My thanks for their invaluable advice and research to:

Simon Bainbridge, Jonathan Caplan QC, Gillian Green, Alison Prince, Catherine Richards and Johnny van Haeften.

During the battle of Copenhagen in 1801,�the flagship commander signalled to Lord Nelson that

he should stop attacking the Danish fleet and retreat.

Nelson held a telescope to his blind eye and said,��I do not see the signal.� Having disobeyed the order, Nelson continued to attack and won the battle.

This incident has come to be known as turning a blind eye.

19 MAY 1987

Mr Booth Watson QC took the seat opposite his potential client, removed a thick file from his Gladstone bag and placed it on the glass table in front of him.

�I�ve studied your case with considerable interest, Mr Rashidi,� he began, �and would like to briefly go over the charges against you, and your possible defence.�

Rashidi nodded, his eyes never leaving the lawyer seated opposite him. He still hadn�t decided whether or not to engage BW, as Faulkner called him. After all, a life sentence could hang on the decision. He needed a King Charles spaniel to charm the jury, crossed with a Rottweiler who would tear the Crown�s witnesses apart limb from limb. Was Booth Watson that animal?

�The Crown will set out to prove that you ran a large-scale drugs empire. They will accuse you of importing vast quantities of heroin, cocaine and other illegal substances, from which they will claim you have made millions of pounds in profit, and that you controlled a criminal network of agents, dealers and couriers. I will argue that you were no more than an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of the Metropolitan Police�s raid, and no one was more appalled than you when you learned what the premises were being used for.�

�Can you fix the jury?� Rashidi asked.

�Not in this country,� replied Booth Watson firmly.

�What about the judge? Can he be bribed? Or blackmailed?�

�No. However, I have recently discovered something about Mr Justice Whittaker that could prove embarrassing for him, and therefore useful to us. But it will need double-checking.�

�Like what?� demanded Rashidi.

�I�m not willing to reveal that unless and until I decide if I�m willing to represent you.�

It had never crossed Rashidi�s mind that Booth Watson couldn�t be bought. He had always considered lawyers were no different from street whores: you only haggled over the price.

�Meanwhile, let�s spend our limited time going over the charges in greater detail, and your possible defence.�

Two hours later Rashidi had made up his mind. Booth Watson�s forensic grasp of detail, and of how the law could be bent without being broken, had made it clear why Miles Faulkner thought so highly of him. But would he be willing to defend him when he didn�t have a foot, let alone a leg, to stand on?

�As you know, the Crown Prosecution Service have provisionally pencilled your trial in for September the fifteenth at the Old Bailey,� said Booth Watson.

�Then I�ll need to consult you regularly.�

�I charge one hundred pounds an hour.�

�I�ll pay you ten thousand in advance.�

�The trial could last for several days, possibly weeks. The refreshers alone will be substantial.�

�Then let�s make it twenty thousand,� said Rashidi.

Booth Watson silently nodded his assent. �There�s one other thing you ought to know,� he said. �The Crown will be represented by Sir Julian Warwick QC, and his daughter Grace will act as his junior.�

�And no doubt his son will still be hoping to give evidence.�

�If he doesn�t,� said Booth Watson firmly, �you�ll have lost before the trial begins.�

�Then we�ll have to grant him a stay of execution, at least until after you�ve taken him apart in the witness box.�

�I may not even cross-examine the aptly named Choirboy. It�s the not-so-saintly Ex-Superintendent Lamont I want the jury to remember, not Detective Sergeant William Warwick,� Booth Watson said as the door opened and the duty officer joined them.

�Five more minutes, sir. You�ve already run over your limit.�

Booth Watson nodded. �Do you have any more questions, Mr Rashidi?� he asked after the door had closed.

�Have you heard from Miles recently?�

�Mr Faulkner is no longer my client.� Booth Watson hesitated a moment before adding, �Why do you ask?�

�I have a business proposition that might appeal to him.�

�Perhaps you could brief me,� said Booth Watson, giving away the fact that he and Faulkner were still in touch.

�The shares in my company, Marcel and Neffe, collapsed after all the negative press that followed my arrest. I need someone to purchase fifty-one per cent of the stock at its current market price, as I�m not allowed to deal on the stock market while I�m in prison. I�ll pay him double for the shares on the day I�m released.�

�But that might not be for some time.�

�I�ll pay you double if you get me off.�

Booth Watson nodded again, proving he was indeed a whore, albeit a very expensive one.

In prison, the Jews and the Muslims are the only sects who take their religion seriously. However, it�s the Christians who manage the largest attendance at any service.

Every Sunday morning the prison chapel is packed with sinners, who not only don�t believe in God, but in most cases have never attended a church service before. But since attendance means a prisoner will be out of his cell for over an hour, they see the light and join one of the largest congregations in London that morning.

It takes almost the entire prison staff to accompany the 700 converts from their cells to the chapel in the basement, where the chaplain welcomes his flock of black sheep with the sign of the cross, and doesn�t deliver his bidding prayer until the last inmate has settled.

The chapel is the largest room in the prison: semicircular, with twenty-one banked rows of wooden benches facing an altar dominated by a large wooden cross. Most prisoners know their place. The first two rows are filled with those few white sheep who have actually come to worship. During prayers, they fall on their knees and cry hallelujah whenever the chaplain mentions God. They also pay attention during the sermon. Not so the rest of the flock who make up the vast majority. They also have their own pecking order, and unlike any other place of worship that Sunday morning, the most sought-after seats are at the back.

The most powerful sit in the back row and conduct their business with those seated in front of them. Assem Rashidi sat in the middle of the back row, a position that until recently had been occupied by Miles Faulkner. Tulip sat on his left, with Ross on his right.

Slips of paper were continually being passed to the back, detailing prisoners� requirements for the coming week: drugs, alcohol and porn magazines being the most popular items, although one prisoner only ever wanted a jar of Marmite.

�Our first hymn this morning,� declared the chaplain, �is �He who would valiant be�. You�ll find it on page two hundred and eleven of your hymn books.�

The pilgrims in the front two rows stood and sang lustily with heart and voice, while the dealers at the back, whom Christ would certainly have thrown out of the temple, continued trading.

�Three rocks of crack for cell forty-four,� said Tulip, unfolding a piece of paper. �Thirty quid.�

There wasn�t much Rashidi couldn�t supply, as long as the payments were met by the end of each week. No one gets more than a week�s credit in prison. Three of the guards acted as couriers, which earned them more in a day than they received in their weekly pay packets. Two were responsible for bringing the goods into the prison, while the third, the most trusted, collected the payments from wives, girlfriends, brothers, sisters and even mothers.

�...to be a pilgrim.�

The congregation sat back down, and a young West Indian prisoner stepped forward to read the first lesson.

�And I saw the light...�

Tulip handed the boss another order, for a wrap of heroin. �The bastard hasn�t coughed up for the past two weeks. Shower job?�

�No,� said Rashidi firmly. �Just stop supplying him, that way we�ll soon find out if he�s got any money on the outside.�

Tulip looked disappointed.

�I think one of the couriers must be taking a cut,� he said, �because our profits were down by over two hundred pounds last week. What do you want me to do about it, boss?�

�Make it clear that if it happens again an anonymous report will land on the governor�s desk and both his sources of income will dry up overnight.�

�Anything else, boss?� Tulip asked after he�d taken the last order.

�Yes. My evening meals last week were lukewarm by the time they arrived in my cell, so change our outside caterers.�

�Will do,� said Tulip as the congregation sat back down.

�The text of my sermon this week,� intoned the chaplain, �is taken from the Book of Exodus, chapter thirty-four. When Moses came down from Mount Sinai...�

�What�s the latest on Detective Sergeant Warwick?�

�Not much longer for this world,� said Tulip. �I only wish it was me doin� the job.�

�Not until the trial is over. You can then take care of DS Warwick. Make it a slow, painful death so his colleagues will think a second time before they cross me.�

Ross felt sick.

�Thou shalt not kill,� said the chaplain.

�Amen,� said Ross quietly.

�Let us pray,� continued the chaplain. The first two rows fell on their knees. �Almighty God...�

�When the time comes,� said Rashidi, �send a dozen roses to his widow, and leave her in no doubt who sent them.�

Ross listened carefully to every word that passed between them. He would have to get a message through to the Hawk as quickly as possible so Warwick could be warned. Like Rashidi, he also had a prison officer who could be trusted to pass on messages to the outside world, although in his case he didn�t expect to be rewarded. Ross would have to make sure he was cleaning the corridor outside Senior Officer Rose�s office after breakfast tomorrow morning.

�When they send you to Ford Open next week,� said Rashidi, breaking into his thoughts, �get in touch with Benson, who controls the drug supply there, and warn him that if I don�t get my cut, no more junkies will be transferred to Ford.�

Ross nodded.

�Anything else, boss?� asked Tulip.

�Yes. Have you sorted out my other problem?� asked Rashidi, turning his attention back to Tulip.

�Sure, boss, but it won�t come cheap � several of the guards will expect a backhander.�

�Pay them. That�s one luxury I�m not willing to sacrifice.�

�Then a hooker will be brought to your cell soon after lights-out.�

�Any news of Faulkner?� asked Ross, aware that all the Hawk�s leads had gone cold.

�They�ve just offered me his cell, so I think we can assume he�s out of the country by now. I�ve got another appointment with his lawyer tomorrow morning, so I may find out more then.�

Having asked his one question, Ross continued to listen.

�Have they fixed a trial date yet?� asked Tulip.

�September 15th. And tomorrow I�ll find out how much evidence they�ve come up with after raiding my apartment.�

Ross knew exactly how much evidence they had, even whose photograph it was in the silver frame.

�Any hope of me taking over your cell when you move into Faulkner�s?� asked Tulip.

�Consider it done,� said Rashidi, who understood about rewards every bit as much as punishments. He nodded to a prison officer to let him know he would need to see him after the service.

�The blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.�

�Amen,� said all three of them in unison.

�Would you like my seat, sir?� the young woman asked politely.

�No, thank you,� said the commander, touching the brim of his trilby, and suddenly feeling his age. Damn it, he thought, I�m not yet sixty, although he had to admit his daughter was older than the considerate young woman.

Several passengers got off at the next stop, which allowed the Hawk to sit down. He opened his morning paper. POLICE CALLED TO CONTROL PICKET LINE AT WAPPING, was the headline. He began to read the article, but his mind drifted back to the meeting that was about to take place. Ross Hogan, his undercover officer, had recently been released from Ford Open Prison, so once again he went over the questions he needed answered. He felt like a child about to finally open a long-awaited Christmas present. At the next stop he stood to offer an elderly woman his seat, which she gratefully accepted. Not dead yet.

When the train pulled into Victoria, the Hawk was among the first to get off and join the lemming-like crowd scurrying towards the escalators. He showed his pass to the ticket collector at the barrier, before emerging into the bright morning sunlight.

He tried to gather his thoughts as he made his way slowly along Victoria Street in the direction of Scotland Yard. But when he was halfway down he turned right, left the crowded pavement, and entered a small quiet square dominated by a magnificent cathedral. Ignoring a few worshippers and the simply curious who were making their way towards the entrance of the Roman Catholic Church�s principal place of worship in England and Wales, he walked slowly down the right-hand side of the vast red-and-cream brick building, not stopping until he reached an inconspicuous entrance that was normally only used by priests or choristers.

He opened the door and stepped inside, confident that as long as he looked as if he belonged, nobody would question his presence. As he made his way towards the vestry, a cleaner on her knees scrubbing the stone floor looked up. �Good morning, my child,� he said.

�Good morning, father,� she replied as he hurried by.

On entering the vestry, he walked across to the end locker and opened it. He removed his jacket and tie, replacing them with a long black cassock, white surplice, dog collar and bands, transforming himself from commander to canon. At least he was a Roman Catholic, and the occasional deception had been approved by the Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster, if not by our Lord.

A quick check in the long mirror on the wall before he emerged once again into the body of the cathedral. He progressed slowly towards the Lady Chapel � priests, unlike policemen, don�t move quickly � and on into the nave, until he reached a familiar bronze relief of St Benedict staring down at him. He was relieved to find the confessional box was unoccupied. He stepped inside, drew the little red curtain to show he was open for business, and prepared himself for one particular parishioner who he knew would be seeking absolution and was unlikely to keep him waiting.

Moments later he heard someone enter the box, and a familiar voice addressed him through the grille that separated them. �Father, I have sinned and seek the Lord�s forgiveness.�

�When did you last confess, my son?�

�It�s been over six months, father, during which time I committed a grievous sin by attending a Church of England service every Sunday morning.�

The commander was pleased to find his undercover officer hadn�t lost his sense of humour.

�And what did you learn from this unfortunate experience, my son?�

�That Assem Rashidi will be represented by the Devil incarnate when he appears in court next month.�

�I was aware of that, my son,� said the Hawk. �The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Did you find out how Mr Booth Watson rates his chances of getting his client off the various charges?�

�He�s confident he�ll get him off the most serious charge, of heading up a drugs cartel, because he�s convinced you don�t have enough evidence to persuade a jury.�

�We�ve got more than enough,� said the Hawk, �as he�ll discover when he sees the list of items we�ll be presenting for the jury�s consideration.�

�But Rashidi assured me the flat was cleared of any incriminating evidence just before our boys turned up.�

�He left behind a wardrobe full of tailored suits and a dozen hand-made shirts that just happen to fit him perfectly.�

�As they would thousands of perfectly innocent people, as Booth Watson will point out. He�ll also suggest you have no proof that Rashidi ever owned or occupied the flat.�

�Then he�ll have to explain away the photograph that was found on the bedside table in the master bedroom.�

�He�ll say there�s no evidence that the �A� stands for Assem.�

�It doesn�t,� said the Hawk. �But he�ll still have to explain what a picture of his mother was doing on the bedside table.�

A short whistle was followed by the words, �Ouch. His sweepers are going to regret leaving that behind. It could condemn Rashidi to twenty years.�

�Amen to that,� said the commander. �What else did you learn from the heathens while you were away, my son?�

�The prison rumour mill thinks Faulkner made it to the States. New name, new passport and new identity. But he must still be active in the art world, because his house in Monte Carlo is on the market and there are no longer any of his pictures hanging on the walls.�

�They left on the same boat as Faulkner,� said the Hawk. �Although so far nothing�s come up on the open market.�

�Faulkner�s too bright to make that mistake. He�ll lie low for a bit, and if he sells anything it will be to private buyers.�

�Were you able to find out his new name, or pick up any clues about where he might be?�

�No, father. But Rashidi thought it was unlikely to be New York, as that�s the first place the FBI would look. In any case, Faulkner�s Fifth Avenue apartment was also put up for sale just weeks before he escaped, and surprise, surprise, minus the fixtures and fittings.�

�I�m guessing the paintings are all in one place. But where?�

�I�ve no idea, boss.�

�Then leave that to me. Your next job will be to try and find out who�s running Rashidi�s empire in his absence, so he can share a cell with him in the near future.�

�I already know the answer to that question, but for obvious reasons I won�t mention his name. I�ve left that particular piece of information in the usual place. However, I should warn you there�s a coincidence you�re not going to like.�

�I�m intrigued.�

�Anything else, sir?�

�Yes. After you�ve committed some of the more wanton sins you were denied in prison, we�ll meet again and I�ll tell you all about a certain Detective Sergeant Summers.�

�Who he?�

�Not now. Bless you, my son, and be assured you are absolved of your sins. Go in peace.�

The Hawk waited for a few moments, praying that no other sinners would seek absolution while he flicked through his notebook to check that all his questions had been answered.

Satisfied, he tucked the notebook back in his cassock pocket, slipped out of the confessional and made his way towards an offertory box that was surrounded by candles, not many of which were alight. He glanced around before taking a small key out of a trouser pocket and deftly unlocking the box to find a few coins, mainly copper, and an empty Marlboro cigarette packet wedged in one corner.

He looked up to see the Virgin Mary staring down at him. He returned her enigmatic smile before removing the red-and-white pack and slipping it into his other pocket. He locked the offertory box and made his way slowly back to the vestry, confident no one had witnessed his sleight of hand.

A few minutes later, Commander Hawksby slipped out of the side door of the cathedral and headed for Scotland Yard. He had two things on his mind: who had taken over from Rashidi as the new drugs supremo, and what could Ross have meant by a coincidence he wasn�t going to like? That would have to wait until the boffins in the basement had taken the empty cigarette packet apart and revealed its innermost secret.

�When and where is the funeral?� demanded the commander even before William had sat down.

�Geneva, sir. Ten o�clock tomorrow morning.�

�How did he die?�

�The local police report says he suffered a heart attack during the night.� William opened his notebook. �A maid discovered the body early the following morning. A line of cocaine and a credit card were found on his bedside table.�

�A pity. I�d hoped for a slower death,� said the Hawk. �But why Geneva?�

�I expect he had a numbered Swiss bank account with no name attached.�

�And a banker who didn�t ask too many embarrassing questions about his last known address,� said the Hawk. He paused for a moment. �Right, I want you to fly to Geneva and make sure we aren�t being led down another blind alley. I won�t believe Faulkner�s dead until you�ve seen the body being lowered into the ground and the priest has given the final blessing. And don�t leave before the gravediggers have completed their job.�

�I think he�s going to be cremated, sir.�

�Then be sure to bring back his ashes so we can display them in the Black Museum along with all the other notorious criminals who�ve made it to the Met�s chamber of horrors.�

�Should I take anyone with me as backup?�

�Yes, take DS Roycroft. If you both tell me Faulkner�s dead, I just might believe it.�

�We have a full agenda today,� said the commander, taking his place at the head of the table, �so don�t let�s waste any time. Can we begin by closing the file on the Miles Faulkner case? DI Warwick.�

�DS Roycroft and I,� began William, �travelled to Geneva last Thursday to attend Faulkner�s funeral. And while he may not roast in hell, at least we saw him burn on earth. The merry widow returned to England a few days later with far more than her ex-husband�s ashes, which she scattered over her land at Limpton, so we can indeed close the file on the late Miles Faulkner.�

�You look disappointed, inspector,� said the Hawk, raising an eyebrow.

