‘When did you last see the photograph?’ asked Sir Julian, as he closed the door of a private consultation room.
‘A couple of days ago,’ said Grace, ‘in the presence of Booth Watson’s junior and the exhibits officer, when we agreed on the prosecution’s bundle of evidence. Someone must have switched the photographs over the weekend.’
‘Obviously,’ said Sir Julian. ‘But who?’ he demanded, thumping the desk with a clenched fist.
‘Someone in the pay of Rashidi, who was able to get in and out of Scotland Yard unchallenged. I have no idea who the lady is,’ said Grace, looking more closely at the photograph. ‘But I can tell you one thing. It isn’t Mrs Rashidi.’
‘That’s for sure,’ said Sir Julian, ‘but I have a feeling we’re about to find out who it is.’
‘That’s all I need,’ said the Hawk once he’d finished reading Rebecca’s report.
‘Let’s hope I’m wrong, sir.’
‘But if you’re right,’ said Jackie, ‘we’re going to have to play them at their own game.’
‘What do you have in mind, DS Roycroft?’ asked the Hawk.
‘In future, we’ll have to hold two separate meetings. One at which Nicky is present, and another when she isn’t, along with two different agendas.’
‘But how can we keep an eye on her while she’s in Romford,’ interjected Paul, ‘without it being obvious?’
‘I will have to get Marlboro Man to do that job,’ said the Hawk. ‘I’ll leave you to get in touch with him, DS Roycroft, and arrange a meeting as soon as possible.’
Jackie nodded.
‘And DC Pankhurst, I would quite understand if you felt unable to spy on your friend. However, if PC Bailey has switched sides...’
‘I’m still hoping I’ve made a terrible mistake, sir, and that Nicky spent the night with some other bloke. But I fear everything points to Summers.’
‘I agree with you,’ said the Hawk. ‘So we should assume the worst for now. And while we’re on the subject of switching sides, what’s the latest on Lamont?’
Rebecca opened her notebook. ‘Yesterday morning he left home just after nine, and took the Tube to Moorgate, where he spent the day seated in the back row of the public gallery of court number one at the Old Bailey.’
‘What was he doing there?’ asked the Hawk, but no one offered an opinion.
Sir Julian and Grace were back in court only moments before the judge reappeared.
Grace was looking resigned as her brother passed her on his way to the witness box. She waited until everyone had settled before she rose from her place and said, ‘M’lud, the Crown has no further questions for this witness.’
William took a deep breath, and like a heavyweight boxer took up his stance in the middle of the ring and waited for Booth Watson to throw the first punch. It was a sucker punch.
‘Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Mr Booth Watson?’ asked the referee.
Booth Watson took his time before responding.
‘No, thank you, m’lud,’ he said, barely rising from his place.
‘You may step down, Inspector Warwick.’
William left the witness box unsure if he was relieved to have escaped unscathed, or annoyed he hadn’t even been allowed to put up a fight.
Grace rose again, but waited for her brother to leave before she addressed the court. ‘M’lud, we will not be calling any further witnesses, so that completes the case for the prosecution.’
‘Thank you, Miss Warwick.’ The judge switched his attention to the other end of the bench. ‘You may call your first witness, Mr Booth Watson.’
‘Thank you, m’lud.’ Defence counsel took his time studying a list of names before he said, ‘I call Mr Tony Roberts.’
William couldn’t hide his anger as he walked out of court number one and headed for the nearest telephone. Someone, somehow, had switched the one piece of evidence that would have left the jury in no doubt of Rashidi’s guilt, and put him behind bars with a life sentence.
As he picked up the phone and dialled the commander’s number, he was still trying to figure out who could possibly be the latest recruit on his payroll. Which of Rashidi’s henchmen had access to Scotland Yard or the Old Bailey?
‘Hawksby,’ announced the familiar voice.
‘We’ve been snookered,’ said William.
He didn’t need to refer to his notebook to repeat verbatim what had taken place in court number one earlier that morning.
‘It would seem that Rashidi is every bit as resourceful as Faulkner,’ said the commander, ‘and has found his own way of escaping.’
‘He also has Booth Watson on his side, so switching the photo may turn out to be the least of our problems.’
‘Then you’d better get back and find out who Tony Roberts is. Call me the moment court is adjourned for the day, because another problem has arisen that could blow up in our faces.’
‘A clue, sir?’
‘No. I want you to find out who Tony Roberts is, before I share that piece of news with you.’
The commander put the phone down, opened the file in front of him and re-read DC Pankhurst’s report. A frown didn’t leave his face.
13
‘Please state your name and occupation for the record,’ said Booth Watson.
‘My name is Tony Roberts, and I own a chain of newsagents south of the river.’
‘And your home address?’
‘Flat 97, Napier Mansions, Brixton.’
‘Can I confirm, Mr Roberts, that your apartment is on the twenty-third floor of Block B?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And how long have you lived there?’
‘Just over ten years. I was rentin’ it for four years, and then I bought the place when the government made that possible, six years ago.’
Sir Julian made a note, underlining Ten years.
‘And yours is a larger apartment than any other in the block.’
‘That’s right, I got plannin’ permission to knock two flats into one.’
Sir Julian wrote the words Check whose name is on planning permission, and passed his query across to Clare, who was sitting on the solicitors’ bench behind him.
‘So, your newsagents business must be fairly successful?’
‘Can’t complain. Took over my old man’s shop when he retired. And since then, the business has grown like Topsy.’
‘And how many shops do you own now?’
‘Eleven, with a couple more under offer.’
‘As your business is so successful, Mr Roberts, have you ever considered opening a newsagents on the other side of the river?’
Sir Julian put a cross through one of the questions he had intended to ask.
‘I’m not a toff like you,’ said Roberts. ‘Born in Brixton, went to the local secondary modern, married a Brixton girl, and when my time comes, I’ll be buried in Brixton.’
‘But you must cross the river occasionally?’ said Booth Watson. ‘Because I can’t believe the suit you are wearing was purchased in Brixton.’
Sir Julian crossed out another question on his list.
‘Sunday best,’ said Roberts. ‘The wife thought it would be appropriate for my appearance in court.’
‘May I ask who the tailor is?’
Roberts opened his jacket with a flourish to reveal the red label of Bennett and Reed of Savile Row.
Sir Julian made a further note that he added to his list of questions.
‘Mr Roberts, I’m going to show you a photograph that was found on the bedside table of your apartment.’
Once again, the clerk retrieved the silver-framed photo from the bundle of evidence and handed it to the witness.
‘Do you recognize the lady in the photograph?’
‘Course I do. It’s my dear departed mother, God rest her soul.’