“You were right about having all three airport terminals covered, sir. Rashidi was dropped off at terminal three this time, but ended up back at terminal one.”
“And where did he go from there?”
“A dark blue BMW picked him up and drove him to Little Charlbury, a village in Oxfordshire.”
“Have you located his house, just in case DS Warwick phones back?”
Paul laughed. “It’s not so much a house, sir, more like a castle. It even has its own moat and drawbridge. The grounds must be over a thousand acres, and the nearest neighbor is at least a mile away.”
“Then you’d better be wary of briefing the local police about what we’re up to. With that much money washing around, he might have one or two of them on his payroll, or at least wary of annoying him.”
“There’s just a village bobby, and the only thing that’s older than him is his bicycle.”
“Security?”
“State of the art, plus some personal touches. The entire estate is surrounded by a ten-foot wall topped with electrified barbed wire.”
“Criminals always take more stringent precautions when it comes to their own safety and possessions than honest people,” said the Hawk, coming on the line for the first time. “Do you think it’s possible his drugs factory could be situated somewhere in the grounds?”
“It seems unlikely, sir,” said Paul, “not least because it would make a lousy distribution center. Everyone in the village would see the gear coming in and going out. But I’ll stay put for now and see if I can pick up anything on the local grapevine.”
“Good,” said Lamont. “Meanwhile, I’ll arrange to fly over the property in the Met’s helicopter tomorrow morning. Though from what you say, I don’t expect to find anything incriminating. I suspect the place is all part of his public front, as the chairman of a successful tea company.”
“And the taxi that took him to the airport—where did it end up?” asked the Hawk.
“Back at the driver’s home in Chiswick,” said Jackie. “He turns out to be a licensed black cab driver. But on Friday afternoons he only has one customer, who he picks up in the City at four twenty p.m. and drops off in The Boltons around five. He then drives him on to Heathrow a couple of hours later, dropping him at a different terminal each week. I’ve already fitted a tracking device to his taxi so we don’t always have to cover every terminal.”
“I’ve only just authorized that,” said the Hawk, “so did you attach the device before or after you had my permission?”
“It may have been a few hours before,” admitted Jackie.
“Don’t make that kind of mistake again, DC Roycroft. It’s the sort of thing that could trip us up in court and scupper the whole operation. In future, play it by the book, or you might find yourself back on the beat.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jackie. After she’d put the phone down she added, “But the criminals are working from a different book, in case you haven’t noticed … sir.”
* * *
“I wonder if they’ve discovered where the factory is?” said William to a large marble lady.
“I’m sure they’ll somehow manage to survive without you for a couple of weeks, detective sergeant,” said Beth, as she checked her guidebook.
“So what have you got planned for this afternoon?” asked William, feeling a little guilty.
“A visit to the Borghese, where you’ll have a chance to see three of the finest Berninis, an unforgettable Raphael, and—”
“Titian’s Sacred and Profane Love.”
“Painted in which year?”
“1514.”
“I sometimes forget that you read Art History at King’s, between running around a cinders track all day and reading Agatha Christie at night.”
“Simenon, actually. In French. So when do we get to see Da Vinci and Michelangelo?”
“Patience, Caveman. We still have another week to view the works of arguably the two greatest artists who’ve ever lived.”
“I’m more of a Caravaggio man, myself.”