�I am, sir. I�m reminded of the words of Hilaire Belloc on learning of the death of his Member of Parliament. �Here richly, with ridiculous display, the politician�s corpse was laid away. While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged, I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged.� �

The team burst out laughing and banged the table with the palms of their hands.

�And what are Mrs Faulkner�s plans for the future?�

�She will remain in England until the paintings have all been sold, and then she�ll join her sister in Florida.�

�I won�t miss either of them,� admitted the commander as he closed one file and opened another. �Let�s move on to DS Summers. Are we any nearer to proving he�s worth investigating? He seems to have a record second to none as a thief catcher.�

�And second to none for letting other villains off the hook,� said Paul. �Which might explain why he�s so successful.�

�Speculation and proof are two different things, DS Adaja,� the Hawk reminded him.

�I agree, sir,� said Paul, �but both DC Pankhurst and PC Bailey have come up with some interesting facts.�

William looked across the table at Paul, who over the past couple of years had become a close friend on and off the field of battle. He wasn�t a clock watcher when it came to fighting crime and, like the Hawk, considered bent coppers even worse than professional criminals.

�For the past month,� continued Paul, �DC Pankhurst has been shadowing Lamont, while PC Bailey has joined the Romford division as a WPC. Her remit over and above her normal duties is to keep a close eye on Summers and find out if he�s quite as pure as he would have us all believe.�

William turned his attention to the two young constables who had recently joined the unit, and smiled at the thought that they couldn�t have been more different.

DC Pankhurst had proudly announced at her interview that she was a descendant of Emmeline Pankhurst, who had been arrested on numerous occasions as the leader of the suffragettes, and had spent a great deal of her time in prison on hunger strike. William had happily signed up this bright, tenacious young woman to his team. He quickly discovered that he and Paul had to stay wide awake just to keep up with her. She didn�t hesitate to correct them without ever appearing to be insubordinate.

By contrast, Nicola Bailey had never known her father, who had also spent a great deal of time in prison. She�d left school at fourteen and drifted from job to job, before applying to join the police force. She�d been turned down three times, but Nicky wasn�t someone who gave up easily. William had asked her to join the team because, like Rebecca Pankhurst, she had a mind as sharp as any criminal.

�DC Pankhurst,� said Paul, �bring us all up to date.�

�I�ve been keeping a round-the-clock eye on the former Superintendent,� said Rebecca. �There was nothing of interest to report until I followed Lamont onto a Tube train at Aldgate, where he joined his former colleague DS Summers.�

�There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for that,� said the Hawk, playing devil�s advocate. �Don�t forget that he and Summers served together at Romford, so they might just be friends.�

�Then why meet at the far end of the rear carriage of an almost-empty Tube train for their innocent get-together,� said Pankhurst, �when they could have had a pint at their local?�

�Then what happened?� asked the Hawk, chastised but not chastened.

�They talked for about fifteen minutes, no more, before Summers got off at Westminster, while Lamont travelled two more stops before changing trains at Victoria.�

�That�s all I need,� said the Hawk.

�When Lamont left his home in Hammersmith the following morning�� Rebecca checked her notes � �at nine fifty-one, he walked to a nearby phone box, and made a one-minute call. I wondered why he didn�t make the call from his home.�

�Perhaps he didn�t want his wife to know who he was calling?� suggested the Hawk.

�His wife was at the hairdresser at the time, sir.�

�Can it get any worse?� asked the Hawk.

�I�m afraid so, sir,� interjected PC Bailey. �After DS Summers came off duty yesterday evening, I followed him to the nearest railway station. He switched to the Tube at Liverpool Street, and three stops later was once again joined by Lamont.�

�In another empty rear carriage, no doubt,� said Paul.

�Yes, sir.�

�What are they up to?� said William, almost to himself.

�All I can tell you, sir, is that Summers handed Lamont a thick brown envelope, and then he got off at the next station.�

�Did you continue to follow him?�

�No, sir. DS Adaja had instructed me to remain on board and see where Summers got off.�

�Enlighten me,� said the Hawk.

�Monument. He then returned to Liverpool Street and took the next train back to Romford.�

�DC Pankhurst, were you still trailing Lamont?�

�Yes, sir. He returned to his home in Hammersmith, arriving back just before ten.�

�Do you think he spotted you?� asked William.

�It�s possible, but there was no sign he did.�

�If he�s worked out what you�re up to, you�ll never be sure. Don�t forget he�s an old pro, and quite capable of running circles around you long before you get on the Circle line.�

�If one of them was to approach either of you,� said William, �do you have cover stories?�

�Yes, sir,� said DC Pankhurst. �I�m an assistant librarian at Hammersmith Public Library.�

�Credible,� said Paul. �But it wouldn�t bear too much scrutiny.�

�I work there every Saturday morning as a volunteer,� said Rebecca, �and the senior librarian knows exactly what to say should a DS Summers Lamont ever get in touch. We were at university together.�

The Hawk touched his forehead. �Chapeau,� he said.

�And you, PC Bailey?� asked William.

�I never went to university, sir. Left school at fourteen.�

They all burst out laughing, except the Hawk.

�Answer the question, PC Bailey,� he said.

�As long as Summers continues to believe I�m just a raw recruit on the beat, I couldn�t have a better front.�

�Agreed,� said the Hawk. �But if either of you ever has the slightest sense you�ve been sussed, abort the operation and make sure you�re never seen in Romford or on the Circle line again, and I�ll put a replacement team on the job.�

�Understood,� said Paul. �Especially as Jackie and I can�t risk being seen anywhere near Lamont. But I hope to leave PCs Bailey and Pankhurst on surveillance for as long as possible.�

�No risks,� said Hawksby firmly.

�It may interest you to know, sir,� said William, �that a recent survey conducted on behalf of the Yard found that when women carry out surveillance, they are seventy-two per cent less likely than men to be spotted by their mark.�

�No risks,� repeated the commander. �Now, let�s move on,� he said, turning to another file. �Are you fully prepared for Rashidi�s trial?� he asked, turning his attention back to William. �Because you�ll need to be more than a yard ahead of that man if we�re going to secure a conviction.�

�The Crown�s lead prosecutor is confident they have more than enough evidence to put him behind bars for a very long time,� said William, without mentioning his father�s name.

�Rock solid?�

�He left behind a number of hand-tailored suits in the master bedroom of his Brixton flat, along with a dozen shirts from Pink�s of Jermyn Street.�

�Rashidi�s five foot nine, and of medium build,� said the Hawk. �Booth Watson will claim they could have been made for any one of a thousand customers, including two or three members of the jury.�

�Not with the initials �A.R.� sewn on the inside pocket he can�t, and according to the labels in the suits, they were all made by Bennett and Reed of Savile Row,� said William, checking his notebook. �I�ve already been in touch with Mr Bennett.�

�Is he willing to give evidence under oath?�

�Reluctantly. We may have to pursue a witness summons if we want him to appear.�

�Don�t we have anything better than suits and shirts as evidence?� asked the Hawk.

�A photograph of Rashidi�s mother, that I found on the bedside table in the Brixton apartment,� said William.

�That�s more like it,� said the Hawk. �And do we have any more reliable witnesses than a reluctant tailor?�

�Yes, sir, a Mr Gerald Sangster, who�s turned Queen�s evidence, in exchange for a lesser sentence.�

�I hope he�s not residing in the same prison as Rashidi,� said the Hawk. �Because if he is, you can be sure he won�t make it to the witness box.�

�He�s been living in a safe house for the past five months, and we won�t be bringing him in until the opening day of the trial. The former doctor has one piece of evidence that Booth Watson won�t find easy to explain away.�

�Namely?�

�He was responsible for making up the drugs before they were distributed by his dealers, and Rashidi checked them regularly before they were allowed onto the streets.�

The Hawk smiled for the first time before asking, �How is Rashidi being transported from the prison to the Old Bailey? I ask because he�ll have worked out that�s his only chance of escape.�

�He�ll be in an armoured van accompanied by three police cars and a dozen outriders,� said William, �along with a helicopter tracking every inch of the route.�

�So was Faulkner,� the Hawk reminded him, �and he still managed to fool us.�

�But unlike him,� said Adaja, �Rashidi won�t be stopping off to attend his mother�s funeral on the way.�

�Just be sure not to lower your guard for one moment, otherwise it will be your funeral he�s attending. That man�s got enough resources to bribe everyone, including the driver and anyone who can fix a set of traffic lights. Don�t forget the trial is set to last for several days. Rashidi won�t make a move on the first day, but the moment we begin to relax...�

�We�re on top of it,� said William.

�Are you also fully prepared to be torn apart by Booth Watson from the moment you enter the witness box?�

�Over-prepared, sir. I spent last weekend being grilled by my sister Grace, who didn�t show me any mercy.�

�I�m glad to hear it,� said the Hawk, �because Booth Watson considers policemen fair game, even more so when they�re the son of the Crown�s leading counsel.�

Beth poured him a second cup of coffee, surprised that he hadn�t touched his bacon and eggs. William seemed preoccupied, even anxious, and at times like this she felt shut out.

She tried an old ploy. �What�s the problem, caveman? It�s not as if you haven�t appeared in a witness box before.�

�But this could be my last appearance. If I make a balls-up of it and the jury decide that Rashidi is a decent, upstanding citizen who�s been wrongly arrested by an over-zealous copper.�

�That seems a little far-fetched,� Beth said, as she started to feed the twins.

�Far-fetched is Booth Watson�s stock in trade. And don�t forget what he hinted at when I last faced him in the witness box...�

�And don�t you forget, he lost the case,� said Beth, �and Faulkner ended up getting eight years.�

�Which will only make him more determined to��

�But you spent the whole of yesterday afternoon being grilled by your sister, and Grace doesn�t take prisoners.�

�True, but even she can�t always second-guess what Booth Watson will come up with, and it�s me who has to face the grand inquisitor.�

�Why isn�t Lamont giving evidence instead of you? After all, he was the senior officer on the case.�

�Booth Watson took him apart last time, and he�ll know only too well why Lamont retired early.�

�Did your father give you any advice?�

�He never left his study the whole afternoon. He was preparing his cross-examination of Rashidi. When I left, all he said was to look out for Booth Watson�s googly.�

�What�s a googly?�

�As you�ve never shown any interest in cricket, my darling, it would take me a week to explain,� said William, picking up his knife and fork and poking at a yolk that had gone hard.

�You�ll be fine,� said Beth, trying to reassure him. �The jury won�t be in any doubt which one of you is telling the truth. A notorious drugs baron, or the Choirboy.�

�I wish it was that simple.� William gave up and pushed his plate aside. �Booth Watson is a past master when it comes to planting doubt in a juror�s mind, whereas my father, as prosecution counsel, has to prove his case beyond reasonable doubt.�

�How come Booth Watson is representing Rashidi?�

�Because of a mistake we made, and didn�t give a second thought to at the time,� said William after taking a sip of his cold coffee. �They put Rashidi in the same prison as Faulkner, so it was only going to be a matter of time before the magnet attracted the filings.�

�I wonder if Rashidi�s having bacon and eggs this morning.�

DC Pankhurst sat in the corner of the crowded bus shelter, but when the No. 72 pulled in, she didn�t climb on board. She had a perfect sightline of Lamont�s front door, and as long as there were enough people hanging around waiting for the next bus, whatever the number, he couldn�t possibly see her.

The front door opened just after seven that morning, and Lamont emerged and began walking towards the bus stop. When a No. 211 appeared in the distance, she decided to take a risk.

As the bus approached the stop, Lamont began to jog, a clue that gave her enough confidence to get on. She climbed the stairs to the upper deck and sat at the back, not wanting to risk sitting downstairs now it was possible he might recognize her.

Rebecca looked out of the window to see Lamont glancing around. Once he was confident she was nowhere to be seen, he climbed aboard. Rebecca smiled. Her ploy had worked. But she was still anxious that her cover had been blown, and they�d have to replace her. She could feel the hand of Emmeline Pankhurst slapping her on the wrist.

Lamont took his usual window seat on the lower deck. Whenever the bus came to a stop, Rebecca checked to see if he got off, although she was fairly confident she knew where he was going.

But today he didn�t get off at his usual stop and head straight for the betting shop. Instead he remained on board until the bus reached Victoria station. Another slap on the wrist � she should have anticipated that. After all, the betting shop didn�t open until nine.

Could he be going to Scotland Yard? she wondered. But no, he headed towards the underground. It had to be the Circle line and another clandestine meeting with Jerry Summers. But she was taken by surprise a second time, when he stopped at a newsstand, bought a packet of cigarettes and a copy of the Daily Mail. He sat on a nearby bench, lit a cigarette and pretended to be reading his paper while regularly glancing across at the steps that led down to the Tube station.

Rebecca slipped into a coffee shop and ordered a cappuccino. She took a seat near the window which gave her a clear view of her mark. She doubted whether he would be able to see her sitting in the crowded cafe, but he never once glanced in her direction. His eyes remained focused on the entrance to the Underground. He was obviously waiting for someone. But who?

And then she spotted Lamont�s prey. Commander Hawksby strode out of the station and began walking up Victoria Street in the direction of Scotland Yard. DC Pankhurst switched her attention back to Lamont, who was stubbing out his cigarette and folding his newspaper. He got up and followed the Hawk, but made no attempt to catch up with him.

Rebecca left the cafe and continued to shadow Lamont. What the hell was he up to? A stalker stalking a stalker.

The Hawk continued towards Scotland Yard at a brisk pace, but to Rebecca�s surprise, about halfway down Victoria Street he turned right and disappeared from sight. Lamont maintained his distance, knowing that he couldn�t risk getting too close.

Rebecca entered the square and tucked in behind a small group of Japanese tourists who were heading towards Westminster Cathedral, umbrellas up even though it wasn�t raining. She was just in time to spot the commander disappearing down the side of the vast building. Lamont didn�t follow him, but entered the cathedral by the main door, leaving Rebecca even more puzzled.

She stuck closely to the tour group as they went inside, and spotted Lamont making his way down the centre aisle. He took a seat near the front, among a few devout worshippers, heads bowed, oblivious to those around them. Shedding the tourists, Rebecca slipped into a pew towards the back, partially obscured by a marble pillar, although she could still just about see Lamont, who was now kneeling, his head bowed and turned slightly to his right. She remained puzzled as to why Lamont had followed his old boss all the way to the cathedral and then let him out of his sight. What did he know that she didn�t?

Then came the third surprise, far more of a jolt, when Rebecca saw a man who looked like the commander walking slowly up the south aisle dressed in holy vestments. She did a double-take, only to confirm it was the Hawk. A quick glance at Lamont showed that she wasn�t the only person observing him carefully. The only difference, he was clearly expecting him.

The priest made his way to a confessional box and stepped inside as if he was going about his clerical duties. A few moments later a man entered by the side door, sat down and drew the curtain.

Rebecca now knew why Lamont was on his knees in the cathedral, pretending to pray. He was there simply to identify the commander�s UCO so he could warn Summers to be on the lookout for a tall, slim, middle-aged man, slightly balding with a brown moustache. She thought about alerting her boss there and then, but realized that would be the last thing he�d want, as all of their covers would then be blown. So she sat and waited to see what would happen next.

Fifteen minutes later the UCO reappeared. He bowed to the cross like a real pro, before making his way towards the west door. Lamont got up off his knees and followed him cautiously out into the square, with Rebecca not far behind. The UCO was good. He stopped several times to look in shop windows, an old trick to check if he was being tailed. He then disappeared into a jewellery shop, and when he came back out he was holding a small package. This was followed by his most audacious ploy, entering a discreet boutique hotel with the air of someone who was staying there.

Lamont didn�t follow him inside, too much of a risk. Instead he retraced his steps back to Victoria station, where he disappeared below ground. After all, he now knew what the Hawk�s Marlboro Man informer looked like.

Rebecca didn�t continue to follow Lamont, not just because she knew where he was going, but because she needed to report back to the commander as quickly as possible.

�All rise!� bellowed the clerk of the court.

Mr Justice Whittaker entered court number one to find it looking more like the opening night at a West End theatre than the first morning of an Old Bailey trial. The actors, the critics and the packed audience were all in place, waiting for the curtain to rise.

The judge knew it was his duty to be neutral and unbiased, and to make sure the jury was given every chance to reach a verdict, based on evidence, that was beyond reasonable doubt. Before his appointment to the bench he�d been a QC for many years, and he believed that in the course of his working life he had witnessed few, if any, serious miscarriages of justice. But after reading the submissions for this case, it was difficult not to have formed an unfavourable opinion of the defendant long before the jury filed into their places.

What made it worse for the judge was that he�d had to wrestle with his conscience, as his youngest son had been sent down from university after being caught smoking cannabis in his rooms. He was well aware that a lot of undergraduates experimented with drugs, but Roddy had had the misfortune of being caught. He had suggested to the Lord Chancellor that, given the circumstances, another judge should perhaps be considered for this case. However, Lord Havers was adamant. He needed an experienced, well-respected judge to preside over such a high-profile trial.

Mr Justice Whittaker took his place in the high-backed leather chair at the centre of the dais, rearranged his long, red gown and adjusted his ancient wig which, like a Test cricketer�s cap, gave an indication of how many matches he�d played.

He looked down at counsels� bench, all too aware that the next of his prejudices would be more difficult to hide.

He admired Sir Julian Warwick, both as an advocate and a fellow bencher. A man who would do everything in his power to win a case without ever overstepping the mark.

Mr Booth Watson, on the other hand, didn�t know where the mark was. His only interest was to win at any cost, and the judge already feared that, as the trial progressed, defence counsel would test his patience to its limit. However, he was determined not to be provoked. Over the years Booth Watson had somehow managed to escape the full wrath of the Bar Council, which had shown him several yellow cards, but never a red one. But surely even he must accept it would take a miracle to prevent his client from ending up in jail.

