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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 recepti
onist 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 toward 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 center 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 November 12. “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 defense 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 gray 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.
William remained in his seat. Not part of the overall plan. That would have to wait for another week. The Hawk’s words were ringing in his ears: Take no risks. We’re in it for the long game.
* * *
There were six minders in charge of the safe house, all of them on eight-hour shifts. Their instructions were simple. Keep the witness and his girlfriend safe, well fed, and, if possible, relaxed. It wasn’t easy to relax when they were never allowed out for more than a short walk around a nearby park, always accompanied by two officers and a German shepherd. It was several days before Adrian or Maria even discovered which city they were in.
As the weeks passed, Adrian got to know one of his minders quite well, bonding over their mutual support for West Ham. But it wasn’t until a fortnight before the trial that he discovered who he really supported.
* * *
Back at Scotland Yard, William handed in his report on the trip to Stockwell.
Lamont studied a map of the London underground for a few moments before saying, “If Rashidi gets off at Stockwell next Monday, DS Warwick, you’ll be waiting for him outside the station. But if he changes lines and heads for Brixton, you’ll have to cover for him, DC Adaja.”
