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“The Duc de Vendôme, a seventeenth-century French aristocrat, used to receive his courtiers even when he was sitting on the loo, and after he’d wiped his bottom, one of them rushed forward and kissed it, saying, ‘Oh noble one, you have the arse of an angel.’”
“Much as I’d like to be reinstated as a sergeant,” said Jackie, “I wouldn’t be willing to go that far.”
“As long as you don’t call me Bill,” said William, as he slumped back in the passenger seat.
Jackie drove out of the car park onto Victoria Street and headed for Pimlico as William closed his eyes. Only a year ago, when Constable Warwick had first joined the team, she had been a detective sergeant, perched firmly on the second rung of the ladder. But now, following the Operation Blue Period fiasco, and the successful return of the Rembrandt to the Fitzmolean, their positions were reversed. Jackie didn’t complain—she was happy to still be part of the commander’s inner team. William began to snore. When Jackie turned the corner she spotted him immediately.
“It’s Tulip!” she said suddenly, throwing on the brakes and startling William out of his slumber.
“Tulip?” he said, as his eyes tried to focus.
“I first arrested him when he was still at school,” said Jackie, as she jumped out of the car. William could only make out her blurred figure running across the road toward an unlit alley where a young black man carrying a Tesco shopping bag was passing something to another man, whose face was well hidden in the shadows.
Suddenly William was wide awake, adrenaline replacing alcohol. He leaped out of the car and followed Jackie, accompanied by the sound of several car horns as he nipped in and out of the traffic. Horns that warned Tulip he’d been spotted. He immediately sped off down the alley.
William ran past Jackie, who was handcuffing the other man. But he already knew this wasn’t going to be the night for overtaking someone about the same age as himself. Street dealers rarely drink, and few of them take drugs, because they know it could cost them their job. Even before Tulip turned the corner, leaped on a black Yamaha motorbike, and roared away, William had accepted that he wasn’t going to catch him. He reluctantly came to a halt at the end of the passageway, steadied himself against a lamppost, bent down, and was violently sick all over the pavement.
“Disgusting,” muttered an elderly gentleman, as he hurried by.
William was only relieved he wasn’t in uniform. He eventually straightened himself up and made his way slowly back down the alley, to find Jackie reading the prisoner his rights. William followed them unsteadily across the road, and managed on a second attempt to open the rear door of the car, allowing Jackie to shove the prisoner onto the backseat.
William joined her in the front, and tried not to be sick again as the car swung around and headed for the nearest police station. Jackie knew the location of London nicks the way cab drivers know hotels. She came to a halt at the back of Rochester Row police station, grabbed her charge and was escorting him toward the custody area before William had even got out of the car.
Some prisoners scream in protest, letting out a stream of invective that would turn the night air purple, while others are spoiling for a fight and need a couple of burly coppers to keep them under control. But the majority meekly bow their heads and say nothing. William was relieved that this one clearly fell into the bowed-head category. But he’d learned after only a few weeks on the job that while users are often ashamed, dealers never are.
The custody sergeant looked up as the three of them approached the desk. Jackie produced her warrant card and told him why she had arrested the prisoner, and about his lack of cooperation after he’d been cautioned. The sergeant took a custody record and a pro
perty sheet from below the counter, so he could take down the prisoner’s details before he was placed in a cell overnight. After he’d entered the words two wraps of white powder, he turned to the prisoner and said, “Right, lad, let’s start with your full name.”
The prisoner remained resolutely silent.
“I’ll ask you once again. What’s your name?”
The prisoner continued to stare defiantly across the counter at his interrogator, but still said nothing.
“This is the last time I’m going to ask you. What’s—”
“I know his name,” said William.
* * *
“And you still remembered him, after all these years?” said Beth, as he climbed into bed later that night.
“You never forget the first crime you solve,” William replied. “I was responsible for Adrian Heath being expelled from our prep school after I proved he’d been stealing Mars bars from the tuck shop. So no one was surprised when I joined the police force, though some of his friends never forgave me. I wasn’t Choirboy then, just a sneak.”
“I feel rather sorry for him,” said Beth, as she turned off the bedside light.
“Why?” asked William. “He’s obviously gone from bad to worse, just as my father predicted he would.”
“It’s not like you to be so judgmental,” said Beth. “I’d like to know what happened during the years after you lost contact with him, before I jump to any rash conclusions.”
“I’m unlikely to find out, as Lamont’s almost certain to take me off the case.”
“Why would he do that, when you might be the one person Adrian would be willing to talk to?”
“You can’t afford to become personally involved with a suspect,” William said. “It’s a golden rule for any police officer.”
“Didn’t stop you getting personally involved with Christina Faulkner,” said Beth, as she turned away from him.