The judge turned his attention to the jury, and gave them a beneficent smile. It was important they believed he was being neutral at all times, because he knew if there was one thing a jury couldn�t abide, it was the feeling that a judge had made up his mind even before the trial had begun.

He glanced across at the seven men and five women who would decide Assem Rashidi�s fate, paying particular attention to the man they had selected as their foreman. He sat bolt upright, giving the impression of being a professional man who might have worked in the Square Mile. He looked as if he was a firm believer in the rule of law and, equally important, that he was well aware this could be among the most important decisions he would make in his life, and of the need to carry the rest of the jury with him.

�Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,� said the judge. �Before proceedings begin, I feel I should alert you to an anomaly concerning this particular case...�

All twelve jurors� eyes were fixed on the judge.

�The Crown will be represented on this occasion by Sir Julian Warwick QC while his daughter, Miss Grace Warwick, will act as his junior. That in itself is not unusual. However, Sir Julian�s son, Detective Inspector William Warwick, might at some point be called on to appear as a Crown witness. I therefore took it upon myself to ask Mr Booth Watson if he had any objection to this arrangement, and he assured me he did not. But given the circumstances, I would like him to confirm that in your presence.�

Booth Watson rose slowly from his place, and with what passed as a smile said, �I have no objection, m�lud; in fact, I welcome it.�

The expression on the Crown prosecutor�s face revealed nothing but Sir Julian had to admit Booth Watson had won the opening round before the bell had been struck.

The judge turned his attention back to Sir Julian, who was waiting patiently to begin proceedings. His small wooden lectern had been set up, with his opening statement in place. He glanced across at Booth Watson, who was seated at the other end of counsels� bench, picking his nails, displaying an air of nonchalant indifference to all that was happening around him.

The clerk of the court rose from his place and faced the dock.

�Will the defendant please rise,� he said portentously.

Rashidi stood up. Dressed in a bespoke suit, white shirt and blue silk tie, he looked every bit the chairman of a City company who wouldn�t know where Brixton was.

�On the first charge, the production of a controlled drug, how do you plead?

�Not guilty.�

�And on the second charge, possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply, how do you plead?�

�Not guilty,� repeated the defendant.

�And on the third charge, possession of a controlled drug, how do you plead?�

�Not guilty.�

The judge waited for the court to settle before he said, �Sir Julian, would you begin proceedings by delivering your opening statement?�

�Thank you, m�lud,� said the Crown�s advocate. He rose slowly from his place, gave the judge a bow, and looked down at the first page of his script, which he knew almost by heart.

�M�lud, members of the jury,� he began, �I appear before you today on behalf of the Crown, while my learned friend Mr Booth Watson QC represents the defendant.� He barely gave his adversary a glance, and certainly not a bow.

�I open the Crown�s submission by telling you that in all my years at the Bar...�

The jury listened attentively to Sir Julian�s every word, as jurors always do on the first day of any trial. The judge could tell already that the Crown�s senior silk was on particularly good form, and his concluding remarks would have left no one in doubt about what he believed the verdict must surely be.

�You and you alone,� Sir Julian proclaimed, staring directly at the jury, �will decide the fate of the man standing in the dock. After you�ve considered all the evidence in this case, I want you to imagine that it�s your own child who has suffered at the hands of this unscrupulous man.�

The judge gave an involuntary shudder, which he hoped no one noticed.

�The world would undoubtedly be a better place if Assem Rashidi had not been born. You now have it in your power to ensure he can never again ruin the lives of the young, the vulnerable and the helpless in our society. Your own child,� he repeated, his eyes never leaving the jury.

By the time Sir Julian resumed his seat, the jury looked as if they would have been happy to bring back the death penalty, while the journalists scurried out of the court to give their editors tomorrow�s headline, YOUR OWN CHILD, aware that anything said in court could be printed in block capitals without any fear of libel proceedings.

�Thank you, Sir Julian,� said the judge. �You may call your first witness.�

�You may call your next witness, Sir Julian.�

�Thank you, m�lud. I call Mr Gerald Sangster.�

�Call Gerald Sangster!� roared the clerk of the court, and moments later his words were echoed in the corridor outside.

The door swung open and a slightly stooped, middle-aged man, whose hair and tightly clipped beard were prematurely grey. He entered the court and made his way slowly across to the witness box. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer, his old school tie, and neatly pressed grey flannel trousers, giving the impression of a professional man who�d recently retired. Booth Watson considered him far too young for that.

The clerk held up a card, and the witness delivered the oath with a confidence that belied his self-effacing demeanour. Booth Watson made a note on his yellow pad and passed it to his junior, who quickly scurried out of court.

�Would you please state your name and occupation for the record,� said Sir Julian.

�My name is Gerald Sangster, and I�m currently unemployed.�

Booth Watson made a second note.

�Can I get on the record, Mr Sangster, that in the past you have been a drug addict?�

�That�s true, sir, but I�m clean now. I�ve been through rehab, and haven�t touched a drug for months.�

�And before that, you were a doctor,� said Sir Julian, �with a successful practice in Harley Street?�

�That is correct.�

�But as a result of your addiction your name was removed from the Medical Register, and not long after that sadly your marriage broke down.�

Sangster bowed his head.

�Bring on the violins,� said Booth Watson, and not to himself.

�That was when you went to work for Mr Rashidi.�

�Something I will regret for the rest of my life.�

�I won�t be waiting that long,� said Booth Watson.

�Do you see Mr Rashidi in the courtroom today?�

�Yes, sir,� said Sangster, pointing towards the dock.

Rashidi stared blankly back at him as though they had never met.

�May I ask what role you played in Mr Rashidi�s empire?�

�I have a degree in chemistry, and was able to advise Mr Rashidi on the strength and make-up of the drugs he distributed, particularly cocaine.�

�Would you please go into a little more detail, Mr Sangster, as I expect the jury, like myself, are swimming in unfamiliar waters.�

�A wrap of cocaine, probably two grams, would be of a higher quality and would cost more for a wealthy customer in Mayfair, than an inferior wrap sold to a junkie on a street corner in the East End. I was in charge of quality control. I checked each batch, after which the dealers, like any salesmen, decided on the price, according to their knowledge of the customer.�

�Could you be more specific as to how you went about that?�

�I would take the finest Colombian cocaine, which is usually around ninety per cent pure, and then mix it with baking powder to make it go further, while still looking like the real thing. The more sophisticated customers would taste a sample and reject it if it wasn�t of the highest quality. I was also responsible for the quality control of heroin, crack cocaine, methamphetamine and marijuana. Occasionally we gave some of our stock away for free.�

�Why would you do that?� asked Sir Julian, well aware what the answer would be.

�You give a child a week�s supply and they�ll become hooked. That�s when you start charging.�

�Who are the dealers in these cases?�

�Usually other kids, who give away the gear in school playgrounds.�

�And do these children go on to become fully fledged drug dealers after they leave school?�

�It doesn�t take them long to work out they�re already earning more than their parents, besides which, it�s often the only work they can get. There�s never been a better example of a womb-to-tomb job.�

�Your own child,� repeated Sir Julian, looking directly at the jury, before he moved on. �And where did you carry out this work, Mr Sangster?�

�In Mr Rashidi�s drug factory.�

�Could you be more specific?�

�His factory was on the twenty-third, twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth floors of a tower block in Brixton.�

Grace walked across to a plan of the block resting on an easel, and pointed to each floor as Sangster mentioned it.

�And how often was Mr Rashidi on the premises?�

�Most of the time. He oversaw the entire operation from his office on the twenty-third floor when he wasn�t in his apartment.�

�He had an apartment in the same building?�

�No, it was in the adjoining block. But there was a walkway linking the two buildings, which was his escape route should the factory ever be raided.�

�Did he attempt to use that exit on the night of the raid?�

�Yes, sir. But it must have been blocked, because a couple of minutes later I saw him rush back into the room accompanied by his two bodyguards. But he didn�t have time to get out of the front door before the police turned up.�

�When did you next see him?�

�He was on his knees in the middle of the room pretending to be one of the workers.�

�Were you there when he was arrested?�

�No, I wasn�t.�

Why not? Booth Watson wrote on his pad before Sir Julian moved on.

�Which floor did you work on?�

�Number twenty-four. The one where the drugs were prepared for distribution.�

Grace pointed to the twenty-fourth floor.

�How were you paid?�

�In cash at the end of every working day.�

�And how much could you earn in a week?�

�At least a grand. Sometimes more.�

�Over fifty thousand pounds a year,� said Sir Julian, emphasizing each word. �More than six times the average annual wage for a working man in this country. And who was your paymaster?�

�It was always Assem Rashidi. No one else was allowed to handle payments.�

�Could you earn extra for overtime?�

�Of course. The key hours for any drug dealer are between ten at night and four in the morning. If you were willing to work through the night and at weekends, you could double your income.�

�So how much could an experienced dealer hope to make in a week?�

�A couple of grand.�

�Over a hundred thousand pounds a year,� said Sir Julian, feigning disbelief.

�Even a runner still at school can make two or three hundred pounds a week. But if you got hooked on the stuff yourself, you didn�t last too long. And if you were caught skimming the goods, or with your hand in the till, they cut it off.�

�I presume you don�t mean literally,� said Sir Julian.

�Quite literally,� said Sangster. �On the dealers� floor, with all the other dealers present to witness the punishment.�

Sir Julian remained silent for some time to allow the jury to take in what they�d just heard.

�Did any of the victims ever report these barbaric atrocities to the police?�

�Only one that I know of.�

�And where is he now?�

�I never seen or heard of him since.�

Sir Julian turned to look at the jury to see that several heads were bowed, but not the foreman�s; he was staring directly at the defendant in the dock.

�Would it be fair to say that you are risking far more than losing a hand by agreeing to give evidence in this trial?�

�I�m currently under police protection,� said Sangster, �so I feel relatively safe while Rashidi�s in jail. But if he was released,� he added, looking directly at the defendant, �I�d be on the first plane out of the country.�

�And who could blame you?� said Sir Julian. �I�m sure we all salute your courageous decision to give evidence in this trial, Mr Sangster, considering what the consequences might be should the defendant be set free.�

�It�s the least I could do,� said Sangster, turning to face Rashidi. �I only hope that by giving evidence today I�ll have played a small part in ensuring that justice is finally done for all those helpless victims, young and old, who have suffered at the hands of this monster.�

�A little over-rehearsed,� said Booth Watson, just loud enough for the jury to hear.

Sir Julian ignored the comment as Booth Watson�s junior rushed back into the court and handed his leader a note. Booth Watson smiled as Sir Julian looked up at the judge and said, �No more questions, m�lud.�

�Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Mr Booth Watson?�

�I most certainly do, m�lud,� responded defence counsel as he rose from his place. He readjusted his wig and tugged the lapels of his black gown, before looking down at a long list of prepared questions. He took his time before he spoke; an old ruse that guaranteed everyone would be waiting for his first question.

�Mr Sangster,� he began, fixing the witness with a gimlet eye. �I would like to take you back to the first words you uttered after you delivered your solemn oath, because I�m going to ask you the same question as my learned friend. Would you please state your name and occupation?�

The witness looked puzzled. �Gerald Sangster, and I�m currently unemployed.�

�If I had asked you that same question eighteen months ago, how would you have responded?�

Sangster hesitated for a moment before he said, �Dr Gerald Sangster.�

�When a doctor returns to being Mr, it�s usually because they�ve been appointed a surgeon, or a consultant. Is that what happened in your case?�

�No.�

�Then perhaps you�d like to explain to the court why you are no longer entitled to call yourself a doctor.�

�The court has already been told that the General Medical Council removed my name from the register.�

� �Struck off�, I believe, is the correct term. And what was your offence, may I ask?�

Sangster hesitated for a moment before he admitted, �I was accused of violating my Hippocratic Oath.�

Booth Watson couldn�t resist another long pause.

� �Violating�,� he repeated. �What does that actually mean?�

�I over-prescribed controlled drugs that proved harmful to some of my patients.�

�How many patients were involved?�

�There were three witnesses who gave evidence at the hearing.�

�That wasn�t the question I asked, Mr Sangster,� said Booth Watson, as his junior passed him a thick file.

�Eleven,� said Sangster, more quietly.

�Can you tell the court the fate of one particular patient, a Ms Amy Watson?�

�Sadly, she died.�

�How did she die?�

�From an overdose.�

�Of drugs prescribed by you, Mr Sangster. How old was she?�

�Twenty-seven.�

�And another of your patients, a Ms Esther Lockhart. How did she die?�

�Suicide.�

�She hanged herself,� said Booth Watson, before turning another page of the GMC�s report. �I won�t go into the details of the other nine unfortunate patients who were in your care, Mr Sangster, unless of course you�d like me to.�

Sir Julian rose from his place. �M�lud, I hadn�t realized that Mr Sangster was on trial in this case.�

�He isn�t, m�lud,� interjected Booth Watson before the judge could respond, �but the credibility of his evidence is, and I�ll leave the jury to decide if they can believe a word this witness says.�

�You�ve made your point, Mr Booth Watson. Move on.�

�As Your Lordship pleases,� said defence counsel, before turning back to face the witness. �Mr Sangster, when were you struck off the Medical Register?�

Sangster hesitated again.

�Come, come. I can�t believe that date isn�t etched in your memory.�

�July ninth last year.�

�And how long do you claim that you worked for Mr Rashidi?�

�I joined him quite recently.�

�How recently?�

�A few weeks before the factory was raided.�

�I think two weeks would be more accurate, wouldn�t it, Mr Sangster? But then, accuracy is not your strong suit.�

�It was more than two weeks.�

�Well, let�s say three, shall we? How many times during those three weeks did you come across Mr Rashidi?�

�Several times.�

�And was one of those occasions during the police raid?�

�Yes, it was,� said Sangster firmly.

�When you yourself were arrested?�

�Mr Booth Watson, tread carefully,� said the judge firmly.

�I�m simply trying to get at the truth, m�lud. And were you charged on that occasion, Mr Sangster?�

�Yes.�

�With what offence?�

�The supply of illegal substances.�

�In contravention of the 1971 Misuse of Drugs Act. And when your case came to court, how did you plead?�

�Guilty,� said Sangster, so quietly he could barely be heard.

�Would you repeat that, Mr Sangster? I�m not sure the jury heard you.�

�Guilty.�

�And your sentence?�

�Two years.�

�Only two years for an offence that usually carries a tariff of seven? That seems an unusually lenient sentence for such a serious crime. Can I presume you�re still in prison?�

�No, I was released last week.�

�How convenient. Just in time to give evidence in this trial.�

�You�ve made your point, Mr Booth Watson,� repeated the judge. �Move on.�

Booth Watson looked at the jury, and had to agree with the judge. He put down one file, picked up another, and turned a few pages before embarking on his next ploy. �Mr Sangster, I�m interested to find out how well you know Mr Rashidi. For example, can you tell me the name of the company of which he�s been chairman for the past ten years?�

�Marcel and Neffe,� said Sangster, almost in triumph.

�And what do they do?�

�Import tea.�

�Which I don�t think we�ll find is listed as an illegal substance under the 1971 Misuse of Drugs Act.�

Several people smiled, one or two of them on the jury.

�And where are the offices of Marcel and Neffe?�

�In the City.�

�Could you be a little more precise?�

Sangster bit his lip, but didn�t reply.

�No, of course you can�t, Mr Sangster, because I would suggest that there�s not a lot you do know about Mr Rashidi, other than what you�ve read in the press, or picked up when you were in prison.�

�I know where his drug factory was, because I worked there.�

�I don�t doubt you worked there, Mr Sangster, I just doubt you ever saw Mr Rashidi there, other than on the night of the raid.�

�But I know he had a flat in the same block.�

�In the same block?� repeated Booth Watson word for word, to make sure it was on the record.

�I meant in the adjoining block.�

�Perhaps it was you who had a flat in the same block,� suggested Booth Watson, but was met with a stony silence.

Sir Julian frowned and passed a note to Grace.

�Did you ever visit that flat?�

�No, I wasn�t a friend of Rashidi�s.�

�Then how do you know about this supposed flat?�

�It was common knowledge.�

�It is common knowledge, Mr Sangster, that Queen Elizabeth the First met Mary Queen of Scots in Fotheringhay Castle, but I can assure you that no such meeting ever took place. I would suggest that you have never met Mr Rashidi, and that your whole story is nothing more than a few scraps of �common knowledge� you picked up in prison, embroidered with some elaborate inventions of your own that would guarantee you a shorter sentence.�

�That�s not true. I worked for Rashidi.�

�And was it Mr Rashidi who offered you the job?�

�No, a dealer recommended me.�

�Your personal dealer?�

Another long silence followed before Sangster responded. �Yes. In the past, as I�ve admitted, I was an occasional user of cocaine, but that�s all behind me now.�

Booth Watson picked up the GMC report once again, and took his time finding the relevant page before he said, � �Occasional� wasn�t the word the chairman of the GMC used to describe your addiction.�

Sangster made no attempt to defend himself.

�You are clearly someone who has only an occasional association with the truth.� Sir Julian began to rise from his place. �But before my learned friend protests, let me ask if that was the same dealer with whom you shared a cell during your surprisingly brief period in prison?�

This time the hesitation was even longer.

�And was it during that time he told you the story of a drug dealer who lost his hand?�

�It might have been.�

�In which case it would be nothing more than hearsay, and the jury can dismiss it for what it�s worth. And where is this dealer now?� asked Booth Watson before the witness could recover.

