“The history of Felixstowe docks.”
“I bet that’s a page-turner.”
“Did you know that the surrounding land is owned by Trinity College, Cambridge, and is one of its most valuable assets?”
“Fascinating.”
“The college bursar at the time, a Mr. Tressilian Nicholas, purchased the thirty-eight-hundred-acre site on behalf of the college in 1933, along with a road that led to the then-derelict docks. His successor, a Mr. Bradfield, spotted its potential, and it’s now the largest port in Britain, and makes the college a small fortune.”
“I can’t wait to hear the end of this story,” said Jackie.
“Lord Butler.”
“Who he?”
“A former cabinet minister, and master of Trinity,” replied William, who began reading directly from the book: “‘Butler asked Bradfield at a finance meeting if he realized that the college owned a tin mine in Cornwall that hadn’t shown a return since 1546, to which the bursar famously replied, “You’ll find, master, that in this college, we take the long view.”’”
“I’m also taking the long view,” said Jackie, as she spotted the Anthi Marina coming over the horizon. “If yesterday’s anything to go by, she should be with us in about forty minutes. We’d better get going if we’re to secure our preferred lookout point.”
William put on his seatbelt as Jackie switched on the car engine and drove slowly down Bath Hill toward the docks. She parked at the same spot in which they’d spent so many fruitless hours the previous day. At least the last ferry had docked shortly after ten, making it possible for them to check in to a seedy little B&B on the seafront before midnight. The landlord had seemed surprised when they booked separate rooms.
Once Jackie had parked the car well out of sight, the two of them sat in married silence, as they watched the ship inch its way slowly into the port.
They didn’t have to wait long for the first vehicle to emerge onto the dockside. Jackie, binoculars in hand, read out each number plate to Paul who had been patiently waiting for their call in the basement of Scotland Yard. William, being a belt and braces man, also wrote them down in his notebook. There was no sign of a caravan by the time the last car had cleared customs. Jackie lowered her binoculars and asked, “What time is the next ferry due in?”
“Two fifty,” said William, running a finger down the schedule. “Saxon Prince.”
“More than enough time for lunch. Fish and chips?”
“Not again. That’s what we had yesterday.”
“And will tomorrow, if I have my way,” said Jackie. “Golden rule. When you’re stuck in a port doing surveillance, always eat the local catch. It’s a lot fresher than the cod fricassee that ends up at the Ritz. And you should know, you go there often enough.”
“Only twice,” said William. “But what if we’re stuck here for the rest of the week?”
“I’ll settle for a kebab,” replied Jackie, as she swung the car around and headed for the chippy that had been recommended by the desk sergeant at the local constabulary.
“Always a good sign,” said Jackie, as she parked the car and they joined a long queue waiting outside the shop.
* * *
DC Adaja spent his lunch break checking all the number plates Jackie had supplied on the PNC. A few parking fines, some speeding tickets, one drink-driving offense, and a woman who’d been caught going through a red light, been fined twenty pounds and had two penalty points added to her license. When Paul radioed to tell Jackie the results, she poured some more vinegar on her cod and said, “Naughty girl.”
Once they’d finished their lunch—eaten out of a newspaper as they walked along the seafront—Jackie and William drove back to their vantage point on the clifftop.
After they had been staring out to sea in silence for half an hour, Jackie drew her sword from its sheath a second time. “Are you still hoping to make inspector?” she asked.
“Why ask me that question when you already know the answer?”
“Because there are only two types of sergeant in the Met, and you obviously fall into the second category, those who hope to be promoted.”
“And the first category?”
“By far the larger of the two,” said Jackie. “Old sweats, who’ve worked out that if you’re promoted to inspector you can no longer claim overtime. That’s why the Met has so many forty-to-fifty-year-old sergeants serving out their time. A lot of them are making far more than their superiors, and at the same time they’re causing a logjam that prevents others like me from getting off the bottom rung of the ladder. Truth is, it’s easier to be promoted to inspector than sergeant.”
It was the first time William had heard Jackie sounding bitter about anything. “If we put Rashidi behind bars,” he said, “I’m sure it won’t be long before you’re sewing three stripes back on your uniform.” He immediately regretted his words, as they would only remind Jackie that he had been made up to sergeant following her demotion.
“Mind you,” said Jackie, “I must admit that overtime allowances have made it possible for me to enjoy a few of life’s little luxuries. Although I sometimes wonder if the public are aware just how many officers are sitting around in coaches parked in backstreets just in case a protest march gets out of hand.”