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Still nothing.
“One thing’s for certain, Rashidi. After I’ve told your mother where she’ll be able to find you for the next ten years, hopefully longer, don’t expect her to visit you in prison, because she’ll be too ashamed to admit to her friends at the Brompton Oratory that the real reason they haven’t seen Khalil recently is because he’s brought a new meaning to the word evil.”
Rashidi leaned forward and spat in William’s face.
“I’ve never been more flattered in my life, Mr. Rashidi,” he said. The constable stepped forward, thrust Rashidi’s arms behind his back, and handcuffed him as William read him his rights. He still didn’t speak.
“Don’t let him out of your sight,” said William. “There’s an armored van waiting outside for Mr. Rashidi, and a cell awaits him at Brixton police station. It may not need fumigating now, but it certainly will after he’s spent the night there.”
Rashidi leaned forward and said, “Your days are numbered, sergeant. And I’ll be the one to tell your mother.”
“No, Mr. Rashidi, it’s you whose days are numbered, and I’ll be telling your mother why in the morning.” Rashidi was unceremoniously led out of the room by two armed officers and escorted to the lift he hadn’t quite reached in time.
When he heard the noise of a helicopter somewhere above him, William walked across to the smashed window and looked out to see a chopper disappearing into the clouds. The colonel would be pleased to have it confirmed that the new lot were indeed every bit as good as the old.
He turned his attention back to the room, now a crime scene that had already been taken over by a different breed of policeman: an exhibits officer, who wouldn’t be joining his wife for supper, and probably not for breakfast; photographers who were snapping anything that didn’t move; and the scene of crime officers in their white boiler suits and latex gloves, who were carefully collecting evidence and depositing it into plastic bags. Even a Polo Mint would be taken back to the labs for closer examination. A cocaine press, scales, sieves, rubber gloves, and face masks awaited inspection by the backroom boys and girls, who would be among the last to take the lift back down to the ground floor.
After writing down Rashidi’s words in his notebook—not something he’d be telling Beth—William went through to the next room, which could only have been Rashidi’s office. Three bulky sports bags were lined up against the far wall. He picked one up, and was surprised at how heavy it was. He put it back on the floor and unzipped it.
He wouldn’t have thought that anything could surprise him after what he’d just witnessed, but the sight of so much money, probably just a single day’s takings, reminded him why modern criminals no longer bother to rob banks, when their victims will hand the cash over to them willingly.
He unzipped the second bag to see still more fifties, twenties, and tens neatly stacked in large bundles. He was about to unzip the third when a voice behind him said, “I’ll take care of that, DS Warwick.”
He turned to see Superintendent Lamont standing in the doorway.
“Meanwhile, the commander wants you to report to him immediately.”
“Of course, sir,” said William, trying to hide his surprise.
“And well done, DS Warwick. I know you’ll be pleased to hear that Rashidi’s already on his way to the nearest nick, where a welcoming party awaits him.”
“Thank you, sir,” said William, as Jackie entered the room.
“Congratulations, sarge,” she said. “A triumphant night for everyone.” She paused. “Well, everyone except DC Adaja.”
“Why, what happened to him?”
“I think it might be better if he told you himself.”
William took one last look at the havoc and squalor of what had once been the heart of Rashidi’s empire. He reluctantly left the boiler room and began to jog down the stone steps, past graffiti-covered walls where one word was repeated again and again. He ignored the stench of urine as he continued on down to the ground floor, passing several handcuffed prisoners who would not be profiting from the drugs trade for a long time, if ever again.
When he emerged onto the street, he took a deep breath of fresh air and watched as another Black Maria that couldn’t accommodate any more occupants was driven away. He walked over to the bus and made his way upstairs to the command center.
“What are you doing here, DS Warwick?” snapped the Hawk. “I made it clear that you were not to leave the crime scene until the job was done.”
“The super has taken over, sir, and he said you wanted to see me.”
“Did he indeed?”
27
“The Observer has done you proud, William,” said Sir Julian, “and it’s not always complimentary about the police. And as you’ve never once mentioned Operation Trojan Horse during the past year, it must have been a tightly guarded secret.”
“Not even Beth knew until she heard about it on the news this morning.”
“The raid has even made the first leader,” said Sir Julian. “I quote: ‘The arrest of Khalil Rashidi is a genuine breakthrough in the war against drugs, and the Metropolitan Police are to be congratu
lated on their relentless pursuit of these ruthless criminals who do so much harm to our society.’” He looked up from behind the paper. “There’s a photograph of Commander Hawksby sitting on a bus. Not his normal mode of transport, I suspect.” He put down the paper and looked across at his son. “You don’t appear to be overwhelmed by your triumph.”
