Page 8 of End Game (William Warwick #8)
S URVEILLANCE SOUNDS FASCINATING to the layman, but for the most part it’s endless and boring, not least because you can’t risk taking a moment off, in case that is the precise moment something happens.
You can go hours without being fed, have to piss into an empty bottle in the car, and only fall asleep when the lights in the target’s bedroom finally go off.
But you have to be awake and alert once again before they come back on.
William had told Ross that Faulkner was involved in a ticket scam, but what Beth was suggesting was in a different league, so Ross immediately made a change to his daily routine.
Every morning for the past fortnight, he had taken a taxi to Faulkner’s home in Cadogan Place and arrived before the milkman. A taxi with a difference, as it was part of the Met’s fleet and never picked up a customer – and Ross was in the driving seat.
Sergeant Hogan was quickly reminded that Faulkner was a creature of habit.
The lights in his Belgravia town house would be switched on at around six thirty every morning and turned back off soon after eleven at night.
The habit of a professional businessman.
In Faulkner’s case, a professional criminal.
Ross had been regularly tailing Faulkner to the Savoy for lunch, the Middle Temple to visit Mr Booth Watson, and on one occasion to Trumper’s on Curzon Street to have his hair cut.
Occasionally, he would meet with a legitimate business associate, but more often with someone not quite so legitimate, such as a shady art dealer or even a bookie.
Faulkner didn’t seem to have any friends.
He rarely shopped, didn’t go to the theatre, visit nightclubs or casinos.
His only outside interest seemed to be visiting art galleries, which he did at least twice a week.
He was invited to all the major openings, which the gossip columns regularly reported.
Ross would have liked to join him at some of these galleries, but had to remain behind the wheel.
The routine hardly varied, and Ross was beginning to think that Beth might have overreacted and that Faulkner had been doing no more than chatting to the Russian Ambassador while admiring the Van Gogh masterpiece at the embassy party.
Perhaps the time had come for him to turn his attention to more pressing matters, such as Bernie Longe.
He’d picked up on the Met’s grapevine – deep rooted but not always reliable – that Bernie’s drug activities were flourishing.
Ross wondered if this could in any way be connected to the Olympics.
The Met had been trying to take down Bernie Longe for years, but never came up with enough evidence to charge him.
Once again, Ross followed Faulkner’s Rolls to the Savoy. He parked on a cab rank with a perfect sightline to the hotel’s front door and waited for Faulkner to reappear.
When he finally did, to Ross’s surprise he didn’t climb into the back of his Rolls to be driven home, but hailed a taxi that headed towards Trafalgar Square.
Ross kept his distance while he followed, but had to make sure he was never caught at a red light when he could lose his prey.
The taxi continued on its way down Whitehall, past Downing Street and the Houses of Parliament before turning left over Lambeth Bridge and then right along Albert Embankment.
They continued on for another mile before coming to a halt outside the Oval, which took Ross by surprise, as he’d never known Faulkner to take any interest in cricket.
He quickly dumped the taxi on another rank, leapt out and headed for Hobbs Gate. He spotted Faulkner about fifty yards ahead of him. He clearly knew where he was going.
When Faulkner disappeared into the Bedser Stand, Ross kept on walking, only stopping when he reached the next entrance.
He slipped into an empty seat beside a pillar.
He didn’t need a pair of binoculars to spot Faulkner, who was sitting at the back of a sparse crowd, next to a man who had clearly never visited a cricket match in his life.
He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and red silk tie, and couldn’t have looked more out of place.
He was deep in conversation with Faulkner and rarely looked at what was taking place on the field.
The two men continued chatting for the best part of an hour, and the loss of three wickets during that time didn’t seem to interest them. Then the stranger abruptly stood up and, without shaking hands, left the stand and headed for the exit.
Ross immediately made the decision to follow the mystery man, rather than Faulkner, in the hope it would be more revealing.
He nipped out of his place back onto the concourse and ran all the way to Hobbs Gate, where he left the ground and jumped back into his cab.
He didn’t have to wait long before the man reappeared.
Looking around, the man saw Ross and raised an arm. Ross made another instant decision. He pulled down his cloth cap, turned on the engine and headed across the road to pick up his first customer. The man climbed into the back without giving him a second look.
‘Where to, guv?’ asked Ross, feigning a cockney accent.
‘Kensington Palace Gardens.’
Ross didn’t need to be told it would be an embassy. But which one?
During the journey, Ross regularly glanced in his rear-view mirror, not to check the traffic behind him but to take a closer look at the customer seated in the back, who was constantly on his phone, speaking in Russian.
