“It has to be one of two things,” said Lamont. “Information concerning a large shipment of drugs coming from abroad…”
“Or he’s discovered the location of Rashidi’s slaughter,” suggested Paul.
“Slaughter?” said William.
“Where they cook up the drugs, and prepare the cling film wraps, before selling them on,” explained Paul. “Also known as the boiler room or hothouse.”
“If it turns out to be a large shipment from overseas,” said Hawksby, “don’t arrest everyone in sight at the port of entry. Try to follow the cargo all the way to the slaughter. The commissioner is more interested in locking up Rashidi than a bunch of minnows, so it will be fascinating to see who locates the hothouse first, William’s old school chum or Jackie’s undercover officer.”
“Don’t put your money on DS Warwick,” said Jackie, “because my UCO contacted me again last night.”
Suddenly the team’s attention was focused on DC Roycroft.
“Thanks to DS Warwick’s intel,” Jackie continued, “Marlboro Man has taken a part-time job behind the bar of the Three Feathers.”
“Where no doubt he’ll work hard enough to ensure it will end up a full-time job,” suggested Paul.
“But not so hard that anyone becomes suspicious,” threw in Jackie.
“How did he manage to get the job so quickly?” asked William.
“DC9 supplied him with a reference from a pub in Wiltshire that would have impressed any landlord. He’s playing the innocent West Country bumpkin who’s just arrived in the big smoke.”
“Is the landlord also involved?” asked Lamont.
“MM doesn’t think so,” said Jackie. “But he’s happy to turn a blind eye while the cash keeps flowing across the counter. In fact, our man tells me he’s making more in tips as a part-time barman than he earns as an undercover DS.”
“Which no one would begrudge him,” said Lamont.
William frowned but didn’t comment.
“Has he come up with anything substantial yet,” asked the Hawk, “or is it still too early?”
“The Three Feathers turns out to be a regular haunt for several well-known dealers, including Tulip, so he suspects the slaughter can’t be too far away. But so far he’s made no attempt to speak to Tulip.”
“That makes sense,” said the Hawk. “Patience has a whole new meaning when you go undercover. If Tulip suspected for one moment that MM was a copper, he’d slit his throat and leave him to bleed to death while he ordered his next pint.”
“Why would anyone even consider becoming involved in anything quite so risky?” asked William.
“My UCO watched his younger brother die from a heroin overdose,” said Jackie, “so for him, it’s personal.”
* * *
Jackie and Paul took it in turns to focus their binoculars on the front door of No. 24, while William was in constant touch with his team on the ground. He’d told them they needed to blend in with the natives if Rashidi wasn’t going to become suspicious. At the same time he kept Lamont informed back at the Yard.
They had been expecting a chauffeur-driven car to appear at the far end of the square, and were taken by surprise when a black cab pulled up outside No. 24 just before five o’clock. The police photographer focused his long lens and started clicking from the moment the cab door opened. An elegantly dressed man of average height, wearing a hat, a long black coat, a scarf, and leather gloves, despite it being a warm afternoon, stepped out onto the pavement, opened the gate, and walked up the short path to the front door. He knocked once.
By the time Rashidi’s mother had opened the door and embraced her son, the photographer had shot thirty-nine frames, but he wasn’t feeling optimistic. When the front door closed, William gave the order for the Yard’s unhailable taxi service to be on standby, as he couldn’t risk a squad car tailing Rashidi if he left on foot. He radioed the Yard and brought the super up to date.
“Be careful,” Lamont said. “We’re in no hurry now we know where Rashidi’s likely to be every Friday afternoon. If he suspects we’re on to him, he’ll disappear into thin air. Remember, we’re playing the long game.”
“Understood,” said William.
Jackie’s and Paul’s eyes never left the front door.
William heard a crackle on the radio.
“I’m at the top of Tregunter Road,” said a voice on the other end of the line.