As a detective sergeant’s salary was less than £300 a week, the thought wasn’t exactly appealing. He would like to have said, ‘You must be joking’, but he knew the Hawk didn’t joke about money.
After breakfast, he and Beth caught a bus to Kensington before going their separate ways: Beth on foot to the Fitzmolean, while William took the tube to St James’s Park. He glanced at the Daily Mail front-page photograph of Princess Diana with her two young sons before disappearing down the steps into the underground. As he sat on the train he thought about Beth, and couldn’t wait for her to be pregnant. But at the moment, she considered the Fitzmolean was her first priority.
The super was sitting at his desk when William walked into the office. Two neat piles of ten-pound notes were stacked in front of him. William was surprised by how slim the two cellophane packets were. He sat down opposite Lamont, who slowly counted out the notes, ‘...eighteen, nineteen, twenty,’ then placed them back in their packs, opened a drawer in his desk and extracted the inevitable form, which he handed to William.
William read the carefully worded document twice, before returning to a paragraph that was highlighted in bold capitals: ANY CHARGE OF MISUSE OF FUNDS COULD RESULT IN A PRISON SENTENCE OF UP TO TEN YEARS. He signed the release form, and DC Adaja added his signature as a witness. Lamont retained a carbon copy for his records before handing over the cash.
William tucked the money into an inside pocket of his jacket and left without another word. Once he was on the move, he found himself regularly touching the pocket to be sure the money was still there.
During the underground journey to Tower Hill, he sat at the far end of the carriage and re-read the official guide to the Tower of London, glancing up each time another passenger came anywhere near him. Jackie had warned him that only the most seasoned pickpockets worked the London underground.
After twenty minutes he emerged into bright sunlight. William stood on the pavement for a moment to admire the ancient fortress, perched incongruously on a grassy mound surrounded by modern glass buildings that he doubted Sir Christopher Wren would have approved of. Sir Thomas More, Guy Fawkes and Anne Boleyn had spent the last nights of their lives in the Tower’s cells before being executed. If he returned to the Yard with nothing to show for his two hundred pounds, he might have to join them. He was only relieved he could no longer be drawn and quartered.
William walked the short distance to the Tower’s walls, where he joined a queue of eager tourists waiting at the West Gate entrance. When he reached the front, he handed over fifty pence in exchange for a ticket. The small group of visitors joined their guide, a Yeoman Warder, dressed in his traditional navy and red tunic and wearing the distinctive Beefeater’s hat. He shepherded his flock out onto the battlements while giving a running commentary. He informed them that work on the Tower had been started in 1078 by William the Conqueror, to keep his Norman invaders safely out of reach of the vengeful locals. A squawking raven landed nearby to remind them that as long as there were ravens resident at the Tower, England would be safe from invading infidels. As they approached the Jewel House, the guide declared, as if reading their thoughts, ‘Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for, a chance to see the 23,578 precious gems of incalculable value which make up the Crown Jewels.’
‘Who owns them?’ someone asked.
‘Her Majesty the Queen,’ came back the immediate reply.
‘Not the people?’ enquired an American voice.
‘No,’ said the warder. ‘They pass from monarch to monarch, so no politician will ever be able to get their hands on them.’
The first thing William noticed as they headed for the jewel room was that there wasn’t a guard in sight, while their guide must have been over sixty, and was somewhat portly. But then, as the guidebook confidently stated, no one had escaped from the Tower in almost a thousand years.
But William wasn’t a tourist, and today was not one for admiring state treasures, so he discreetly peeled off from the group and followed the signs for the upper and lower Salt Tower. He walked down the slope towards the Queen Elizabeth Arch and slipped into an unlit vault that had been added in the late 1230s as part of Henry III’s curtain wall that surrounded the fortress. The small octagonal stone room was empty, and of little interest to anyone except the most ardent historian.
William knew that Bess of Hardwick had been imprisoned in the Salt Tower for supposedly practising witchcraft, and wondered if that was what Adrian had in mind. He sat down in a stone alcove that afforded him a good view of the entrance, so he wouldn’t be taken by surprise.
One or two tourists stuck their heads inside but, after a glance, quickly moved on to more promising possibilities. William heard the tower clock strike eleven, but then he’d never expected Adrian to be on time. He patted the two wads of notes in his breast pocket once again as he waited for his informer to appear.
He looked up to see a familiar figure standing in the archway. His eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal, until he spotted William. He walked quickly across to join him, and before he’d even sat down, said, ‘Did you bring the money?’
‘Every penny,’ said William, extracting the corner of one of the cellophane packets to reveal the crisp new notes, which brought a smile to Heath’s face. He blinked as the money disappeared back into William’s pocket.
‘First, the name,’ said William calmly.
‘Assem Rashidi.’
‘Have you ever met him?’
‘No.’
‘Then how can you be sure he’s the one they call the Viper?’
‘Maria had a brief fling with him. That’s how we met.’
‘And you trust her?’
‘She’s the only person I do trust.’
William recalled Lamont’s words: ‘Never forget, your old school chum isn’t your friend, and he never will be. But that doesn’t mean you don’t stick to your side of the bargain. You’ll have to, if you’re going to secure his trust.’ He extracted one of the cellophane packets and handed it to Heath. It disappeared instantly.
‘What about the other hundred?’ said Heath.
‘Not before you tell me where Rashidi goes at five o’clock every Friday afternoon.’
‘Number twenty-four The Boltons.’
‘Is that where he lives?’
‘No idea. That wasn’t part of our bargain. Pay up.’
William extracted the second package and handed it over. ‘If your information isn’t kosher,’ he said, ‘I’ll personally drag you back here, put you on the rack and I’ll be the one tightening the screws.’
‘That’s not very friendly,’ said Heath, ‘considering I’m working on something even bigger for my old school chum.’
‘Any clues?’ said William, trying hard not to sound excited.
‘Not yet. But if I pull it off, I’ll need enough money for me and Maria to disappear.’
‘Disappear to where?’ asked William. But Heath, unlike Bess of Hardwick, had already escaped.
6
‘Brazil would be my bet,’ said William.
‘Why Brazil?’ asked Lamont.
‘Heath let slip during our first interview that his girlfriend came from there.’
‘Two and two don’t always make four,’ said the Hawk. ‘But if his first two pieces of intel turn out to be accurate, your old school chum might prove invaluable in the long run.’
‘And expensive.’
‘Not if Assem Rashidi turns out to be for real,’ said Lamont.
‘He’s real enough,’ said William. ‘However, according to Interpol, that’s not the name on his birth certificate, but it’s certainly the one he goes by nowadays.’