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  To John and Margaret Ashley

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks for their invaluable advice and research to:

  Simon Bainbridge, Jonathan Caplan QC,

  Vicki Mellor, Alison Prince, Catherine Richards,

  Marcus Rutherford, Jonathan Ticehurst,

  and Johnny Van Haeften.

  Special thanks to Detective Sergeant Michelle

  Roycroft (Ret.), Chief Superintendent John

  Sutherland (Ret.), and Detective Superintendent

  Robin Bhairam QPM (Ret.).

  1

  April 14, 1986

  The four of them sat around the table staring at the hamper.

  “Who’s it addressed to?” asked the commander.

  William read the handwritten label. “‘Happy Birthday, Commander Hawksby.’”

  “You’d better open it, DC Warwick,” said the Hawk, leaning back in his chair.

  William stood up, unfastened the two leather straps, and lifted the lid of the huge wicker basket that was packed with what his father would have called “goodies.”

  “Clearly someone appreciates us,” said DCI Lamont, removing a bottle of Scotch from the top of the basket, delighted to find it was Black Label.

  “And also knows our weaknesses,” said the commander, as he took out a box of Montecristo cigars and placed them on the table in front of him. “Your turn, DC Roycroft,” he added, as he rolled one of the Cuban cigars between his fingers.

  Jackie took her time removing some of the packing straw before she discovered a jar of foie gras, a luxury way beyond her pay grade.

  “And finally, DC Warwick,” said the commander.

  William rummaged around in the hamper until he came across a bottle of olive oil from Umbria that he knew Beth would appreciate. He was about to sit back down when he spotted a small envelope. It was addressed to Commander Hawksby QPM, and marked Personal. He handed it to the boss.

  Hawksby ripped the envelope open and extracted a handwritten card. His expression revealed nothing, although the unsigned note could not have been clearer. Better luck next time.

  When the card was passed around the table the smiles turned to frowns, and the recently acquired gifts were quickly returned to the hamper.

  “Do you know what makes it worse?” said the commander. “It is my birthday.”

  “And that’s not all,” said William, who then told the team about his conversation with Miles Faulkner at the Fitzmolean soon after the unveiling of the Rubens painting, Christ’s Descent from the Cross.

  “But if the Rubens is a fake,” said Lamont, “why don’t we arrest Faulkner, send him back to the Old Bailey, and Mr. Justice Nourse will remove the word ‘suspended’ from his sentence, and lock him up for the next four years.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” said Hawksby. “But if the painting turns out to be the original, Faulkner will have made a fool of us a second time, and in the most public of arenas.”

  William was taken by surprise by the commander’s next question.

  “Have you warned your fiancée that the Rubens might be a fake?”

  “No, sir. I thought I’d say nothing to Beth until you’d decided what course of action we should take.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way. It will give us all a little more time to consider what our next move should be, because we have to start thinking like Faulkner if we’re ever going to bring the damn man down. Now get that thing out of my sight,” he demanded, pointing at the hamper. “And make sure it’s entered into the gratuities register. But not before it’s been checked for fingerprints—not that I expect the dabs expert to find any prints other than ours, and possibly those of an innocent sales assistant from Harrods.”

  William picked up the wicker basket and took it into the next room, where he asked Angela, the commander’s secretary, if she would send it down to D705 for fingerprinting. He couldn’t help noticing that she looked a little disappointed. “I was hoping to get the cranberry sauce,” she admitted. When he returned to the boss’s office a few moments later, he was puzzled to find the rest of the team banging the palms of their hands on the table.

  “Have a seat, Detective Sergeant Warwick,” said the commander.

  “Choirboy is speechless, for a change,” said Lamont.

  “That won’t last long,” promised Jackie, and they all burst out laughing.

  “Do you want to hear the good news or the bad news?” asked the commander once they’d all settled back down.

  “The good news,” said DCI Lamont, “because you’re not going to enjoy my latest report on the diamond smugglers.”

  “Let me guess,” said Hawksby. “They saw you coming and have all escaped.”

  “Worse than that, I’m afraid. They didn’t even turn up, and neither did the shipment of diamonds. I spent an evening with twenty of my men armed to the teeth, staring out to sea. So do tell me the good news, sir.”

  “As you all know, DC Warwick has passed his sergeant’s exam, despite kicking one of the anti-nuclear protesters in the—”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” protested William. “I simply asked him politely to calm down.”

  “Which the examiner accepted without question; such is your choirboy’s reputation.”

  “So what’s the bad news?” asked William.

  “In your new role as a detective sergeant, you’re being transferred to the drugs squad.”

  “Rather you than me,” said Lamont with a sigh.

  “However,” continued the commander, “the commissioner, in his wisdom, felt a winning team shouldn’t be broken up, so you two will be joining him as part of an elite drugs unit on the first of the month.”

