‘You speak from experience?’ she risked.
‘I lasted a couple of weeks before he moved on.’
‘That long?’ said Nicky, trying to make light of it. ‘But let’s be fair, everyone says he’s a good thief catcher.’
‘The best,’ admitted Liz. ‘More arrests and more convictions than anyone else in the division. But I’m told it doesn’t stop him making a few bob on the side.’
‘You mean he’s bent?’ said Nicky, feigning shock.
‘There’s a thin line between bent and straight. It’s what you might call malleable. But no one’s going to complain about Summers while he has a grass who delivers on such a regular basis.’
‘So he’s able to make a little extra cash on the side?’ said Nicky. ‘Where’s the harm in that?’
‘Which he flaunts. Doesn’t make him the most popular person in the nick. Anyway,’ Liz continued, looking across at the bar, where the two officers were sharing a joke, ‘DI Castle seems happy to sign all the necessary forms to keep their little arrangement legal and above board. Mind you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets more than the occasional pint for his trouble,’ she added bitterly.
‘What are we doing tonight?’ asked Nicky, wanting to change the subject, as she’d picked up quite enough intel for one evening.
‘Hornchurch Youth Club. Some of the locals have been complaining about the all-night raves. Can’t say I blame them. I think we’ll have to pay them a visit and give their team leader a slap on the wrist.’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘We’ll charge in next week, torch the joint, and throw the little blighters in jail.’
Nicky laughed, finished her drink and said, ‘Time to leave if we’re not going to be put on report.’
They got up and headed for the door. Nicky glanced back, to catch Summers staring at her. He grinned, and she couldn’t believe that she blushed. Nicky quickly closed the door behind her and made her way back to the station.
10
‘You may call your next witness, Sir Julian.’
‘Thank you, m’lud. I call Mr Gerald Sangster.’
‘Call Gerald Sangster!’ roared the clerk of the court, and moments later his words were echoed in the corridor outside.
The door swung open and a slightly stooped, middle-aged man, whose hair and tightly clipped beard were prematurely grey. He entered the court and made his way slowly across to the witness box. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer, his old school tie, and neatly pressed grey flannel trousers, giving the impression of a professional man who’d recently retired. Booth Watson considered him far too young for that.
The clerk held up a card, and the witness delivered the oath with a confidence that belied his self-effacing demeanour. Booth Watson made a note on his yellow pad and passed it to his junior, who quickly scurried out of court.
‘Would you please state your name and occupation for the record,’ said Sir Julian.
‘My name is Gerald Sangster, and I’m currently unemployed.’
Booth Watson made a second note.
‘Can I get on the record, Mr Sangster, that in the past you have been a drug addict?’
‘That’s true, sir, but I’m clean now. I’ve been through rehab, and haven’t touched a drug for months.’
‘And before that, you were a doctor,’ said Sir Julian, ‘with a successful practice in Harley Street?’
‘That is correct.’
‘But as a result of your addiction your name was removed from the Medical Register, and not long after that sadly your marriage broke down.’
Sangster bowed his head.
‘Bring on the violins,’ said Booth Watson, and not to himself.
‘That was when you went to work for Mr Rashidi.’
‘Something I will regret for the rest of my life.’
‘I won’t be waiting that long,’ said Booth Watson.
‘Do you see Mr Rashidi in the courtroom today?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sangster, pointing towards the dock.
Rashidi stared blankly back at him as though they had never met.
‘May I ask what role you played in Mr Rashidi’s empire?’
‘I have a degree in chemistry, and was able to advise Mr Rashidi on the strength and make-up of the drugs he distributed, particularly cocaine.’
‘Would you please go into a little more detail, Mr Sangster, as I expect the jury, like myself, are swimming in unfamiliar waters.’
‘A wrap of cocaine, probably two grams, would be of a higher quality and would cost more for a wealthy customer in Mayfair, than an inferior wrap sold to a junkie on a street corner in the East End. I was in charge of quality control. I checked each batch, after which the dealers, like any salesmen, decided on the price, according to their knowledge of the customer.’
‘Could you be more specific as to how you went about that?’
‘I would take the finest Colombian cocaine, which is usually around ninety per cent pure, and then mix it with baking powder to make it go further, while still looking like the real thing. The more sophisticated customers would taste a sample and reject it if it wasn’t of the highest quality. I was also responsible for the quality control of heroin, crack cocaine, methamphetamine and marijuana. Occasionally we gave some of our stock away for free.’
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Sir Julian, well aware what the answer would be.
‘You give a child a week’s supply and they’ll become hooked. That’s when you start charging.’
‘Who are the dealers in these cases?’
‘Usually other kids, who give away the gear in school playgrounds.’
‘And do these children go on to become fully fledged drug dealers after they leave school?’
‘It doesn’t take them long to work out they’re already earning more than their parents, besides which, it’s often the only work they can get. There’s never been a better example of a womb-to-tomb job.’
‘Your own child,’ repeated Sir Julian, looking directly at the jury, before he moved on. ‘And where did you carry out this work, Mr Sangster?’
‘In Mr Rashidi’s drug factory.’
‘Could you be more specific?’
‘His factory was on the twenty-third, twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth floors of a tower block in Brixton.’
Grace walked across to a plan of the block resting on an easel, and pointed to each floor as Sangster mentioned it.
‘And how often was Mr Rashidi on the premises?’
‘Most of the time. He oversaw the entire operation from his office on the twenty-third floor when he wasn’t in his apartment.’
‘He had an apartment in the same building?’
‘No, it was in the adjoining block. But there was a walkway linking the two buildings, which was his escape route should the factory ever be raided.’
‘Did he attempt to use that exit on the night of the raid?’
‘Yes, sir. But it must have been blocked, because a couple of minutes later I saw him rush back into the room accompanied by his two bodyguards. But he didn’t have time to get out of the front door before the police turned up.’
‘When did you next see him?’
‘He was on his knees in the middle of the room pretending to be one of the workers.’
‘Were you there when he was arrested?’
‘No, I wasn’t.’
Why not? Booth Watson wrote on his pad before Sir Julian moved on.
‘Which floor did you work on?’
‘Number twenty-four. The one where the drugs were prepared for distribution.’
Grace pointed to the twenty-fourth floor.
‘How were you paid?’
‘In cash at the end of every working day.’
‘And how much could you earn in a week?’
‘At least a grand. Sometimes more.’
‘Over fifty thousand pounds a year,’ said Sir Julian, emphasizing each word. ‘More than six times the average annual wage for a working man in this country. And who was your paymaster?’