.”
The third motorcyclist slowed down as he approached an underpass. Once the bike was out of sight it skidded to a halt, while a fourth took off like a seamless relay runner, emerging from the tunnel just seconds later. The driver swung left at the next junction and sped away in the opposite direction to the helicopter. His instructions couldn’t have been clearer: lead them a merry dance for as long as you can.
Miles climbed off the back of his motorbike and handed his helmet to the driver.
“Hang around for fifteen minutes, and then drive slowly back the same way you came,” he said, as a Ford Escort entered the underpass and pulled up next to them.
The driver got out and said, “Good morning, sir,” as if he was picking up his boss from the office.
“Morning, Eddie,” Faulkner replied, as his chauffeur opened the front door and he climbed inside.
The Ford Escort emerged from the underpass a few moments later, and when it reached the junction, Eddie turned right. Miles looked out of the back window to see the helicopter flying in the opposite direction.
* * *
The commander opened the thick file in front of him. “First, and most important, Khalil Rashidi is, as you know, safely locked up in Pentonville. You’ll also be glad to hear he was refused bail, so he’ll spend the next six months or so in jail, waiting for his case to be heard. Until then, his lawyer is the only person who’ll be allowed to visit him.”
“Do we have reliable witnesses this time?” asked Lamont.
“The Crown will produce a doctor who’s already under the witness protection scheme and will give detailed evidence as to what Rashidi’s been up to in exchange for a lighter sentence.”
“That’s good news,” said Lamont. “We don’t need another Adrian Heath.”
“I can assure you,” said the Hawk, “this one will be better protected than the Royal Family. And even if he should change his mind at the last moment, we’ve got two other potential witnesses in reserve, whose lawyers are also trying to make deals with the CPS.”
“What about Rashidi’s mother?” asked William.
“She’s locked herself in her home in The Boltons,” said Jackie, “and won’t open the door to anyone.”
“And who can blame her?” said William. “It must have come as a dreadful shock to discover your only son is a notorious drug dealer, and not the respectable chairman of a successful tea company.”
“Ironic really,” said the commander. “If he hadn’t hugged his mother on her doorstep that Friday evening, we might never have been able to identify him.”
“She betrayed her only begotten son,” said William. “But, unlike Judas, she didn’t mean to.”
The commander turned a page. “A total of twenty-seven other suspects have been arrested and charged, including Marlboro Man and four of Rashidi’s closest associates. One who, as I said, is singing like a canary. An added bonus, Jackie arrested another runner who turned up after the raid was over with enough wraps of cocaine on him to make sure he joined the rest of the villains in Pentonville.”
“Did anyone get away?” asked William.
“Thanks to the carpenter and the counter-terrorism officers, it seems unlikely. But three of those who were arrested have been released on bail and are now threatening to sue the police.”
“Let me guess,” said William. “Three of the lookouts?”
“So, what’s their story?” asked Lamont.
“They claim they were walking home peacefully after enjoying a drink at their local when they were attacked without provocation by the police. Their lawyer is threatening us with unlawful arrest and police brutality.”
“Spare me,” said Lamont.
“But if we were to drop the charges, they won’t take the matter any further.”
“Which means they must have previous as long as your arm,” said Jackie.
“You’re right,” said the Hawk. “But, frankly, they’re pretty low down the food chain. This time we’ve caught the shark, so I think we can allow a few minnows to escape.”
“What about the fourth lookout?” asked Lamont.
“He was stoned out of his mind,” said the commander. “He should be in a hospital bed, not a prison cell.”
“And Donoghue?” said William.
“He’s been charged with assaulting a police officer. He was refused bail, and with his record he’s looking at four to six years at least.”
The banging of palms on the table lasted for some time.
“I do have one piece of sad news to report, however,” continued the Hawk. “The lad who so nearly stopped Donoghue, but managed to get hold of his radio—allowing us those vital forty-two seconds—was badly injured, and may have to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.”
“On a constable’s pension,” said William. “Ending up as just another statistic on an internal report and forgotten by the public in a few days. He should get one of those three holdalls full of cash. That’s the least he deserves.”
