The witness pursed his lips, but made no attempt to reply.
‘Well, let’s move on to something you appear to remember in great detail. You told my learned friend that the police visited your home the morning after the raid and removed a number of Savile Row suits, a dozen shirts, a silver-framed photograph of your mother, as well as “a few bob short of seven hundred quid”, which you later found was missing from your safe.’
‘Spot on. And I’d like to know who stole it.’
‘So would I,’ said Sir Julian, ‘because you also told the court that you intended to bank the seven hundred pounds that morning.’
‘That’s right. I deposit the previous day’s takings on my way to work every mornin’, without fail.’
‘But you did fail on this occasion, Mr Roberts, because you told the court the money was still in your safe when the police searched your home.’
‘Must have forgotten for once.’
‘Then let me ask you something you couldn’t possibly forget if, as you claim, you’ve lived in that flat for the past ten years. What’s your telephone number?’
‘Two seven four—’ Roberts began, then stopped and stared blankly at Sir Julian.
‘It’s not a trick question, Mr Roberts. I imagine every member of the jury can remember their home telephone number, especially those who’ve lived at the same address for the past ten years.’ He was rewarded with some involuntary nods from the jury box.
‘I think it might have been changed recently,’ said Roberts.
‘Not according to British Telecom,’ said Sir Julian, holding up a letter for the court to see. ‘The accounts manager for the Brixton area assures me,’ he said, reading the words Grace had underlined, ‘this number has not been changed since it was installed in 1976.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I don’t say so, Mr Roberts, but British Telecom does.’ Sir Julian didn’t move on until he was certain the jury had realized the witness had no intention of responding. ‘I would like to return to the Asprey’s silver frame found in your flat, displaying a photograph of your late lamented mother.’
‘God rest her soul,’ said Roberts.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Sir Julian, ‘because had she lived, there is another question I would have liked to ask her. How often did she pop into Asprey’s to buy presents for her son?’
‘What are you suggestin’?’
‘Just as we learnt earlier that you didn’t know where Savile Row is, despite having a wardrobe full of hand-made suits from one of its long-established tailors, I have a feeling your mother never visited Bond Street.’
‘You can’t prove that.’
‘You’re right, I can’t.’ Roberts assumed a smug expression, until Sir Julian asked, ‘Do you believe in coincidence?’
‘What are you gettin’ at?’
‘Allow me to explain exactly what I’m getting at. Ten years ago, you changed your name, rented a brand-new apartment in a recently built block, and acquired a bespoke tailor, even though you’re not entirely sure where Savile Row is. At that time you were the proprietor of a single newsagents shop, and you now own eleven, with another two under offer.’
‘What does that prove?’
‘That you’re a very resourceful man, Mr Roberts. But the jury might find it quite a coincidence that all this happened at the same time as Mr Assem Rashidi moved into the area, opened a drugs factory in the next block, and might have needed someone local who could move into his apartment at a moment’s notice, and look as if he’d lived there for the past ten years despite the fact he didn’t even know the telephone number of the flat.’
‘It was always my flat, not Assem’s,’ shouted Roberts, pointing at the defendant.
‘Shall we let the jury decide if it was your flat or Assem’s?’ said Sir Julian, allowing himself a smile. ‘No more questions, m’lud.’
14
The taxi turned left out of Scotland Yard and headed towards Westminster. The ‘For Hire’ sign had been switched off, but that didn’t stop one or two hopeful customers from trying to flag him down. The driver ignored them because he already had a booking.
He headed down Victoria Street, with Westminster Abbey on his right and, on his left, the QEII centre which had recently been opened by the Queen. As always, the traffic in Parliament Square was almost at a standstill, but that suited his purpose. He looked up at Big Ben as England’s timekeeper struck twelve times, the chimes echoing around the square.
He eased across to the inside lane and slowed down. His timing needed to be perfect. The lights turned red as he swung left, coming to a halt at the top of Whitehall, allowing a mass of pedestrians to cross the road. There are no zebra crossings in Whitehall, because if there were, the traffic would be at a perpetual standstill, as would the seat of government.
A woman tapped on his side window, having noticed that although the yellow light was off, no one was sitting in the back.
‘Are you free?’
‘No, madam. I have a booking.’
She looked surprised when an unlikely-looking passenger opened the back door of the taxi, and climbed in. The traffic light turned green.
As the driver moved off he glanced in the rear-view mirror to see a scruffy, unshaven individual lounging on the back seat, who most cabbies would have refused to pick up. But not the commander.
‘Good morning, sir,’ his fare said as they drove past the Foreign Office.
‘Good morning Ross,’ replied the Hawk, as he slipped into the bus lane.
‘As instructed, I’ve been keeping a close eye on our former colleague, Superintendent Lamont, and I’m sorry to report that your worst fears have been realized.’
The commander let out a deep sigh as they passed the Cenotaph and headed towards Trafalgar Square. ‘Don’t paper over the cracks, Ross,’ he said.
‘After you put pressure on him to return the cash, or at least most of it, that had been temporarily mislaid following the raid on Rashidi’s slaughter, he decided, as you know, to resign from the force rather than face an inquiry. As a result of that decision he ended up in considerable debt. He even thought about buying a pub in Blackheath, but his wife put a stop to that. I’m afraid he’s in a bad place and Summers found it only too easy to take advantage of the situation.’
‘How come?’
‘A nag problem, sir, caused by a high-maintenance wife and low-maintenance horses.’
‘Don’t spare me the details.’
‘His wife Lauren thinks Harrods is the only store she should be seen frequenting, and the Caprice the only restaurant worthy of her patronage.’
‘Poor man.’
‘And poor is the result, because whenever he does have the occasional win at the races he celebrates, and forgets all about the far more frequent losses. That’s why until recently he was always broke.’
‘Until recently?’
‘In the past couple of weeks he’s paid off all his debts to the bookies, and several other substantial outgoings that aren’t easy to explain,’ said Ross as the taxi swung out of Trafalgar Square and headed down the Mall.
‘Like what?’ asked the Hawk, as Buckingham Palace loomed into sight.
‘He’s recently made a down payment on a bigger house in Fulham, that comes with an even larger mortgage. His wife is kitting it out with furniture from Harrods, and he’s driving a new Audi which he paid for in cash. He’s certainly not getting that sort of money from his pension pot.’
‘We’ve got a pretty good idea who his paymaster is,’ said the Hawk. ‘Lamont’s had three separate meetings with DS Summers during the past month. They get on and off at different stations on the Circle line, and never spend more than a few minutes together. On one occasion our undercover officer saw a bulky brown envelope changing hands. What we don’t know is what Lamont is offering in return, although we strongly suspect he was responsible for switching the photograph that blew a hole through the Crown’s evidence at Rashidi’s trial.’ He threw on his brakes and cursed as a jogger ran in front of the cab. ‘We already knew about the connection between Lamont and Summers,’ the Hawk mused, ‘but what’s the connection between Rashidi and Summers?’