�He�s still in jail.�

�Another unreliable witness, who I imagine Sir Julian will not be calling on to give evidence in this trial,� Booth Watson said as he turned to face the jury. �So, allow me to sum up your evidence, Mr Sangster. You were a doctor before you were struck off the Medical Register for violating your professional code of conduct. You�re a drug addict who�s happy to give evidence under oath that turns out to be hearsay picked up from another prisoner while you were in jail. You only worked in the drugs factory for two, possibly three, weeks, yet you claim to have known the defendant for some considerable time. You were struck off for harming your patients by over-prescribing dangerous drugs, and later received a surprisingly lenient two-year sentence, and you somehow ended up serving less than a year. That at least is common knowledge.�

�You�re twisting my words,� shouted Sangster.

�I think they were already twisted, Mr Sangster. But I�m happy to give you a chance to straighten them out before I ask any further questions.�

Booth Watson stared impassively at the Crown�s star witness, waiting for a reply, but none was forthcoming.

�The truth is, Mr Sangster, that you�re a super-grass with no grass. I can only hope the Crown will be calling on some more reliable witnesses to support their rather weak case.�

The judge didn�t look pleased. �Do you have any more questions for this witness, Mr Booth Watson?� he asked.

�None that I suspect would elicit an honest answer, m�lud,� said defence counsel before resuming his place on the bench with an exaggerated sigh.

William took the Bible in his right hand and delivered the oath with a confidence he did not feel.

Grace Warwick rose from her place on the advocates� bench, tugged at the lapels of her black gown and adjusted her wig, unconsciously imitating her father.

�Inspector Warwick,� she began, giving her brother a warm smile, �would you tell the court your name and rank for the record.�

�My name is William Warwick, and I�m a detective inspector attached to Scotland Yard�s drugs squad.�

�On the night in question, Inspector Warwick, were you the officer who arrested Mr Rashidi, following the raid on his drugs factory in Brixton?�

Booth Watson rose slowly from his place, a look of exasperation on his face, and delivered the words, �I must object, m�lud,� before William had a chance to answer the question. �It has yet to be established who owned the property, and my learned friend�s casual assertion might lead the jury to believe it was the defendant, while in fact nothing could be further from the truth.�

�I apologize, m�lud,� said Grace, �but had I been allowed to continue my line of questioning, the jury would have been left in no doubt who was in charge of the drugs factory that night, and who occupied the spacious apartment in the adjoining block.�

Sir Julian allowed himself a smile, while Booth Watson sank back into his place.

�DI Warwick,� continued Grace, looking back at her prepared questions, all of which she was confident she knew the answer to, �following the arrest of Mr Rashidi, did you later interview him at Brixton police station?�

�I did, ma�am,� replied William, addressing his sister that way for the first time, and wondering if he would ever get used to it. �And following that interview, I charged him with three offences under sections four and five of the 1971 Misuse of Drugs Act.�

�Would you tell the court the substance of those charges?�

�Section four of the Act covers the production of a controlled drug. Section five relates to the possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply, and the lesser offence of being in possession of a controlled drug.�

�How did the defendant react when you put these allegations to him?�

�On the advice of his legal representative, he chose not to respond.�

�No more than his legal right,� snorted Booth Watson.

�And did you find any illegal substances on him?�

William hesitated. �A small cache of cannabis.�

�Nothing more?�

�Sixteen pounds in cash and a bus ticket.�

Booth Watson smiled and made a note on the yellow pad perched on his leg: Bus ticket.

�He claimed he was on his way home from work and had dropped by the flat to buy a small quantity of cannabis for his personal use over the weekend, only to find himself caught up in the maelstrom,� said William, reading directly from his notebook.

�Did the defendant use the word �maelstrom�?� asked the judge.

�He did, my lord,� said William.

The judge made a note. �Please continue, Miss Warwick.�

�And before the raid took place, inspector, had you already been investigating Mr Rashidi?�

�Yes, ma�am. Over a period of nearly six months, we had been closely monitoring his daily activities.�

�We?�

�At that time I was heading up a small unit of highly trained officers who established in the course of their investigations that the defendant was living a double life. During the day, he posed as the chairman of a respectable family tea company based in the City of London, while at night he was running an illegal drugs factory from the top three floors of a tower block in Brixton.�

�How were you able to raid that factory without Mr Rashidi�s knowledge, given the fact that it was situated on the top three floors of a tower block, and was presumably well protected?� asked Grace.

�It was indeed, ma�am, but my team mounted an undercover operation, known as Trojan Horse. We were well aware of the tight security surrounding Block A, the building in which the drugs factory was located. It included four lookouts stationed at ground level outside the entrance to the building, making it almost impossible for any of my officers to reach the upper floors before Mr Rashidi could be warned of our presence, giving him more than enough time to reach the safety of his apartment on the twenty-third floor in the adjoining building, Block B, which is connected to Block A by a walkway on that floor.�

Booth Watson wrote the words Block B on his yellow pad.

�Taking all this into account, inspector, how could a team of armed police officers hope to reach the twenty-third floor of Block A before the defendant could escape to his apartment in the adjoining block?�

�My learned friend is at it again, m�lud,� said Booth Watson, rising more quickly this time. �It has not been established that my client had an apartment in the adjoining block. In fact, the Crown�s star witness claimed the defendant lived in the same block � Block A � as I feel sure you recall, m�lud.�

The judge wrote down this observation, as did the foreman of the jury.

�And my learned friend is at it again,� said Grace. �If he would be a little more patient, I promise to supply him with all the proof he requires.�

Booth Watson sat back down, while Sir Julian could barely stop himself applauding.

�Having established the existence of an escape route from the drugs factory in Block A to an apartment in Block B, how did you overcome that problem?�

�Moments before the raid began, a carpenter who was already waiting on the landing of the twenty-third floor of Block B boarded up the entrance to the walkway. That gave my men enough time to reach the drugs factory before Rashidi was able to escape.�

Grace turned to Booth Watson and gave him a warm smile, which he didn�t reciprocate.

�And having arrested Mr Rashidi on the premises, you took him to Brixton police station where he was held overnight?�

�Yes, ma�am.�

�On the following morning, you gained access to an apartment in Block B. What was the purpose of that visit, inspector?�

�Under section eighteen of PACE, I had the authority to search any apartment in that building in order to establish if it had been Mr Rashidi�s place of residence whenever he was in London.�

Booth Watson smiled as he penned the word, If.

�And were you able to do so, inspector?�

�I found a wardrobe in the bedroom full of tailored suits that had been made by Bennett and Reed of Savile Row, along with a dozen hand-made shirts from Pink�s of Jermyn Street that just happened to fit the defendant perfectly.�

�Fitted up, more like,� said Booth Watson as he rose to his feet. �M�lud, has my learned friend conveniently forgotten that the tailor in question confirmed that Mr Rashidi was not one of his clients?�

�Let us move on to a piece of evidence that even my learned friend won�t be able to dismiss quite so easily. Inspector,� said Grace, turning back to face her brother, �during your investigation of the luxurious apartment in Block B, did you come across anything that proved beyond reasonable doubt that it was Mr Rashidi who must have spent his nights there during the week?�

�Yes, ma�am. On a side table in the master bedroom I came across a photograph, the silver frame of which was engraved with the letter A.�

�And you assumed that the A stood for Assem.�

�Yes, I did.�

Booth Watson was quickly on his feet, but Grace continued before he could intervene.

�However, that turned out not to be the case?�

�That�s correct, ma�am. I later discovered that the A stood for Asprey, the well-known luxury goods company in Bond Street.�

�Then what led you to believe there was any connection between that photograph and the defendant?�

�It was a photograph of Mr Rashidi�s mother.�

A tumult of chatter broke out in the court, and Grace had to wait for some time before she was able to ask her next question. �The photograph is part of the Crown�s evidence, m�lud, and has been accepted by both sides.� She gave Booth Watson a warm smile, before adding, �And with your permission, I�ll ask the clerk of the court to show it to the witness so he can confirm it was the photo he found on the bedside table of the spacious apartment in Block B.�

The judge nodded, and the clerk extracted a silver-framed photograph from the bundle of evidence, walked across to the witness box and handed it to Detective Inspector Warwick.

�Inspector,� said Grace, �can you confirm this is the silver frame you found on a bedside table of the apartment in Block B?�

�Yes, I can.�

�Do you recognize the woman in the photograph?�

There was total silence as the court waited for William�s reply.

�No, I don�t,� he said finally, staring down at the image. �Someone must have replaced the original photograph.�

By the time order had been restored, Booth Watson was back on his feet.

�M�lud, I wonder if the jury, and indeed you and I, might be allowed to see the photograph in question, as the inspector no longer appears to believe it proves my client�s guilt,� he paused, �beyond reasonable doubt.�

Mr Justice Whittaker hesitated before nodding.

The clerk handed the photograph up to the judge, but after studying it, he looked none the wiser. He passed it back to the clerk, who in turn handed it to the foreman of the jury. He took his time looking at the photograph of an elderly lady before showing it to his fellow jurors.

Grace and Sir Julian were the next people to consider the evidence, before it finally reached Mr Booth Watson, who gave the photograph only a cursory glance before giving it back to the clerk of the court. Sir Julian leant across and whispered a clear instruction to his daughter, who carried out his bidding.

�M�lud,� she said, �I wonder if you would grant us a short recess, in order that the Crown might consider its position.�

�I will allow you thirty minutes, Ms Warwick,� said the judge. �No more.� He checked his watch. �Counsel will be back in their places by eleven fifteen.�

�All rise.�

�Please state your name and occupation for the record,� said Booth Watson.

�My name is Tony Roberts, and I own a chain of newsagents south of the river.�

�And your home address?�

�Flat 97, Napier Mansions, Brixton.�

�Can I confirm, Mr Roberts, that your apartment is on the twenty-third floor of Block B?�

�Yes, sir.�

�And how long have you lived there?�

�Just over ten years. I was rentin� it for four years, and then I bought the place when the government made that possible, six years ago.�

Sir Julian made a note, underlining Ten years.

�And yours is a larger apartment than any other in the block.�

�That�s right, I got plannin� permission to knock two flats into one.�

Sir Julian wrote the words Check whose name is on planning permission, and passed his query across to Clare, who was sitting on the solicitors� bench behind him.

�So, your newsagents business must be fairly successful?�

�Can�t complain. Took over my old man�s shop when he retired. And since then, the business has grown like Topsy.�

�And how many shops do you own now?�

�Eleven, with a couple more under offer.�

�As your business is so successful, Mr Roberts, have you ever considered opening a newsagents on the other side of the river?�

Sir Julian put a cross through one of the questions he had intended to ask.

�I�m not a toff like you,� said Roberts. �Born in Brixton, went to the local secondary modern, married a Brixton girl, and when my time comes, I�ll be buried in Brixton.�

�But you must cross the river occasionally?� said Booth Watson. �Because I can�t believe the suit you are wearing was purchased in Brixton.�

Sir Julian crossed out another question on his list.

�Sunday best,� said Roberts. �The wife thought it would be appropriate for my appearance in court.�

�May I ask who the tailor is?�

Roberts opened his jacket with a flourish to reveal the red label of Bennett and Reed of Savile Row.

Sir Julian made a further note that he added to his list of questions.

�Mr Roberts, I�m going to show you a photograph that was found on the bedside table of your apartment.�

Once again, the clerk retrieved the silver-framed photo from the bundle of evidence and handed it to the witness.

�Do you recognize the lady in the photograph?�

�Course I do. It�s my dear departed mother, God rest her soul.�

Grace made a note, and passed it to her father.

�Where were you on the night the police raided the adjoining block, Block A?�

�Havin� a few jars at the Rose and Crown, with some mates.�

�So you were unaware of the raid?�

�At the time yes, but by the time I got home both buildin�s was surrounded by coppers. So many uniforms I thought the third world war must have broken out.�

One or two people in the court laughed, including a member of the jury.

�You weren�t aware there was a drugs factory operating in the block next door?�

�Heard rumours, of course. If it�s true, I hope the bastards get what�s comin� to them,� he said, staring directly at Rashidi.

�Brilliant,� whispered Grace. �A National Theatre player couldn�t have delivered that line more convincingly.�

�I agree,� said Sir Julian. �But let�s see what he�s like under cross-examination, when he doesn�t have a prepared script to rely on, with the occasional prompt from the wings.�

�I�d like to move on to the day after the raid took place,� said Booth Watson, �when the police obtained a warrant to search your apartment and came away with a number of your suits and shirts, and the photograph of your mother you have just identified.�

�Not to mention the money that went missin� from my safe.�

�Some money went missing?� said Booth Watson, feigning surprise while looking directly at the jury. �May I ask how much?�

�A few bob short of seven hundred quid, which I�d intended to bank the next mornin�.�

This time it was Clare who made a note and handed it to counsel. Sir Julian nodded and added the question to his list.

�I presume you made an official complaint to the police?�

�What�s the point, when it was them what took it?�

Uproar broke out in the court, as the journalists began to pen a story they hadn�t anticipated. Booth Watson waited patiently for the chatter to cease before he put his next question. �Were you able to find out which officer was responsible for conducting the search of the apartment in your absence?�

�Yep, I�ve got a mate who works in Brixton nick. He told me it wasn�t someone from our local patch, but an outsider from the other side of the river. Scotland Yard, no less.�

�Did he give you a name?�

�Sure did. Detective Inspector William Warwick.�

Several people turned around and stared in William�s direction. Only the journalists remained head down, scribbling away.

Sir Julian was on his feet at once. �I must protest, m�lud.�

�Of course you must,� said Booth Watson. �After all, he�s your son.�

Now the journalists had their banner headline, and it was still YOUR OWN CHILD. It was some time before the uproar had died down enough for anyone to be heard. Mr Justice Whittaker stared down at defence counsel.

�That was uncalled for, Mr Booth Watson,� he said, barely concealing his anger.

�I apologize unreservedly,� said defence counsel, giving the judge a slight bow. �However, m�lud, I should point out that I didn�t ask the witness who had stolen his money, only who had conducted the search.�

The judge was still seething, but managed to control his temper. �Very well. You may continue, Mr Booth Watson.�

�Allow me to ask you once again, Mr Roberts, how long have you lived in your apartment in Block B?�

�Just over ten years.�

�And would you now look carefully at the man standing in the dock.� The witness looked across at Rashidi. �Have you ever seen him before?�

�No, never,� said Roberts without hesitation.

�Thank you, Mr Roberts,� said Booth Watson, who turned to the judge and said, �I have no more questions for this witness, m�lud,� before sinking back down into his place, well satisfied with his afternoon�s work.

Grace, who had remained outwardly calm during the bitter exchanges, leant across and whispered to her father, �Have you noticed that Roberts and Rashidi are wearing identical suits?�

Sir Julian took a closer look at both of them before saying, �You could be right. But I can�t do anything about it unless Rashidi gives evidence from the witness box, and I shouldn�t imagine BW will allow that.�

�Do you intend to cross-examine this witness, Sir Julian?� asked the judge.

�I most certainly do, m�lud,� said the Crown�s leading advocate, as he rose from his place.

�Mr Roberts, if that is your real name,� he began, looking directly at the witness.

�What are you gettin� at?� said Roberts defiantly.

�I only wondered if Tony Roberts was the name on your birth certificate. Think carefully before you answer the question, because I�m confident the judge will allow me a recess so I can visit the General Record Office to check the original document.�

�OK, I was born Tony Burke. What of it?�

�And when did you change your name to Roberts?�

�Can�t remember the exact date.�

�Could it have been about ten years ago?�

�Might�ve been.�

�Did you do so for any particular reason?�

�Didn�t like being called a right berk, simple as that.� The witness leant back, waiting for someone to laugh, but no one did.

�I don�t think it can have been quite as simple as that,� said Sir Julian, �because the initials sewn on the inside of your jacket...�

�A.R., Anthony Roberts. My God-fearing mother never called me Tony. I only wish she was still alive today, then she could tell you �erself.�

�So do I,� said Sir Julian, �because I could then have asked her some more questions about her son.�

�Like what?� said Roberts, defiantly.

�If he knew the way to Savile Row.�

�She�d have said yes.�

�So when you leave your home in Brixton to visit your tailor for another fitting, which bridge do you cross?�

�No idea. I always take a cab.� He paused. �It�s somewhere in the West End, if I remember right.�

�Somewhere in the West End,� Sir Julian repeated, looking at the jury. �So let me ask you about a venue with which you appear to be more familiar, the Rose and Crown.�

�My local.�

�You told the court that on the night the police raided the drugs factory in Block A, you were �having a few jars at the Rose and Crown, with some mates�.�

�Yes, and what�s more, I can name every one of them.�

�I feel sure you can,� said Sir Julian. �However, you went on to say that by the time you got home later that night, both blocks were surrounded by the police. You thought the third world war must have broken out, if I recall your exact words.�

�At least you got somethin� right.�

�What time did you leave the pub?�

�Just before ten. Don�t forget I own several newsagents so I have to be up early.�

�And how far is it from the pub to your home in Napier Road?�

�About half a mile.�

�So it must have taken you ten, perhaps fifteen minutes to reach home?�

�Sounds �bout right.�

�I must tell you it�s a matter of record that the police didn�t turn up in Napier Road until after ten thirty that night. So how do you account for the missing fifteen minutes?�

A worried look appeared on the witness�s face for the first time, before he blurted out, �Oh yeah, I forgot. I left the pub with one of my mates, and we stopped off at his place for another jar.�

�Can you remember the name and address of that mate, Mr Roberts?�

�Can�t say I do, but then it was more than six months ago.�

�But only a few moments ago you told the court you could name every one of your mates who were in the pub that night.�

The witness pursed his lips, but made no attempt to reply.