“Two holdalls,” said Lamont. “The third one was empty, probably waiting to be filled with the rest of the night’s takings.”
“I didn’t open all three of them,” said William, looking directly at Lamont, “but I picked up the third one, and could have sworn it was just as heavy as the other two.”
An uncomfortable silence descended around the table.
“You’re mistaken, DS Warwick,” said Lamont firmly. “It was empty, as DC Roycroft will confirm.”
Jackie gave a perfunctory nod, but didn’t speak.
“Perhaps Marlboro Man is not the only person hoping to spend a long holiday somewhere warm,” said William, unable to restrain himself any longer.
“Watch your tongue, laddie!” barked Lamont. “I’ve already told you, there was nothing in the third bag, so just leave it at that.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the commander. “This is not the way colleagues should behave after such a triumph.”
“Unless one of us has behaved as badly as the criminals,” said William, looking directly at Lamont.
The superintendent rose from his place, clenched his fist, and leaned threateningly across the table just as there was a knock at the door, and the Hawk’s secretary came rushing in.
“Now’s not a good time, Angela,” said the commander.
“It’s just that a Mr. Knox has called from the Fitzmolean to say DS Warwick’s wife has been rushed into hospital.”
William leaped to his feet. “Which hospital?”
“The Chelsea and Westminster.”
“And there was another call I thought you would all want to know about…” But William had already left the office before Angela could pass on the news.
He ran along the corridor, down the stairs, and out onto the street, where he hailed the first taxi he saw.
* * *
A car’s headlights beamed across the water, but only for a brief moment before they were turned off.
The captain gave the command to lower the RIB. Moments later he and a young deckhand climbed into a bobbing motorboat. They began to motor toward the shore, the navigator guiding them toward a narrow inlet—not for the first time—as the captain scanned the water to spot anything that shouldn’t be there. A couple of seagulls squawked above them, clearly enjoying their company, while a flock of sheep on a nearby hill showed no interest.
And then he saw him standing on the beach.
The captain changed direction and headed for the shore.
* * *
“Where to, guv?”
“The Chelsea and Westminster hospital,” said William. “And I’m already late.”
Even Danny would have been impressed by the side streets and back-doubles the cab driver took to get his passenger to the hospital in the shortest possible time.
“Going to have a baby, are we?” said the cabbie, as William handed him a
five-pound note.
“Two in fact. How did you guess?”
“‘I’m already late’ was the first clue, and then the expression on your face clinched it.”
William was about to say “keep the change” when the cabbie handed the note back to him and said, “Have this one on me, guv. And if you know anyone who was involved in catching those bastards last night, pass on my congratulations.”
“Will do,” said William, before rushing into the hospital and heading straight for the front desk.
“Warwick, Beth Warwick,” he said to the woman seated behind the counter. “I’m her husband.”
She checked the screen in front of her and said, “Cavell ward, fourth floor, room three. Good luck!”
William avoided the group of people waiting for a lift, aware that hospital elevators were built to move slowly. Instead he took the stairs two at a time. By the time he reached the fourth floor, he was out of breath. A nurse was waiting for him in the corridor, clipboard in hand.
“I can only hope it was something important that kept you, Mr. Warwick,” she said. “Because your wife has just given birth to twins.”
William began jumping up and down. “Boys? Girls? One of each?” he asked once he’d landed back on earth.
“A little girl, six pounds three ounces—she was first out—and a boy, six pounds one ounce, followed, as I expect he’ll do for the rest of his life,” said the nurse with a grin.
“And Beth, how’s she doing?”
“Follow me and you can see for yourself. But you’re not to stay for too long, Mr. Warwick. Your wife is exhausted, and needs to rest.”
She led William into a ward where Beth was sitting up in bed, a baby cradled in each arm.
“You’re late,” she said.
“And you’re early,” said William.
“Sorry about that. But in the end they were in rather a hurry to get out. They must take after you. This is Daddy,” she said, looking adoringly at the twins, “who’s already missed the main event. He believes he was put on earth to save the world, a modern superman, which is the reason he also missed the second major decision in your lives.”
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