Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(4)
‘What’s new?’ Beth had reminded him, before adding that she wouldn’t be satisfied until Booth Watson was behind bars with his ‘distinguished client’, where they both belonged.
William snapped back into the present when HRH climbed into the back of the car and the police outriders revved up and led the royal cortège out of Scotland Yard and on to Victoria Street.
The Princess waved to the crowd from her car, and they all responded except for Ross, who was still smiling at her lady-in-waiting.
‘Your trouble, Ross, is that your balls are bigger than your brain,’ said William as the convoy made its way slowly out of New Scotland Yard.
‘Makes for a far more interesting life,’ responded Ross.
Once the Princess’s convoy had disappeared from sight, the Commissioner and the Hawk walked across to join them.
‘Good idea of yours,’ said Sir Peter, ‘to have two young officers showing our guests around the museum, rather than us old fogeys. Especially as one of them had so obviously done his homework.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ross, which elicited a wry smile from the commander.
‘In fact, I think Warwick’s earned the rest of the day off,’ suggested Sir Peter, before leaving them to return to his office.
‘Not a hope,’ murmured the Hawk, once the Commissioner was out of earshot. ‘In fact, I want to see you both in my office along with the rest of the team, soonest – and soonest means now.’
CHAPTER 2
THE COMMANDER TOOK HIS PLACE at the top of the table, joining his inner team – a unit that had taken him five years to build, and was now acknowledged to be among the finest in the Yard. But their coup de grace was surely catching up with Miles Faulkner in Spain after he’d escaped from custody and finally bringing him back to England to face trial.
However, the Hawk could only wonder how many of his team would be called on to give evidence in that particular case. William and Ross would have to face cross-examination from Faulkner’s no-holds-barred counsel. Booth Watson wouldn’t hesitate to let the jury know that two of the Met’s most experienced officers had seized his client illegally during a trip to Barcelona. The Hawk still had one ace up his sleeve though – he knew something about Booth Watson that a leading QC wouldn’t want the Bar Council to find out about – but it would still be a close-run thing.
The Hawk thought of the officers seated around that table more as family than colleagues, but then he had no children of his own. However, like all families, they had their problems and differences, and he wondered how they would react to what he was about to tell them.
Detective Chief Inspector Warwick may have been the youngest DCI in the Met, but no one referred to him as ‘Choirboy’ any longer, with the possible exception of DI Ross Hogan, who was sitting opposite him. Ross was undoubtedly the black sheep of the family, a maverick who was more interested in locking up criminals than filling in endless forms, and who had survived his frequent run-ins with superior officers only because the Hawk considered him the finest undercover operative he’d ever worked with.
On Hogan’s right sat DS Roycroft, one of Ross’s many former lovers, who was probably the bravest officer sitting around that table. As a junior PC just out of Hendon, Jackie had tackled a six-foot-six Algerian arms dealer and had him flat on the ground and handcuffed before the next officer arrived on the scene. But she was possibly better known among her colleagues for having knocked out an Inspector who had placed a hand on her leg while on duty. No one came to her defence when she reported the incident, as the Inspector in question was the only witness. And after that her career prospects had come to an abrupt halt, until the commander had spotted her potential and asked her to join his team.
Opposite her sat DS Adaja. Bright, resourceful and ambitious, he had handled any racial prejudice inside and outside the force with dignity and grace. The Hawk didn’t doubt that Paul would be the first black man to make commander. And what amused him was that Paul didn’t doubt it either.
Finally, DC Pankhurst, the youngest member of the team, who never mentioned her public-school upbringing, or first-class honours degree, and certainly not that one of her most famous ancestors had been to jail – more than once. Rebecca was possibly the cleverest officer sitting around that table, and the commander had already decided it wouldn’t be too long before she was promoted, though he hadn’t told her yet.
The trouble with commanding such a bright and energetic group was that you had to get up early – very early – in the morning if you hoped to stay a yard ahead of them. But on this occasion, the commander felt confident he was up and running before their alarms had gone off.
‘Let me begin,’ he said, ‘by congratulating you all on the roles you played in solving the cold murder cases that the Assistant Commissioner asked us to deal with. However, that is now in the past, and we must look to the future.’ He glanced up to find he had everyone’s attention.
‘The Commissioner, in his wisdom, has decided to take the unit off murder, and to present us with an even greater challenge.’ He made them wait, but only for a moment. ‘Royalty Protection Command,’ he allowed the words to hang in the air, ‘have become, in the Commissioner’s opinion, a law unto themselves. Their commanding officer, one Superintendent Brian Milner, is under the illusion that his unit is untouchable, answerable to no one other than the Royal Family, and therefore no longer a part of the Metropolitan Police Service. We’re about to disabuse them of that notion. For some time, Milner hasn’t bothered to interview outside candidates whenever one of his officers moves on or retires. That way, he never loses control of the unit, which is a problem in itself, because following the recent terrorist attacks around the world, MI6 have been in touch to warn us that the next target could well be a member of the Royal Family, who they feel are all too often an easy target. And that includes the Queen.’