�Well, let�s move on to something you appear to remember in great detail. You told my learned friend that the police visited your home the morning after the raid and removed a number of Savile Row suits, a dozen shirts, a silver-framed photograph of your mother, as well as �a few bob short of seven hundred quid�, which you later found was missing from your safe.�

�Spot on. And I�d like to know who stole it.�

�So would I,� said Sir Julian, �because you also told the court that you intended to bank the seven hundred pounds that morning.�

�That�s right. I deposit the previous day�s takings on my way to work every mornin�, without fail.�

�But you did fail on this occasion, Mr Roberts, because you told the court the money was still in your safe when the police searched your home.�

�Must have forgotten for once.�

�Then let me ask you something you couldn�t possibly forget if, as you claim, you�ve lived in that flat for the past ten years. What�s your telephone number?�

�Two seven four�� Roberts began, then stopped and stared blankly at Sir Julian.

�It�s not a trick question, Mr Roberts. I imagine every member of the jury can remember their home telephone number, especially those who�ve lived at the same address for the past ten years.� He was rewarded with some involuntary nods from the jury box.

�I think it might have been changed recently,� said Roberts.

�Not according to British Telecom,� said Sir Julian, holding up a letter for the court to see. �The accounts manager for the Brixton area assures me,� he said, reading the words Grace had underlined, �this number has not been changed since it was installed in 1976.�

�If you say so.�

�I don�t say so, Mr Roberts, but British Telecom does.� Sir Julian didn�t move on until he was certain the jury had realized the witness had no intention of responding. �I would like to return to the Asprey�s silver frame found in your flat, displaying a photograph of your late lamented mother.�

�God rest her soul,� said Roberts.

�Yes, indeed,� said Sir Julian, �because had she lived, there is another question I would have liked to ask her. How often did she pop into Asprey�s to buy presents for her son?�

�What are you suggestin�?�

�Just as we learnt earlier that you didn�t know where Savile Row is, despite having a wardrobe full of hand-made suits from one of its long-established tailors, I have a feeling your mother never visited Bond Street.�

�You can�t prove that.�

�You�re right, I can�t.� Roberts assumed a smug expression, until Sir Julian asked, �Do you believe in coincidence?�

�What are you gettin� at?�

�Allow me to explain exactly what I�m getting at. Ten years ago, you changed your name, rented a brand-new apartment in a recently built block, and acquired a bespoke tailor, even though you�re not entirely sure where Savile Row is. At that time you were the proprietor of a single newsagents shop, and you now own eleven, with another two under offer.�

�What does that prove?�

�That you�re a very resourceful man, Mr Roberts. But the jury might find it quite a coincidence that all this happened at the same time as Mr Assem Rashidi moved into the area, opened a drugs factory in the next block, and might have needed someone local who could move into his apartment at a moment�s notice, and look as if he�d lived there for the past ten years despite the fact he didn�t even know the telephone number of the flat.�

�It was always my flat, not Assem�s,� shouted Roberts, pointing at the defendant.

�Shall we let the jury decide if it was your flat or Assem�s?� said Sir Julian, allowing himself a smile. �No more questions, m�lud.�

The taxi turned left out of Scotland Yard and headed towards Westminster. The �For Hire� sign had been switched off, but that didn�t stop one or two hopeful customers from trying to flag him down. The driver ignored them because he already had a booking.

He headed down Victoria Street, with Westminster Abbey on his right and, on his left, the QEII centre which had recently been opened by the Queen. As always, the traffic in Parliament Square was almost at a standstill, but that suited his purpose. He looked up at Big Ben as England�s timekeeper struck twelve times, the chimes echoing around the square.

He eased across to the inside lane and slowed down. His timing needed to be perfect. The lights turned red as he swung left, coming to a halt at the top of Whitehall, allowing a mass of pedestrians to cross the road. There are no zebra crossings in Whitehall, because if there were, the traffic would be at a perpetual standstill, as would the seat of government.

A woman tapped on his side window, having noticed that although the yellow light was off, no one was sitting in the back.

�Are you free?�

�No, madam. I have a booking.�

She looked surprised when an unlikely-looking passenger opened the back door of the taxi, and climbed in. The traffic light turned green.

As the driver moved off he glanced in the rear-view mirror to see a scruffy, unshaven individual lounging on the back seat, who most cabbies would have refused to pick up. But not the commander.

�Good morning, sir,� his fare said as they drove past the Foreign Office.

�Good morning Ross,� replied the Hawk, as he slipped into the bus lane.

�As instructed, I�ve been keeping a close eye on our former colleague, Superintendent Lamont, and I�m sorry to report that your worst fears have been realized.�

The commander let out a deep sigh as they passed the Cenotaph and headed towards Trafalgar Square. �Don�t paper over the cracks, Ross,� he said.

�After you put pressure on him to return the cash, or at least most of it, that had been temporarily mislaid following the raid on Rashidi�s slaughter, he decided, as you know, to resign from the force rather than face an inquiry. As a result of that decision he ended up in considerable debt. He even thought about buying a pub in Blackheath, but his wife put a stop to that. I�m afraid he�s in a bad place and Summers found it only too easy to take advantage of the situation.�

�How come?�

�A nag problem, sir, caused by a high-maintenance wife and low-maintenance horses.�

�Don�t spare me the details.�

�His wife Lauren thinks Harrods is the only store she should be seen frequenting, and the Caprice the only restaurant worthy of her patronage.�

�Poor man.�

�And poor is the result, because whenever he does have the occasional win at the races he celebrates, and forgets all about the far more frequent losses. That�s why until recently he was always broke.�

�Until recently?�

�In the past couple of weeks he�s paid off all his debts to the bookies, and several other substantial outgoings that aren�t easy to explain,� said Ross as the taxi swung out of Trafalgar Square and headed down the Mall.

�Like what?� asked the Hawk, as Buckingham Palace loomed into sight.

�He�s recently made a down payment on a bigger house in Fulham, that comes with an even larger mortgage. His wife is kitting it out with furniture from Harrods, and he�s driving a new Audi which he paid for in cash. He�s certainly not getting that sort of money from his pension pot.�

�We�ve got a pretty good idea who his paymaster is,� said the Hawk. �Lamont�s had three separate meetings with DS Summers during the past month. They get on and off at different stations on the Circle line, and never spend more than a few minutes together. On one occasion our undercover officer saw a bulky brown envelope changing hands. What we don�t know is what Lamont is offering in return, although we strongly suspect he was responsible for switching the photograph that blew a hole through the Crown�s evidence at Rashidi�s trial.� He threw on his brakes and cursed as a jogger ran in front of the cab. �We already knew about the connection between Lamont and Summers,� the Hawk mused, �but what�s the connection between Rashidi and Summers?�

�That�s easy to explain,� said Ross. �The Turner family. They control the drugs racket in Romford, and were among Rashidi�s best customers. I wouldn�t be surprised if Summers is on their payroll.�

�Then let�s concentrate on the source of the money as it�s always the best motive. Anything new at the Romford end?�

�PC Bailey has spent the past three nights at Summers�s home. I�m informed by a reliable source that most of his girlfriends last about a week, two at the most. If it goes into a third week, you might have a more serious problem.�

�That�s the understatement of the year. An officer on my investigation squad sleeping with the person she�s meant to be investigating. How am I going to explain that to the commissioner?�

Marlboro Man didn�t offer an opinion.

�Keep an eye on both of them,� the Hawk eventually managed, �and let�s meet up again in a week. Same time, same place. If you find out what Lamont�s up to, get in touch with Jackie and let her know immediately.�

The commander came to a halt at the traffic lights opposite the Army and Navy Store. His passenger hopped out of the cab, fare unpaid, and disappeared among the morning shoppers.

�Can you take me to the Guards Club, my good man?� enquired an elderly gentleman, tapping a cane on the side window.

�No, I can�t,� said the Hawk, and quickly accelerated away.

�I don�t know what the country�s coming to,� growled the old man.

The Hawk turned into Victoria Street, still trying to work out what Summers was expecting from Lamont in return for the latest bulky brown envelope. As he parked in his reserved space at Scotland Yard, he said out loud, �I can�t believe he�d sink that low.�

Sir Julian and Grace arrived at the Old Bailey just after nine that morning.

Overnight, Clare had come up with some more incisive questions that she felt would catch Rashidi off guard, and Sir Julian appeared a bit more hopeful that Booth Watson had been left with no choice but to allow his client to enter the witness box.

By the time they arrived in court, Booth Watson was already setting up his stall in preparation for the final witness. Sir Julian would have liked to have sight of the list of questions he had prepared for Rashidi, but accepted that he would have to wait like everyone else, until the clock struck ten.

When their eyes met the two gladiators barely raised their visors.

Next to enter the arena was the defendant, who took his place in the dock. Booth Watson looked around and gave him a warm smile. If Rashidi was nervous about giving evidence in his own defence, there was no sign of it.

�I�m pretty sure he�s wearing the same suit as he did on the opening day,� ventured Grace after a surreptitious glance in Rashidi�s direction.

�You may be right,� said Sir Julian, �but I�m still not convinced it�s a risk worth taking. After all, BW�s second-guessed everything else we�ve come up with so far.�

Bang on cue the referee entered the arena. Mr Justice Whittaker bowed low before taking his place in the high-backed chair above them, and waited for the seven men and five women to file in and resume their places in the jury box. Grace felt they all looked especially alert that morning, no doubt in anticipation of the main attraction.

William slipped in a few moments later and took a seat at the back of the court, just as proceedings were about to begin.

�Mr Booth Watson,� declared the judge, looking down from on high. �You may call your next witness.�

�Thank you, m�lud,� said defence counsel, who once again glanced in Rashidi�s direction before saying, �I call Mr Bruce Lamont.�

William was momentarily stunned, while everyone around him began talking at once. Even so, he assumed his father wouldn�t have been taken by surprise, until he saw him leap to his feet.

�M�lud, the Crown has not been informed about the possibility of this witness giving evidence, and has therefore had no time to prepare for such an eventuality. We had assumed that Mr Rashidi would be the defence�s final witness.�

�I can�t imagine why,� said Booth Watson, with an air of innocence. �After all, I registered my intention to examine this witness with the clerk of the court yesterday afternoon, after some new evidence had come to light, and asked him to inform Your Lordship without fail.�

�Which he did,� said the judge. �Perhaps it would have been courteous to have also informed the Crown of your intention.�

�That was remiss of me,� said Booth Watson. �I�ll make sure I don�t make the same mistake again.�

�It wasn�t a mistake,� said Grace, unable to restrain herself any longer.

�Am I my sister�s keeper?� said Booth Watson with a sigh.

�As the witness is waiting to be called,� said the judge, �I will allow defence counsel to carry out his examination-in-chief. If you then feel, Sir Julian, you need more time to consider the witness�s evidence, I would of course be willing to grant an adjournment before calling on you to conduct your cross-examination.�

�As Your Lordship pleases,� said Sir Julian, not looking at all pleased. He pushed aside the long list of questions he and Grace had spent the previous night preparing, and the early morning rehearsing, in exchange for a virgin yellow pad and a fountain pen. He was pleased to see that both Grace and Clare already had their pencils poised.

William was still seething at the back of the court when a familiar figure walked in, and made his way to the witness box. Lamont was dressed in a dark blue double-breasted blazer, a freshly pressed pair of grey slacks, cream shirt and Metropolitan Police tie. William recalled his oft-repeated homily: always dress smartly when you�re in the witness box. It helps to get the jury on your side.

The clerk handed Lamont a Bible which he held in his right hand. He delivered the oath confidently, without looking at the proffered card, adding the words, �So help me God.�

�Mr Lamont, I would like to begin by asking you why you resigned from the police force only months before you would have been eligible for a full pension.�

�As I stated under oath, Sir Julian, it was a matter of conscience. I couldn�t stand by and watch an innocent man being convicted for a crime he hadn�t committed.�

Clare, who, as the consulting solicitor, was sitting a row behind the QCs, placed an X against question number one. 0�1.

�You told the court that Mr Rashidi returned to his home in The Boltons every evening during the week, and that he then stayed there overnight before being driven back to work in the City the following day.�

�That�s what his mother told me, and I had no reason not to believe her.�

�When exactly did you see Mrs Rashidi?�

Lamont looked up at the judge. �M�lud,� he said, �may I refer to the notes I made at the time?� The judge nodded. Lamont opened his notebook and flicked through several pages. �May twelfth, fourteenth and nineteenth,� he pronounced. �I also interviewed Mrs Rashidi�s housekeeper and his driver.�

Grace placed an X against that question. 0�2.

�You also told the court that you were the officer in charge of Operation Trojan Horse. Was that entirely accurate?�

�I was in charge of the day-to-day planning, but I reported to Commander Hawksby, who as head of the unit joined us on the night of the raid. He in turn reported to the assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.�

�Got himself off the hook with that reply,� conceded Clare. 0�3. She had to admit that so far, Sir Julian hadn�t laid a glove on him.

�You also informed the court that your private investigations revealed that on the night of the raid, Mr Rashidi had visited a warehouse in Battersea, as he did every Friday evening. Having done so, he then went on to the drugs factory to purchase a small amount of cannabis for his personal use, which you suggest explains why he was there when the premises were raided.�

�That is correct.�

�How far is it from the warehouse to the drugs factory?�

Lamont hesitated for the first time. �About a mile,� he said, �which would account for the bus ticket we found in his pocket at the time of his arrest.�

�Why would Mr Rashidi need to take a bus to the drugs factory, when he had a car and driver?�

For the second time Lamont looked as if that was a question he hadn�t been prepared for. He glanced desperately at Booth Watson, who sat there, head bowed. 1�3.

�Since you appear to have no answer to that question, I will move on. What time did the warehouse close that night?�

�I have no idea,� admitted Lamont.

�But didn�t you tell the court you had carried out a thorough investigation after you were convinced Rashidi had been wrongly arrested?�

Another question that clearly hadn�t been on Booth Watson�s crib sheet. 2�3.

�Then allow me to tell you,� said Sir Julian. �A notice on the warehouse gate states that they close at six o�clock. Are you suggesting Mr Rashidi stood at a bus stop for three hours waiting for the 127, when he could have walked there and back several times?�

Lamont didn�t offer an opinion, so Clare put an X next to the question. 3�3.

�Once again, the jury won�t have missed the fact that you failed to answer the question,� said Sir Julian. �So I�ll move on. Mr Lamont, you told the court that when you went to what the police presumed to be Mr Rashidi�s apartment in Block B on the day after the raid, the only photograph you saw there was of Mr Roberts�s mother.�

�That is correct,� said Lamont, back on track.

�I�m now going to ask the clerk of the court to show you another photograph, Mr Lamont, and I�d like you to tell me if you�ve ever seen it before.�

Sir Julian handed a silver-framed photograph to the clerk who in turn passed it to Lamont. He studied the image for a few moments before admitting, �Yes, I have seen this photograph before. It was in Mr Rashidi�s drawing room at The Boltons when I interviewed his mother.�

�He saw that one coming,� whispered Clare, and added another X to her list. 3�4.

�Then I�m bound to ask,� said Sir Julian, �how the police got hold of a copy of the same photograph, that just happened to be in an identical frame?�

�I have no idea. But I have a feeling your son might be able to answer that question.�

One or two members of the jury smiled, and Clare put another X against that question. 3�5. She glanced at the next one and felt more hopeful.

�How many times did you interview Mr Rashidi while you were carrying out your private investigations?�

�On three separate occasions.�

�I notice that you didn�t need to check the dates in your notebook this time.� 4�5.

�You didn�t ask me for the dates,� said Lamont. �Only how many times.� 4�6.

�Then I�m bound to ask how many times you have seen Mr Rashidi since you resigned from the Metropolitan Police.�

�Not once,� said Lamont confidently.

�And Mr Booth Watson?�

Booth Watson was quickly on his feet. �I can answer that question, m�lud.�

�I�m sure you can,� said Mr Justice Whittaker. �But it�s Mr Lamont�s response the jury will want to hear, not yours.�

Booth Watson reluctantly sat back down. 5�6.

�Twice,� said Lamont, not sounding quite as confident. �When I provided him with written evidence under oath, with a witness present.�

�Were you compensated for your trouble?�

�That is a disgraceful suggestion,� said Booth Watson, even before he�d had time to rise.

�Possibly,� said the judge, �but once again, I would like to hear the witness�s response.�

�No, sir,� said Lamont, turning towards the judge. �I received nothing for telling the truth.� 4�7.

�Then how much did you receive for telling lies?� asked Sir Julian. 5�7.

As the court erupted, Sir Julian turned around to Clare, who handed him a large brown envelope. He opened it slowly and extracted three photographs, which he took his time considering.

�Was last night one of the occasions on which you visited my learned friend?�

Booth Watson leapt to his feet.

�Sit down, Mr Booth Watson,� said the judge, �or I�ll hold you in contempt.�

Booth Watson hovered like a cat waiting to pounce, but finally slunk back down.

�Let me ask you once again,� said Sir Julian. �Did you have a meeting with Mr Booth Watson last night, which as you must know is against the law, while you�re still giving evidence?� 6�7.

Lamont stared at Booth Watson, who kept his eyes down.

Sir Julian waited for some time before saying, �As Mr Lamont seems unwilling to answer the question, m�lud, I would be happy for my learned friend to confirm or deny whether such a meeting took place.� 7�7. Extra time.

Booth Watson didn�t stir. Sir Julian placed the three photographs of the young William as a choirboy back into the envelope, before handing it to Clare. 8�7.

�I have no more questions for this witness, m�lud.�

Lamont stepped out of the witness box and quickly left the court, without looking at Rashidi or Booth Watson. Final whistle.

�It is your duty,� began Mr Justice Whittaker, looking down at the jury, �when considering your verdict, to take into account only the evidence you have heard in this court. Anything you�ve read in the press, or opinions expressed by your family or friends, should be ignored. They have not heard all the evidence.

�You are under no time pressure. A man�s future is in your hands. Once you retire, the only verdict I can accept is a unanimous one. Let me remind you the burden of proof is on the prosecution to show that the defendant is guilty, beyond reasonable doubt.