  “I resign,” said Lamont, leaping to his feet in mock protest.

  “I don’t think so, Bruce. You only have eighteen months left before you retire, and as the head of the new unit, you’ll be promoted to detective superintendent.”

  This announcement provoked a second eruption of enthusiastic banging on the table.

  “The unit is to work separately from any of the existing drugs squads. It will only have one purpose, which I will come to in a moment. But first, I wanted to let you know that the team will have a new DC added to its complement, who may even outshine our resident choirboy.”

  “This I want to see,” said Jackie.

  “Well, you won’t have to wait long. He’ll be joining us in a few minutes. He has an outstanding CV, having read law at Cambridge where he was awarded a blue in the Boat Race.”

  “Did he win?” asked William.

  “Two years in a row,” said the Hawk.

  “Then perhaps he should have joined the river police,” said William. “If I remember correctly, the Boat Race takes place between Putney and Mortlake, so he’d be back on the beat.” This elicited more banging on the table.

  “I think you’ll find he’s just as impress
ive on dry land,” said the commander, after the applause had died down. “He’s already served for three years with the Regional Crime Squad in Crawley. However, there’s something else I ought to mention before—”

  A sharp knock on the door interrupted the Hawk before he could finish the sentence. “Enter,” he said.

  The door opened and a tall, handsome young man entered the room. He looked as if he’d stepped straight off the set of a popular television police drama, rather than just arrived from the Regional Crime Squad.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “I’m DC Paul Adaja. I was told to report to you.”

  “Take a seat, Adaja,” said the Hawk, “and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the team.”

  William watched Lamont’s face closely as Adaja shook hands with an unsmiling superintendent. The Met’s policy was to try and recruit more officers from minority ethnic backgrounds, but to date it had been about as successful in that ambition as it had been at arresting diamond smugglers. William was curious to find out why someone like Paul had even considered joining the force, and was determined to make him quickly feel part of the team.

  “These SIO meetings are held every Monday morning, DC Adaja,” said the commander, “to bring us all up to date on how any major investigations are progressing.”

  “Or not progressing,” said Lamont.

  “Let’s move on,” said the Hawk, ignoring the interruption. “Is there any more news on Faulkner?”

  “His wife Christina’s been in touch again,” said William. “She’s asked to see me.”

  “Has she indeed. Any clues?”

  “No, sir. I’ve no idea what she wants. But she makes no secret of the fact that she’s just as keen as we are to see her husband behind bars. So, I don’t imagine she’s suggesting tea at the Ritz simply to sample their clotted cream scones.”

  “Mrs. Faulkner will be well aware of any other criminal activities her husband is involved in, which would be useful for us to know about,” said Lamont, “in advance. But I wouldn’t trust that woman an inch.”

  “Neither would I,” said Hawksby. “But if I had to choose between Faulkner and his wife, I consider her the lesser of two evils. But only by half an inch.”

  “I could always turn the invitation down.”

  “No way,” said Lamont. “We may never get a better chance to put Faulkner behind bars, and don’t let’s forget, however minor the offense, because of the judge’s suspended sentence, it would put him inside for at least four years.”

  “True enough,” said the Hawk. “But, DS Warwick, you can be sure Faulkner will be watching us just as closely as we’re watching him, and he’s certain to have a PI tailing his wife around the clock, until the divorce is finally settled. So while tea at the Ritz is acceptable, dinner is not. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Abundantly, sir, and I’m sure Beth would agree with you.”

  “And never forget that Mrs. Faulkner’s slips of the tongue have always been well rehearsed. And she’s also well aware that everything she tells you will be repeated word for word the moment you arrive back at the Yard.”

  “Probably even before her chauffeur has dropped her off at the flat in Eaton Square,” added Lamont.

  “Right, let’s get back to the matter in hand. There are several cases you’ll have to brief the new Art and Antiques Squad on before you start work on your new assignment.”

  “You were about to tell us, sir, before DC Adaja joined us, how the new unit will differ from any other existing drugs squads.”

  “I can’t tell you too much at the moment,” said the Hawk, “but you will have only one purpose, and it won’t be to catch low-level dealers selling cannabis on the street to pot heads.” Suddenly everyone was wide awake. “The commissioner wants us to identify a man whose name we don’t know, and whose whereabouts we can’t be sure of, other than that he lives and works somewhere south of the river in the Greater London area. However, we do know what his day job is.” The Hawk opened a file marked TOP SECRET.

  2

  “So, have you passed your sergeant’s exam,” asked his father, “or are you destined to be a detective constable for the rest of your life?”

  William’s expression gave nothing away, as if he were facing the eminent QC from the witness box.

