‘More than enough time for lunch. Fish and chips?’
‘Not again. That’s what we had yesterday.’
‘And will tomorrow, if I have my way,’ said Jackie. ‘Golden rule. When you’re stuck in a port doing surveillance, always eat the local catch. It’s a lot fresher than the cod fricassee that ends up at the Ritz. And you should know, you go there often enough.’
‘Only twice,’ said William. ‘But what if we’re stuck here for the rest of the week?’
‘I’ll settle for a kebab,’ replied Jackie, as she swung the car around and headed for the chippy that had been recommended by the desk sergeant at the local constabulary.
‘Always a good sign,’ said Jackie, as she parked the car and they joined a long queue waiting outside the shop.
DC Adaja spent his lunch break checking all the number plates Jackie had supplied on the PNC. A few parking fines, some speeding tickets, one drink-driving offence and a woman who’d been caught going through a red light, been fined twenty pounds and had two penalty points added to her licence. When Paul radioed to tell Jackie the results, she poured some more vinegar on her cod and said, ‘Naughty girl.’
Once they’d finished their lunch — eaten out of a newspaper as they walked along the seafront — Jackie and William drove back to their vantage point on the clifftop.
After they had been staring out to sea in silence for half an hour, Jackie drew her sword from its sheath a second time. ‘Are you still hoping to make inspector?’ she asked.
‘Why ask me that question when you already know the answer?’
‘Because there are only two types of sergeant in the Met, and you obviously fall into the second category, those who hope to be promoted.’
‘And the first category?’
‘By far the larger of the two,’ said Jackie. ‘Old sweats, who’ve worked out that if you’re promoted to inspector you can no longer claim overtime. That’s why the Met has so many forty- to fifty-year-old sergeants serving out their time. A lot of them are making far more than their superiors, and at the same time they’re causing a logjam that prevents others like me from getting off the bottom rung of the ladder. Truth is, it’s easier to be promoted to inspector than sergeant.’
It was the first time William had heard Jackie sounding bitter about anything. ‘If we put Rashidi behind bars,’ he said, ‘I’m sure it won’t be long before you’re sewing three stripes back on your uniform.’ He immediately regretted his words, as they would only remind Jackie that he had been made up to sergeant following her demotion.
‘Mind you,’ said Jackie, ‘I must admit that overtime allowances have made it possible for me to enjoy a few of life’s little luxuries. Although I sometimes wonder if the public are aware just how many officers are sitting around in coaches parked in back streets just in case a protest march gets out of hand.’
‘It’s a price worth paying,’ said William. ‘Perhaps you haven’t noticed Russian riot police don’t sit around in coaches if the public even think about protesting.’
‘And on that note, Choirboy, I’m going to try and grab some kip. Wake me up when our next ship comes in.’
She leant back in her seat, closed her eyes and had fallen asleep within minutes. William wished he could do that, but his mind refused to rest even at night. He stared out at the empty grey sea, and thought about Beth. God, he’d been lucky, and it wouldn’t be long now before they were a family of three. Even more reason to hope that the promotion Jackie had hinted at wasn’t too far away. He thought about becoming a father. If it was a boy he could open the batting for England, while his daughter could be the first woman director of the National Gallery.
His mind turned to Miles Faulkner whose trial would open at the Bailey next week. So much rested on Adrian Heath’s evidence. William had been interested to hear from his sister that Booth Watson had phoned their chambers earlier in the week offering to plead guilty to the lesser charge of possession, if the Crown would drop the more serious offence of intent to supply. He wasn’t surprised when Grace told him that their father had politely rejected the offer. His thoughts turned next to Assem Rashidi. After he’d left Tea House at midday that Monday, he’d taken the tube to Stockwell, and then changed onto the Victoria Line ending up in Brixton, where DC Adaja was waiting for him. Paul had made no attempt to shadow him when he’d emerged from the station, but returned to the Yard on the next train. When Lamont demanded to know why, Paul explained that Rashidi had been met outside the station by half a dozen heavies who kept checking in every direction to make sure no one was following him. At least they now knew which borough Rashidi’s slaughter must be in, but they were no nearer to locating it in what was virtually a no-go area, although the police would never admit it. Perhaps Jackie’s UCO would finally be able to solve that particular problem.
Next, William thought about Lamont, whose wavelength he still hadn’t managed to get onto. The superintendent didn’t bother to disguise the fact that he still thought of him as a choirboy, and Paul as an immigrant. And finally, the Hawk, who soared above them all.
William snapped back into the real world when he spotted a dot on the horizon. He waited until he could make out the name Saxon Prince on its bow before he woke Jackie. She was wide awake within moments, as if she’d never been asleep, something else he wished he could do.
‘Saxon Prince is making its way into the harbour,’ he said.
‘Do please be on this one,’ muttered Jackie plaintively, as she switched on the car engine.
They drove back down Bath Hill and returned to their favoured surveillance point, which allowed them a perfect view of the ship as it entered the harbour, without being too conspicuous. It wasn’t long before the first vehicle drove down the ramp.
Once again Jackie, her binoculars focused on the cars as they headed towards customs, passed the details of each number plate on to Paul back at the Yard.
Suddenly she said in a far more animated voice, ‘I don’t believe it! Get the guv’nor on the radio, Paul, sharpish.’
She handed the binoculars to William, who focused on a Volvo as it proceeded slowly along the dockside. He now had the answer to his unanswered question, and wondered how Lamont would react. He passed the binoculars back to Jackie.
The next voice they heard over the radio said sharply, ‘What’s the problem, Jackie?’
‘A Volvo towing a caravan has come off the ferry and is heading towards customs, sir.’
‘And?’ said Lamont impatiently.
‘You’re not going to believe this, sir, but MM is behind the wheel, and Tulip is sitting next to him in the passenger seat.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘In the queue waiting to clear customs. But as I’m his liaison officer, I’m not quite sure what I should do next?’
‘Hold on. Don’t let them out of your sight while I have a word with the boss.’
The encrypted radio was silent for so long that, if it hadn’t been for the occasional crackle, Jackie might have thought she’d lost contact. At last they heard the unmistakable voice of the Hawk. Brief and to the point.
‘Are you certain, DC Roycroft?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said firmly, her binoculars still focused on the Volvo.
‘Are they still in the queue?’
‘No, sir. A customs officer is checking the car, and another one is chatting to Tulip. Now they’re smiling and waving the car through.’ She paused for a moment. ‘A couple more minutes, sir, and we’ll lose them,’ she said, trying to keep her foot off the accelerator.
‘Stay put, DC Roycroft,’ said the Hawk. ‘We can’t afford to compromise a UCO, and if the gear is being delivered to Rashidi’s slaughter somewhere in Brixton, that could help us fill in one of the last pieces of the jigsaw. I repeat, stay put.’