�You will now retire to the jury room to consider your verdict.� He nodded at the clerk of the court, who stood in front of the jury and declared, �I swear by Almighty God that I will keep this jury in some private and convenient place. I will not suffer anyone to talk to them nor will I talk to them unless it is to ask whether they have reached a verdict.�

He then led his twelve charges out of the court to the jury room.

The seven men and five women had already spent ten days together, and had got to know each other fairly well. Friendships had developed and rivalries surfaced, not least when it had come to selecting who should be appointed foreman. Mr Anscombe had triumphed over Mrs Parish, but Mrs Parish was turning out to be a sore loser.

Anscombe wasn�t in any doubt that Rashidi was guilty on all three counts. However, he felt as foreman it was his duty not to impose his views on the other members of the jury, but to listen attentively to all their opinions.

He had been a schoolmaster all his working life, ending his career as the headmaster of a local grammar school in Kent. But this wasn�t a staff meeting to decide if a boy should be put in detention, or even expelled. They were about to determine whether a man should be set free or sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.

Once they had all taken their places, he looked around the table, trying to remember everyone�s name, as he�d always done with his boys. Although he�d thought he�d got to know them quite well over the course of the trial, he was about to discover that in fact he didn�t know them at all.

�It might be helpful,� he began once they were settled, �if we were to take a vote and find out if we are all of one mind, and therefore able to reach a verdict fairly quickly.�

�Couldn�t agree more, foreman,� said a voice from the other end of the table. Several other members of the jury nodded, and there was even one �Hear, hear!�

�Then I�ll begin by asking how many of you consider the defendant is guilty,� said Anscombe. �So as not to exert any undue influence as your foreman, I will not vote at this juncture.� He counted the raised hands and, attempting to conceal his surprise, wrote the number 8 on the pad in front of him. �And those who think he is not guilty?�

Two hands immediately shot up. Mrs Parish�s followed a few moments later.

As he wrote the number 3 on his pad he recalled the judge�s words: �The only verdict I can consider is a unanimous one.�

�Shall we begin,� said Anscombe, �by listening to the views of the three of us who consider Mr Rashidi is innocent on all three charges?�

�Good morning, Mrs Faulkner. How nice to see you.�

Christina had to admire the way Booth Watson could lie so unashamedly, while keeping a straight face. She sat down in the seat opposite him, but did not return his salutation.

�Miles felt we should meet in order to avoid any possible misunderstandings in the future.�

�How thoughtful of him,� said Christina.

�As you know, he is content to make your life as comfortable as possible,� said Booth Watson, ignoring the barbed remark, �but in return, he will expect you to abide by certain rules.�

�Like what?�

�He�ll buy you a house in the country, continue to pay the rent on the flat in Chelsea, and supply you with an income of one thousand pounds a week. And of course you�ll be able to keep your car and chauffeur.�

�What about the half-million we agreed on in the divorce settlement?�

�An agreement that was unfortunately never formalized. In any case, you�ve recently sold the land on the site of Limpton Hall for�� he checked the figure � �seven hundred and seventy thousand pounds, so you�re not exactly broke,� he added.

�I�ll need at least two thousand pounds a week to cover my living expenses. That was also agreed in our divorce settlement, in case you�ve forgotten.�

�Miles anticipated you might say that, and being a generous man, he will agree to fifteen hundred a week.�

�What about the paintings? Half of them belong to me.�

�Possession is nine tenths of the law. And they are now well beyond your reach.�

�Two thousand a week.�

�Very well. As long as you make no attempt to reclaim the Vermeer from the Fitzmolean should you for any reason fall upon hard times.�

�Only if Miles agrees not to steal the painting from the gallery a second time.�

�He�s unlikely to do that,� said Booth Watson, �as it wouldn�t take the police long to work out that he�s still alive.�

�If I do agree to his terms, what will he expect in return?�

�You will keep up the myth that he is dead, especially with your friend Beth Warwick and her husband. As long as they continue to believe he is Captain Ralph Neville, a recently retired naval officer, he�ll be able to go about his business without fear of being exposed.�

�It wouldn�t take William long to discover that no such Royal Navy officer ever existed.�

�Ah, but he does,� said Booth Watson, �and he�s recently retired on a far larger pension than he would have thought possible before he met Miles, on the one condition that he never sets foot in England again.�

�And if I refuse to go along with your plan and decide to expose him?� said Christina, defiantly.

�The country house will never be yours, the flat in London will undergo a rent review that you won�t be able to afford, and your weekly allowance will dry up overnight.�

�You�ve forgotten the car and chauffeur,� said Christina sarcastically.

�Your chauffeur would be made redundant, and the Rolls-Royce might just be involved in an unfortunate accident, reminding your friends that after years of having a driver, you were no longer safe on the road.�

Christina gave an involuntary shudder. �Even Miles wouldn�t go that far,� she eventually managed.

�You may well be right, but you�d certainly have to think about it every time you got into the car.�

Christina tried not to think about it.

�And there�s something else I should mention, while we�re on the subject of your future. The paintings are no longer in Monte Carlo, and all of Miles�s assets have been deposited in several numbered accounts in Zurich, Geneva and Bern, so if you don�t want to end up living on social security, I suggest you keep to your end of the bargain.�

�Does that mean I can no longer see Beth Warwick, because she�s about the only friend I�ve got?�

�On the contrary, we want you to go on seeing Beth Warwick. Just make sure she remains convinced you�re a widow, because the day she isn�t, you may as well be.�

�Am I also expected to live with Miles?�

�No, that�s the last thing he wants. He has no objection to you continuing your former lifestyle, as long as you�re discreet. However, there will be occasions when you�ll have to be seen in public together in order to keep up the pretence.�

�Does Miles actually believe he�ll get away with it?�

�I hope so, for your sake. He tells me he passed the Vermeer unveiling test with flying colours, so clearly the Swiss plastic surgeon did an excellent job. And don�t forget, no one gave him a second look when he sat in the row behind me at his own funeral. Any more questions?� he asked abruptly.

�How will I know when I�m required to play my role?�

�I�ll be in touch. I�ll try to give you at least twenty-four hours� notice.�

�How considerate of you.�

�I hope you�ll quickly accept, Mrs Faulkner, this is an amicable arrangement that will suit both parties. However, should you ever need any legal advice, do feel free to call on me.�

�How kind of you, Mr Booth Watson, but fortunately Sir Julian Warwick fulfils that role quite admirably.�

�Not in the future, he won�t,� said Booth Watson firmly.

�You�re frightened of him,� said Christina, feeling that at last she�d scored a point.

Booth Watson hesitated for a moment. �Not frightened,� he eventually managed, �but I do have a certain respect for his professional skills. So, you are never to call on his services again.�

Christina was about to protest when Booth Watson added, �It�s a deal-breaker.� She remained silent.

Booth Watson swivelled the agreement around, offered her a pen and said, �You sign here, here and here. By the way,� he added, �I thought your performance at the funeral was quite brilliant. But then, it was always in your best interests to convince Inspector Warwick that Miles was dead.�

�It�s the pride of the Fitzmolean�s collection,� said Beth as they both stood there admiring the Vermeer.

�And it couldn�t have found a better home,� said Christina. �But I have to tell you that since Miles�s death, art dealers and auction houses have been beating a path to my door wanting to know what I intend to do with the rest of the collection.�

�If you ever decide to sell any of your paintings, we�d be happy to advise you. It�s the least we could do in return for your generosity.�

�That�s kind of you,� said Christina, �but that�s not why I invited you to lunch.�

�Monte Carlo?� asked Beth, raising an eyebrow.

�Couldn�t have been more perfect,� purred Christina. �Ralph was so kind and considerate, and such good company. Between us girls, the sex isn�t bad either.�

�Well, I�m pleased for you. William was a little worried that��

�Ralph might only be interested in my money?�

Beth looked embarrassed.

�Why don�t you both come over for dinner one evening, then you can get to know him a little better.�

�I didn�t mean to imply...� began Beth. �It�s just that William always��

�Thinks like a policeman. How is he, by the way?�

�He�s up to something,� Beth replied, trying to get off the hook. �But I�m not sure what.�

�Another woman?� suggested Christina, laughing.

�Not the way he�s looking at the moment, unless she�s sleeping rough. Are you still thinking of moving to Florida?� asked Beth, keen to change the subject.

�I no longer need to. I�ve ended up with the apartment in Mayfair, the villa and a yacht, not to mention a captain who can�t wait to sail her.�

�You sound quite serious about Ralph.�

�Yes, I am. He�s changed my whole life. Sinatra was right, love�s much lovelier the second time around. But I�ll tell you everything over lunch,� Christina said as she linked arms with Beth and they left the gallery together.

�Number twenty-two!�

William stood at the back of the room waiting patiently for the right moment. There were three housing officers available that morning, all seated behind thick glass screens, like bank tellers.

He�d arrived at the Town Hall when the doors opened at nine o�clock, but still had to join a long queue. He�d explained to the woman on the enquiry desk why he was there.

�Stick to the truth whenever possible,� the Hawk had advised. �That way you�re less likely to be caught out by some silly mistake.�

�I�m married with two children [true], and currently live in Fulham [true]. I�ve just been offered a job with the Ford Motor Company in Dagenham [untrue], and am looking for accommodation in the area [untrue].�

The woman handed him a long form, a short pencil, and a small wooden disc with the number 26 etched on it.

�Fill in the form,� she said, �and when your number�s called hand the disc to the next available officer.�

He took a seat in the second row, opposite Adam Payne. After he�d filled in the form, he watched all three officers carefully. He knew he only had a one-in-three chance of ending up at the right window, so tried to work out how he could lower the odds.

�Number twenty-three.�

William noticed that Payne took his time dealing with clients. He had a kind, reassuring manner that clearly put them at ease as he listened to their problems. He made copious notes, often showed them photographs, and each person left looking satisfied. Would he be able to achieve the same result with William?

�Number twenty-four.�

A heavily pregnant woman shuffled forward and sat down opposite Payne. She slid her form under the window and began to explain her situation. William had already calculated that on average Payne spent eleven minutes dealing with each application, while the world-weary-looking older woman to his left took around seven, and the younger man on his right took about eight.

�Number twenty-five.�

A young couple with a baby stood up and walked towards the left-hand cubicle. William checked his watch. He was pretty sure the young man would finish with his client before Payne had dealt with the pregnant woman.

�Number twenty-six.�

Although it was his turn, he leant across to an elderly gentleman on his left and said, �I�m in no hurry, sir, why don�t you take my place?�

�Thank you,� he said. They swapped discs, and the old man walked slowly across to the younger officer�s window.

�Number twenty-seven.�

�Damn,� said William under his breath. The older woman had finished far too quickly, and he couldn�t see who had number 28.

�Number twenty-eight.�

William flew out of the blocks and made his way quickly across to Payne�s window, leaving number 28 with no choice but to join the woman in the end cubicle.

�Good morning,� said Payne. �How can I help you?�

William handed him his form. Payne read the details slowly before he offered an opinion.

�Well,� he said, �I�m afraid you can�t be considered a priority, but I can still put you on the council�s waiting list. However, I fear we might not be able to offer you suitable accommodation for at least a year.� He extracted another form from a drawer below his desk, and began to fill it out.

�Is there any way I can jump the queue?� asked William.

�No, sir,� said Payne firmly. �Each case is assessed on its merit, so like everyone else, you�ll have to wait until the appropriate accommodation becomes available.�

�Even if I was a friend of your father�s?�

Payne stopped writing, unable to hide his embarrassment. �You know my father?

�No, but I�m keen to meet him.�

�Then it�s time for you to leave, Mr�� he looked down and checked the form � �Warwick. You�ve picked the wrong man.�

�It could be mutually beneficial.�

�If you don�t leave immediately, Mr Warwick, I shall have no choice but to call the police.� He placed a hand on the phone by his side.

�I am the police,� said William, producing his warrant card, which caused the blood to drain from Payne�s face.

�How can I help, inspector?� he asked, their roles suddenly reversed.

�I need to speak to your father on a private matter.�

�I�m not in contact with him, and haven�t been for years.�

�I�m aware of that. But you do see your mother every other weekend, so perhaps she could arrange a meeting.�

�Never,� said Payne firmly. �I don�t want anything to do with my father�s world.�

�I quite understand, but if you felt able to help, I can assure you it could make a difference.�

�Two wrongs don�t make a right, detective inspector. I�ll have to ask you once again to leave.�

William took a card from an inside pocket and slid it under the screen. �If you change your mind, don�t hesitate to call me at any time.�

�You won�t be hearing from me.�

William reluctantly rose from his place, as the housing officer tore up his application form and dropped it in the wastepaper basket.

�Number thirty.�

William made his way out of the crowded town hall, and paused at the top of the steps to consider what had just happened. He wasn�t looking forward to telling the Hawk that his approach to the only law-abiding member of the Payne family had ended in failure. Then he saw her. He slipped behind a pillar until she�d passed by. The Hawk would be disappointed to hear he�d failed to convince Adam Payne to assist him, but to have to admit he�d been spotted by PC Bailey...

Rebecca followed Lamont down the crowded escalator with Marlboro Man a few steps behind. Lamont didn�t spot her, and neither of them noticed Ross.

When Lamont reached the platform, he made his way to the far end, and didn�t have to wait long before the next train came whooshing in. He climbed into the rear carriage, and although it was almost empty, he sat down next to a man who was reading the Evening Standard. They didn�t acknowledge each other.

Rebecca found a seat at the other end of the carriage, and opened her paperback, but didn�t start reading.

�You wanted to see me, sir,� said Summers. He still couldn�t get out of the habit of calling his old gaffer sir.

�You wouldn�t have anything I could help you with, by any chance?� asked Lamont. �I�m a bit skint at the moment.�

�Not right now,� said Summers. �But in a couple of weeks� time we could both be back in business.�

�Can�t be too soon,� said Lamont, trying not to sound desperate. �I�ve got one or two bills that I can�t put off for much longer.�

�I�m sorry to hear that,� said Summers, who was delighted to hear it, as it gave him the whip hand. �Anything in particular?� he asked, like any good detective.

�I�ve had a bit of a bad run on the horses lately, and the bookies are beginning to breathe down my neck.�

�And they have such bad breath.�

�Also, the new house is turning out to be more expensive than I�d budgeted for, and my wife will kill me if we have to put it back on the market. He paused before saying, �You�re not married, are you?�

�No. Never found the right girl.�

�I�ve found three of them,� said Lamont, �and none of them turned out to be right. Should have taken Jimmy Goldsmith�s advice. If it flies, floats or fucks, rent it.�

Summers burst out laughing, which caused Rebecca to look around, but not MM.

�Don�t have that problem myself,� said Summers. �There�s more than enough skirt at the nick to satisfy my needs, not to mention out there on the street.�

�I thought you had a girlfriend,� said Lamont, glancing towards the other end of the carriage.

�Not for much longer. She�s just about reached her sell-by date.�

�I�ve seen that woman somewhere before,� whispered Lamont.

Summers looked in Rebecca�s direction. �Not my type.�

�Do you think she could be following us?�

Summers took a closer look.

Rebecca became uncomfortably aware the two men were taking an interest in her. She�d have to get off at the next stop and inform William her cover had been blown. He�d already told her he was surprised she�d lasted that long. She turned another page of her book, painfully aware that it was the same novel she�d been reading every time she�d travelled on the Circle line.

When the train pulled into Green Park, Rebecca got off and never once looked back. MM didn�t move.

�Perhaps I was just imagining it,� said Lamont as she disappeared out of sight.

�I�m getting off at the next stop,� said Summers. �I�ll be in touch as soon as the shipment arrives,� he added when the train came to a halt. �Do you still have your old uniform, sir?� he asked as the doors opened.

�Assem Rashidi will be released from Pentonville at ten o�clock tomorrow morning,� said the Hawk, �and I expect a welcoming party to be waiting for him. Three of you will watch him twenty-four/seven. If Rashidi even thinks about going anywhere other than his office in the City, or his mother�s home in The Boltons, I want to be informed immediately. I�ve already briefed Superintendent Watts, the new head of the drugs squad, about our immediate plans. He�ll have sixty officers on standby who can move at a moment�s notice. This time we�ll shut down Rashidi�s operation even before he�s given the chance to poison his first customer.�

�While at the same time, we must arrest those associates who�ve been keeping the business ticking over in his absence,� said Paul.

�We won�t need to mount a Trojan Horse operation to achieve that as we�ll be charging in the front door. Try not to sprain your ankle this time, DS Adaja.�

Paul looked embarrassed.

�How did you sprain your ankle, sarge?� asked Rebecca innocently, although she�d been told the tale of the Trojan Horse many times.

Jackie suppressed a grin.

�Before your time, DC Pankhurst,� was all Paul had to say on the subject.

�Superintendent Watts thinks it�s no coincidence that a large shipment of drugs from Colombia arrived at Felixstowe just a few days ago,� said the Hawk, �so he�s issued an all-ports alert.�

�Any further intel?� asked Paul, coming in on cue.

�Only that he thinks Rashidi�s mules will be distributing large amounts of cocaine and heroin across London during the next few days. I have a full list of likely recipients,� said the Hawk, opening a thick file. �One of them is on the Romford patch. A family called Payne. I presume you�ve come across them, PC Bailey.�

�Yes,� said Nicky. �A right bunch of villains, but thanks to DS Summers, there are more of them in jail than there are on the outside enjoying the comforts of home cooking.�

�That�s good to hear. Right, let�s make sure we�re all ready for Rashidi when he�s released tomorrow morning, and keep me informed of any developments.�

The team gathered up their files, left the commander�s office, and returned to their desks, except for PC Bailey, who signed off before leaving for Romford. DC Pankhurst had earlier left the building and taken up a position across the road from where she could see the entrance to St James�s Park underground station.

She didn�t have to wait long before Nicky appeared, and jogged down the steps into the station. Rebecca returned to the Yard and reported to DS Adaja. Fifteen minutes later, the team reconvened in the commander�s office where William was waiting for them.

