‘Thank you for that compelling piece of evidence,’ said Jackie, as they stepped out of the lift into a corridor to find a heavy door propped up against the wall.
The general handyman hadn’t bothered with the numerous locks, he’d simply removed the door, leaving a cave. Aladdin’s Cave?
‘Well done, Jim,’ said William, as he entered an apartment that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Mayfair. Modern, stylish furniture littered every room, a carpet so thick you sank into it, while contemporary paintings adorned every walclass="underline" among them Bridget Riley, David Hockney and Allen Jones. Lalique glassware was scattered liberally around the apartment, reminding William of Rashidi’s French upbringing. He could only wonder how such a cultured man could have ended up so evil.
Jackie began to search the drawing room, looking for any sign of drugs, while William focused on the master bedroom. It didn’t take him long to accept that SOCO had done a thorough job, although he was puzzled by the lack of day-to-day objects he would have expected to find in an occupied flat: no comb, no hairbrush, no toothbrush, no soap. Just a rail of Savile Row suits and a dozen hand-made shirts from Pink in Jermyn Street, that looked as if they’d just come back from the dry cleaners. Nothing Booth Watson couldn’t easily dismiss as not belonging to his client. But then he saw the initials ‘A.R.’ embroidered on an inside jacket pocket of one of the suits. Would Booth Watson be able to dismiss that quite as easily? William folded the jacket neatly and placed it in an evidence bag.
The next thing he turned his attention to was a photograph in an ornate silver picture frame engraved with on the bedside table, that looked more Bond Street than Brixton. He picked it up and took a closer look at the woman in the photo.
‘Gotcha,’ he said, placing the solid silver frame in another evidence bag.
After he’d made a note of the telephone number on the other side of the bed, he began examining the paintings on the walls. Expensive, modern, but not evidence, unless it turned out that Rashidi had purchased them from a reputable dealer who’d be willing to appear in court as a Crown witness and reveal the name of his customer. Unlikely. After all it wouldn’t be in their best interest. The silver-framed photograph was still his best bet.
He paused to admire a Warhol painting of Marilyn Monroe SOCO had placed on the floor to uncover an unopened safe. He immediately went in search of the handyman Jim, who produced a set of keys that would have impressed Fagin. He had the safe unlocked within minutes. William pulled the door open, only to find the cupboard was bare.
‘Damn man. He must have seen us coming.’ Suddenly he remembered the bag lady who’d passed him earlier, pushing her laden trolley. He knew something about her hadn’t rung true, and then he recalled what it was. Everything had been in character except the shoes. The latest Nike trainers.
‘Damn,’ he repeated as Jackie appeared in the doorway.
‘Have you found anything worthwhile?’ she asked. ‘Because I haven’t.’
With a flourish William held up the plastic evidence bag containing the silver-framed photograph.
‘Game, set and match,’ said Jackie, giving her boss a mock salute.
‘Game, I agree,’ said William, ‘possibly even set. But while Booth Watson’s appearing as Rashidi’s defence counsel at the Old Bailey, match is still to be decided.’
No one was willing to sit at his table until they were convinced he wasn’t coming back.
When Rashidi came down to the canteen for breakfast on the third morning after Faulkner had escaped, he took his place at the top of the empty table, and invited two of his mates, Tulip and Ross, to join him.
‘Miles will be out of the country by now,’ said Rashidi as a prison officer placed a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. He was the only prisoner whose bacon had no rind. Another officer handed him a copy of the Financial Times. The prison staff had quickly accepted that the old king had departed, and a new monarch now sat on the throne. The courtiers were not alarmed. The new king was the natural successor to Faulkner, and more importantly would make sure their perks were still forthcoming.
Rashidi scanned the stock exchange listings and frowned. Marcel and Neffe had dropped another ten pence overnight, making his company vulnerable to a takeover bid. He could do nothing about it, despite being only a couple of miles away from the Stock Exchange.
‘Not good news, boss?’ asked Tulip as he forked a sausage and stuffed it into his mouth.
‘Someone’s trying to put me out of business,’ said Rashidi. ‘But my lawyer has it all under control.’
Marlboro Man nodded. He rarely spoke, only asking the occasional question. Too many questions would make Rashidi suspicious, the Hawk had warned his undercover officer. Just listen, and you’ll gather more than enough evidence to make sure they won’t be releasing him any time soon.
‘What’s the latest on the supply problem?’ asked Rashidi.
‘Under control,’ Tulip assured him. ‘We’re making just over a grand a week.’
‘What about Boyle? He still seems to be supplying all his old customers, which is eating into my profits.’
‘No longer a problem, boss. He’s being transferred to a nick on the Isle of Wight.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘The transfer officer is a couple of months behind with his mortgage payments,’ said Tulip without further explanation.
‘Then let’s pay next month’s in advance,’ said Rashidi. ‘Because Boyle’s not the only inmate I want transferred, and it’s less risky than the alternative. What about you, Ross? When will you be leaving us?’
‘I’m off to Ford Open some time next week, boss. Unless you want me to stay put?’
‘No, I need you back on the street as quickly as possible. You’re far more use to me on the outside.’
3
In prison, the Jews and the Muslims are the only sects who take their religion seriously. However, it’s the Christians who manage the largest attendance at any service.
Every Sunday morning the prison chapel is packed with sinners, who not only don’t believe in God, but in most cases have never attended a church service before. But since attendance means a prisoner will be out of his cell for over an hour, they see the light and join one of the largest congregations in London that morning.
It takes almost the entire prison staff to accompany the 700 converts from their cells to the chapel in the basement, where the chaplain welcomes his flock of black sheep with the sign of the cross, and doesn’t deliver his bidding prayer until the last inmate has settled.
The chapel is the largest room in the prison: semicircular, with twenty-one banked rows of wooden benches facing an altar dominated by a large wooden cross. Most prisoners know their place. The first two rows are filled with those few white sheep who have actually come to worship. During prayers, they fall on their knees and cry hallelujah whenever the chaplain mentions God. They also pay attention during the sermon. Not so the rest of the flock who make up the vast majority. They also have their own pecking order, and unlike any other place of worship that Sunday morning, the most sought-after seats are at the back.
The most powerful sit in the back row and conduct their business with those seated in front of them. Assem Rashidi sat in the middle of the back row, a position that until recently had been occupied by Miles Faulkner. Tulip sat on his left, with Ross on his right.
Slips of paper were continually being passed to the back, detailing prisoners’ requirements for the coming week: drugs, alcohol and porn magazines being the most popular items, although one prisoner only ever wanted a jar of Marmite.