  “One day your son will be the commissioner,” said Beth, giving her prospective father-in-law a warm smile.

  “I’m still waiting to hear the results of the exam,” sighed William, as he winked at his fiancée.

  “I’m sure you will have passed with flying colors, my dear,” said his mother. “But if your father were to take the same exam, I wouldn’t be quite as confident.”

  “That’s something we can all agree on,” said his sister, Grace.

  “A judgment that’s made without evidence or facts to support it,” said Sir Julian, as he rose from his place and began to circle the room. “Tell me, what form does this examination take?” he demanded, clutching the lapels of his jacket as if he were addressing a wavering jury.

  “It falls into three parts,” said William. “Physical, which includes a five-mile run that has to be completed in under forty minutes.”

  “Not much hope of my achieving that,” admitted Sir Julian, as he continued to circle the room.

  “Self-defense, where I just about held my own.”

  “No chance with that one either,” said Sir Julian, “unless it was a verbal attack rather than physical.”

  “And then, finally, you have to swim three lengths of the pool in uniform, holding a truncheon, without sinking.”

  “I’m exhausted just thinking about it,” said Grace.

  “Your father’s failed on all three counts so far,” said his mother, “so he would certainly have to spend the rest of his life as a constable on the beat.”

  “Does the police force have any interest in mental acuity,” demanded Sir Julian, as he came to a halt in front of them, “or is it just about who can do the most press-ups?”

  William didn’t admit that there wasn’t actually a physical test, and he’d simply been winding his father up. But he was still determined not to let the old man off the hook.

  “After that came the practical tests, Dad. It will be fascinating to see if you fare any better with them.”

  “I’m ready,” said Sir Julian, setting off on his perambulation again.

  “You have to attend three crime scenes so the examiners can see how you’d react in different circumstances. I did quite well on the first test, when I had to breathalyze a driver who’d been involved in a minor prang. The test result was amber, not red, indicating that he’d been drinking recently, but he wasn’t over the limit.”

  “Did you arrest him?” asked Grace.

  “No, I let him off with a warning.”

  “Why?” demanded Sir Julian.

  “Because he didn’t actually fail the test, and also the police national computer revealed that he was a chauffeur with no previous offenses, so if I’d arrested him, he might have lost his job.”

  “You’re a wimp,” said Sir Julian. “Next?”

  “I had to follow up a robbery at a jewelry shop. One of the staff was screaming, and the manager was in a state of shock. I calmed them both down before radioing for assistance, then sealed off the crime scene and waited for back-up to arrive.”

  “You seem to be doing very well so far,” said his mother.

  “I thought so, too, until I was put in charge of a team of young constables who were attending a protest march in support of nuclear disarmament, and it started to get out of hand.”

  “What happened?” asked his sister.

  “It appears that I didn’t respond calmly enough when a protester called one of my men a fascist bastard.”

  “I can’t imagine what they would have called me,” said Sir Julian.

  “Or how you would have reacted,” said Marjorie.

  Everyone laughed except Beth, who wanted to know how William had responded
.

  “I kicked him in the balls.”

  “You did what?” said his mother.

  “Actually, I only drew my truncheon, but that wasn’t what he claimed when we got him back to the station. It didn’t help that I failed to mention what actually happened in my report.”

  “I can’t pretend I’m doing any better,” said Sir Julian, slumping back in his chair.

  “Father, let’s face it,” said William, handing him a cup of coffee. “You’d have locked up the drunk driver, told the shop manager and his assistant to stop being so pathetic, and undoubtedly kicked the protester in the balls a second time. Excuse my French, Mother.”

  “You said there were three parts to the exam,” said Sir Julian, trying to recover.

  “The third part is a written exam.”

  “Then I’m still in with a chance.”

  “You have to answer sixty questions in ninety minutes.” William sipped his coffee and leaned back, before indulging his father. “If you picked some wild daffodils from a neighbor’s garden and then gave them to your wife, would either of you have committed a crime?”

  “Most certainly,” said Sir Julian. “The husband is guilty of theft. But was the wife aware that he’d taken the daffodils from their neighbor’s garden?”

  “Yes, she was,” said William.

  “Then she’s guilty of receiving stolen goods. An open-and-shut case.”

  “I don’t agree, m’lud,” said Grace, rising from her place. “I think you’ll find the relevant word is ‘wild.’ If all parties concerned were aware that the flowers were wild and had not been planted by the neighbor, my client was entitled to pick them.”

  “That was my answer,” said William. “And it turns out that Grace and I are right.”

  “Give me one more chance,” said Sir Julian, readjusting his nonexistent gown.

  “At what age is a young person responsible for a criminal act? Eight, ten, fourteen, or seventeen?”

  “Ten,” said Grace, before her father could respond.

  “Right again,” said William.