�The hare has been let out of the trap,� said the Hawk, �but the hounds must allow her to run a couple more circuits around the track before we move in.�

�What do you have in mind, sir?� asked Jackie.

�Marlboro Man will deliver the gear to Reg Payne�s home at one o�clock on Friday morning,� said the Hawk. �No sooner than that, because we don�t want Summers or Bailey to become suspicious.�

�Do we move in once they�ve gone inside?� asked Paul.

�No,� said the Hawk firmly. �If we did, Summers would claim he was just about to arrest Payne when we turned up, and he�s got enough gall to try and take the credit for the ambush. No, we�ll have to let him place the noose around his own neck before we open the trapdoor. Once MM has delivered a kilo of cocaine and ten grand in cash, we�ll wait to see if Summers arrests Payne and takes the merchandise back to the nick. If he hands in less than ten thousand and not a full haul of the drugs we supplied, our suspicions will be confirmed.�

�Is that when we move in, sir?� asked Jackie.

�No,� said William. �We�ll still need to keep our powder dry. I want to find out how many people are involved, and how they distribute the cocaine and dispose of such large amounts of cash. And don�t forget, we have the serial numbers of those banknotes.�

�What if Summers arrests MM when he comes out of Payne�s house?� asked Jackie.

�Then we�ll know he�s straight. But if he�s bent, he won�t be interested in the delivery boy, only what�s being delivered.�

�He might arrange for someone to follow MM,� suggested DC Pankhurst, �and then he�ll find out he�s one of ours.�

�Don�t worry about that, Rebecca. MM would lose them before they reached the first corner. But that doesn�t mean there won�t be some surprises along the way, because Summers is a shrewd operator, and he�s certain to have a backup plan that turns him from being a villain into a hero. Be prepared to move at a moment�s notice, even if it�s the middle of the night.�

�And PC Bailey?� asked Rebecca.

�She may get caught up in the crossfire,� said the Hawk. �If so, she�ll have to face the consequences.�

�There�s something else you should know, sir,� said Rebecca.

They all turned their attention to DC Pankhurst.

�Nicky�s pregnant.�

The Hawk glanced at the front page of the Daily Mail before tossing it aside.

�Yesterday�s news,� he declared. �Tony Roberts and his two sidekicks were arrested last night, and all three will be charged with Rashidi�s murder later today. As a bonus, the drugs squad moved in and were able to shut down another slaughter in a different part of Brixton that looked as if it had recently been set up in preparation for Rashidi�s return.�

�Can�t wait to read the headlines in tomorrow�s papers,� said Jackie.

�I�ve already briefed the commissioner on what to expect, and taken all the credit. None of you got a mention.�

Laughter broke out among the team, as they banged the palms of their hands on the table in approval.

�As you were responsible for arresting Roberts, DS Adaja, perhaps you could bring us all up to date.�

�A murder team moved in immediately after the senior investigating officer�s call,� began Paul. �The eleven newsagents purportedly owned by Roberts were, as you always suspected, sir, nothing more than an elaborate front to launder Rashidi�s drugs money. Although most of Roberts�s employees kept shtum, one of them broke down when it was suggested she might be charged with assisting an offender. Her information led us to a local brothel, where we found Roberts on the job. He made no attempt to resist arrest. The young woman who was with him, well, on top of him, was a fount of information once we�d promised to keep her name out of the papers. It seems her mother is chairman of the local Conservative Association.�

�Everyone has their price,� said the Hawk. �What about Roberts�s two accomplices?�

�Not the sharpest tools in the box, sir. They were found celebrating in a local pub. They put up a fight, but not much of one. They�ll be appearing in front of the magistrate this morning along with Roberts, all three of them will be charged with murder.�

�I hear you had an equally worthwhile evening, DS Roycroft,� said the Hawk, switching his attention to Jackie.

�As Paul pointed out, sir, Roberts is no Rashidi. Once he�d been charged with murder he broke down, blamed it on the two thugs, and even told us where Rashidi�s latest drug factory was. Claimed he was nothing more than a fall guy who�d been paid to say he lived in Rashidi�s flat. When I mentioned the words life imprisonment, he offered to turn Queen�s evidence in return for the possibility of a shorter sentence.�

�I�m sure we can get a couple of years knocked off,� said the Hawk, �so that he�s released in time to go straight in to an old people�s home.�

More banging of palms on the table.

�Following Roberts�s revelations,� said the Hawk, �I can report that Superintendent Watts and sixty of his men swept through Brixton last night and netted a shoal of minnows, a dozen runners and more important, a couple of leading dealers who we�ve been after for years. Second only to Trojan Horse, is how I described it to the commissioner.�

�Did they find enough evidence to back up their charges?� asked Paul.

�Seven kilos of coke, three of heroin, and countless bags of marijuana,� said the Hawk. �I�ll be issuing photographs of the haul to the press later today.�

�However,� said Jackie, �Superintendent Watts is convinced this was only a small part of a larger consignment that was recently shipped in from Colombia, and the rest of the haul has already been distributed across London.�

�Has any of it turned up in Romford?� asked the Hawk, looking across the table at PC Bailey.

�Not that I�m aware of, sir,� said Nicky. �There�s nothing in Book 66 to suggest it has, no significant drugs arrests have been made during the past week and nothing�s been handed in.�

�Remind me,� said the Hawk. �Isn�t it the Turner family who would be the most likely recipients of any drugs being distributed in Romford?�

�No, sir, the Paynes. The Turners haven�t been causing any trouble lately.�

Either she�s lying, thought Rebecca, or Summers doesn�t trust her enough to tell her what he�s up to. The detective in her suspected the first, while the friend wanted to believe the second.

�I expect all of you to have your reports on my desk by midday,� said the Hawk. �What do you have to say for yourself, DC Pankhurst?� he asked the one person who had remained resolutely silent.

�The extended liquor licence application for the strip club in Soho has been turned down, sir, and the officer concerned has had to unpick his three stripes and is back on the beat.�

A coded message that her latest intel would have to wait until they reconvened in an hour�s time, after Nicky had left for Romford.

The Hawk nodded. He couldn�t bring himself to look at PC Bailey, and wondered how much longer it would be before she had to admit who was the father of her unborn child, because he certainly didn�t move from Croydon.

They both arrived at the bank a few minutes before their appointment with the area manager. The young woman behind the reception desk checked their names on her clipboard and ticked them off.

�If you take the lift to the fifth floor,� she said, �Miss Davis, Mr Simpson�s PA, will meet you and accompany you to the manager�s office.�

The two men carried out her instructions, and didn�t speak in the crowded lift until the doors opened on the fifth floor where they were greeted by a young woman.

�Good morning,� she said. �I�m Mr Simpson�s PA. He�s looking forward to meeting you.�

She led them down a long corridor to a door that announced in gilded letters, R.C. Simpson, Area Manager. She knocked once, and didn�t wait for a reply before opening the door and standing to one side.

�How nice to meet you,� said Simpson, rising from behind his desk to shake hands with his potential new customers.

�You too,� said Booth Watson politely. Faulkner didn�t offer an opinion.

�Please take a seat,� the manager said. Miss Davis sat behind him, notebook open, pen poised.

�Although all your papers were in order,� said Simpson once his guests had settled, �I took the precaution of calling Mrs Rashidi in Lyons to check that the bank had her authority to fully cooperate with you.�

�I would have expected no less,� said Booth Watson, offering his most benign smile.

�Mrs Rashidi confirmed not only that you had full power of attorney, but I was to answer any questions you might have concerning her late son�s estate. I am at your service, gentlemen.�

�Thank you,� said Booth Watson. �Perhaps I could start by seeing the details of any private accounts held in Mr Rashidi�s name, and the latest annual report from Marcel and Neffe.�

Mr Simpson handed over two thick files, having clearly anticipated both requests.

Faulkner turned to the back page and started with the bottom line, while Booth Watson continued with his list of prepared questions.

�Are there any other assets lodged with the bank for safekeeping that are not shown on Mrs Rashidi�s current account?�

�Her fifty-one per cent holding in Marcel and Neffe. I can tell you in the strictest confidence that the other four shareholders would be willing to dispose of their stake in the company if they were to receive a realistic offer.�

�As the share price has collapsed,� said Faulkner, speaking for the first time, but not looking up, �I�m bound to ask what they would consider realistic.�

�I think they would be willing to let their forty-nine per cent go for two million pounds.�

�Offer them one million, and make it clear it�s a final offer, and there�s no room for negotiation.�

�But the company made a profit of three hundred thousand last year.�

�That was last year. Frankly, I�d be surprised if they broke even this year. So I repeat, it�s a final offer.�

�I�ll pass on your message,� said Simpson, not sounding hopeful.

�Are there any other assets we should be aware of?� enquired Booth Watson, continuing to play the good cop.

�There most certainly are,� replied Simpson. �Mr Rashidi rented seven safety deposit boxes which are kept in our vaults, but of course I have no idea of their contents. You may check them whenever it�s convenient.�

�It�s convenient right now,� said Faulkner, standing up and placing the files back on the manager�s desk.

Simpson was taken by surprise, but quickly recovered. �That won�t be possible, I�m afraid, unless of course you�re in possession of Mrs Rashidi�s key.�

Booth Watson produced the key from an inside pocket.

�Miss Davis,� said Simpson, �please accompany Mr Booth Watson and his colleague to the basement. I�ll phone the head of security to warn him that they�re on their way.�

Miss Davis closed her notebook, rose from her place and said, �Follow me, gentlemen.�

Booth Watson shook hands with Simpson once again, before following Faulkner and Miss Davis out of the room and back to the lift.

�Nice weather we�re having for this time of year,� Miss Davis ventured as the lift made its way slowly down to the basement.

�Yes, indeed,� said Booth Watson, who made no further observation on the weather or any other subject before the lift doors opened once again.

This time they were greeted by a tall, smartly dressed man, holding a large bunch of keys.

�Good morning, gentlemen. Please follow me,� he said before leading them down a dimly lit corridor, until they reached a vast steel door. It took three of his keys and a six-digit code entered on a keypad on the wall before he was able to pull the heavy door open, revealing a room lined from floor to ceiling with hundreds of safety deposit boxes. The security man checked several numbers in a small notebook before pulling out seven boxes and placing them on the table in the centre of the room.

�We�ll leave you now, gentlemen,� said Miss Davis. �When you�ve completed your business, please press the green button on the wall. The door will open automatically, and I�ll accompany you back to the manager�s office.�

�Thank you,� said Booth Watson. Miss Davis and the head of security made a discreet exit, closing the door behind them.

Booth Watson took his time opening each of the seven boxes before they both checked their contents: cash, diamonds, bonds and share certificates filled the first six boxes, but not the seventh. Booth Watson felt that Aladdin�s Cave would have resembled a charity shop compared with the treasures that now surrounded them. It took him over an hour to make a complete inventory of the contents.

�I estimate,� he said, �that there�s over two million in dollars, and almost another million pounds in sterling. However, although they�re used notes and therefore untraceable, the latest money-laundering laws will make it difficult for you to dispose of them in large amounts.�

�That shouldn�t prove a problem,� said Faulkner. �There are plenty of members of the aristocracy who are only too happy to part with the odd family heirloom for cash, as long as I can produce a convincing copy to hang in its place, ensuring that there�s no need for them to trouble the taxman. And you can also be assured there�s no shortage of wealthy foreigners who are only too eager to acquire masterpieces in case they become suddenly persona non grata in their own countries and find themselves in need of disposable assets.�

�That doesn�t solve the problem of how you buy the remaining shares in Marcel and Neffe. Simpson would never accept a cash payment for that amount. Any transaction will have to be transparent and above board.�

�And so it will be quite,� said Miles. �Rashidi had three legitimate bank accounts, one of which is just over a million pounds in credit. So we can buy the other forty-nine per cent of the company with his own money.�

�How do you expect me to explain that to Mrs Rashidi? She might not be quite as green as the banknotes.�

�You can tell her it�s tainted money, acquired by her son from illegal drug deals. Then she won�t want anything to do with it.�

�But what about her fifty-one per cent holding in Marcel and Neffe?�

�I�m confident she�ll part with those shares in exchange for Raphael�s Madonna di Cesare.�

�But that must be worth millions.�

�It would be, if it was the original.�

�What if she were to put it up for sale?�

�Not a chance. That God-fearing woman would rather die than sell the Virgin.�

�Unless she comes across the original.�

�That�s highly unlikely, since I own it, and have no intention of putting it on the market.�

�And how will I benefit from your master plan, bearing in mind that none of this,� said Booth Watson with a grand sweep of his arm, �would have been possible without me?�

�You will handle the successful takeover of Marcel and Neffe, after which you will become the company�s legal adviser, on a monthly retainer high enough to ensure that you never need to represent another client.�

�With bonuses,� suggested Booth Watson, looking at the piles of cash on the table in front of them.

�Of course,� said Faulkner, taking several sealed packets of twenty-pound notes from one of the boxes and handing them to Booth Watson. �This should take care of life�s little necessities for the time being. And should you run out, there�s plenty more where that came from.�

Booth Watson�s smile remained in place as he dropped several wads of cash into his Gladstone bag, which was joined by the contents of the seventh box. �I�ll take all the personal items to Lyons,� he said, �and hand them over to Mrs Rashidi. The photos, letters, and a few family mementos that I know she�ll appreciate.�

�Along with the copy of the Raphael, which I�m confident she won�t be able to resist,� said Faulkner.

�All in all, a good morning�s work,� declared Booth Watson, as he picked up his heavy bag while Faulkner pressed the green button. The door swung open to reveal Miss Davis and the head of security waiting for them. �We�ve finished for now,� said Booth Watson. �But I will be returning from time to time.�

William arrived at the Playboy Club in Park Lane just after seven, confident that he�d have more than enough time to familiarize himself with the premises, as he knew Summers didn�t come off duty until eight.

After signing in, he climbed the stairs to the first floor and entered the casino. He walked slowly around the gaming room, checking out the different ways of losing money. A dozen blackjack tables and several roulette tables manned by croupiers who spun the wheels while their customers followed the progress of a little white ball, fervently hoping that it would select their chosen number. Ninety-three per cent of the time it didn�t. At the back of the room William noticed a door marked Priv�, through which he assumed only the high rollers were invited. An invitation that would never be extended to him.

After a second perambulation of the gaming hall, he took a seat at the end of the bar and waited for Summers to make an entrance.

�What can I get you, sir?� asked an attentive barman.

�An orange juice, please,� said William, taking out his wallet.

�On the house, sir,� said the barman to the first-time customer.

An hour passed, and still there was no sign of Summers. After a second hour, William was beginning to wonder if PC Bailey had set him up in the hope of getting her boyfriend off the hook, while leaving him to wish he stayed at home.

William almost fell off his bar stool when the door opened and Bruce Lamont strolled in. William quickly headed for the nearest stairs, not even knowing where they led. When he reached the top step, he was greeted by the ma�tre d�.

�Will you be joining us for dinner, sir?� enquired a man who was used to customers dining alone.

�No, thank you,� said William. �I�ve already eaten.� He glanced over the balcony to see Lamont standing at the bar just a few places away from where he had been sitting only a moment before. �But I would like a coffee,� he said, eyeing a table at the far end of the balcony.

�Of course, sir. If you�d like to take a seat, a waitress will be with you shortly.�

William�s new vantage point gave him a panoramic view of the casino floor, while he remained half hidden behind a fake-marble pillar. Lamont was sipping champagne and chatting to the barman when Summers strolled into the casino and walked across to join him at the bar.

�What can I get you to drink, sir?� asked a young woman dressed in an outfit that left little to the imagination.

�Just a coffee,� said William, trying not to stare at her trademark large rabbit ears and fluffy bobtail. �Black.�

He turned his attention back to the bar, where Lamont and Summers were deep in conversation. William was beginning to wonder if they had chosen the club as their meeting place simply because they were unlikely to bump into anyone who would recognize them, but then the talking stopped. Summers stood up and headed for the nearest roulette table.

He handed the croupier a cellophane packet containing five hundred pounds in five-pound notes that William had last seen in the Hawk�s office. The croupier spread the cash out on the green baize and counted it before dropping the money into a plastic box for all to see. He then pushed a small stack of chips across the table to his new customer.

William didn�t know a great deal about gaming, but he did know that roulette was one of the easiest ways to lose money. Nags and fillies came a close second, his father had warned him at an early age. If that weren�t the case, he explained, it would be the casinos and the bookies, not the punters, who ended up broke.

A few minutes later Lamont joined him, taking the seat opposite, without acknowledging him. He handed over another five hundred, and also received a pile of chips. William sipped his coffee as he tried to work out what they were up to.

�Faites vos jeux,� said the croupier as he spun the wheel.

Lamont put five chips on black, while Summers placed the same amount on red, ensuring that one of them was certain to win, while the other was just as sure to lose.

�Rien ne va plus,� declared the croupier. The ball continued to spin around the outer rim before dropping towards the numbers where it bounced around for some time, finally settling in red 27.

The croupier raked in all the losing bets, including Lamont�s, before pushing another five chips in Summers�s direction.

�Faites vos jeux,� he announced again.

Some punters stuck with their favourite numbers without rhyme or reason, while others pursued supposedly infallible systems, ignoring the fact that a thousand books had been written on the subject, most of them out of print.

Lamont placed five more of his chips on black, while Summers stuck with red. Red 11. Summers won again, while Lamont lost. After two spins, between them they�d lost nothing and gained nothing, just broken even. It didn�t take William long to work out exactly what they were up to.

They were simply and methodically disposing of the Hawk�s numbered notes in exchange for chips which they would eventually cash in for a casino cheque. Their winnings could then be deposited at any bank, the result of a run of luck at the tables, should anyone ask. On two occasions zero came up, and they both lost their five-pound stake. A small blip in their overall plan, as they didn�t have to pay for their free champagne and smoked salmon sandwiches.