After Ross had dropped his fare off at the embassy – no tip – he drove for about a mile before he came to a halt in a side street. He called William.
When Ross recognized the familiar voice on the other end of the line, all he said was, ‘I need to see you.’
‘Breakfast Monday morning,’ said William, ‘usual place, usual time.’
The phone went dead.
23 June 2012 – 34 days to go
B ERNIE L ONGE SAT AT HIS DESK , two henchmen perched like bookends on either side of him.
He stared at the stack of ten-pound notes in front of him like soldiers on parade.
A monthly consultation fee for a man who didn’t deal in cheques or credit cards, and only paid tax on his salary as the chairman of the local council’s Business Opportunities Committee.
Councillor Dawson had begun life in a council house on the Bevan Estate and ended up as its councillor.
After his appointment as chairman, his council house had been exchanged for a penthouse flat in Canary Wharf.
His two children were educated not in the borough, but in private schools in the West Country, and his wife preferred to shop in Harvey Nichols rather than M&S.
They holidayed in the south of Spain, where they hoped to retire, along with several other past chairmen of Finance, Housing and Business Opportunities.
A knock on the door meant it must be ten o’clock, because Councillor Dawson, like the rent collector, was never late. Their monthly meeting was the only time they ever met. No phone calls, no emails, no letters that might suggest they knew each other.
‘Come,’ said Longe, which was slightly redundant, as Councillor Dawson had already entered the room.
If you had passed Dawson in the street, you might have mistaken him for a City broker, dressed in his Savile Row suit, Turnbull & Asser shirt and wearing handmade shoes from Loake.
However, once he opened his mouth, the illusion was shattered, because you can’t purchase a West End accent in Jermyn Street.
Working in partnership, the local mafia boss (or respected businessman, as he preferred to be called) and the bent councillor (re-elected for a fourth term) were about to make a killing by simply being in the right place at the right time. The 2012 London Olympics had landed on their doorstep.
‘Good morning, Councillor,’ said Longe, who never addressed Dawson by his Christian name. ‘Have you earned your commission this month?’
‘More than,’ responded Dawson, as he sat down, his eyes focused on the stack of notes in front of him. ‘In fact, I may have come across our biggest opportunity yet.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Longe, as an attractive young woman in a miniskirt appeared carrying a tray with two cups of coffee and a plate of assorted biscuits. She placed the biscuits in the middle of the desk, next to the pile of notes.
Councillor Dawson took a chocolate biscuit before giving her a second look. He’d never seen her before, but then Bernie’s ‘personal assistants’ rarely lasted for more than a month, two at the most.
‘Once the Olympics are over, the stadium will be put up for sale,’ said Dawson, after placing two lumps of sugar in his coffee.
‘But where’s the profit in that?’ asked Longe. ‘Once the Games are over,’ he repeated, ‘it will be nothing more than a redundant waste of space.’
‘Which is why the government has, on this occasion, distanced itself from any involvement,’ said Dawson, ‘and left the responsibility for selling the stadium to the local council.’
‘The upkeep alone,’ came back Longe, ‘would cost millions, and the occasional pop concert and athletics meeting wouldn’t begin to cover the cost.’
‘But West Ham Football Club might,’ said Councillor Dawson, playing his trump card.
Longe put down his coffee and listened more carefully.
‘Their chairman has approached the council about renting the stadium for two and a half million a year as their new venue for West Ham United. A good deal for them.’
‘But I have to ask,’ said Longe, beginning to sound exasperated, ‘how does that become a good deal for me?’
‘As the council is in need of an injection of cash, my committee has decided to put the stadium up for sale. If you were to bid ten million before I tell anyone about West Ham’s interest, a steady income for life could be yours.’
Councillor Dawson began to transfer the piles of ten-pound notes into his Tesco bag, as if they were just another shopping item.
It didn’t take Longe more than a few moments to work out that with a guaranteed income of two and a half million a year, he could clear the ten-million-pound outlay in four years, five at the most, and consider trading his home in Hackney for a villa in the south of France.
However, there was one small problem. He didn’t have ten million. Something he didn’t want Councillor Dawson to find out.
‘What deposit would I have to put down?’ asked Longe.
‘One million as soon as possible,’ said Dawson, ‘then I’d give you a couple of months to clear the full amount, by which time the council should have sewn up the agreement with West Ham.’
‘And what would your cut be, Councillor?’
‘Betty and I have spotted a house on the Costa del Sol that would—’
‘How much?’ said Longe.
‘Only half a million, but I would need fifty thousand for the deposit.’
Bernie Longe nodded. He considered the proposition for a few moments before he said, ‘You’ll get your fifty thousand the day after I sign the contract for the stadium.’