Next in Line (William Warwick, #5)(70)

‘Crystal, governor.’

‘Good. Then I’ll leave you two to get on with it, whatever it is you’re getting on with,’ he said, before departing.

‘Please have a seat, Superintendent,’ said Miles. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea, if either of you would care to join me. Not exactly silver service, but it is Earl Grey.’

‘No, thank you,’ said William as he and Rebecca sat down in the only two comfortable chairs. ‘DS Pankhurst is here as an observer, and will take verbatim notes of everything that is said, in case you should—’

‘I’m well aware of the rules of this particular game,’ interrupted Miles as Rebecca opened her notebook and began writing. ‘I cannot talk about my case, or anything associated with it, if I recall the governor’s words. Should I break that agreement, I will, as the governor has just pointed out, not only lose my job, but will also be charged with wasting police time.’

Rebecca went on writing, but William didn’t comment.

‘I’ve been in here for just over nine months,’ said Miles, perching himself on a stool in front of them, ‘so it won’t surprise you to learn that I’ve built up a network that has made it possible for me to know more about what’s going on in this prison than your friend the governor.’

Rebecca turned a page of her notebook.

‘What I’m about to tell you is therefore based on fact, not supposition.’ Miles paused while he took a sip of tea. ‘One of my inner team, a prisoner called Tareq Omar, works as a cleaner on the first-floor landing of A block, where Mansour Khalifah is currently housed.’

William grimaced when Khalifah’s name was mentioned, but still said nothing.

‘A nasty piece of shit that I’d happily flush down the nearest toilet,’ said Faulkner. ‘Excuse my language, miss.’

Something Rebecca didn’t write down.

‘I’ve been keeping a close eye on Khalifah ever since he arrived, which hasn’t been easy as he’s not exactly the sociable type. He has his own network of followers, known as the True Believers, who take care of his every need. His only reading material is the Financial Times and Playboy, and he hasn’t applied for a library card.’

William continued to listen.

‘However,’ Miles went on, ‘Tareq Omar is not a True Believer, as Mansour Khalifah was responsible for the death of his brother, which is why I had him switched to that wing as a cleaner. Over the past few months, he’s ingratiated himself with Khalifah by supplying him with porn magazines, and a particular brand of dates he craves, which can only be purchased from Harrods. Recently, Omar has become more trusted, and is occasionally allowed to guard Khalifah’s cell while he’s praying. However, it’s still taken him some time to come up with anything interesting.’

Miles climbed off his stool, walked across to the counter and extracted a brown file from the shelf below. There was nothing written on the cover. He sat back down and took out a glossy brochure which he handed to William.

William studied the four pages back and front, but still didn’t speak as he waited for an explanation.

‘As you can see, Superintendent, it’s a booking form for this year’s Promenade concerts at the Royal Albert Hall. Omar found it in Khalifah’s wastepaper bin when he was cleaning his room. He checks its contents every morning, but this was the first time he’d found anything he thought might interest me.’

‘You’ve underlined one particular date,’ said William, turning to the final page of the brochure.

‘Not me. It was already underlined when Omar handed it over.’

‘Was he able to supply any other information?’ asked William.

‘Snippets of conversations he’d overheard on his rounds suggest Khalifah is planning something big for the Last Night of the Proms. He also caught the words, “Land of Hope”—’

‘—“And Glory”,’ said William. ‘But planting a bomb in the Albert Hall would be nigh on impossible. The whole building is checked by sniffer dogs and specialist search officers on the morning of every concert.’

‘Which is why Omar is convinced Khalifah is planning to use a suicide bomber to carry out the job. Someone who’s already been planted in this country, and is just waiting for the order to move. But I still didn’t consider that was enough to interest you, Superintendent, until a few days ago when I had a stroke of luck – the kind on which we both have to rely from time to time.’

William leant forward.

‘A well-known scalper sold a most unlikely punter a single ticket for the Last Night of the Proms, for which he paid way over the top. He didn’t give it much thought at the time, until later when it began to nag at him.’

‘Then why didn’t he contact the police?’ asked William.

‘Scalpers don’t advertise, Superintendent, and when they spot a policeman, they have a tendency to make themselves scarce.’

‘I don’t suppose he got the punter’s name?’

‘Scalpers only deal in cash, and don’t ask questions,’ Miles replied. ‘But he described the man as young, short, thin, and of Middle Eastern extraction. What puzzled the scalper, and later made him suspicious, was that the man hardly spoke a word of English, and kept calling it the Last Night of Poms. He clearly isn’t planning to place a garland of flowers around the bust of Sir Henry Wood.’