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“He’s also demanding that the officer concerned be suspended while an inquiry into police brutality takes place.”
“All the more reason to destroy the evidence,” said Lamont, scraping up the last few crumbs.
“Sorry we couldn’t offer you a slice, DS Warwick,” said the Hawk, “but then we would have to add accepting a bribe to the long list of charges against you.”
Jackie tried not to smirk.
“But—” began William.
“Fortunately for you,” said the commander, “the drugs in question had been shoplifted from a local Tesco store, but as the evidence has now been destroyed, we were left with no choice but to caution him, and release the suspect with a warning.”
“But—” repeated William.
“Hardly the six-to-eight-year sentence you’d been hoping for, DS Warwick.”
“And what’s more,” said Jackie, “the address Tulip gave us, surprise, surprise, doesn’t exist.”
“But the pub does,” said William.
“What pub?” demanded the Hawk, sounding serious for the first time.
“The Three Feathers in Battersea. That’s where he told the cabbie to take him.”
All four officers were suddenly alert.
“Perhaps I should stake it out,” said William. “Try to find out who his fellow dealers are?”
“That’s the last thing you’re going to do,” said Hawksby. “They’d spot a choirboy like you a mile off. No, this is a job for one of our more experienced undercover officers. You just make sure you don’t go anywhere near the place.”
“Do I know the officer you have in mind?” asked William.
“Even his own mother doesn’t know him,” said the Hawk.
5
“Detective Sergeant Warwick,” he said, after picking up the phone on his desk.
“I now know the name of the person you’re looking for,” said a voice he immediately recognized. “But it’s going to cost you a ton for starters.”
“A hundred pounds?” said William. “For that, I’d expect him to be sitting at my desk signing a confession.”
“Not this time,” said Adrian. “And for another hundred, I’ll tell you where you can find him every Friday afternoon at five o’clock.”
“Where shall we meet?” said William, as another phone began to ring.
“The lower room of the Salt Tower in the Tower of London. Next Wednesday at eleven.”
“You’re needed on this line,” shouted Jackie, cupping a hand over the receiver. “Sharpish!”
“And I’ll expect to see the cash before I even consider revealing his name, or where you’ll find him on a Friday afternoon at five.”
“I don’t think she’ll hold on much longer,” said Jackie.
“Otherwise all you’ll be seeing is the Crown Jewels, and that’ll cost you fifty pence.” The line went dead. William slammed down the receiver, shot across the room, and grabbed the phone from Jackie’s outstretched hand.
“Detective Sergeant Warwick,” he repeated.
“Detective Sergeant?” said a voice that sounded as if she didn’t expect to be kept waiting.
