‘No, sir. Even I can’t tell you where Heath’s holed up, because I don’t know myself.’
‘Be sure it stays that way, because he’s our one hope of sending Faulkner down when the case eventually comes to court. Right, lads, back to work. Faulkner was yesterday’s triumph. Don’t forget that Rashidi’s still out there, destroying people’s lives.’
‘Will you marry me?’ asked Adrian.
‘Of course I will,’ said Maria, throwing her arms around his neck.
‘This is the moment when I ought to drop on one knee and present you with an engagement ring to seal the deal, but that’s not possible while we’re cooped up in here. They won’t even let me out for long enough to look for one.’
‘It won’t be for much longer,’ said Maria. ‘And the ring can wait until we’re safely in Rio, when we can finally put all of this behind us.’
‘I can’t wait to get to Rio,’ admitted Adrian. ‘But I’m worried what your parents will say when they find out I used to be a drug addict, and haven’t had a proper job for years.’
‘That’s all in the past, Adrian. In any case, I’ve already told them you’re the son of a successful banker—’
‘Well, at least that’s true, even if he has disowned me.’
‘And he’s given you ten thousand pounds to start up a new business. In Rio, ten thousand pounds is a fortune, so there’ll be endless opportunities.’
‘Which I intend to take full advantage of. But I’ll never forget that without your help, I’d still be a hopeless junkie with no future.’
‘It’s not just me you have to thank,’ said Maria.
‘I know. Choirboy has played his part, and once Faulkner’s safely behind bars I’ll have kept my side of the bargain.’
‘When is the trial expected to begin, Sir Julian?’
‘Not for a couple of months, Mrs Faulkner. Why do you ask?’
‘I need you to take your time over the settlement. Try and slow things down.’
‘Why would you want me to do that, when we’ve got almost everything you asked for?’
‘I still want to be Mrs Faulkner when my husband goes to jail.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘It’s better you don’t know the reason, Sir Julian, as I may need you to represent me should things not turn out as planned.’
William took the tube into the City and got out at Moorgate. A few minutes later he walked into Tea House, confident that Rashidi wouldn’t be around on a Wednesday afternoon. He avoided the front desk, as he didn’t want to be remembered, and headed for the bank of lifts where he joined a waiting group. He stepped out on the eleventh floor and took a seat in Marcel and Neffe’s reception, picked up a copy of the Financial Times, and checked his watch every few minutes, as if he was waiting for someone to join him. The receptionist was constantly on the phone, dealing with visitors, or signing for deliveries, so he hoped he could hang around for some time before she became suspicious.
William listened attentively to the conversations taking place at the reception desk, while pretending to read his newspaper. It quickly became clear that Marcel and Neffe was not merely a front for another business; it was exactly what it claimed to be, a small, successful tea company, even if its chairman only dropped in briefly on Monday mornings and Friday afternoons.
When the receptionist gave him a third quizzical look, William decided it was time to go. A young woman emerged from one of the offices, and he stood up and joined her as she left. They got into the lift together, and when they reached the ground floor William headed for the front door while his erstwhile companion disappeared down a corridor to her right.
Back out on the street, William checked his watch and began walking towards Moorgate station. He needed to drop into Scotland Yard before going home. Not that he had anything to report. He was going down the steps into the station when he spotted the young woman he’d shared the lift with heading for the ticket barrier. William was puzzled. How could she possibly have overtaken him without him noticing?
He paused at the bottom of the steps and looked in the direction she had come from. As he did, an inconspicuous door that he hadn’t noticed before swung open, and a smartly dressed older gentleman appeared, carrying a briefcase and a rolled umbrella. William ran across to the door, but it closed before he could reach it.
He didn’t have to wait long before it opened again, and this time he managed to slip through the gap before it closed, to find himself in a well-lit corridor. He walked cautiously along the passageway, passing a gym and a training centre on his left, before climbing a short flight of steps to another corridor, at the end of which he found himself back in the reception area of Tea House, now well aware how the woman had overtaken him. He retraced his steps to the tube station, knowing exactly where he’d be waiting for Rashidi next Monday morning.
‘The CPS have given us a date for the Faulkner trial,’ said Sir Julian. ‘November the twelfth at the Old Bailey.’
Grace turned the pages of her diary, and crossed out the three weeks following 12 November. ‘Less than a month away,’ she said. ‘I still need to take Heath through his evidence one more time.’
‘You can do that when they move him back to London just before the trial.’
‘Will you be putting William on the stand?’
‘No point. Superintendent Lamont will carry considerably more weight in the eyes of the jury, and Dr Lewis is such a highly respected expert witness on drugs that I expect the defence won’t even bother to cross-examine her. In fact, I have a feeling it won’t be long before Booth Watson gets in touch and tries to make a deal on behalf of his client.’
‘And if he does, how will you respond?’
‘I’ll tell him to get lost.’
‘The Crown,’ said Grace, ‘sees no reason to make any concessions at this particular time, but thank you for calling, BW.’
Grace smiled as she watched her father write down her words.
William and Paul watched from the other side of the road as Rashidi stepped out of his Mercedes and entered Tea House at ten minutes past eight the following Monday morning. He was dressed like the chairman of a City company, and the doorman saluted him. DS Warwick then made his way back to Moorgate tube station, but he didn’t head for the escalator and return to Scotland Yard.
Jackie had taught him to remain focused during a stakeout. Lose concentration for even a few seconds, and you could lose your mark. He stood in the concourse for the next four hours, and although he occasionally paced up and down, his eyes never left the well-disguised door. Several people had emerged through it and headed straight for the ticket barrier, but he was confident Rashidi hadn’t been among them. If he did leave by the front entrance of Tea House that morning, Paul was stationed on the other side of the road, and would radio William immediately. He redoubled his concentration when the hands on the station clock both reached twelve.
A few minutes later a man came through the door wearing a baggy dark grey tracksuit, with a hood pulled over his head that kept his face well hidden. He’d passed William before he’d been able to take a closer look at him without staring. The walk was familiar, but William couldn’t risk it on that alone, and it wasn’t until the man presented his ticket at the barrier that William noticed he was wearing black leather gloves. His eyes moved instinctively to the third finger of the left hand.
By the time William had passed through the barrier and stepped onto the escalator, the tracksuited man was already turning left and heading for the southbound platform of the Northern Line.
Once the anonymous tracksuit had disappeared out of sight, William jogged down the escalator, only slowing down when he turned left. He could now see his prey as he reached the platform just as a train emerged from the tunnel, expelling a gust of warm air. He got into the carriage next to Rashidi’s, only once glancing in his direction. He carefully watched the disembarking passengers at each station, until the tracksuit, head still covered, got off at Stockwell.