After an hour had passed, Summers and Lamont gathered up their chips and headed for a different table, where once again they each handed over a cellophane packet containing five hundred pounds before continuing with their joint enterprise. William knew there was nothing he could do about it. He could imagine the Hawk�s response if he called the local Crime Squad and asked them to raid the joint.

Another hour passed before they moved on to the next table, their pockets now bulging with chips. This strategy continued until the last packet of cash had been disposed of, when they finally left the table to join a small queue at the cashier�s window. A teller made out two cheques for three thousand nine hundred pounds each in exchange for their chips.

Summers and Lamont left the club with two hundred pounds less than they�d come in with, but with one essential difference. They�d disposed of the original banknotes.

William had to acknowledge that they�d found a way of laundering money right under the noses of the casino bosses and the police. He could only wonder how long it would be before a law would be passed to prevent others playing the same game.

Despite the late hour, William knew the commander would be sitting by his phone at home, waiting for a call. He came on the line before the second ring could disturb his wife.

�Enlighten me,� said the Hawk, aware that only one person would be calling him at that time of night.

William took him through his evening at the Playboy Club, and when he came to the last spin of the wheel, all the Hawk had to say was, �Clever.�

�But they made one mistake, sir,� said William, �which might still catch them out.�

�Enlighten me,� he repeated.

�As far as I could tell they didn�t launder all of the money. It looks to me as if they got rid of around eight thousand pounds in cash, so there�s still two thousand out there somewhere.�

�Don�t forget that DI Castle will have been paid his share.�

�I hadn�t, sir. In fact, I was going to suggest we obtain search warrants for all three premises, and if we come across any of our numbered notes, we�ll have them bang to rights.�

�Castle and Lamont will be far too shrewd to make that kind of mistake,� said the Hawk. �However, we might get lucky with an over-confident detective sergeant.�

�At the same time,� said William, �I think we should raid Jimmy Turner�s place. I suspect the Turners have got lazy, and think that as a local copper is on their payroll they have nothing to fear. We may find a lot more than just the drugs Summers took from the Paynes and delivered to the Turners.�

�Good thinking, William. Have everyone except PC Bailey in my office by seven o�clock tomorrow morning. If we�re going to mount a full operation, we�ll need to move quickly.�

�Summers is off to Malaga for the weekend, sir, so while he�s out of the country it might be the ideal time to strike.�

�Agreed, but not until he�s boarded the plane and is on his way back.�

Every member of the team except PC Bailey was seated around the table in the commander�s office long before seven the following morning.

William had told Beth over breakfast that he still couldn�t make up his mind if Nicky was in bed with Summers, as well as sleeping with him.

�You can�t have one without the other,� suggested Beth, for whom things tended to be either black or white.

William didn�t pass on his wife�s opinion when the Hawk asked him to bring the team up to date. His description of how he ended up at the Playboy Club the previous night had them all on the edge of their seats.

�Well done, William,� said the Hawk. �On balance, I think you were wise not to call in the local Crime Squad. However, we now have a genuine chance of mounting a successful operation without their help. Let me build you a skeleton before we all put some flesh on it.�

As he began to share his initial ideas with the team, it became clear to William that the Hawk couldn�t have gone back to bed after his phone call. When he had finished, all he said was, �Observations?�

Rebecca was the first to speak.

�Lamont may well be paying off his debts once again,� she said, �but it�s a rare day when he doesn�t visit the bookies, or his wife can�t be found loitering with intent in Harrods.�

�And Summers?� said the Hawk, turning his attention to Jackie.

�He�s traded in his old Jag for the latest model, paying on the never-never, so no one can query where the money�s coming from. On Saturday he flies to Malaga with a Miss Karen Turner, also the latest model, although I have a feeling she won�t be on the never-never.�

The Hawk frowned. �What about DI Castle?�

�Lying low at the moment. No obvious extravagances that can�t be explained.�

�We could always visit the Playboy Club and check all the banknotes?� suggested Paul.

�No point. We�d never be able to prove who�d handed them over, and it would simply alert Summers and Lamont that we were on to them. We have to accept we�ve lost that one. Let�s hope that while Summers is away we find some of the banknotes in one of their homes. What about PC Bailey?� said the Hawk, switching his attention back to Rebecca. �I thought she was meant to be going to Malaga with Summers?�

�Apparently not, sir. She came home last night in a foul temper, and perhaps more importantly, she was no longer wearing her engagement ring.�

�Whose side do you think she�s on now?� asked Jackie.

�Certainly not Summers�s,� said William, �otherwise she wouldn�t have delivered that note to my home.�

�We�ll soon find out,� said the commander, �because there�s one more job I need her to do. So let�s hope hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.�

�Do you know where that saying comes from?� asked William, leaning back in his chair.

�The Mourning Bride,� said the Hawk, without missing a beat.

�Written by William Congreve in 1697,� added Paul.

�A Restoration writer and dramatist who was educated at Trinity College Dublin,� offered Rebecca.

�Born in 1670 and died in 1729,� said Jackie, stifling a yawn.

William threw his arms in the air and accepted he�d been set up.

�Nevertheless,� said Rebecca, �scorned or not, I think she�s still in love with Summers.� After telling the team everything Nicky had told her over breakfast that morning, she produced a small leather box and placed it in the middle of the table. �She left this on the hall stand this morning before she went back to Romford.�

�I presume it�s empty,� said Paul, flicking open the lid.

�Yes, but as I said, Nicky was no longer wearing the ring, so she clearly wanted me to find the box.�

William studied the gold lettering inside: House of Garrard, founded 1735. 24 Albemarle Street, London W1.

�It�s often something small and unexpected that finally catches them out,� said the commander. �Well done, Rebecca. However, I don�t consider it would be appropriate for you to follow up this particular lead. Leave that to DI Warwick. Now let�s all get back to work. We�ve only got a few days before Summers returns from Malaga, so remember, there�s no sleep��

�For the wicked,� they all chorused.

�We�ve got a problem.�

�Don�t spare me,� said Miles.

�Not over the phone.�

�That bad?�

�I�m afraid so,� said Booth Watson. �Where will you be later this morning?�

�I�ve got a board meeting in the City at ten.�

�Cancel it. Join me in chambers as quickly as possible.�

�But I�m chairing the meeting��

�You may not be chairman by this evening.�

�That bad?�

�Will the prisoner please stand up?�

Summers rose from his place in the dock. He was wearing a brand-new suit, a white shirt, and a blue silk tie.

�Jeremy Richard Summers, you have been charged with handling stolen goods, and by so doing, misconduct in public office. How do you plead?�

�Not guilty,� said Summers, looking directly at the clerk of the court.

�You may be seated.�

Mr Justice Ramsden looked down from the bench to see Sir Julian quivering, like a greyhound in the slips, waiting to deliver his opening statement. Unlike Mr Booth Watson, who was slouched at the other end of counsels� bench giving the appearance of a dormouse, half asleep. But then, Booth Watson knew it would be some time before he would need to open his eyes.

�Sir Julian,� said the judge, turning his attention to the eminent QC. �If you would care to open proceedings.�

Sir Julian rose from his place, tugged at his long black gown and adjusted his greying wig as he always did before turning to face a jury. He greeted the eight men and four women with a benevolent smile, aware that they were the most important twelve people in the court.

He glanced down at his prepared script, even though he�d considered the possibility that Summers would plead guilty, and all the hours of work would be made redundant with a single word. Years of experience had taught him that wasn�t a risk a barrister can take.

�M�lud,� he began, looking up at the bench, �I represent the Crown in this case, along with my junior, Ms Grace Warwick, while my learned friend Mr Booth Watson appears for the defence.� He gave Booth Watson a reluctant bow that was not reciprocated.

�I must open my submission with a warning,� said Sir Julian, turning his attention to the jury. �The offence on which you are about to make a judgement is among the most disreputable any public servant can commit. The proof of this is the sentence determined by Parliament should you decide the prisoner is guilty�� he paused, and looked directly at them � �is life imprisonment.

�All citizens when dealing with a servant of the Crown, whether it be a distinguished judge or a bobby on the beat, have the right to assume the integrity of that person is beyond question. When that trust is broken, and in this case it was broken beyond repair, a draconian sentence is surely justified.

�Detective Sergeant Summers appeared to be an outstanding police officer, with a record of arrests and commendations that heralded a brilliant career. But he chose to use those talents to break the law, not uphold it.

�Temptation is part of every police officer�s daily experience, and the vast majority of them would never consider even for a moment crossing that line. But unfortunately there are some, though thankfully only a small number, who have no such scruples. Detective Sergeant Jerry Summers is such a man, as you will discover as this trial unfolds.

�This, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is not a matter of a single lapse of judgement that might be overlooked when weighed against an otherwise commendable record of service to the community. Detective Sergeant Summers set up a clandestine network as well organized and effective as that of any professional gang in the criminal underworld.

�Members of the jury, you will learn during the course of these proceedings how Summers, on numerous occasions after he�d made an arrest for theft or burglary, then made sure that some of the most valuable stolen goods were not handed in to the police station and detailed on his custody record, but would end up in Summers�s home or distributed among his friends and associates.

�Unlike you or me,� said Sir Julian, once again looking directly at the jury, �Detective Sergeant Summers didn�t need to visit the high street if he wanted a new television set, the latest hi-fi, or even a Jaguar. Instead, he simply removed them from among the stolen goods he had access to during the course of his duty. You may ask why the thieves themselves didn�t bring this to the attention of the authorities. But why would they, when a reduction in the number of items they were charged with having stolen meant they might receive a more lenient sentence?

�However, that was still not enough to satisfy Detective Sergeant Summers�s wanton greed. For years his local district of Romford had been prey to two rival criminal families, the Paynes and the Turners. He decided to actively assist one of those ruthless gangs, in order to tip the balance in their favour, and perhaps more important, in his.

�He set about arresting members of the Payne family, while allowing his paymasters in the Turner gang to escape scot-free. And while he was lining his pockets with their ill-gotten gains, he was at the same time receiving praise, and official commendations, for his exemplary police work. A modern-day Jekyll and Hyde.

�But like so many criminals, he went one step too far when Scotland Yard set a trap to tempt him that he was unable to resist.�

Booth Watson wrote down the words Set a trap. A trap he later intended to spring.

�The Crown will produce witnesses who will testify under oath that Summers stole drugs from one gang, sold them to the rival family he was working for, and then pocketed the proceeds. By doing so he was able to make more money in a month than he could hope to earn in a year as a detective sergeant. But then he made one fatal error. He attempted to involve an honest police officer in his crimes, who didn�t hesitate to report him to her superiors.�

Booth Watson wrote the words Didn�t hesitate on his yellow pad.

�When that officer gives evidence, you will be left in no doubt of the extent of Detective Sergeant Summers�s criminal activities. Your verdict will be a resounding blow in the battle to protect ordinary, decent citizens from a corrupt individual who has betrayed the reputation of the most respected police force in the world.�

Sir Julian sat down not to tumultuous applause, but to something far more important, a jury that had hung on his every word. Even Booth Watson had to admit, if only to himself, that he had never witnessed his warring rival on better form. But only the first shot had been fired across his bows.

�You may call your first witness, Sir Julian,� said the judge.

�Thank you, m�lud. I call Detective Inspector William Warwick.�

�Are you confident she took the bait?� asked Miles.

�Hook, line and sinker,� said Christina. �Her eyes lit up at the thought of the Fitzmolean getting its hands on a Raphael.�

�Which sadly they won�t. She�s nothing more than a pawn in a far larger game, and she�s about to be taken off the board.�

Christina felt guilty about the way her friend was being used, but Miles hadn�t left her in any doubt what the alternative was.

�You gave her the authority to bid up to a million pounds on your behalf, and made it clear that she couldn�t go any higher? And equally important, she mustn�t tell anyone she will be bidding on your behalf.�

�Not even Tim Knox. She has no idea that cheque will never be cashed because you�re going to outbid her.�

�How did she react when you offered her the chance to take our place on the Alden?� Miles asked.

�Overwhelmed. She was only disappointed that it meant she wouldn�t be able to attend our wedding.�

�Let�s hope she never finds out the real reason we couldn�t risk being seen together on the Alden.�

Sir Julian rose early the following morning, and not just because he couldn�t sleep. He needed to rehearse his closing summation to the waking birds and seek their approval.

He switched on the bedside light, put on his dressing gown, and padded across to his writing desk. He picked up his notes, looked in the mirror and began, �M�lud, members of the jury, what an extraordinary case this has turned out to be, and I would suggest that in the end, it simply comes down to who you believe. On the one hand...�

Forty minutes later, he ended with the words, �I am confident the jury will use its common sense when reaching a verdict, well aware who is the guilty party.�

But would they? he wondered as he put the script to one side. He still couldn�t be sure which way the jury would fall, and it didn�t help that Booth Watson would speak after him and have the final word before the judge�s summing-up. He decided to make himself a cup of tea before getting dressed and going across to chambers to find out if Grace or Clare had any last-minute suggestions.

On his way to the kitchen, he stopped to pick up the morning paper from the doormat. He looked at the Telegraph�s headline and swore out loud. After reading the front-page article he swore again, even louder.

�Ten years,� said the commander, �thanks to two five-pound notes, and Inspector Warwick being half awake.� The Hawk�s idea of a compliment. �And thanks to the rest of the team, DI Castle has taken early retirement. And perhaps equally important, forty-three other Metropolitan Police officers have handed in their notice. Congratulations on a job well done.�

�But Lamont got clean away,� said Paul.

�Just give me time,� said William, almost spitting out the words.

�I�m afraid not, William. You�re going to have to leave that to your successor, because the commissioner in his wisdom has decreed that any unit investigating corrupt officers cannot be staffed by the same team for more than one major investigation, for fear that its members become cut off from the rest of their colleagues, and have difficulty returning to normal duties. And I agree with him.�

�Perhaps we should all take early retirement?� suggested William.

�Not a hope, detective chief inspector,� said the Hawk, sitting back and waiting to see who would be the first to react.

Paul began banging the table with the palm of his hand, and Jackie and Rebecca quickly followed.

�Congratulations, chief inspector,� said the Hawk, after the acclamation had died down. As William didn�t respond, he added, �And I know you�ll be glad to hear that the rest of the team will be joining you in your new assignment.�

�Dare I ask what you have in mind for us, sir?� asked Detective Chief Inspector Warwick.

�Murder,� said the commander, and then let the idea sink in for a few moments to see how they�d react.

�I think I preferred Art and Antiques,� said Jackie.

�Of blessed memory,� said the Hawk.

�Or even drugs,� said Paul.

�That�s as may be,� said the commander. �But if you�re the best you end up being assigned the worst, because your first task will be to investigate five people who have quite literally got away with murder. However, I�ll allow you to indulge yourselves for a few days, before you report back for your new assignment on Monday morning. Eight o�clock sharp.�

�Does that mean we get the rest of the week off?� asked Paul.

�I�m amazed you need a razor in the mornings, DS Adaja, you�re so sharp. Yes, take some time off, you�ve earned it. If you decide to go out and celebrate, the first round�s on me.�

�Did I hear you correctly, sir?� said Paul.

�You did. And don�t forget, I have the authority to demote as well as promote. So for you, DS Adaja, it�s either back on the beat or murder. Take your pick. But for now, I don�t want to see any of you in the office until next Monday. With the exception of DC Pankhurst, the rest of you can bugger off.�

William gathered up his files and joined the others as they left the room. He didn�t mention that he, for one, wouldn�t be taking the rest of the week off, as he still had another private matter to deal with.

The Hawk waited until the rest of the team had left before he spoke to Rebecca. �Despite the team�s triumph, DC Pankhurst, in which you played a crucial role, I think there will be one person who�s unlikely to be celebrating. Though I don�t pretend to understand it, I suspect PC Bailey is still besotted with Summers. However, I need you to tell her that as far as I�m concerned, the case is closed, and there are no plans to take any further action against her.�

�She�ll be so relieved,� said Rebecca. �Thank you, sir.�

�Let�s hope she�ll be able to find another job.�

�She�s already been offered a position as an investigator in Clare�s office.�

�Which she�s well qualified for,� said Hawksby. �But for now, I�d like you to take her out for a drink and try to convince her she has every reason to celebrate. You�ve proved a loyal friend, DC Pankhurst, and she was lucky to have you on her side.�

Rebecca returned to the office to find her colleagues already in a party mood.

�Will you be joining us at the pub, Rebecca?� asked Jackie.

�Thanks, but I have to go home,� she said, without explanation.

William gave her a warm smile, aware of the task she faced.

Rebecca decided to walk back to Pimlico, as she wanted a little time to compose her thoughts. She needed to convince Nicky she had done the right thing by giving evidence against her former lover, and it was now time for her to move on.

By the time she reached the front door, Rebecca was well prepared to deal with the tears, the recriminations, and hopefully the relief. She put her key in the lock, and smiled when she opened the door and heard the baby crying. She was so proud that Nicky had invited her to be one of Jake�s godparents.

As she climbed the stairs to the first floor, the crying became even louder. She knocked on Nicky�s door. Not waiting for a reply, she walked in to find her friend curled up on the floor, two empty bottles of barbiturates by her side. Jake was still crying.

�What am I bid?� said William, as he climbed out of bed the following morning and headed for the bathroom.

�As long as I get the Raphael for less than a million,� said Beth, �I don�t really care, because an old cynic will be taking me to Elena�s tonight to celebrate my triumph.�

�And if it�s sold to someone else for more than a million, what then?�

�Humble pie will be served in the kitchen, chief inspector.�

�I prefer Elena�s,� said William as he closed the bathroom door. Not for the first time, he reflected that, for Beth, every glass was half full, which was one of the many reasons he adored her. He hoped he would be proved wrong, but he feared this particular glass was half empty.

He turned on the hot water and looked at himself in the mirror. He occasionally missed that time when he�d been working undercover and didn�t have to shave every day. And then he remembered, today he would be undercover.