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“Can you trust him?”
“Can you trust anyone?” said Rashidi. “However, it’s not all bad news. Since I arrived here, I’ve discovered a new bunch of even more desperate customers. Did you know there are a hundred and thirty-seven prisons in Britain?” he continued. “And they’re all about to become branches of my new company.”
Faulkner looked interested.
“Give me a year, and I’ll control the supply of drugs to every last one of them. I’ve already identified the officer I’ll use as my go-between, while Tulip will be my main prison dealer, so all I need now is a phone.”
“Not a problem,” said Faulkner. “I’ll point you in the right direction when you go to chapel on Sunday.”
“I’m Roman Catholic.”
“Not any longer, you aren’t. You’re the Church of England’s latest convert. That is, if you want to control the drugs scene in this place. The Sunday morning service is the only time we’re all gathered together in one place, when the business for the following
week is sorted out during the sermon.”
“How does the chaplain feel about that?”
“He fills in another Home Office form reporting how well his services are attended.”
“Speaking of the Home Office, what’s the latest on your appeal?”
“Couldn’t be much worse. They’re now accusing me of burning down my own home, but not before I’d removed my art collection.”
“What motive could you possibly have for doing that?” asked Rashidi, as another officer poured him a cup of coffee.
“Revenge. I did it to make my ex-wife penniless.”
“And did you succeed?”
“Not yet, but I’m still working on it. In fact, I’ve arranged a little surprise for her this morning.”
“So what are your chances of getting off the latest charges?”
“Not good. My lawyer tells me they’ve got enough evidence to bury me, and it doesn’t help that the detective in charge of the case, a certain DS Warwick, is a friend of my wife’s.”
“Detective Sergeant William Warwick?” spluttered Rashidi, spilling his coffee.
“The same.”
“He was the officer who arrested me. But I’m not expecting him to give evidence at my trial.”
Faulkner smiled. “That’s a funeral I would like to attend. By the way, if you need a lawyer, I can recommend one,” he said, as another warder appeared by his side.
“Your carriage awaits, Mr. Faulkner.”
“No doubt accompanied by three police cars, six outriders, and an armed escort.”
“Not to mention a helicopter,” said the warder.
Rashidi laughed. “Only you and the Royal Family get that sort of treatment. I’m going to have to come up with a funeral they’ll let me go to.”
“The Home Office regulations only allow you to attend the funerals of your parents or children, not even other close relatives.”
“Then I won’t be going to any funerals,” said Rashidi, “because they certainly aren’t going to allow me to attend Detective Sergeant Warwick’s.”
* * *
“What’s the problem, grumpy?” asked William.
