‘Have you come across anything that looks at all suspicious?’ asked Jackie.
‘There’s a petty criminal he turned into an informant who on several occasions has come up with intel that’s resulted in arrests for burglary and another for supplying drugs.’
‘Does this phantom have a name?’ asked Paul.
‘John Smith. Hardly original, but then no detective wants to give away the identities of their informants. Once their real name is revealed, both of them are out of business.’
‘Has he been paid for his services?’ asked the Hawk.
‘Several times. Very much above board, small amounts, always authorized by his controller, a local inspector who rarely sets foot out of Romford.’
‘That’s not untypical of a lot of the force,’ said Hawksby. ‘Well done, PC Bailey. And Paul is right. Bide your time, because if Summers is bent, it will be the little things that give him away.’
‘Like what?’ asked Nicky.
‘His lifestyle, clothes, possessions, even his girlfriends. But be careful, because if he’s bent he’s also likely to be on the lookout for anyone who’s on to him. So don’t be in any hurry. Right, let’s all get back to work,’ said the commander, ‘and hope that Booth Watson trips over his own shoelaces.’
‘He was wearing slip-ons,’ said Paul.
‘Call Mr Cyril Bennett,’ said the clerk of the court.
A short, immaculately dressed man entered the courtroom and made his way to the witness box. As he took the oath, Grace noticed that his three-piece suit was almost identical to the one Rashidi was wearing.
‘Before I begin my examination, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian, ‘I should point out that Mr Bennett had to be summonsed as he was reluctant to give evidence.’
The judge nodded, and made a note on his yellow pad before taking a closer look at the witness.
‘Would you please state your name and occupation for the record,’ said Sir Julian.
‘My name is Cyril Bennett. I am a bespoke tailor, and the proprietor of Bennett and Reed of Savile Row.’
‘So it would be safe to say you make suits for some of the most fashionable people in London.’
‘And well beyond London, sir.’
‘Let me ask you, Mr Bennett, how much would it cost to have a suit made by Bennett and Reed of Savile Row?’
‘That would depend.’
‘Top of the range?’
‘It could be as much as three hundred pounds.’
‘So, you cater only for the wealthiest customers?’
‘If you say so.’
‘As three hundred pounds is almost double the average weekly wage for a worker in this country, yes, I would say so.’
‘I have no idea what the average weekly wage is for a worker in this country.’
‘I’m sure you don’t, Mr Bennett,’ said Sir Julian, smiling at the jury. ‘Now, I’m going to show you a hand-tailored suit that was found at the defendant’s flat in Brixton.’
Booth Watson was quickly on his feet.
‘I must object, m’lud. The Crown has produced no proof that my client ever lived in Brixton, let alone owned a flat there.’
‘I apologize, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian. ‘But be assured, we will. However, I would still like Mr Bennett to confirm that this particular suit found in an apartment in Brixton was made by Bennett and Reed. Item number nine, m’lud.’
The clerk of the court took a suit across to the witness, who studied it for some time, but made no comment.
‘If you look at the distinctive red label on the inside of the jacket,’ said Sir Julian, ‘you will see that the suit was made by Bennett and Reed.’
The witness stared at the label before saying, ‘It would appear so.’
‘And do you also see the neatly sewn initials on the inside jacket pocket?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Would you tell the court whose initials they are?’
‘I have no idea whose initials they are.’
‘If you say so, Mr Bennett. Then perhaps you would tell the court what the initials are?’
‘A.R.’
An outbreak of loudly whispered comments erupted from some of those seated in the court. Sir Julian waited for a moment before looking directly at the jury and repeating, ‘A.R.’ He then turned his attention back to the reluctant witness and said, ‘Who did you make this suit for, Mr Bennett?’
‘I have no idea who it was made for,’ said the witness. ‘Those initials could have been added after the suit had been purchased.’
‘Then let me make it easier for you. Do you see any of your customers in court today?’
Mr Bennett looked slowly around the court. His eyes settled briefly on the defendant, but moved on until he finally looked up at the judge and said, ‘I believe we have made suits for you in the past, m’lud.’
Mr Justice Whittaker nodded, looking slightly embarrassed.
‘You have never seen the prisoner in the dock before?’ said Sir Julian, trying to recover from this unexpected blow.
‘No, I have not,’ said Bennett.
Grace looked across at Rashidi, who was leaning forward and staring at the witness, like a mongoose with a cobra in its sights. She smiled when she spotted a red label on the inside of Rashidi’s jacket. She scribbled a note and handed it across to her father.
‘But you’re not denying this suit was tailored by your company, Mr Bennett.’
‘I can confirm it was made in my workshop, but then I employ some twenty tailors and have over a hundred customers on my books, including His Lordship.’
‘I’m sure you do. However, I wonder how many of them are five feet nine, of average build, and have the initials A.R. I imagine that would reduce the numbers considerably.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘I suspect you know every one of your customers, Mr Bennett,’ said Sir Julian with an exasperated sigh. ‘No more questions, m’lud,’ he added before resuming his seat.
‘Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Mr Booth Watson?’ asked the judge.
‘Just a couple of questions, m’lud,’ he said, rising slowly from his place.
‘Mr Bennett, can I confirm that your distinguished company has never made a suit for the defendant?’
‘I checked our books before coming to court this morning and couldn’t find anything to suggest we have ever made a suit for a Mr Rashidi.’
Sir Julian read Grace’s note and realized if Rashidi were to enter the witness box, that sentence would trap him. He turned around and nodded to his daughter.
‘My learned friend made great play of the fact that the initials A.R. are sewn on the inside of the jacket,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Have you by any chance ever made a suit for a Mr Arthur Rainsford?’
Sir Julian looked taken aback.
‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Bennett, bang on cue. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘They just happen to be the initials of the father of my learned friend’s daughter-in-law. But let me assure the court,’ said Booth Watson, throwing his arms up in mock horror, ‘it’s just another coincidence, because like Mr Rashidi, Mr Arthur Rainsford doesn’t have a flat in Brixton, hasn’t had a suit made by Bennett and Reed, and isn’t a drug dealer. No more questions,’ he concluded, offering the jury his most ingratiating smile.
‘Enter lover boy,’ she muttered disdainfully.
Nicky looked up from her table by the window as Jerry Summers strolled into the pub and walked across to join a colleague at the bar, where a pint was already waiting for him.
‘Still, you should be safe,’ said the WPC who sat opposite her, sipping a Coke. ‘Jerry Summers is only interested in blondes with big boobs.’
Nicky could hardly conceal her surprise. Liz Morgan, her constable mentor, was usually the sole of discretion when it came to discussing colleagues, but clearly not on this occasion.